Down cellar here in The Underworld I do some of my best thinking. Moreoften than not by candlelight and red bulb. Yes, red. Fire and the colour of Mars. Why? My gym is my sacred space where I build mind and body, it doesn’t need to feel or smell like the Overworld, that isn’t the point of an Underworld. I do recels with my incense, and watch the fire dance. Another neat trick, during the wintertide; tea lights fixed below the bar warms the chromed iron for less joint-pain inducing presses if like me your carpenter hands are beginning to rebel against the cold. Another other neat trick, light tea-lights inside of your brick-stack skwaat stand and let it warm – by Wōden, the warm cement feels so good.
Recels. That’s a word I learned from the last book I read, being “Neolithic Shamanism” by authors Kaldera and Krasskova, who inhabit their corners of the internet and probably don’t come here. Anyway. Full stop, I am not a shaman, but I find the concept inextricably fascinating. No, this isn’t a review. I try to only review dead authors, or the French. Call it cowardice, I guess, but scrutinising living authors seems somehow blasé. Not to say the dead don’t feel, but it’s easier to assume they don’t… and when I touch on material I try to be fair with my intentions, even if my tongue is not so disciplined. Yes, it’s a fault, one I’m trying to rectify. Now, let me recoup my losses – there is a spiritual component. In some corners of Asatru, like the AFA, it is taught that to memorialise the dead, to recall their name and deeds, is to upholster their spirit and feed the Folksoul, that the Minne is part of the soul and her complex. Whoever your ancestors are, they did this. Romans had an exquisite and documented ancestor cult, we now the Norse had traditions – which one can learn by raising Grønbech’s ghost and learning his insights. I digress.
One of the lessons learned from my early forays into Heathenry, and I forget which author – maybe multiples – wrote that as a Heathen one ought not speak a word they wouldn’t say to the subject. That’s a hard lesson in today’s world where words are taught as having no meaning. But they do. When you calumnise, it doesn’t hurt your absentee victim, but your dignity. I say this generally, and not directed at anyone. It is why I try, and fail, to keep my critiques levelled against Systems of Power as opposed to witting or unwitting servants of them. By criticising the individual, to whatever Power they belong, does not adjudicate against the System. So, for example, if I hate the influence of the LTBBQ agenda, it doesn’t pay to look for individual queers to be mad at. It doesn’t change what they serve. Any more than, for example, critics of Varg Vikernes and the esoteric dimensions he represents change his mind by mocking his wife. Which is some schizo BS anyway.
Anyway. I had mixed feelings about the book due to background differences, but found a great deal of worth between the pages and will more than likely begin trying to graft what spoke to me into my personal praxis. One of the things that struck me, if obtusely, was the section on fire, which touched on some feelings I have had but never delved into. Fire is a near constant companion of mine. Long before I had heard the word hygge I would sit and watch the woodstove. When I struck out on my own, I let my candles, for prayer, ambience, whatever. And then, incense, another likely very ancient component of worship.
But it occurs to me, one, that in a way I have been lighting the same fire for many years. If we are to accept some Neoplatonic precepts, such as the expanded notions of forms and shadows, then the fires I light are illuminated by a higher flame. Literally, informed. Personally, I visualise this excellence of flame as the Black Sun. You can scry my archives if you like. I’ve written some about it. It is all UPG, and maybe not what you think. Anyway. There is that paltry thought. That I am borrowing the essence of the Black Sun when I fire up my gym.
Another thought is the underrated history of the candle. What is a candle but a votive offering to one of mankind’s most important discoveries? That fire can be harnessed. There could have been no fireside Venuses to kick-start human culture had our fathers not learned to feed them with fire. This works on multiple levels. It is believed that cookery, which without fire could not be – led to the increase of cranial power necessary to metabolise metaphor. Those old Venuses represent the beneficiaries of that hot gift, among other things I have oft discussed. The incomparably voluminous glory of Mother Earth, embodied, could not be attained without, as it were, martialling the other elemental spirits to not only sustain them, but to indulge their abundance and see Jörð become the waxing maiden still remembered as late as the English countryside after Catholicism.
The striking of flint became the striking of a match, but it may well be among the oldest votive traditions among mankind. You know, besides feeding and fucking, which got us as far as fire, anyhow. So, you know, cheers. Damn. I did it. I had a short thought. I’m off to finish my lifts and admire Venus by the light of the fire. Cheers, kids.
The Serpent's Loft 