To students of language, the enduring mystery of words entices and provokes us. The terms which mean the most — spirit, truth, good, information — remain the most inscrutable, but are also found at the core of almost everything that we do. It is as if we are speaking a language we do not understand.
All literature — this includes religion — focuses on the Greater War inside our heads. This is the point that Ur-Mah is trying to make on this site, although Nameless Therein adds the second component to this, which is that mental clarity leads to decisive action in the real world.
We laugh at those who write more than they do.
We laugh at those who would dare start a nexion without reaching the physical standards of the o9a.
We laugh at those who claim to have run a nexion yet do not know the least of leading or organizing people or resources.
We laugh at those who cynically go through esoteric procedures while holding on to a fearful materialistic mindset, not rational enough to discard nonsensical visualization exercises, but not invested enough to break the veil into paranormal reality.
We laugh at those who make up esoteric procedures but remain dependent on the tool as if the tool were the essence.
We laugh at those who claim entry into the ranks of Internal Adepts yet transparently still think of others and of themselves in terms of archetypal categories while claiming the contrary, and thus getting trapped in the vicious cycle of repression and possession, those who fail to rein-in the archetype and rule over it for its usefulness to themselves.
We laugh at those who claim entry into the grade of Master or Mistress of the Earth but who still struggle with financial affairs and matters of identity, who is not a leader nor a prize of the flesh. A Master or Mistress of the Earth should already be at the top of the world, a physical ordeal does not bestow this, but Financial Independence, an untouchable sense of identity, and potent and deep charisma do.
We laugh at he who claims the title of Magus and who holds on to abstractions like “honor” and threaten slaves and sheep with “duels with mortal weapons”, and is willing to put his own life and that of another on the line and at mortal risk for the sake of such an abstraction.
We laugh at those who make up legends about immigrant-killing super-Satanists hiding in the mountains and work themselves up to the illusion of being international spies instead of simply enjoying the beauty and magic of those mountains in silence and self-honesty. Stop holding group Zen meditations up there, and instead hold orgies for Satan where those crystals are supposed to be buried. Actual SEX MAGICK, motherfuckers!
We raise our chalices in honor of that actual Magus who knew not to take his rituals, or others, or himself, as a static identity, and instead knew how to build a tangible empire out of the ashes through sheer Willpower and magical application to the point where neither he nor his family will ever want for anything material.
We raise our chalices in honor of the only real God-in-the-Flesh to grace the o9a community who moves among the American shadows raising the Dead into Eternal Life and damning the self-damning into Oblivion beyond Hell. May the Blood flow eternally into and through you, Oh Master!
May the o9a one day grow up beyond esoteric chants and crystals, beyond japes and sunedrions of little boy and girl scouts.
May the o9a one day grow up and discover that power lies within the ground they stand on and the laws and currency the common man and woman make up not as gods to worship nor as unclean objects to avoid but as resources to create the reality you choose.
May the o9a one day grow up beyond their obsession with being Mamma’s special boy or Pappa’s special girl (the vast majority of o9a members being Enneagram Type 4s, with differing degrees of pathology), and they learn that power lies in developing bonds with the common man and woman as a source of love and tribute and work.
May the o9a one day grow up and realize there is no merit in being different but only in being useful to others but mainly to yourself.
May the o9a one day grow up and realize that what they do does not change nor reflect who or what they are, and that no matter how low their actions have taken them, it is always possible to change what you decide to do and what you make of yourself without inviting guilt or sadness.
May the o9a one day grow up and realize their own methods show not that “an individual reveals their essence through their actions”, but that the past does not need to define the future, that every decision is taken now, and that you can make yourself anew at every moment of existence.
May the o9a one day wake up to the fact that Life is not to be judged nor suffered through, but enjoyed and cherished, that we can choose not to self-punish but to maximize joy and revel in survival and pleasure.
May the o9a one day remember they were not supposed to be sad singing-trekking Gnostics longing for a reality that exists only in an imaginary “green ray”, but Satanists surging with the ecstasy of power, sex, and triumph as pure joy altering the world to suit their individuality.
That the o9a has “moved on” from Satanism only shows they have misunderstood Satanism by fomenting psychopathy and misnaming it Satanism.
This has caused the embracing of anti-Life ideologies that surreptitiously have crawled into the o9a mindset through neo-nazi circles with ties to Gnosticism and ancient Greco-Roman ideas meant to manipulate soldiers and the populace into self-sacrifice.
Today, to be “inner o9a” seems to imply sadness, fatigue, and tears. Further, it seems to come with an insufferable mixture of self-absorption and self-pitying, defensiveness holding up frail personalities who bounce back from their depression with physical training and psychological self-delusion.
Those of us who have evolved through and from the old-school o9a trend, presently invaded by depressive post-suicidal personalities, are ushering in a new era of Earthly Conquest, of accomplishment, of legalistic and economic power to come not in a hypothetical distant future hidden in the mists of time, but NOW AND IN YOUR LIFETIME — because THERE IS NO OTHER TIME BUT NOW.
Re-discover Life, and know that YOU HAVE A CHOICE.
You can BE HERE for yourself, at the door of your senses, beyond your senses.
Build faith on the back of your actual accomplishments in this world NOW.
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
PS. We know Team Depression will answer with pseudo-intellectual/literate posts trying to fill the room we stand in with boring-ass platitudes up to our necks, but we all know how weak and meaningless these are, in the end, as they don’t change the reality of things.
May these serve you well:
* Decapitates Freud in one fell swoop and makes clear the Aryan understanding of mind and energy, though stated in materialist (“scientific”) terms.
** Of Wolfram’s Parzival, Miguel Serrano has written that the only comparable work to it are J.S. Bach’s masterful fugues. Also, it is the inspiration for Hermann Hesse’s Klingsor’s Last Summer, and is essential alchemical reading for anyone traveling the path of the warrior.
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
There will be no removal of National Socialism or of any other philosophical stance that makes people nervous from the ONA.
Each of these extreme philosophies and ideologies are there for a reason. Each of these are there to capture a particular frame of mind and to distinguish who is going to survive and who is going to look further and who is going to avoid the traps.
Fight as much as you want, but the ONA system is made the way it is for a particular reason. It is a blaze of fire bright in the dark forest, calling out to those who can see it and who want to partake in its warmth.
The mysticism that surrounds National socialism and some of its branches is part and parcel of that, because it is that Mystic national socialism that encapsulates much of what the ONA is about beyond the racism and beyond the fanaticism and beyond the world conquering.
It is precisely in the contradictions and in the lack of quantitative methods that the truth is found. It is not in how many miles you run and how many miles you can walk with a certain weight on your back. But it is about how much you can find and how much you can become yourself.
This is the tragic truth of the ONA that there is nothing at the center, the Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth that you have to kill is yourself, not your true “self”, but the false image you have of yourself, the false ego.
The true ego is what others would call self, but it is the only ego. The only ego is the thing that looks outside and perceives everything else and everything that you perceive is outside of yourself, including your body parts, including your thoughts. And this is an old truth spoken by old religions.
That thing, that monster is you. And that monster is something beautiful, and all it does is survive and go on. But if you let it sleep, you will die. And it is the fact that most of you will die.
Do not fight for honor. Do not fight for ideologies. Do not fight. Don’t die for anything.
Honor, morality, and all of these things. They are tools. Not to control you. But to communicate to others that you are dependable, that you are trustworthy. That you’re in control of yourself and in it for the long haul. And insofar as they do this, these things (i.e. morality and honor) are useful. But only a fool dies for them.
Only the fool wastes away and dies to feed the monster that sits on the throne of skulls. That’s what the Hitler Youth was to Hitler, and that was what the SS embodied. The whole of Germany became an instrument for his immortality. Now you don’t need to be an instrument for David Wulstan Myatt’s immortality.
Those who have ears to hear: CEASE IDENTIFYING with whatever you think the ONA is and take from it what WILL MAKE YOU STRONGER.
YOU CAN BUILD SOMETHING, and that is all that matters.
You can build something for yourself that will endure and thrive for decades or centuries or even millennia.
YOU CAN DEVOUR THE ONA or it can devour you.
That is the way of all flesh.
弱肉强食.
Furious mountain winds in their passing
must spare this spot
For red maple leaves are clinging
even yet to the branch.
Cun Yan
Nexion of Ur
Takasago
It has recently reached our ears that some misunderstandings about what “Patagonia” is and means have somehow caused a storm in a cup of water.
It has come to our attention that this has caused some unnamed individuals residing in cyberspace to confuse us with a different nexion that claims to operate in our same area.
We were not even aware that such a nexion existed because we have never encountered them before being guided to their website(s) by automatic attachments and a heads up from an associate.
In the past, we have kept away from online manifestations of the movement apart from a very few select addresses. Our involvement with this blog, namely o9a dot org, is our first venture into cyberspace as a nexion.
Let us explain ourselves succinctly for the benefit of everyone:
La Patagonia is a GEOGRAPHICAL REGION.
Specifically, a geographical region spanning certain southern portions of the beautiful countries of Chile and Argentina.
La Patagonia is not a trademarked name.
When members of our nexion — the Nexion of Ur, that is our chosen outer monicker — include the name of Patagonia BELOW our nexion’s name, it is a reference to THE GEOGRAPHICAL REGION where we focus our alchemical operations and where we get our legendarium from.
We are here to infuse a sense of ORDER, INDIVIDUALISM, and DIRECTION, and we will collaborate with worthy individuals like Nameless Therein — a guardian of the Dark Tradition — that contribute value to that vivifying effort.
The ability to SEE beneath the appearance and to GRASP the message, and the character to CHANGE and TAKE ACTION is what matters when YOU APPROACH OUR WRITINGS WITH AUTHENTIC INTEREST.
Everything else is a distraction, an excuse.
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
He turned around the corner from the office building of the Ministerio del Interior and headed towards his luxury apartment in Buenos Aires. The air of the metropolis seemed especially beneficent today, and Operative 093, a.k.a. “Fernando”, happily inhaled the pollutants that laced the atmosphere. Every person he had interacted with for the last ten years seemed to breathe life into the present he was now stepping into.
His, too, was more than a work of art. Not quite as grand a creation as the state of Israel, but similar sacrificial and psychical methods had been used in bringing it about. Fanatical National Socialists had been mercilessly removed from the Patagonia area by the hand of professional military personnel carrying out the orders of the Argentinian and Chilean governments. Their pointless complot, blind resistance, and violent deaths had paved a path of skulls towards his crowning achievement. This was what the soil cried for. This was exactly what made the grass grow.
His glory would be enjoyed from the solitude and darkness, he thought, in some retreat in the Caribbean after his work was done. For this, he had already set aside a completely legal account in the Cayman Islands through a diversified permanent portfolio. Neither personal fame before the mundane nor illegal means had been in any way necessary for the attaining of Aeonic sinister goals. Steady, step-wise acquisition of influence and worldly power, however, was the most straight-forward and obvious path.
He stepped into his high-end apartment, enjoying the air that the sober, lean, modernistic lines with which it was furnished imparted him. He thought briefly of the traditional mystics crouching in rundown cottages, scribbling away in impenetrable philosophical language and issuing dozens upon dozens of documents filed away by some, read by few, and understood by even fewer who would never make a difference upon the world. He shook his head, chuckling, and heaved a heavy sigh. Hanging on the wall was the law degree he had earned twenty years ago, and how that had been the beginning of a long career culminating in influential posts within the Argentinian government.
With the help of other associates in the Argentinian and Chilean governments, and without needing to infiltrate the army at all since the army wields no executive power whatsoever, an autonomous region was created within the Patagonia area with the express purpose of conducting a long-term social experiment. Herein, it was granted power and advanced technological means to a select group of families previously nominated and screened by the secret group of associates to live outside the norms and laws of South American society. Furthermore, technical advice and economic aid would be forthcoming from both governments to assist towards cultivating a new way of life and its viability for the future. Therein, they would be allowed to practice the religion and customs of their choice.
He walked into the darkest room in his house, purposely darkened and dedicated to his dark meditations. These consisted of wordless concentration. No sigils were ever used, nor candles lit. No names were summoned. Only a single-pointed power that emanated from him, a power fed in turn by all those who served his will. Worlds upon worlds took shape therein.
For years he had come into this room and seen the silent bloodshed that was now still taking place in removing from the area the last specimens of an obsolete phalanx of ideologically-obsessed pawns. Their ill-begotten leaders were now kept in black sites, the contents of their fanzines and the nature of their fetishistic altars tortured out of them by intelligence officers that would never comprehend or accept the answers given them and who would carve their own trapezoidal sigils into the flesh and psyche of their victims.
For years he had stood still for hours on end breathing life into the now-solidified vision of high-tech sustainable abodes that would house the Internal Adepts and their families who would form the rank-and-file of the autonomous region. The orchestrators would remain unnamed, retiring into peace and luxury, pulling the strings only by whispering through networks of connections cultivated through years of patient work.
Today his work had come to full fruition. He felt the rush of energy, the returned shockwaves of his actualized vision filling him, making him grow even stronger. He was here yet he was also there. And that same night an airborne disc-like shape haunted the fjords of the autonomous region of the Patagonia, raising alarms as it was seen by the naked eye of military personnel and radar alike. He would then pay one last visit to the warm oases of Antarctica and commune with the presence that there abides before leaving his beloved Buenos Aires.
https://archive.org/details/GregorianChantMass/
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
The Adept knows what he desires to manifest in the real world.
He has taken the time to define those desires.
He projects them unto a canvas in the form of an unambiguous image.
He communicates them and acts on them so that every word and action displaces the world one step closer to that end.
The denizens of darkness will respond to the Adept who sets the course to a bountiful destination.
They recognize self-authority and Will.
The minions pouring over books call and propitiate Lilith as mother and lover — the maladjusted critters.
But before the Adept who thus seizes life, Lilith falls to her knees and brings him pleasure on overflowing plates, becoming His slave.
Demons recognize this SATAN.
They instinctively aid his cause for sheer pleasure and empyrean boon.
This is all that is expected of you: That you load the pistol, aim and fire it.
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
I
Soon he would be back. Tristan’s friends, a face-painted Balobian and a Drecc in baggy pants, wait at the end of the block. The brutalist building where their friend lived made them feel uncomfortable. As if the ancient darkness they claimed to presence were a real, tangible thing and not just the symbol of wonder and contemplation that defined their relation to the world. A black van swerves into the street and parks right outside the entrance to the community housing project where Tristan has entered. The two onlookers observe without uttering a word.
Proceeding across the gate and down the corridor to the right, the suspicious party had just disappeared into the interior of the facility armed with mp-5s, faces masked behind black balaclavas. No message of warning came from his allies to Tristan. The Drecc played nervously with the folding knife in his pocket. “I should have gotten that beretta, those guys looked fuckin’ cool, man.” The Balobian turns to face him squarely, saying, “We must have faith. Let’s sing our song of contemplative devotion.” He pulls out a quartz crystal he always carried with him for similar occasions, and they become one with the world in a process of wonder that distracts them from the hell that awaits Tristan.
He looks on with milky eyes and pathetic sexual longing upon the lithe limbs and figures of active youth in all their sublime glory all the while his allies in the sinister quest awaited him outside. Even though he professes faith towards an ancient wonder through an equally ancient mode of contemplation, Tristan had never quite stopped obsessing over Hentai animation. Massive Heidegger and Arendt tomes lay open, their pages dog-eared and uncted by the slimy overflow of the frequent sessions in which he administered self-love to a doughy body that the opposite sex found repugnant even in its most flattering revelations. The door bursts open, his hand still on his semi-erect member. He screams and tries to run away, his pants sliding down to his ankles. Landing on his face, his fall is accentuated by the sound of exiting flatulence. “STOP, WORM!”, cries the woman in black, her raucous voice cutting through the air like a tactical knife that slices the throat of the failed sinister adherent. She is a masked woman of all-natural large round breasts and surprisingly lean muscular arms. Her voice cuts through the air, seeding the deepest fear into the lore-savvy Niner.
Tristan complies immediately, his body frozen in an evasive maneuver of sorts, never having trained or otherwise prepared himself for a situation of real-life confrontation. From the via contemplativa he had favored, he could purloin no tactic or technique to have trained and to use in the face of decisive action. The woman in black delivers a swift kick with her booted feet to Tristan’s chin. “PREPARE HIM.” She orders, and the two power-lifting women at her sides swiftly strip a crying and already mentally violated Tristam of his soiled clothes. One of the men in balaclavas remains by the door. The other moves the mp-5 to the side and takes out a sturdy black rope. No measure of faith or wonder could have prepared him for the world, the via activa curb-stomping him like this.
He would remain in this position for quite some time until his formal processing began. Tristan recognized the particular form of treatment now administered to him as inspired by the art of Japanese bondage. His limbs are out of the way and his body is suspended at an appropriate height, and his hind parts are exposed and expanded to maximize convenience in handling. “Who are you and what have I done to you?” he asks, his anus contracting rhythmically as if already expecting what was to come. His inquisitive appellation is answered by a punch to the mouth that fills his digestive tract with iron-flavored blood. The silent male guardian tightens the ropes and stills Tristan the rocking motion induced by the punitive blow.
She would have to show him a thing or two before the re-eduction session is over. The assistants bring in a minimalist black case containing the instrument through which the magistral process of sinister inducement shall take place. It is a lean, metallic cane, designed specifically for this purpose. SWISH, SWISH, SWISH. The Mistress demonstrates her terrifying power as her formidable movements cut through the air. “I AM MISTRESS MARIANA, AND I AM HERE TO FORGE YOU ANEW INTO A SWORD OF DEATH.”
II
Somewhere, a cockerel began to crow, the unknowing herald of a bloody dawn. Hours passed, and Tristan is reawakened for the dozenth time by way of chemical stimulation. His ruined behind and bloodied genitals beyond pain and sensation from the criss-cross offensive delivered by Mistress Mariana.
A flash of purplish light could be seen shining from the face of a demoness. “ARE YOU READY TO TAKE ACTION?”, she finally asks. “WILL YOU COMPLY?”
What would go on behind those closed doors? Tritan’s allies could only speculate. They had heard the cries of despair after coming back with cups of coffee and cookies to satiate their sinister appetite. They were entranced. They could not leave and betray their friend and ally, but at the same time, uploading amateur music to Bandcamp and selling dope had in no way been training for this situation. Something else they were not aware of also held them in place. The dark grasp of an ectoplasmic claw that extended at the end of a filament originating in the mind of the Mistress envelopes them and lulls them into the sleep of prey.
The officer says: ‘Bend him over the bed, so I can see what exactly this little pet is made of.’ The lean, semi-emaciated, but ridiculously strong female acolytes move Tristan into position as the balaclava-clad man proceeds to take out his throbbing member in order to deliver a lesson that promises to penetrate deeper into the Niner. Tristan has an attack of hysteria, defecating profusely once more. His assailants laugh, wondering where all this is coming from considering the quantity of effluvia already having exited from this contemplative one.
He was intimating but not telling and even so, he may have already said too much. Nevertheless, Tristan tries to reason with them by scavenging his intellectual studies to their utmost potency. “In my fallible opinion —” His own screams interrupt this empty soliloquy as his sphincters give way to this assault on his sanity, and the solid rod of meat finds its way deep into his bowels. The cultists hold him, and the rhythmic reinforcement following the compass of the thrusts begins: VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA. On and on to the end of the dark night of his soul.
With the hands of the genuine cultists still upon him, touching, caressing, sweetly soothing in emotional bonding and with the arcane, tonal qualities of the soft music played by others of their number in the air, praises to their goddess, Tristan finds himself drifting into a deep, deep slumber.
III
The beating lasted longer than she had premeditated. And the ritual violation that was administered as a last resort as per protocol had somewhat delayed their schedule. The team exits the facility with tactical efficiency, the engine of the black van is on before they reach it, but the Mistress and the female acolytes remain outside. The shock troops, the guardians, quickly move in and close the door of the van.
Mariana looks up at the sky, and extends her arms towards Tristan’s friends as the acolytes walk quickly towards them, showing impossible white legs under the sway of their robes. A mental prison rises around them, they are pulled by the power beyond the Moon, beyond Jupiter as they understand it. Still they salivate, and the van has come to a stop behind them. Adherents in balaclavas jump out of the nondescript vehicle, and by the time the Drecc and the Balobian are aware enough to turn their heads around, the butts of the mp-5s are already in full motion toward their skulls.
A pale moon shone above, pale and ghostly. The Mistress observes as the robed acolytes castrate the two individuals and placing the severed genitals in a portable brazier quickly produced from the van and its fire adeptly started. The shirts of the sacrificial victims are taken off and upon their flesh are carved a series of horrific sigils unknown in ONA circles, never written down in books, unexisting in digital representation, and transmitted only during live operations that were veritable ordeals of strength and commitment.
Screams erupt from the mouths of the Drecc and the Balobian. To bring to an end the swift yet intense ceremony, the still conscious yet highly traumatized victims of the contemplative way are dragged to the corner on the sidewalk. Their heads are methodically and without delay placed on the curb. The Mistress smiles, and upon a signal from her hand, the two female acolytes emit a steady screech that places the brains of the vaguely conscious awareness of the two victims into a predetermined frequency, and the boots of the armed men come down hard on their skulls, spreading grey matter, blood and bone in a mathematical projection over the concrete.
Tristan began to cackle involuntarily as he felt the dark effluvion entering his body even as it exited the maltreated cadavers where the raw energy had been wasted. An ancient evil possessed him in that moment. Tristan was no longer that pathetic husk pouring over the dusty tomes of vacuous minds intent on finding solace for their inadequacy-in-the-world. “FEED, MY CHILD. FEED AND BE REBORN”
The future manifestation, the culmination of a monstrous transformation, one that would see Tristan shed the emasculating chains of vain scholarship in favor of putting boots on the ground to carry out definitive action. His relation to the world changed. His faith was no more. There was only the nuclear goddess that now held his soul in a vice-grip so cold his anxiety, his weakness, his confusion, his need for contemplation, faith, and wonder decidedly extinguished. Now, a muscular beast prowled the world, reaching the highest peaks of attainment with single-minded enthusiasm and devotion for the single-point of darkness beyond all words. Only the way of action can lead him to the top, to the culmination of all he can be. In his cleansed mind, one message remains: VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA!
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia
In a coded show of allegiance.
You might like to read the whole o9a corpus.
You might like to read the work of Oswald Spengler.
You might like to play at running a nexion even if you are physically and mentally weak.
You might like to talk about sinister culture with a community of equally clueless people.
You might like to collect all the materials and paraphernalia pointed out in tables of correspondances only to discover they make no difference to actual operations or performance.
But…
You NEED to maintain quality nutrition, sleep, and physical conditioning in order to function at your best.
You NEED to have financial security and flexibility if you are to achieve your goals and desires.
You NEED to develop willpower and tenacity to bring anything into reality.
You NEED to achieve psychological balance through insight and experimentation in order to function.
You NEED to prove to yourself and the world that you can accomplish what you set yourself.
Prioritize your needs or remain a daydreaming failure.
Clarice
Nexion of Ur
Patagonia