Dissolution beckons…

by theqliphothicarchives

After voluntarily neglecting all that is ‘occult’ for longer than a year in slow enduring fashion, I’ve quickly found that the dark path leads directly towards all which I had abandoned, in what seems to be a space and time from many ages past. Upon fleeting my soul destroyed, I’ve become extremely reclusive, having shut myself deep inside my studio apartment for several years with very little social contact, if any at all. The tragic downfall has lead to heavy drug experimentation with opiates, subsequently resulting in a silent and bitter self-destructive period of agonizing defeat, including a loss of faith in everything and everyone I had been programmed to know. So began the strange process of extensive defamilarization

I am going to attempt to regroup, to refine my thinking and to strategize for the future. Most of all I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to use my life, which is especially bothersome, because for a long time I have felt irrationally-convinced that I am going to die within the next few years. I’m 25 now. Lautreamont was 24 when he died, but he left behind The Songs of Maldoror. So, I feel this great pressure to execute my childhood/adolescent dreams as soon as possible, as it may already be too late. I’m also heavily convinced that I am currently living within the peak of my creativity, which is also a terribly frightening thought considering that I have accomplished very little thus far. I do however believe that I am currently living in an arbitrarily fast-paced environment during an Age of Information-overload, making it incredibly difficult to compare myself to most of my childhood heroes such as Aleister Crowley, who at 22 and having just received his first mystical experience, had just begun reading texts from alchemists and magicians.

My experiences with opiates have resulted in many close encounters with death and the criminal underground, however such an ill-fated journey has led me to a particularly successful defamiliarization of the Self, as I have fortunately not achieved as messy an end as others have that have walked a similar path. Although years have passed, I am still walking, alone, into the heart via the selfsame road in search of a gold-clad illumination. Perhaps it would have been better had I fallen into the pit of eternal void; lost and forever erased from the memory of this world. Instead, I have walked out of history and into mystery. These are not my words. I am B.W. LaMorte.

I cannot be absolutely certain of how I arrived here. Los Angeles is not the city for a reclusive occultist such as myself. If the opportunity presented itself, I would be living in a refurnished ghost-ship, hidden away, beneath some decadent town in ancient eastern Europe. This evening, the streets smell luridly alive but haunted by the Hollywood ghosts of the festering decades. As I move unseen through the darkening streets (I am, after all, a phantom) I cannot fathom what brought me here to begin with. Hollywood is convenient territory for an artist (such a pretentious thing to say), however this is the city of hypocrites and artificial convoys. Deep within the surface this is a horrible place to make a living. The blood of the Los Angeles natives has mixed with that of people all over the world, in search of nothing other than a quick pass through fame and fortune, creating a new race of hypocritical selfless subjugated snakes, poisonous and less subtle than wholly grotesque. These people are the living result of de-evolutionary regression. I want to scream at them as they pass by, but my voice has been replaced by silence.

To-day I wandered the flea market, which surprisingly boasted an interesting collection of shamanistic artifacts. One which stood out to me was a wooden mask of a demonic figure lost in a possessive trance. It occurred to me that such artifacts of occulture have held the same position for hundreds of years, some even thousands– through the rise and fall of empires, the struggles for land, gold and bread, and so much more. Even now occulture is oblivious to these things, situated securely beyond time.