Inside the Los Angeles Satanic Temple’s biggest-ever ‘black mass’ with blood-letting, demonic cats and stand-up

The Satanic Temple ( are an extremely active and well directed group.  As opposed to any initiatory structure, the group has a focus upon the application of rationalised science towards the nature of Being.  They have a wider focus of activism upon rights within society for women, children, prisoners, and the testing of so-called religious equality through provocative measures.  In short, yet they have some commendable aspects.

The ‘Satanic Mass’ of 14th January 2017 is however unlikely to much in furthering the group.  As reported by the tabloid press (, the Satanic Temple organised a showcase for their approach to Satanism.  The result is something which would have been fitting for Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan (which legally no longer exists) in its heyday.


THE Satanic Temple of Los Angeles opened its diabolical doors for its largest ever “black mass” on Saturday night. The demonic affair involved everything from live music, bloodletting a…

Source: Inside the Los Angeles Satanic Temple’s biggest-ever ‘black mass’ with blood-letting, demonic cats and stand-up



Whilst I have little concern with those who elect to rebel against society, yet find themselves conforming to and perpetuating such basic stereotypes, there is a major issue which requires clarification.  The performance of a ‘Satanic’ or ‘Black’ Mass is a historical ritual, popular in 19th Century France.  The intention of the Black Mass is to reverse the Baptism and Confirmation into the Catholic church, participated in by individuals who wish to renounce their association with the Church as a result of them having little choice in such during the early years of their lives.  The choice of the Satanic Temple to perform such a ritual is far from unexpected and in itself only shocks those who are ignorant as to the true nature of the ritual.  It is however surprising that the Satanic Temple has elected to conclude the Satanic/Black (there seems to be some confusion in the reporting of the event as to the term employed) Mass with a ritualised blood-letting.  Again, the reports seem confused as they also describe the Mass concluding with a blood-letting, yet they also describe an invocation prior to the blood-letting at 02:15am.

The issues I take are:

-there is no invocation in a Black Mass

-What exactly does an atheist (Steve Hill’s own words describe him as such) hope to invoke?  If you have no belief in any spiritual entity, then the ritual invocation is merely ego-masturbation upon a stage or it is a shock-performance to elicit media attention.

-Why do atheistic Satanists continue to employ the use of religious iconography and labels?  Is it perhaps because the label ‘Satanist’ allows for a greater promotional possibility than if the symbology were that of an atom and the group called a suitably atheistic name such as ‘the Self-pride group’?  Atheists should have the strength to abandon all religious associations and symbolism.

-Prayer, within any religious context, is to make an offering of psychic energy.  Regardless of the psychological potential for devout belief in prayer to affect changes upon the sub-conscious which then manifest changes in the reality tunnels of the individual in order to bring about their desires, there exists an offering of energy.  The act of prayer offers a sacrifice of psychic energy to a greater conscious being, in exchange for their intervention in an issue.  To make such an offering is to sacrifice both one’s own psychic energy and one’s own sovereignty.  All forms of sacrifice, including animal and blood-letting, function as does prayer.  The value of the offering to the individual is the mechanism that empowers a sacrifice.  To offer a thing of no value to the self, is to offer a thing of no value to a deific consciousness.  By offering a thing of substantial value, in the form of psychic energy or other sacrifice, then the individual makes the sacrifice in expectation of recompense from deity.  Such is the reason why Odin, in the Havamal, states that it is better not to pray.  The result of any sacrificial act, prayer included, is to coerce the greater conscious entity into acting upon the behalf of the individual who effectively subjugates themselves as a powerless individual before the deity.  To do so is to admit ones’ affiliation with the plebeian chattel.  To do so is to subjugate the will and inherent deity of the self to another.  As such, there is no place for any sacrifice, prayer, and blood inclusive, within the left-hand path.

The act of sacrifice is to offer an apple to the teacher in the vain hope that they will complete the exam for the student.  The left-hand path student is confident in their own ability to excel and learns what they will from the tutor without need of such sophistry.  Yes, there are left-hand path groups who make use of sacrifices.  The rationale for such varies.  Some utilise the process of sacrifice as a means to test the individuals limits.  Others act out of a lack of comprehension for what they do.  The Satanic Mass as enacted by the Satanic Temple demonstrates a lack of willing towards an abandonment of shock tactics and media whoredom.  The performance of a Black Mass, as accompanied by a ritual invocation of nothing and a blood-letting are mere theatre, designed to garner publicity, lacking initiatory or magical value.

The acts reported from the event are in no way representative of the left-hand path.  They are as pro-wrestling is to sport, the rituals are mere dramatic performance for the attendant media in this case.  The portrayal of events fails to represent the left-hand path as it is, rather it represents the left-hand path as the media and confused rebellious youth perceive it to be.  The Satanic Temple knows better than this and I am disappointed that the have perpetuated the media misconception.




This is your brain on God: Spiritual experiences activate brain reward circuits — ScienceDaily

An interesting report, linked below from

The scientific notion of a link between the brains pleasure/reward systems and religious experience draws parallels to the same activation of these systems through the experiences of addiction, love and orgasm.  The question must be then asked if this link is the root of the religious allegory of ‘love thyself’?  Is the path to deity through the orgiastic embrace of the Dionysian?  Perhaps we find clues in the mythological tales around the world, where creation occurs as a result of a deific masturbation.  Such would ultimately verify the validity of sexio-magical ritual in bringing forth the manifestation of ones desires or the formation of egregore like entities.

I smile with every step the empirical sciences take towards the recapitulation of the knowledge once known by our ancestors — that which lays hidden as fragments within the philosophies and myths of the world.

A side thought — if masturbation creates the same state as religious experience, then perhaps this explains the right-hand path instruction to abstain from procreation and masturbation as such would eliminate the medium of the religious structure to facillitate religiosity.


Source: This is your brain on God: Spiritual experiences activate brain reward circuits — ScienceDaily

Scientists confirm a structural similarity found in both human cells and neutron stars

Below is a link to an article on

Whilst the article is of interest on many levels, it is perhaps most amusingly a further scientific advance towards the empirical measurement of what was already subjectively known in antiquity- that ‘as above, so below’.

As Robert Anton Wilson suggested, what the thinker thinks – the prover proves.  Science is merely a few thousand years delayed in proving what was once thought…


Source: Scientists confirm a structural similarity found in both human cells and neutron stars

Sound Of The Day : Wardruna — Wyrd Words & Effigies

A good review and article from Wyrd Words & Effigies.  Wardruna are amazing and the new album has many dimensions on which it resonates with myself.  If you are unaware of Wardruna, then seek now.


The third Wardruna album Runaljod (Ragnarok) has come ashore, and is available for your listening pleasure now, both digitally and in physical format! I streamed the whole album on Spotify yesterday, and found myself on the verge of tears multiple times. Wardruna have played an incomparably valuable role in my musical evolution, and I’ve been […]

via Sound Of The Day : Wardruna — Wyrd Words & Effigies



10 of the Best Gothic Poems for Halloween — Interesting Literature

The best Halloween poems What are the best poems about Halloween, the best poems for Halloween? In this post, we’ve gathered up a mixture of the two: some of the following ten poems are specifically about Halloween, while others are suitably Gothic poems to enjoy on or around Halloween. So, if you have your pumpkin […]

via 10 of the Best Gothic Poems for Halloween — Interesting Literature

Runes The Mystery Keys

What are the runes? What mystery may be so powerful and essential that the mighty god Odin sacrifices himself upon the world tree Yggdrasil in order to gain them?

Unlock the power of these mysteries as you learn how to work with the runes, decipher their meanings in divination and discover the pathway of self-development that is contained within . Reach out and grasp the keys to the mysteries now in my new book.  Cutting right to what you need to know in order to formulate your own personal subjective understanding of the runes and how they work for you.  This book is your rune book.  Find for yourself the true power of the runes.

Available from all Amazon & CreateSpace outlets in both Kindle and paperback form.

It may take a day or so for the Kindle version to link up.   If it is Kindle you use to read my works, then keep an eye out.





Today I feel a little like an ass.

After spending hours and hours studying astrology, specifically the calculation of natal astrology birth charts, then today it hit me how I had missed one important factor.  The natal chart requires an accurate time of birth.  A difference of just 15 mins (for rounded-up/down times) can make a huge difference.  Imagine the stupidity when I realised that the UK birth certificates have no time of birth.  I have no idea even what time of day I was born!  I spent days creating excel programmes to calculate planetary positions etc. based upon the time of birth for anywhere in the world.  Hours and hours… Sure it was valuable and valid — just invalid in terms of applicability to my needs,  It is like spending a lifetime designing and building a oil conversion system for cars, only to find that once you are finished with your work then the world no longer uses oil or cars!

Sure, there is a solution.  You can calculate multiple charts: midnight, mid-day and 23:59 for the date of birth and then interpret the consistent factors.  Such renders some of the specifics pointless.  The solution is ultimately a diversion towards Vedic astrology.

Note to self:  next time you commence a study of a skill and subject, check on the applicability of the techniques to the local in which you find yourself.

Wake Up to Die – a Halloween seasonal treat

In special honour of the seasonal thrills that are upon us, then find yourself whisked along with Mary Jane and Steve as they Wake Up to Die.  A special price offer commences from 25th October and runs through to 31st October.

Here is the first chapter from the break-neck paced aphoristic thriller that is ‘Wake Up to Die’.  Out now via Amazon for Kindle and in paperback, the chapter is merely the beginning of the journey for Mary Jane and Steve.  When Mary Jane escapes her horrific home-life with the aid of her boyfriend Steve, she thinks that she is about to start a brand new life.

Waking up in a roadside motel, Steve and Mary Jane find a video on their bed. What they see on the video shakes their world. The phone call which follows ensures that life will never be the same for them as they race against time, against the local Sheriff and against a deranged psychopath.



John hated his life.  The world was his when he had been in high school.  He had played football with the guys.  He purchased his first car with earnings from his job at his Uncle Pete’s garage and that car got him the girl.  He often wondered what happened to Stephanie.  He regretted leaving her for Michaela.  Michaela’s lousy job had trapped him here.  He hated his gut.  His hair was receding rapidly, yet nothing was going to take away his ponytail. He knew that Michaela hated the way he looked.  She complained that he had not moved on since the nineties.  He ignored her jabs, but she was right and he hated that.  He had refused to move on from the peak of his life.  She had trapped him and he was going to hold onto his last memories of freedom until he could break free.  John blamed Michaela for ruining his life.  How dare she criticise me for her doing!

John always felt that a better woman would have inspired him to keep in shape.  He had become his own tomb incarnate.  Trapped with a dead end job and a broken down home.  The roof leaked and the wallpaper was falling off in places.  He had never wanted to decorate; he liked the way his father had done it forty years ago.  If only he had made better choices all of those years ago.  The only thing he hated more than Michaela was the rap music coming out of his television.  He reached for the remote and switched the station to watch the sports news.

‘Brewski time,’ said John as he stood up from his armchair.  It was only a short walk to the mini-bar.  Bars like the one in the living room were out of fashion, but then so was everything else in the house.  He refused to paint the woodwork or change the wallpaper.  The house had a nicotine tinge to the walls and ceilings where both John and his father had spent hours smoking.  The kitchen still had the same cooker that his mother had used when she used to prepare food for John and his dad.   John liked his dad’s old bar. It may have been thirty years out of style, but he had no care for fashion. Not only did it have a great beer fridge, but it also provided a good hiding place to keep his gun.

‘One day…,’ murmured John as his finger caressed his snub-nose pistol.  He noticed Michaela walk in to the room as he grabbed a beer from the fridge and opened it.

‘Why do we have to watch this shit all god damn day!’ asked Michaela, her hand flicking in the direction of the television and the sports channel that John had put on.,

He hated her high pitched voice.  Every time that he looked at her, he questioned exactly what he had seen in her.  Stephanie had been a natural beauty and her brains had meant that she would go far in life.  Michaela had been one of the girls the lads in the football team all knew.  His friends had urged him to let Stephanie go as she was damaging his ‘cool’ rating.  Michaela had been popular with all of the boys.  His grandmother had told him that nothing good came easy.  He had often wished that he had understood what she had meant much earlier in his life.  Taking the easy route had led to nothingness, a stagnation that stank like a dirty pool of water without any fresh water flow to breathe life into it.  John’s hand found a hold on the trigger of the pistol.  In a blur of motion, Michaela’s head exploded as John shot her from a few feet away.

‘Today it is,’ John said and then sipped at his beer.  He glanced at the cold condensation running down the bottleneck.  Like sweat beads, running down the bottle until they reach the end.  John had started something now and like the condensate droplet, it would also run until the end.

It was a short walk to the kitchen.  A passing shot as he walked past the high chair and another annoyance was dealt with as he turned towards the stairs and headed towards the loud music blaring from Mary Jane’s room.  His head span with the adrenalin rush and nothing was quite real to him as he sought after the reclamation of his lost youth and hope.  The steps seemed to have reduced in size, taking him almost no effort to climb the stairs.  Mary Jane’s music, so often the trigger for a physical fight, sounded muffled.  His heartbeat drowned out the music as his mind focused singularly on his next step.

Mary Jane closed the zip on her bag and pulled her curly brown hair back into a ponytail.  She could not wait for Steve to arrive and then she could finally put this hell behind her.  Steve was a good guy.  He knew about John and how he beat Michaela and Mary Jane.  Steve had been a friend throughout high school, but over the last year they had grown up somewhat and things had become romantic between them.  He was never going to be the richest guy, but he was decent and that was what mattered.  Her mother had ensured that Mary Jane valued happiness above wealth and power.  Steve had the perfect combination of a good heart and cute dimples.  His blonde hair sat upon him as if a wavy field of sun kissed wheat had be sown there.  Mary Jane knew that today was the day where life begins anew.  She would finally get to leave this family behind and start living.  She hoped that little Tommy and Mom would get to live too.

‘Mary Jane!  Turn that shit off!’ roared John as he neared the bedroom door.  His voice reverberated along the corridor.  Mary Jane had heard it do so all of her life.  The fights between her mother and father.  The times he had shouted at Mary Jane after beating her for growing out of her clothes.  The beatings for being unable to finish her meal.  The time he had thrown her from her bedroom window, breaking her leg in the fall, for playing her trumpet in practice for the school band.  The beatings came without warning and he blamed them on every excuse possible.  It was always Mary Jane’s fault, or her mothers.  Tommy had escaped, so far, because of the protection of Mary Jane and her mother.  Mary Jane knew that she had to make sure that Tommy and Michaela would be safe when she left.

‘Go away!’ cried Mary Jane.  She was not yet ready for him.  BANG!  BANG!  John’s fist pounded upon the door like a deep bass drum.  The walls shook and a framed picture fell from the wall.

‘Open this door you little bitch!’ roared John, ‘If I have to break this door, then I’ll break you next.’

She reached for her bag as John began to kick at the door.  The door cracked.  A second kick landed and it burst open, the lower half torn from the hinges.  Mary Jane’s hand found what she was looking for in the bag.  She had to diverge from the plan, although the result would be the same.

‘You…’  John began, his left hand raised to point at her, a bottle of beer clasped between his fingers.

John’s head exploded as the shotgun blast tore through it, the sound shook the room.  John’s limp body collapsed to the floor and blood raining down, parts of his skull making a sickening sound as they landed in the blood that beat them to the floor.  Mary Jane almost vomited as she saw a part of his face slide down her wall.  She had never shot anyone before.  She had never seen a dead body.  Her heart was pumping like a drum in her head and chest, her ears ringing from the loudness of the blast.  The adrenaline rush was like nothing else she had ever experienced.  She did not know what she was expecting.  Why did he have to come and kick the door down anyway? , she thought.   If he had simply sat in his chair watching his sports news, like she had planned, then she would never have had to look at his face again.  She could have put the gun to the rear of his head and pulled the trigger.  Perhaps it was for the best.  Any longer to dwell on what was about to happen and it may never have happened.  This is the best way.  He forced my hand.  She grabbed her phone and dialled Steve.

‘Steve!  You need to come and get me now,’ Mary Jane said, surprising herself with how calm she sounded when she spoke.  She wondered if she sounded that way to Steve.

‘Err…yeah, sure.  There in five,’ replied Steve and then he hung up.

Mary Jane threw the sawn-off shotgun into the bag and closed the zip.  With the phone and the bag, she skipped over a puddle of John.  The stench made her gag.  Many time she had thought about what it would be like, but this was different.  The blood dripping from the ceiling and what remained of the doorway was like a scene from a horror film.  It was the smell that rocked her though and almost made her vomit.  The blood was only a part of it.  She wondered why films never show dead people losing control of their bodies.  It made sense that they would though, especially as John had almost no head left.  The foul smell of urine and faeces, pooled in blood, rapidly took away from the adrenalin-fuelled elation at what she had just done.

As she made her way downstairs, she wondered if Michaela heard the shot.  As she looked towards the living room, Mary Jane realised that she could not have.  Bastard!   She ran towards the body of her mother laying near to the sofa.  Her teeth clenched against her bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed as she fought the urge to scream.  John was always beating on Michaela, but she never thought he would shoot her.  Mary Jane consoled herself that John would not hurt any of them anymore.  Suddenly it hit Mary Jane – ‘Tommy!’ she shouted as she thought of her brother.

She ran into the kitchen and saw Tommy.  She dropped to her knees and the emotion flooded over her.  She was too late.  She had tried to save them, but failed.  Little Tommy was innocent.  He was only a baby. John had shot him as he sat in his high chair.  Mary Jane retched and vomited onto the floor.  The emotion overtook her and she shook with anger.  Tears rolled down her face and pooled where they dripped onto the floor.  She screamed in anger, her forehead pressed into the floor tile as mucus ran out of her nose to join with the tears upon the floor.  Her body purging emotion, taking everything with it as it cleared her system.

Ten minutes passed.  Mary Jane screamed, cried and then screamed some more, venting years of pent-up emotions that had all come to the surface and erupted this day.  Slowly, she stood up as she wiped the tears from her face. Turning to the stairs, she headed back to her room.  Standing over the cavern that was once John’s face, she spat into it, ‘Fucking bastard.’

She grabbed her bag on the way through the house and saw Steve pulling the van up outside.  She quickly dialled 911 on the house phone and gave the operator no chance to ask a question.  ‘621 Yew Tree Avenue.  The bastard killed them.’ She hung up and ran out to Steve’s van.

‘Babe?’ said Steve with a concerned look upon his Mary Jane jumped into the passenger seat, closing the door behind her in a swift motion.

‘He killed them.  Little Tommy is dead,’ Mary Jane said in a rapid manner, the emotion of saying the words pumping through her.  The words cemented the reality to her.  Her little brother was dead.  He was supposed to be saved from the tyranny of John, but events had taken a different course.  A tear rolled from her eye.

‘What? Oh shit babe!  John is?’  Steve’s voice cracked as he spoke, the shock of what Mary Jane had told him confusing his thoughts.  He had been expecting a jubilant and elated day.  Mary Jane was going to shoot John and ensure that her mother and brother would be safe.  They were going to run away together for a new life, new names and get married, leaving this place and its history behind them.  What the fuck do we do now? Steve thought.

‘Dead.  I shot him,’ she said.  ‘I guess he was on his way for me after he killed Tommy and Michaela.’  Mary Jane rapidly regained her composure.

‘Oh man.’  The heavy emotional load of the situation gripped Steve.    He feared how this result would affect Mary Jane.  The police were more likely to pursue Mary Jane now, a triple homicide with no surviving witness would ensure they did.  The plan had been to vanish, leaving Michaela to explain what had happened and how John had used to abuse Mary Jane.  They had figured that the police would not care too much if a loser like John had been killed in an act of self-defence.  A triple killing would illicit a different reaction.  ‘Shit!’ Steve blurted out, his thoughts somehow found their way out of his mouth.

‘Just drive Steve.  We need to get out of here.  The police will be here any minute.’

Steve pressed the accelerator and drove.  He knew her well enough that he would wait for her to signal when she was ready to talk.  Mary Jane stared out of the window, the events of the morning re-running over and over in her mind.



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Special offer for Halloween begins 25th October!

The magic of 36…

Recently, I turned 36 years of age.  Far from being a momentous occasion, it is merely a progression towards the Jungian point of 40 where life begins (Jung said that everything up until 40 was merely research).

Since turning 36, a number of things have happened.  There have been developments within my occult work, I have a new book ready for publication (pending a final technical edit), my ventures in many realms are being to gain momentum and I continue to receive guidance as to where I should aim my progression next.  35 was an age of development, a final embryonic stage if you will, perhaps even a final degree of recapitulation from past lives and manifestations.  It would seem that 36 is an age at which I commence alignment with the Jungian birth-canal.

So what makes 36 so special?  To those well versed, then the answer is simple.  36=3+6 and is therefore 9.  Nine.  The magical nine.  The mystical nine.  The number of man.  The ennead.  The limitless number, short only of deification in order to become the complete and infinite.  The number of Prometheus.  The number of Yggdrasil.  The secret of the 3,6 and 9.  The Eleusinian birth-canal through which the consciousness passes on its way to becoming.

So here I stand (well, I am sat as I type!).  36 years old.  The final stage before arrival at the 10.  It is time to kick the show into gear and commence the contractions that will propel me on my way.