Conspectus

Conspectus

By Nameless Therein

Reposted from Lux Lycaonis

– Eugène Delacroix, “Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches His Thirst,” ca. 1825

A blind man with his knife in hand
Has convinced himself that he understands
I wish him well, Miss Carousel
But I gotta be a-goin’

– Townes Van Zandt, “Fare Thee Well, Miss Carousel”

Good morning everyone.

As the forgiveness of another fallow year tides the earth with breath and hope, I stand here, once again, to offer some parting words.

Bukowski once said it’s not the large things that send a man to the madhouse, but a continuing series of small tragedies. That is true. But just as soft failures are hard lessons, so too do the large tragedies sweep us off our feet – in humility and golden abdication.

Tragedy has a way of framing things, of putting things into perspective. Two recent tragedies in my life helped accomplish that aim. What is the frame and what are we looking at, you ask? The frame is cruelty, churlish infighting, one misstep and misdeed after another; senseless squabbling, real-world violence, a lack of concern for one’s fellow man; the frame is closeted hatred, resentment, and arrogance, a longing to be recognized with none of the required talent; resistance, stupidity, brutality, racism, antisemitism; a lack of judgment, foresight, ability, education, culture, and manners, guided by years of miscalculated action; most of all the frame is ugly, callous, and closer to a social cancer than a disease – rotten, aniconic, baleful, and noxious, surrounded by a gaggle of grown adults who can barely master their own bathroom, let alone the universe.

And what is being framed? What are we looking at? We are looking at the o9a.

We’ve all been told that all this gold is worth so much that it can’t be sold; but it can. And I’m here to say that I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of the unkindness, the lack of support and encouragement for one another, the petty obstinacy, the prejudice, the meaningless competition and vying for power. And for what? To be lumped in with a roving mob of blindfolded criminals, garroting and patrooning their way to a series of meaningless ends at the expense of real-world lives, hearts, and homes? No. It’s not a disgrace. It’s a defeat, cold and neverending.

I didn’t get into this to harm other people or sanction activities, principles, and amoral behaviors that go against my core values and upbringing. I was raised to help others, to inspire, to help bring out the best in one another, to educate, to forgive, and most of all to spread love through simple acts of kindness. I have always tried to bring that into the o9a – my passion for learning, for wisdom, for truth, my drive toward excellence, my desire to help others reach their highest potential. I found these values to be consistent with the highest zenith of Satanism and the cathartic overcoming of the tragedy it sets in motion across our lives, just as I did in those whom I view to have exceeded its limitations. I still hold this to be true. O felix culpa.

I haven’t found that in the o9a. Through a series of difficult lessons, I’ve slowly come to realize that the beauty, value, and deep interior majesty of this tradition isn’t a tradition at all, but my own spirit, laid bare across my life. Failing to separate the most profound and traumatic experiences of my life – experiences which, in relation to the o9a, almost cost me my life on several occasions and ended the lives of several loved ones – from what the o9a actually is, where it comes from, and where it’s likely heading, I have up to this point made the mistake of investing my heart, mind, and soul into something that is not equipped to receive or sustain them.

I do not belong here. The reality of the situation is that there are good people in the o9a: people who have shown me kindness and understanding, who have heard the truth of my story, identified with it, seen its cruel and fallible destination as something noble and absolute. I have seen the same in them, in their stories, in the life lessons they have shared with me, and in their unconditional generosity. There are people here I love as my own. For many years, I admired and was favorably influenced by some of the writings of figures like Myatt, Long, et al. But there are points of major disagreement in others that I can’t in good faith abide by (National Socialism being a big one, which I’ve adamantly declared I do not support or agree with – and I mean that). I can’t continue this legacy; it’s time to start my own.

So what is the price of this gold that can’t be sold? A sword, a wish, a hope, a word: conspectus. It’s time for me to leave the nest. I’ve realized that the Seven Oxonions were right: I have everything I need to direct the cataract of my life into my own system, my own philosophy, my own canvas of originary creation, and I always have. I’ve been building it all along. The pain of the past does not need to be a monument to the future anymore than the o9a ever needed to be its epitaph.

We hear the word “honor” a lot in the o9a. Indeed, the bonds of loyalty that bind self-integrity to one’s word are a keystone of decorum and civility. But I think something equally important is overlooked here: responsibility. Whether we like it or not, the things we say and do have consequences in the real world. I can’t stand idly by and watch others draw inspiration from my work to justify harm, prejudice, racism, or ill-will toward other people. I never intended that, and I won’t contribute to it. I don’t know how anyone can do so in good conscience.

That’s it. I’ve said what I needed to say. What’s left now? Who knows – but to contradict what I said previously, I think the Seven Oxonions may be right: that the o9a should be abandoned; that “its moral defects render it unsuitable as a modern practical guide to Lapis Philosophicus.” While I still see value in certain formal elements of its magickal system, which I may continue to develop in my own way (esoteric chant, for instance), I find myself in agreement with this sentiment.

If anyone wants to follow my progress, you can find me at Lux Lycaonis. From here on out, I am abandoning Fenrir: Journal of Satanism and the Sinister and will slowly be rebranding the site to reflect that. From now on Lux Lycaonis will simply be Lux Lycaonis, an outlet for the philosophical, cultural, artistic, intellectual, musical, and magickal things I find valuable, in addition to those of my team.

– The Order of Nine Angels

Nameless Therein
March 26, 2023

Tangible ends

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