The Western Gate

Forgive me, I know not what I do, clearly I do, clearly I am poking the wasp nest with a sharp stick to see what happens, more experiment to affirm than desire to fulfill. In fact, don’t forgive, let me endure the pain of my flagellated soul with my own sins.
I do not want anything, perhaps validation, perhaps proof. I do not want to flick this switch when the label tells me what will happen, but flick it I will, part compulsion, part mischievous. Aye, the idle hands must dance the old fiddle tune.
I set up my altar upon which sits a board, A spiral Circle of deep green and deepest black swirl within it. This is bordered by the Triangle, limiting it, defining it. Onto this circle I will place a misty crystal ball, full of occlusions and wisps that beckon as clouds to reveal the illuminated sun, and behind this sat upright in a small frame~ a deep black disc of pure Onyx. I will view the crystal ball through the Onyx disc, I will see the visions of the Crystal ball by means of reflection. The shield of Medusa, I shall not stare direct into the face of the vision.

I have washed thoroughly, scrubbed and perfumed, a subtle scent of pheromones crafted from the vomit of whales, the arse end of civets and the abdominal glands of Bambi.
The room is lit by a flickering candle behind me. Incense of Rose and Jasmine, and a hybrid of Ylang Ylang, Chamomile and an earthy richness of something I forgot, or deliberately exclude to prevent imitators.
As I wander into this sacred space, there is excitement stirring within me, and this is not good. Excitement is the expectant of hope, the dream, the root of desire. For the crafty we act in accordance that the deed is already done and accomplished and more we act without desire or celebrate the result, the result is meaningless, the ritual here then merely to re-enact, to emulate the future and to the crafty and the cunning, there is no difference between the past and that to be.
The excitement grows, and I cannot quell it, if it were not for that fact that both the Moon visible in this first hour of sunrise on a Friday Morning and the Morning star herself~ Venus are visible then I would/should surely close the ritual before a word is uttered or wand is fluttered.
I reface my emotion to one of fear, that the butterflies in stomach and dizziness in head are the process of walking into the liminal. The Hearing spatial, listening to the distant for unknown cowans, the eyes sharp, distinguishing every colour and merging them to one form as a mesh about me – the web which if penetrated will be seen and known. My nose, drunk on the smell of the rich garden I have crafted and the human residue of Sex and Energy in my bodily ‘Cat-Piss’ perfume. Even my taste in this rising emotion of manufactured fear to subdue the excitement tastes unknown Salt, and bitterness, every oil tasted, like an opulent prince at Sheba’s table picking luxurious food and supping silky wine.
I breathe in, I hold, I breathe out, I hold. And then silence drops like an anvil submitting to the hammer and I am in the liminal space true. Time ceases.
I turn from the North to the East where in real time, the Sun begins to breach the horizon, its wings aflame stretching outwards, a salmon pink hue. Persephone reborn. I make my gesture, say my prayer, craft a flame into the air and subdue it.
I turn to the South, She rises, the great Corn Goddess amidst the flowing grains of sustenance. I pray, beckon, pay homage and send my dagger to the floor to run a river as I turn towards the West. The ocean and the Moon, the tides and her dancer. I give my oblations to her, that greatest of Judges, my life, what meaning, what wonder. My dagger to bless, my dagger to rent asunder, not my will for here, too long, the past has gone. It is the tomb, my epitaph, And the ferryman takes me back to the North,
Already in the Onyx Disc there are fluttering nuances, and I struggle to stop my eyes looking directly into the crystal ball. Just one peek, just a quick glance. My resolve is still and steadfast, I maintain my eyes into the the Onyx Disc and speak aloud the name of that which I wish to appear, aye, in comely and agreeable form, art to do my bidding.
Sitri.
My experiment, to affirm. To manifest and make real, for the want no more than of confirmation. Prior to this I had tried Sallos. He were according to the grimoire to be as a man upon a crocodile, but I was presented more with a hybrid equine like creature, who muddled and riddled, confused and mocked and sought in vain to terrorize at one point.
“Come Sitri.”
I called my names as I stood upon my circle emblazoned with the signs, Fortius, Dominus, Aeternitas, Ad-Infinitum.
“Beloved I stand, as the Winding Stream…….”
And in the Onyx Disc as I muttered my role call of archetypal names born of Onamstic, Physical Attributes, Astrological, Topographical history, Thereomorphic familiars, Synchronic fascinations, and all related and familiar to me, came a feint wisp of mist, a smoke of unseen spent candle flame. Indeed at that moment the candle behind me flared and an aura cast its halo over the room as the curtain in the Onyx Disc parted, the veil rendered and cast aside. The creature, visible before me in the Jet black disc.

Its voice was dense, abrupt and the language not known, almost African, hard syllables, with consonants heavy and little vowels that were more breath than word construction. I cannot reproduce those words, research or scrutiny may confirm what my mind knew it said, but the message was clear.
” What is it that I have summoned him for.”
It stood there, crucified to an unseen cross, bound.
Its face was leopard like, half pitiful and half menacing, constantly swaying from side to side as if looking for weakness in my aura, analysing.
And I spoke, “Every female that I meet, shall obey any command I give”.
In that instant, in that sentence a great shift occurred in me. A swelling of both pain and misery, of despair and suffering.
In a split second, I felt the cries of my mother, my daughter, my sisters, my wife and every female I ever knew and every Goddess that always I had revered above any God or Master. What was I thinking.
Reciprocity and balance occur for the devotees of Maat. Justice needs be paid, Balance, always, to be maintained. This “Double Libran” as I had called out in my Name role calling as an egotistical toastmaster at the start of the ceremony had given Sitri the key to my weakness.
In the moment I saw the epilogue, that every woman would be at my behest, against their will, so anathema to my soul of “Fire Horse” freedom. That I would be the slave master, in point of fact, the misogynist, for to take someone’s liberty and free will is to condemn, to despise and belittle, to hate. And there in the garden of the scents of love was the price to pay.
The scales of the imaginary justice tipped backwards to reciprocate, and this desire, this predatory tyrannical request would be given, for one small palm of silver. That I could impose my will upon every female as I so desired is done, but always at the price that I would hate myself, utterly despise myself.
You desire love, and lust and would take the wealth and riches and freewill from all those you meet, but at the cost of emptiness in soul. She will do as you will, but you will never be satiated, for you will forever be full of self-loathing. She will not give herself of free will, but as a doll, as a puppet as a fleeting flight of fancy.
“You have taught me well.” I immediately spoke to Sitri.
It spoke immediately, ” What is the lever of your question?”
” That I know.”
And I did know, Sitri seemed ready to pounce to leap outwards but he were bound upon the cross of equilibrium, such was the sign from the beginning.
The end would be dramatic, a tug of war, cussing, a battle of wills, the chess of rhetoric and riddles, but instead, there was that universal language that needs no interpretation and no tower of Babel could ever divide.
Laughter.
I have long been an opponent of the Wiccan creed, Threefold return, what price three to one. And every action we do, cunning or otherwise, is to impose our will upon others, would every soul be condemned threefold if such a universal law were true? Is Nature not cruel, would she lash herself thrice for every cruel act?
What is true, is balance. Reciprocity. For a Libran or the wanderer of justice, the best to be, is at peace and content even within the austerity of being, and if fame and fortune and love surround you, it does not shake the temple anymore than if there was silence.
Yet, I do have a longing to sit at the table of Sheba, and taste luxurious food and drink silky wine and gaze into the eyes of beauty, but do I ebb and flow in the circle of the Lunar tides to do so, or scream down below from the Abyss.

Header Image ~ Sitri ~ wWnborn