Category: Mayet's Creative Comments

Mayet's Comment on Public Post By Robert Allen
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In 2011, scrying the 30 Enochian Aethyrs in Lon DuQuette’s Monday night Magick class…
We did all 30 Aethyrs several times over the many years I religiously attended his class. If you were there for all 3O Aethyrs you got a certificate at the end that attested, in classic DuQuette fashion: I Have Seen It All.
In 2011, scrying the 30 Enochian Aethyrs in Lon DuQuette’s Monday night Magick class, scrying the 23rd Aethyr (TOR), I got what I still consider a landmark vision, which now in this season of the Return of the Light seems worthy to share.
TOR, 23rd Aethyr. Binah in Yetzirah, or possibly the supernal triad to the previous Aethyrs, or the middle Aethyr of the three attributed to Hod.
The tarot cards are The Priestess, Adjustment, and The Moon. It begins:
Coming quickly to the blue mask of the Goddess, and then beyond, into the space behind her eyes I pressed up against the watery void covered by an oily sheen. I pressed through, my hands making an incision, parting the barrier, forming as they did a wedge, like a spade, or some other device designed to part, or spread her veil.
As the governor’s names are spoken I descend into a nocturnal scene—a park with three street lamps towering above the otherwise dark scene—these are the angels of the Aethyr. I can see that there are benches and trees, and a broad, paved walking path, which I leave, veering off into the wooded, un-pathed parkland outside of the conservative, and safe pathways.
I pass under the trees and into the darkness and recall the park near where I grew up. As I do so I make my way to the familiar duck pond, and there are ducks, though I am more attracted by the black, still water as the most important feature.
And the darkness now seems to swallow me, while a great wind in the trees wracks the branches overhead. I bend over, stooping down and dig my fingers into the moist earth; and I lay on the ground and press my face into its moistness, smelling the rich earthy scent of wet soil. And then I find that I am lying on the swelling mound of a woman’s pelvis, a rich rug of thick, black, curling pubic hair beneath me, and I can smell and taste the sex as I allow myself to feel the familiar desire, and pleasure, and also that intense "mystery" mingled with dread that I remember experiencing during my very first sexual experience with a woman.
At this point I remind myself that I am actively penetrating this darkness with love and desire, following the impulses wherever they might indicate, with a determination to go wherever the vision leads.
In the sweet, moist, warm darkness I can now see a wide hollow space ahead, where there is a prayer stall, or a one-person church pew where I see myself kneeling and praying furiously; and where the sense of desire and devotion are now become one thing, indistinguishable…
But the sense of movement in the vision is strong, and shortly I have moved beyond this vigil where I enter a rowboat (later I recalled how it was shaped as a crescent moon, its front and back tapering to the thinning horns of the crescent) waiting for me on the bank of an equally dark river, as it floats on the black water—and there is something in the boat with me…
It is an ominous presence, and dark beyond dark; and I am not sure what I will find when we embrace, for surely we must embrace; and we do...
The folds of its robes are darkness itself, and I am surprised though not shocked to find that it is a devouring monster, or vampire.
There now ensues a life and death struggle. But I remind myself again that I am committed to taking the images as far as they will go....so we tear at each other, and I respond with equal savagery, giving as good as I get, holding nothing back, piercing its form with my hands, even to thrusting my entire arms deep into its body and tearing with my teeth, wailing, even as I am torn and brutalized with equal savagery.
It is a violent and desperate encounter; and it is here that I might have recoiled in uncertainty and doubt; but I persisted with every cell of my being, now more curious than anything else about what could possibly be beyond this violence and desperation.
Equally we shredded each other, though it seemed I was more intact than it when the intensity of the struggle abated… And yet, I do not feel I got the upper hand, only that there was a transformation of sorts—our two bodies left behind, still locked in deadly violence, perhaps.
In any event I felt changed, wearing the strips or remnants of the other on my breast and shoulders as both trophy and incriminating evidence.
Beyond the fray I was much lighter and calmer—beyond that brutal necessity—able to go on, if that makes any sense—perhaps I died…
And it is here the boat runs aground on a black mound of earth rising from the surrounding black waters. The mound of earth on which I now stood, having climbed some way onto its higher, more level ground was pierced with poles, all tilted in a chaotic fashion, somewhat like crudely placed poles at a carnival or circus, with strings of lights strung between their tops. These poles were painted in a traditional Candy Cane motif of spiraling white and red stripes. The lights had no power and were dark.
I walk among the poles, and feel this place to be someplace very specific, and this is important, difficult to get to—am I rising on the planes or descending to deeper depths, it’s hard to say...
I think to myself that this is the first dry mound of mythic history, i.e. the famed mound of earth of Egyptian mythology that emerged from the waters of chaos before dawn of time. I reflect how the sun will emerge from this mound when it is his time, but not now—now is not that time.
I ask myself: which god was first, and which radiated forth as the actual sun, Kephra or Amoun?
And now I am no longer calling the shots but acting, informed with another intelligence; and I press the palms of my hands to the moist, black earth I am standing on. And I feel with this gesture a vital force flowing up, into my physicality—though I am in the spirit vision I still feel my body as an essential vehicle for this experience. And as if I were a mere puppet, the force takes control of my mouth, and the organs of speech, forming a word I can only witness. There is no volition on my part, only an expectant watching and experiencing. And spontaneously, in the moment I begin to repeat the word ‘mother’, over and over…
This action is part of the movement of the whole vision and seems to move through me of its own willfulness.
I can only observe how it is the naming of something quite large, much larger than any local or pedestrian experience of my personal mother, because it is ‘the mother’ that I am commemorating as the word informs my hyper-physicality—the mound—the goddess…
And then, feeling utterly spent, and a little shaken by the whole thing I find myself back in Lon DuQuette’s living room

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