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11 JULY '24:
Since Arsenikoerthe is delayed, I make so bold as to report to his predecessor. The title here, of course, is inspired by Kazantzakis' "Report to El Greco." First a word about myself and this day. Nothing overtly magickal, but one very much having a bearing upon the practice. The mark of the Mischlinge is to wallow in lassitude, and thank you Great Grandfather Zalman. To my nondescript Carpathian lineage, you added your anti-leaven. Though you yourself had the initiative to convert, we your descendants revert to the mean, and perhaps not even that. It is true though: the spirit at odds with itself mostly quivers between its sty's walls. Expends energy in expending energy. Entropy: the Semite's sentence on the races he muddles.
I was already twenty-five when the one fight that mattered in my lifetime was lost on Whidbey Island. On that eighth of December, 1984, I sat with other superfluous academics in the bar on the U. Texas campus, all unaware and culpably ignorant. Had I heard, my thymos might have been piqued. But I know. My inertia had easily subdued my spirited part, my eloquence have oiled the waves with martial-sounding evasions. The whole episode have ended in agreeing that, after all, "moderation" was called for. Even in matters of mortal consequence. Epitaph for my generation: "Yes, but..."
12 JULY '24:
Contact today with Kthunae. Lord of the Earth, he. Mighty and no little angry. And yet...
...and yet? This allegedly occult entity I contacted seems to mirror my own impotence. What followed from that meeting? Resolutions and vague promises. Pacts sans impact. Something like French intellectuals issuing yet another manifesto. Posturing in plenty; potency piddled away, if any there ever were. What did I then "contact"? My own imagination, a low-order imposter, or is our side truly so far gone and depleted, this fight done all save for the being mopped-up?
Miguel Serrano writes of the peculiar pleasure of being "the last man on earth." But, then, he knew himself for a man. It is torment to live on as the last biographer for the men who went on before. Eckerman bereft of his Goethe. Homer dragging out his last years after even Telemachus had doddered off to join the shades.
Since Arsenikoerthe is delayed, I make so bold as to report to his predecessor. The title here, of course, is inspired by Kazantzakis' "Report to El Greco." First a word about myself and this day. Nothing overtly magickal, but one very much having a bearing upon the practice. The mark of the Mischlinge is to wallow in lassitude, and thank you Great Grandfather Zalman. To my nondescript Carpathian lineage, you added your anti-leaven. Though you yourself had the initiative to convert, we your descendants revert to the mean, and perhaps not even that. It is true though: the spirit at odds with itself mostly quivers between its sty's walls. Expends energy in expending energy. Entropy: the Semite's sentence on the races he muddles.
I was already twenty-five when the one fight that mattered in my lifetime was lost on Whidbey Island. On that eighth of December, 1984, I sat with other superfluous academics in the bar on the U. Texas campus, all unaware and culpably ignorant. Had I heard, my thymos might have been piqued. But I know. My inertia had easily subdued my spirited part, my eloquence have oiled the waves with martial-sounding evasions. The whole episode have ended in agreeing that, after all, "moderation" was called for. Even in matters of mortal consequence. Epitaph for my generation: "Yes, but..."
Post automatically merged:
12 JULY '24:
Contact today with Kthunae. Lord of the Earth, he. Mighty and no little angry. And yet...
...and yet? This allegedly occult entity I contacted seems to mirror my own impotence. What followed from that meeting? Resolutions and vague promises. Pacts sans impact. Something like French intellectuals issuing yet another manifesto. Posturing in plenty; potency piddled away, if any there ever were. What did I then "contact"? My own imagination, a low-order imposter, or is our side truly so far gone and depleted, this fight done all save for the being mopped-up?
Miguel Serrano writes of the peculiar pleasure of being "the last man on earth." But, then, he knew himself for a man. It is torment to live on as the last biographer for the men who went on before. Eckerman bereft of his Goethe. Homer dragging out his last years after even Telemachus had doddered off to join the shades.
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