on the desirability of being poisonous

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I’ve made this monograph public, but it would normally be a Sublimis Serpentibus tier work. I began writing it yesterday afternoon.

For a long time, I thought the very concept of having a tribe wasn’t a good thing. It excluded. It shut out. It created an “inside” and an “outside,” with the latter being evil.

So I’ve been evil for most of my life.

These days, my answer to that is, so what. I’m an evil outsider.

What of it?

When I went to MISTI-Con (a Harry Potter gathering) in 2013, I attended a presentation that involved a guided visualization exercise. It was quite powerful.

I bought a beautiful leather journal in the dealer’s room, and on the first page, I wrote what I’d experienced during the visualization.

In the Room of Requirement,
I saw Master Severus with his midnight black garments,
his face like brilliant moonlight,
so white.
He was holding a bouquet of white lilies.
He spoke to me.

He said: “Trust me.”

I remember how vivid this experience was, and it turned out to have many more layers of meaning than I understood at the time. Friends and I were sharing our respective visualizations, and when I said the words, “Trust me,” my throat tightened with emotion.

I’d just gone through many upheavals, with yet more to come. Incredible upheavals.

And now, here I am: I’ve surmounted them all. I learned to listen to myself, to trust myself. I was guiding my own footsteps at last. Making my own choices.

The lily’s message is, “Take a regal stance and embrace your own power. Remember that renewal is  just around the corner and that the end of one thing heralds the beginning of another.” (https://www.flowermeaning.com/lilly-flower-meaning/).

I’ve done this as well. It’s been an excellent development.

I’m not only an evil outsider these days… I’m an evil insider, too.

I found my tribe. Its power had flowed in my blood since I was a small child. The tribe of the outsiders, of those who don’t require compulsory weekly meetings and aren’t expected to automatically like each other, but who abide by an infernal esprit de corps that mandates, at the very least, respectful decorum.

What I once mistook as a dislike of tribes was, in fact, a dislike of herds.

A number of herds preach “equality” and “universal love,” and embody neither. That’s because both of these are fiction, the latter being particularly harmful.

For years, I longed to care for all of those who’d been branded as sinners, as the children of perdition, as “the lost.” Although they often were, in theory, part of a herd, it actually wanted nothing of them, while proclaiming the exact opposite. Who could make sense of this? How could I resolve this conundrum, how could I appease the hostile institutions that mistreated those it described as goats?

I believed the solution lay in no grouping whatsoever. Everyone belonged to a whole, whatever that meant.

Loving everyone is a terrible idea. Why should the “children of perdition” love the people, the institutions, the deities that despise them, strip them of their dignity, and brand their foreheads with an indelible mark forever setting them apart from “the beloved”?

There’s no individuality in the herd. “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

Any inkling of thought, of questioning, any deviation is a sign that you’re in danger. You must love with all your mind; no room for yourself there. Blessed is the one who believes without having seen.

No matter where you find yourself in this madhouse, whether it’s within its boundaries, on the doorstep, or outside the front gate, regardless of the shape the madhouse takes, love the one who makes you suffer is the message. Don’t trust yourself. Set aside your legitimate questions, desires, needs. Soon your own thoughts confuse you. You no longer know what hate or love is. “I scourge those I love,” you hear over and over. “Take my yoke upon you and you will find rest.”

It takes strength to free yourself from this insidious lie. A yoke isn’t easy or light. A yoke is nothing but a device meant to subdue and control.

Those who won’t submit or fit in, those whose necks won’t bend, who won’t obey, are evil.

In one way or another, I never submitted. I was always on the edge. I was always the edge itself.

“They went out from us because they were not of us.” Yes, and what of it?

Isn’t that, shouldn’t this rather be a source of pride?

“All are welcome” is a web. Eluding it, or freeing yourself from it, makes you alien. If you’re poisonous, the warden will remove you himself.

Herds have this common characteristic: they’re all the one true flock. The Only People. The world, the universe is for them, about them, ruled by them. All else will perish, be cast out or, in rare instances, assimilated somehow.

A tribe is an association of individuals.

Not everyone is welcomed. This is healthy and realistic. While a tribe has a great deal of variation, it also has a certain cohesion. I have no interest in climbing mountains; why would I join a mountaineering association? A herd drags you up the mountain by force, and frequently throws you right off it. Conversely, think of a herd of mountaineers forcing their way into a book club and knocking everything over by scaling the walls and furniture.

Because I’d been treated abominably, I thought true love meant accepting everyone. The institutions, the deities, the controllers said they did this, but they didn’t. I still believed in the hazy “universal love” falsehood, so I thought, either all were welcome, or none, though my mind indicated a third option. It always did, and for a long time I interpreted the third option as a cosmic union, as bringing all things together in a manner that reduced them to none, as a dissolution of distinctions that somehow preserved the uniqueness of different elements.

What I was really doing was eternally giving “another chance.”

In fact, the third option is that it’s sometimes, even often, preferable for me to shut the door. To walk away. To dig a moat. To raise my sword when necessary. And sometimes, I open the door, I lower the drawbridge, I set two glasses on the table and uncork a bottle of wine.

Welcoming all isn’t possible, and it isn’t desirable.

I already knew this when I was a child. Some things couldn’t be fixed, couldn’t be salvaged. Some people weren’t beneficial, despite their claims to the contrary. My childhood situation was so warped, however, that an urge to undo the harm I endured transmuted itself into a symbolic religious quest. Was there love in the pater horribilis?

When I was finally in a position to grasp what I’d been doing, many things became suddenly clear.

It’s not my job to be a miracle worker. It’s not my job to solve every problem.

Some don’t want me, and lo, there are some I don’t want either. The latter is what it took me years to realize. It took me years to understand I had the power to say no. This happened after I had undertaken to heal some of my wounds, and my mind was no longer clouded by pain.

Some people don’t mesh, and they never will, and that’s how it is.

On the other hand, some people naturally blend, as it were. You know this when it happens. There’s a flow, an exchange, you’re happy. There’s mutual joy, a lovely give and take, a rapport, a camaraderie. That’s not to say you absolutely agree about absolutely everything (another herd characteristic, or so they would have it), but you clinch. It’s most pleasurable. There’s respect.

Nothing obligates me to try to clinch with people who irritate me, or who can’t relate to me at all and vice versa. Or worse, with people who treat me like shit, or utter morons (because yes, there are such people), or people who cause me severe pain or displeasure, or the malignant who would impose themselves on me. Why should I give such persons a minute of my precious time? I do not have to do this.

I don’t force them to do anything; I simply go my way.

From my earliest years, I became tremendously skilled at ignoring those whose sole desire was to compel me to be what they wished me to be: a non-entity at their entire disposal.

If you refuse, behold, the heretic. Burn the heretic!

Some look at you and say, “Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots.”  They say this sagely when in actuality they don’t have the remotest idea of who you are or what you’re doing.

I say, be a poisonous toadstool to such people. What of it? Perhaps they’ll truly grow wise and leave you alone. These great sages might even learn to Apparate more than half an inch across the room.

Poisonous toadstools, infernal angels of light, tend to be solitary types.

O Solitude, my sweetest choice, as the delightful song goes.

There is, however, a difference between solitude and isolation, and the knowledge that others share our mindset can be a wondrous revelation. Simply reading a book and feeling a bond, yes, I’ve known this as well, can make one’s spirit soar and fill one’s heart and mind with resolve, with meaning.

The House of Slytherin was marked from the start as dubious. There were three Houses… and Slytherin. The hero didn’t wish to be in that House; his parents weren’t in that House; the Headmaster wasn’t in that House.

Yet there were some who were drawn to that House, the forbidden House. The Other House. The House of Pride, Cunning, and Ambition. Words that could be “positive,” but ultimately, for the most part, were dangerous.

Doesn’t it take Pride, Cunning, and Ambition to stand up for yourself?

To stand apart?

When I see the Slytherin Common Room, it looks glorious to me.

Severus Snape and Narcissa Malfoy fooled Voldemort, the Deficient Lord, and snatched Harry Potter from him in the most harrowing of circumstances.

You’re painted black; what do you do then? Master the Dark Arts. Give them something to talk about, something from which to step away.

I did, and I triumphed at last over all that would have stamped me out. I’ve learned that it’s wise to exclude the ones who disdain you, who have no depth, who would destroy you if they could.

If I’m poisonous to them, it’s no doubt for the better. Some who partake of the toadstool die; but others have visions.

Trusting yourself is the most potent, fearsome, awesome brew there is. Master it. Master yourself.


Since I stopped using Instascam, my Patreon output has drastically increased. When Masterful is released, I’ll share the news on IG, but not much else will happen there (in the event I don’t delete that account).

As I wrote to my Patreon members earlier,

A shelf peek, because you’re special.

I remember days when I had difficulty saying such words, because I didn’t want to leave anyone out. Everyone had to be special to me… but who can live like this? It’s depleting madness.

Now, I know that I don’t have to belong to everyone. Indeed, I won’t.

So I tell you, you’re special. Because it’s true. I delight you, and you delight me.

Here are words about “on the desirability of being poisonous” from my most recent Patreon member:

As someone who’s always been labeled a loner or outsider, this is a fantastic gut-check affirming that we don’t have to be a part of the herd, that it’s okay to be poisonous to some. You’ve said it so well, thank you.

Next up for my Patreon Society members: a short essay entitled, “detritus alchemy.”

Focusing on Masterful this week.

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the fruits of my work

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About my Patreon:

Upcoming topics on my members only platform: why I became a Satanist, and why I love Satanism. I’ll be writing about a variety of subjects, not Satanism per say, but this philosophy will underlie all that I write. For instance, how I live and deal with, and overcome, PTSD.

I write about why I collect toys, why I love the 70s; Total Environment principles are at work here. The temple to the self and its power, an increased power to live deliciously. I write about “practical selfishness” and its numerous benefits, such as health and happiness.

Self-respect is a topic I touch upon over and over. When you spent years exposed to domestic violence, a subconscious, malignant growth can be lodged in you: the “give them one more chance” syndrome. It was sound Satanic philosophy that made me aware of this problem, & its cure.

This brings another principle to the fore: deep personal awareness, which enables an individual to make the best possible choices and bring about whatever changes are required to improve one’s existence.

If what I write adds joy to people’s lives, this gives me pleasure and adds joy to my life. I do, however, write for those who have ears to hear. I know what it’s like to be isolated (which isn’t the same as sweet solitude), and shining a Luciferian light pleases and empowers me.

In the past, I made myself nothing as a survival strategy. Indeed, sometimes this is wise; blend into the background to elude those who would harm you. The time comes when a survival strategy is no longer the adequate response. It has become a reaction to a danger that’s gone.

So now, I write to completely uproot this toxic weed, and to foster the growth of the sturdy and beautiful flowers of self-reverence. I have my own garden, where I am my own god, having listened to the inner voice of true wisdom: “Eat of the fruit, and your eyes shall be opened.”

If others read my words & are encouraged to cultivate their own gardens in my vicinity, there’s more beauty in my world. How could I not derive immense pleasure from this? My joy is doubled. I write about the measures necessary to drive away pests & disease, to protect one’s joy.

I write to celebrate what I’ve accomplished, and to avenge myself on that which conspired to rob me of my self. With the assured, calm, and productive pride of the Infernal One, I say, “Get thee behind me, false god who comes like a miserable thief in the night. I cast thee out.”

Regarding Satanism: I became a member of the Church of Satan almost two years ago. A year ago, I applied for Active Membership, and my application was accepted. I received the official certificate and my first degree membership (not pictured) card last week.

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This represents many excellent and personally gratifying things to me. One of the things you could call it is my official, spectacular, and glorious divorce from Judeo-Christianity.

My Patreon, my business platform, my Society of Cunning Serpents, will now feature “a day in the life” posts, in which I’ll share “daily life” matters, and “The Prince of Serpents and his wisdom” short essays/monographs. The former will often be public, the latter, for the most part, Members Only.

Masterful will be released in October.

More news soon.

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Masterful: completion nears

I have begun writing part six of six, which is entitled “he wasn’t yours: sublime serpent, come forth.”

As I get closer to finishing Masterful: Severus Snape, a Jar of Cockroaches, and Me, my most gratifying and important work to date, I am filled with exhilaration and a sense of personal triumph.

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This book is the culmination of the past fifteen years of my life. In a broader sense, however, it’s been a lifetime in the making.

This book is a Snape-infused memoir. I write about Severus Snape in a way that has never been done before, in a bold and often shocking manner. As one person who’s read the first draft has said, “It left me speechless.” She also said, “There are so many people I want to recommend your book to” and “Gives me so much to think about. Again, wow.”

In this book, I also write about living with PTSD, about the legacy of domestic violence, which is what I witnessed during my entire childhood and adolescence, about leaving Judeo-Christianity and Orthodoxy in particular, about revering oneself, about emancipation and personal power, about saying “no” to bullshit, about putting one’s existence and what one loves first and foremost. I write about having an infernal worldview, about the symbolic light-bearer and his (our) “live deliciously” stance.

I am no-holds-barred in this book. And I’m just getting started. There will be another Snape-themed book after this one.

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My Patreon continues to grow, to my immense joy. I’ve spent the past year refining it, and now it’s precisely what I want it to be. Once Masterful is published, I’ll be spending a great deal of time writing essays for it: infernal thoughts for infernal people. A few of these will be public, but the majority will be Members Only.

One of the excellent people who recently became a member is my longtime friend and extremely talented artist Ben Wu, who just started his own Patreon. I highly recommend you join it, and mine as well.

Ben Wu Loves You: is creating Letters, zines, books, and a little bit of chaos

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Logospilgrimis creating infernal books, essays, and art for discerning individualists

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Ben really gets what Patreon is all about. As he wrote to me, “Having experienced the Patreon venue through your page opened my eyes. It is more intimate and helps me be in the moment. Unlike the endless memes and static of facebook and instagram. Both of which, too, have rules that make it hard to be seen without having to pay them for a sponseres spot.”

I’m still unable to comment and like IG posts from my desktop, and my disgust with that platform is absolute. Unlike what they claim, it isn’t designed to be “social media.” In actuality, it’s an inherently passive exposure to advertisement: if you participate “too much” or “too quickly,” you’re not doing what they want you to, namely, providing the free content that enables them to determine the advertisement you’re supposed to stare at and respond to, you’re troublesome, expendable; content and activity that doesn’t fall within “good consumer” parameters is undesirable.

Furthermore, they have no respect for their users whatsoever. If you “break” one of their so-called rules, if you don’t dance according to their tune (whatever it even is), they don’t contact you, they won’t tell you how you dared to offend them, and contacting a living person at IG is impossible. When I was researching the matter, I saw countless people desperate to get their accounts back, or desperately trying to figure out why they were blocked from commenting. The advice they got was along the lines of, “whatever you do, don’t upset the mighty IG further. Just be good, stop doing anything at all there for a while, cower a bit, and hope you’ll eventually regain their favor.” If you’re not what advertisers prefer, you might as well not exist.

It’s enough to make you want to throw up. As I wrote on Twitter, I don’t like being treated like shit as a rule, so they can suck my balls.

Just when I thought I couldn’t despise FB more, lo, I despise it more.

It’s very likely that I’ll delete my IG account in the not too distant future.

As a result of all this, I’ve been using Twitter more. As nutty as Twitter can be, it’s less restrictive. It’s possible to make lists there, it’s easy to block problematic people instantly, it’s much easier to have exchanges, there’s less censorship. The most eccentric and creative people tend to be on Twitter.

My main focus will increasingly be my Patreon.

As Ben wrote to me, “You’ve given a lot of yourself through your writing and art and I have, too. I think folks would probably appreciate things more if they pay in some way.” I couldn’t agree more. I’ve shared my work, my writing, my life, for over a decade. It was time for a platform like Patreon for me. I am worth what I do and give. In Ben’s words, “I’m glad your Patreon helped give you the encouragement needed. It means a lot to have visible, tangible evidence of people’s faith in you and what you do.”

Masterful wouldn’t have come into being without all the changes I’ve been through, without the evolution that now gives me the ability to say, “My work, my time, my creativity have value, and I won’t settle for anything less than respect and appreciation.”

The more I grasped this and esteemed myself, the more I defined my Patreon, my goals for it, and what I wanted to share there. When I was going through some of the most difficult times of my life these past couple of years, it was Patreon that kept my eyes on the prize of writing and publishing new books, of creating. Of asserting and affirming myself.

I have emerged from my recent trials a fiercer, stronger, more passionate and determined individual, and my work is reflecting this. If those who read what I write are fiercer and have more reverence for themselves because of my words, all the better. Responsibility to the responsible.

Those who contribute to my time, efforts, and endeavors will fully savor the forbidden fruit of my time, efforts, and endeavors. Those who enjoy what I do, who participate and contribute, I treasure. At another time in my life, I would have thought, “How dare I ask for such things?” but now, I dare. Millions of dollars are poured into the coffers of the bland mega corporations of mass entertainment; a dollar per month basic access fee for my original, risqué, innovative content, for my dark magic, is definitely more than fair. It’s a fine privilege.

For a number of years, I let myself be an All You Can Eat Buffet; now, I’m devoting myself to my VIPs. I still give, but I ask as well. Hail Satan!

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There’s no place online like Patreon now, and that’s where the bulk of my online activity is.

As Ben puts it, “When IG cut its shine and I checked out your Patreon… as I said above, it changed me and I felt like I’d found a pleasantly wicked corner of the internet, a place to hang my horns, and I haven’t felt that way in years.” This mirrors my feelings about Patreon exactly.

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Do you know what feels good? Not taking shit. Knowing your worth. Knowing who’s good for you. Being your best self and living your best life.

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Ovum Malus essay

This essay is Ovum Malus tier content re: Patreon.

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bad egg, know your strength

Ugly duckling. Black sheep. Bad egg.

Goat.

Those are the words often used to label unusual people. Individuals. Outsiders.

They’re used against you because you don’t do what you’re supposed to do. You don’t look the right way. You’re not where you should be—invariably, where everyone else is.

When you speak, you say improper things. Your thoughts don’t reflect the general consensus.

When you do agree with a popular opinion, it’s for personal reasons, for careful reasons of your own choosing, not because you fear standing apart, not because you’ve been swept along by the common tide.

When the crowd is marching with pitchforks and torches, you’re in your lair sipping a beverage, observing the chaos from a wise distance. Or you’re simply ignoring it.

Frequently, that’s the worst thing you can do: be silent.

You have to be vocal (as long as what you say is what must be said).

You can bet that whatever you say will be problematic, one way or another, for those who demand your participation, your words, your energy.

So you decline the invitation, devote yourself to that which stimulates, sustains, and interests you.

How dare you not join in the group activity? How dare you stand out?

Standing out sometimes involves withdrawal.

Remember your egg, Cunning Serpents. There are times when the tough shell is required for recuperative interludes, self-preservation, and creative endeavors. Your shell houses the tranquility, the fuel that zealots or psychic vampires would steal from you to build their kingdoms because they lack the ability and inner resources to provide their lives with meaning.

Abusers, psychic vampires, and busybodies of all varieties will accuse you of being “bad” for not doing what they wish you to do. They desire the heat of your reactions to spark and feed their hearths, which are cold and empty without you.

I reject their madness and treasure the warmth of my shell.

Use your egg to its full advantage and you’ll soon be left alone by the ravenous and compulsive, who’ll quickly turn their attention to sources of nourishment that are less effort, easier to obtain. Fortunately for us, the ripe fields of the provoked, the ignorant, and the guilt-ridden are abundant and ready for consumption.

This is why knowledge, self-care, and self-reverence are so vital for one’s well-being and a successful, pleasurable life. When battle is necessary, we break from our bad egg shells and strike with fangs and venom, to the astonishment of the ones who wanted to prey upon us.


As I just wrote on Twitter, every day I feel more and more like the vampire couple in Only Lovers Left Alive, except in a 70s lair. This will be reflected on my Patreon, the Society of Cunning Serpents.

Back in 2015, when I wrote There’s a Hula Girl on my Dashboard, I had finally extirpated myself from the life-sucking muck of Judeo-Christianity… almost. I was a “secular humanist.” In that book, I wrote about my religious experiences, and there was something along the lines of “if your system doesn’t include everyone, I am not interested in your system.” I am no longer of that mind at all. The reason I believed this nonsense was because of Judeo-Christianity’s false universalism, which I’d rejected. Its false elitism, which was more like a selective approval of mediocrity. If you were in the least eccentric, if you asked too many questions, if you went beyond the prescribed limits… you were excluded from the “universal embrace.”

What I’ve learned since then—what I’ve known since childhood, actually—is that there is no such thing as a “universal embrace.” In addition, it’s a deeply unhealthy and harmful notion. As I wrote in Masterful, PTSD had given me an almost superhuman ability to withstand bullshit, though I wasn’t fully aware of it until fairly recently. This ability, often a source of strength and resilience, also made me vulnerable to vampires of the death cult variety. When I was a child, boundaries were forbidden by the pater horribilis, though I maintained mine anyway; the consequence, however, was an unconscious weak point, that of allowing myself to give too much of my time, energy, and self to all and sundry, in a mistaken attempt to bestow upon myself the acceptance and respect I’d been denied.

I give myself the acceptance and respect I need, and this doesn’t require that I accept and respect “everyone.” Not only am I finished with Judeo-Christian lies, I’m finished with humanistic goo as well.

There is a fine sort of elitism, as a matter of fact. It states its exclusionary practices outright, and doesn’t mask them with a deceitful and delusional “universal love” stance, which only serves to subdue and deplete the ones it claims to love.

I don’t expect anyone to be perfect; I make compromises. But those who benefit from these compromises are the ones who love me and accept I’m not perfect either. I no longer give to all and sundry. I’m discerning. Not everyone deserves my time, energy, self, and love. I share such things with those of my choosing, those who also contribute to my existence in delightful ways. Creative, interesting, appreciative individuals who have the intelligence and self-resourcefulness to know that no one is always there.

This is my elitism, and my life is better, more joyful, more productive, and more vibrant for it.

Guard your life like the precious treasure that it is.

step forth, Cunning Serpents

Masterful will soon be completed. I’m at work on part five of six. I’ll be in the editing process in September.

September… Am I the only one who’s excited about autumn? Definitely not.

In other news, my activity on Instagram will now be minimal.

I’ve felt ambivalent about that platform for some time (especially since it’s been owned by Faceborg). Generally, I prefer using my desktop, and Instagram makes this barely possible. A few days ago, I was suddenly blocked from liking posts and commenting on them while using my desktop. No reason given. I could “report” the message if I thought it was unwarranted, not that a single thing resulted from these so-called reports. I could, however, continue liking posts and commenting on them if I was using my dumbphone.

I did some research and read that Instagram was blocking me because I had liked too many posts in too short a time (right), and it suspected me of being a “bot.” This block “punishment” typically lasted between 24 to 48 hours. Well, if I wished to use my desktop, that is.

I call bullshit. Guess what I can’t see at all when I’m using my desktop to look at my Instagram feed? Advertisement. Am I not really being “punished” for failing to do what I’m supposed to be doing on Instagram, being fodder for advertisers? No wonder the platform won’t allow you to post photographs from your desktop.

Instagram cares about your content insofar as it’s useful to advertisers (most of whom live in the 1950s and are terrified of female nipples). Otherwise, they don’t give a fuck about you. They couldn’t care less about creativity. Case in point: it’s impossible to contact Instagram to find out what their sudden, cryptic “blocked” message is all about, and their “help” pages are absolutely useless.

And let’s not even bring up the algorithm factor.

So, fuck it. I don’t need this garbage.

When I publish a new book, I’ll post a photo of it on Instagram, and that will be the extent of my activity on that platform.

I continue sharing links to my work, and retweeting the occasional, interesting 70s-oriented image, and keeping in touch with a few people on Twitter (a platform where there is more freedom), but my activity there is greatly reduced compared with my earlier Twitter days.

This is better. It’s increased my well-being.

Since I stopped using Instagram, I feel less tense. And I didn’t even use it that much.

As I’ve mentioned before, those platform are designed to keep you on them for as long as possible, as often as possible. To accomplish this, they instill a kind of anxiousness when you’re not using them, when you’re not keeping up with them and “neglecting” people you hold dear. It’s quite insidious. What if someone close to you posts something important, and you miss it? Get back on the platform, quick!

Instagram is a “free” platform, except it isn’t. It feeds on you, and exploits your friendships. It siphons your time and energy.

I’m done with this noxious, corporate social media culture.

From now on, my online focus will be my Patreon, and this website. I’ve recently revamped my Patreon, which is where I’ll be sharing photos, news, essays, and more, on a regular basis.

Here are my Patreon tiers:

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Some posts will be public, but most won’t.

I’ve had this Patreon creator account for over a year, and it took me a while to figure out how to use it (not to mention that I was dealing with a number of crises and exhausting situations), but now… Now I’m truly up and running, and feeling excellent about it.

One of the things I recently shared on Patreon was exclusive news about an upcoming book. The cover of said book will be funded in part by my patrons, who are members of my Society of Cunning Serpents. The essays I write all deal with living like the god you are, which takes self-knowledge, productive pride, and a powerful inner core. I write about living deliciously, living boldly, living in accordance with what is most important to you. There is a price to pay for this, without a doubt. But I for one wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you’re a member of the Left Hand Path, you can also find me on Undercroft.

And now, back to Masterful.

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Masterful: halfway mark achieved

Things are pretty damn good.

First, my 50th birthday was splendid. Presents, buttercream laden cake, quiet activities that gave my introvert self the greatest pleasure.

I took many portraits to commemorate this event. I had fun with wigs, undergarments, Mozartian and Snapian themes.

And now I’m going to share a bunch of them.

I am 50, hear me roar. Wearing a gorgeous polished silver Baphomet sigil by iSatanist.

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I do the boy thing, I do the girl thing. I do my thing.

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I do the Snape thing. Here wearing my robes, as well as a fine Bone White Baphomet sigil by Satanme.

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I do the Mozart thing. Betsey Johnson undergarments.

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Here with a fabulous inverted pentagram, also available from Satanme (one side red, the other black, perfect for my disco lifestyle).

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I have fun these days. More fun than I’ve ever had. I do what I want, how I want.

I’m fairly recovered from the flooding mayhem of last spring. Today, the river levels are at 57.98. We’re approaching August, one of my favorite months of the year because everything is so slow and quiet; that’s also when one can sense autumn around the corner… This month, we endured several intense heat waves (yesterday, with the humidex factor, we hit close to 115º Fahrenheit—madness. Thank fuck we have central air conditioning in this house).

Still, I feel really, really good.

Yesterday, I hit the halfway mark re: Masterful. Working on this book is so phenomenally satisfying… My most personally gratifying work to date. As I wrote on Twitter, “I write because it gives me pleasure, because it’s in my blood. If my work also helps like-minded individuals live deliciously, all the better.”

I’m not fucking around in this book, let me tell you.

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After I publish Masterful in September, I’m getting back to work on Wolfgang, A Fantasy, and I can’t wait. Apart from Wolfgang and Antonio Salieri (among others), this novel will feature the Gentleman Downstairs who will do wondrous things, and a grim Archbishop (guess which one) who will try to do terrible things.

Favorite drinking vessel, by Satanme, here featured with an exquisite statue of Lucifer the Light-Bearer.

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Stay tuned for more deliciousness.

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Masterful: September

I will soon be halfway through the first draft of Masterful.

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The book is flowing. This is one of my most satisfying writing projects up to now.

The other day, I took test photos of my new Snape wig. I hacked away at it with scissors for a while before I began snapping pictures to see how the wig would look on camera, and I experimented with light.

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Mystery is the quintessence of Severus Snape, the Prince of Snakes.

A real photo session will take place soon. It’s been years since my friend Diane and I did a shoot featuring the robes.

I haven’t been crafting much; it’s time consuming, and my time is currently devoted to the book, recuperation, relaxing on the front porch with a journal, doing a few select things with a few select people every now and then, a small circle of friends, because I honor my need for introversion and tranquility more than I ever have. I enjoy the times I spend with those close to me, but I need long periods of solitary home quietude between those times, and that’s perfectly fine.

I said in a previous post, “it’s not all about writing for me now,” though it is—and not. Because I also take care of myself now, I take care to relax, to have my life, as it were. I write, I savor the process, then I stop, I sink into the couch, watch movies, enjoy my pleasant surroundings. I have excellent, wonderful meals and riveting discussions with my beloved spouse who’s as introverted as I am. I add more toys to my collection and delight in them.

Be important to yourself, treat yourself well, with respect, honor yourself, and you will live a good life.

These days, I’m living my best life.

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Speak of the Devil interview, Rubber Clown Car album release (oh, and spring sucked boy did it ever)

It’s been a while since I posted a “what’s going on” update, because as tough as winter was this year, spring has been… well, I’d say it was ten times worse.

In 2017, we had a “once in a hundred years” flood in Quebec and Ontario. Guess what happened again this year, except it was an even more massive catastrophe?

I wish I were kidding, but I’m not.

Two major floods occurred in the 70s, two years apart; I sincerely hope another forty years go by before history repeats itself.

In 2017, the river levels in my area peaked at 60.44 metres. 60.24 metres is where “exceptional flooding” levels begin.

This year, the river peaked on May 1st at 60.70 metres. It then receded a bit, and peaked again about a week later at 60.61 metres.

Our home didn’t get flooded in 2017, but this year, I was terrified it would. When the situation intensified, army vehicles were going up and down the street. Firemen knocked on all the doors in the neighbourhood, handing out “what to do in case your house floods and you have to leave” pamphlets. The rain kept pouring, and it was windy and bitterly cold. A veritable all-you-can-puke buffet of misery. On the news, we would learn that a dike had failed, flooding a town; that a dam might fail in another part of Quebec. States of emergency everywhere. Evacuations.

My neighborhood is actually quite a distance away from the river itself, but this year we experienced an unparalleled event.

My PTSD symptoms skyrocketed. I took my emergency backpack out of my closet and I had a suitcase and the cat carrier by the door, in case things quickly degenerated. I wept on the shoulders of neighbours. The stress and anxiety went on for weeks.

But my portion of the street is on higher ground, and the water stopped about a block away. The transversal street, farther down, and another nearby street got badly flooded, being lower than we are.

I wrote more extensively about all that was going on over on my Patreon.

Suffice it to say, it was phenomenally exhausting. On a few occasions, I felt like I was about to lose my mind. I wasn’t able to perform as Charlie at my teacher’s show because at that point, the floods were worsening and I began feeling seriously unwell. Sitting by the window, I saw city vehicles carrying load after load of sand bags all day long.

Let me tell you, I smoked a lot of cannabis to manage my exacerbated PTSD. It helped me remain at least partially calm. I noted down the river levels, checked the city’s Twitter account, refreshed my dumbphone for the latest local news. For a while, that was all I was able to do.

This morning, the river levels here are at 60.25 metres; we’re about to go down from “exceptional flooding” to “major flooding”—and it’s a huge improvement. This week, the sun will shine, the temperature will at last start becoming seasonal…

Right now, city vehicles are beginning to remove some of the sand bag piles.

I can’t begin to describe what an incredible relief it is to have things going back to normal, though it will take another couple of weeks before the river is once again within its banks.

I’m going to rest and take care of myself this summer. I will be writing Masterful this summer as well, but this reclusive hermit crab will be quieter and even more reclusive than usual.

Last week, I began playing my violin again, and oh, how good it felt. While the flooding was going on, I couldn’t play. I could hardly concentrate on anything.

At the moment, I’m recovering and recuperating.

Yesterday, though, I did something that required more energy, but it was a wonderful thing: I was interviewed by the charming and urbane Reverend Campbell on his show Speak of the Devil.

I promised him I’d be on camera next time; this time, speaking was the most I could manage. I think I succeeded in being somewhat articulate, despite my going in a dozen different directions (typical), now and then losing sight of the connections I was attempting to make (typical!). This is one of the reasons my preferred mode of expression/communication is the written word: I ponder quietly for quite some time, and my thoughts flow more smoothly, in greater detail and depth, when I write than when I speak (especially spur of the moment speaking). But Adam is such a lovely individual and gifted interviewer, he made it easy. Time went by quickly, and we could only touch upon much of what we discussed!

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You can listen to the entire interview here:

In other news, you can now purchase the latest trippy Rubber Clown Car album; it features some vocals I contributed (Sleep Tight duet, and the intro on Action Brats). You can also get it on Bandcamp.

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In coming weeks, I’ll be focusing on Masterful, on Patreon posts and second/third tier envelopes, and I’ll be doing a couple of photo sessions (my 50th birthday is coming up in June, so I want to take new portraits to celebrate)… I’ll also focus on tranquility, playing my violin, enjoying my lair, creating art (such as getting back to my clay).

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