The Babblogue: A deliberate derangement of the senses -orchestrating a personal cacaphony; a descent into the depths of the subconscious, to confront and bind the "lurkers" within.
This essay is a short account of a personal exploration of the "demons" of my own psyche. rather than relying on existing approaches, for the reasons given below, I preferred to develop a purely personal approach. I give this account not to foist this particular approach onto others, but in the hope that it will assist those who also experimenting with different techniques. Nor do I wish to criticise or invalidate the traditional systems of goetic magic, merely to say that they are not for me.
This work began fairly innocuously, with the compilation of a "black book" - a dissection of self - in terms of habits, shortcomings, faults, hopes, ideals, all that I was, that I wished to be, or rejected. Likes, dislikes, attractions and revulsions. Then on to self-portraits - written in the third person - positive, neutral, negative portrayals. A CV; an obituary. To this was added a "Book of blunders" - every mistake or embarrasing memory that could be dredged up, cuttings from school reports, photographs and letters that brought back painful memories.
Choice extracts from this catalogue were read onto tapes, then the tapes scrambled together to form cut-up sequences. A
Phil Hine deliberate attempt at psychic surgery this, smashing the vessel to remould it.
Then to the mundane arrangements. Seclusion from others, as of old a necessity, that one's demons do not derange the unwary, and more practically, that one is not chanced upon, mistaken for a psychotic and incarcerated in some asylum. As for food, I decided to rely on simple, nutritious fare, sustaining and easy to prepare, with a stack of pot noodles as chemical aids. Drugs? Who needs them? Still, a selection of natural substances can aid things along.
The temple: black, windowless, unadorned but not uncluttered! Around its confines I heaped all kinds of junk. Sheets of hardboard, a bucket of clay, bottles, broken radio sets, rubbish from a building skip, paints, tools, a spray-gun, everything I could possibly need, plus a few more things besides.
Bringing forth the Dweller Within: Legion is it's name.
I was preparing for a descent into the labyrinth, to make known the "Forgotten Ones", with only the thinnest of cords with which to map the maze. Why risk insanity in such a way? This is the inner journey, the whale's belly, the feast of the ravening ones. Why go alone, without the security of tried and tested rituals and banishings? Well I don't trust those old books, those mad monks with their Necronomicons and blasphemous sigils. What price this forbidden knowledge? About £4.50 in paperback actually. Ridiculous! So I set forth to compile a living grimoire. A product of the technocratic aeon, I use its debris to mould my dreams. "The Howling" - the hiss, roar, and static screams of radios tuned to dead channels.
To the work then; some loose structure being required (or so I thought), I devised a hierarchy based on the work of psychologist Abraham Maslow, that ranged from "survival" demons - hunger, thirst etc, "Ego" demons - self-esteem, self-image etc, and more abstract conceptions such as the hunger for knowledge or wisdom. The deeper the level of hierarchy, the more primal the desires.
The techniques: flooding and vomiting (eating and excreting) - to flood awareness with specific images, to bring forth (evoke) the demon, giving it form, "flesh", and eventually a name or a sigil. The scrambled personality tapes were to act as auditory sigils - storms of emotions whipped up by intensive remembering (replaying) sets of memories. Letting the hyenas of cynicism loose on a cherished idela or goal.
The means of Gnosis: sensory overload, hyperventilation, old favourites such as hunger, thirst, exhaustion. 120 hours without sleep produces a fine paranoic "edge" to consciousness.
Cohering the images: using fingerpainting, moulding clay mixed with body fluids and excreta, sculpture using broken glass; and the more usual methods - sigils, auto-writing, taking a line for a walk.
These are the means by which the Forgotten Ones take shape. These "psychographs" accumulate in corners of the temple, giving it the clutter of an Austin Spare print. Alas, these psychographs fall far short of the images and visions that flicker around me. "Another pile of shit for the ledger?" I scream, and take a hammer to them, only o collapse exhausted and retching on the temple floor. The red lines of the yantra-circuit on the floor seem at that moment to be particularly
Phil Hine mocking and indifferent to my efforts. There is a kind of "wrenching" feeling in my head, the snap of vertebrae being twisted, a helpless animal having its neck wrung, and I begin to howl the names which erupt from my throat: ZZZNNNAAAAAAA SHKAAA GNAAAAAIIAAAA And the jackals rush in to feed, and I laughed when I saw them 'cos they all wore my face.
I came back from that moment with a kind of calm detachment, "emptied" momentarily of any further feeling. I walked around the temple, as if seeing the debris for the first time. Sifting carefully through the mess, examining each half-finished piece of work, as though it wasn't anything to do with me. Some pieces i was able to give names to: "You are Uul - the fear of failure, you are Hamal - guilt not yet erased". These names, and their sigils formed the basis for an alphabet of binding.
The second half of this operation consisted of experimentation with the resulting alphabet - binding the demons into magical weapons for later use. When the initial phase was over, I slept for about eighteen hours, and awoke clear of the frenetic delirium which had been built up. Over the next six months or so, I experienced periodic bouts of depression, paranoia or self-loathing. When such feelings did occurr, use of the apropriate sigils and names banished these demons back to their bottles.
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