The Lost City of Irem

          Last night my dreams took me back to Irem, lost city of endless ancient pillars, the Atlantis of the sands. Irem still hosts a massive army of displaced and distempered Djinn, who, thousands of years ago, ripped this wealthy dessert oasis out of reality itself. Now, it only appears briefly, from time to time, at the edges of our most lucid dreams, a magical Mecca teeming with twisted visions of those same titanic beings who, for so many reasons, no longer reign over these solid spaces that we’ve placed just out of their reach, safely insulated, as we now are, here between waking and returning to endlessness. I can still hear the screams of those who’ve made it all the way there, but still I travel onward, trying to reach the city of brass and fire for myself. I can only imagine that at least a few of those ancient people who were originally lifted into the gloom have found better things to do than spend their eternities screaming in terror.

         Soon, they say, I will find out for myself.

Filthy Hobbitses

          The Super World Extravaganza is finished, leaving me with a host of new contacts, many exciting new opportunities to follow up on this week, and a lot to think about. For example, at one of the gatherings I hosted this weekend, I found myself rather bluntly interrogated, by a group of seemingly well intentioned individuals, as to my true motives and my ultimate goals. This group heroically took it upon themselves to ensure that I meant their fair city no harm. It seems that my language worried them for some reason. My promises seemed too big. My aspirations of achieving meta-humanity seemed far too lofty and, ultimately, too unrealistic; perhaps even dangerous. I believe my failure to reassure them that I was “safe” may well have cost me a few new friends, and, in fact, it might have even earned me some enemies, but, if it didn’t, perhaps the rest of this post will. After all, I find few things more gratifying, not to mention deeply affirming, than the clamorous cries of concern and consternation coming from a pitchfork swinging lynch mob.

          The way I see it, all speech can be divided into three categories. There’s talk that happens towards no purpose at all, commonly known as idle banter, or, even more commonly, bullshit. Then, more nefariously, there’s talk that’s meant to actively stop someone from doing something. Although large enough piles of B.S. all by themselves will often accomplish this outcome fairly well, chit-chat such as that is far less damaging than the sort of overly critical, obstructionist, suppressive speech that I’m talking about here; the kind of vitriol that rolls so easily off of the tongues of so many of these typically tiny and terrified human beings that, perhaps because we now lack any obvious predators, we’ve bred to fill this world to the brim.

          However, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are still a small number of people out there who can and do employ the act of speech in a wholly constructive manner, with the intention of actually helping actions to occur, of getting things done. These people are tragically rare because most of us are taught to buy into poisonous ideas like “be careful what you wish for,” “better safe than sorry,” and, of course, one of my personal favorites, “don’t rock the boat.” It’s not that all actions should be supported in whatever forms they might take, but rather that the spirit of action itself should be supported, and that one can express concern about how something is being done without arguing in such a way that leads to nothing getting done at all.

          Yet the real reason it seems that almost everyone’s a critic these days is that it takes far less effort, not to mention less courage, to judge than it does to do almost anything else, and obstructionists like these can always pat themselves on the back for stopping any number of imaginary calamities from which they’ve seemingly saved the world. Ultimately, people like this are little more than Hobbits.

          This, of course, is a dangerous line of rhetoric for me to employ. Many people are able to get behind my plans to oppose the spread of the so-called “Zombie Epidemic,” since the monstrous Zombie, unnatural, unfeeling, and almost always unfriendly, is rarely, if ever, cast in a very positive light. However, fewer people would respond anywhere near as favorably if I were to voice my concerns about the growing Hobbit menace. Hobbits, after all, are far less disturbing figures in general, cute even, and are, therefore, far less aggressively obvious in the harm that they do; but make no mistake, they are an enormous danger to any number of ambitions we might have, particularly any meta-human ones.

          So allow me to be blunt: I am not here to make the world any safer for Hobbits; they’ve eradicated almost every ounce of real excitement and danger that this world had to offer, and the buttoned down, conformist, consumer culture that they’ve created to replace it all has conflated almost every form of individual power and unusual achievement with flat out villainy and monstrosity. I know exactly where I stand. I have no need to deceive anyone as to my true intentions, so I won’t shy away from the role of villain whenever and wherever I find it thrust upon me. I AM Victor Frankenstein, at work on things you wouldn’t even dare imagine. I AM Johann Faustus, peddling simple souls to demons to save those spirits which now slumber. I AM the Titan Prometheus, still attempting to deliver the stolen fire of divinity to mere humans formed from clay. Most importantly, I AM Simon Motherfucking Zealot, the revolutionary who wanted Christ to reject the cross, to fight back against a frightened people’s slavish need to have all their Gods crippled and brought down to their level. The real question one should be asking oneself is how can anyone be anything other than what one imagines oneself to be?

          Stinky little Hobbits beware; the Djinn Army marches on…

Lost Temples of the Ahd al Jann

          Once the world was untamed enough to hold countless hidden wonders. Today, very few places remain to conceal even the smallest pockets of magical resistance, much less something like the once grand temples of the mysterious Ahd al Jann. As this world becomes increasingly more civilized and increasingly more banal, the spaces we’ve had to learn how to inhabit, and our practices, have had to become far more subtle as well; far more subtle, and, unfortunately, far less striking to behold. Yet what really matters is that many of the old ways still exist today, in one form or another, even if what we are now is only a fraction of who or what we once were.

         There is absolutely no historical record of the Hidden Covenant, a group which claims to be a union between the Fallen Angels and the Djinn. Each new member must recreate many of the ancient traditions intuitively, feeling for the truths of this strange story that resonate with something deep within themselves as they wander through the darkness of the modern world. The tradition rests on the central premise that something has been lost, not only here, but in what was once Heaven as well, but that we can, and must, dream all of it back into existence, if, and only if, we find ways to make our lost dreams a reality.

         Because of the unfortunate shift in the World Order, few today will ever get to see, much less don, the traditional sacred robes, or the ritual combat gear, of the Silsilah warrior monks; Few enflamed Phantamancers will float sense deprived within the dream work chambers of old, or get to spill their mad visions out across the tapestried halls which used to lead there; The great occult libraries of the Muqarribun Imamate are now all but a thing of the past, as is the throne room where the Hidden Imams claimed to able to both see and converse with the true God; and no longer do their young luminaries, their teams of well trained psychic assassins, debate each other in the great halls where all the rest of the so-called Psychesicarri could once safely be gathered together as one.

         As I’ve said, these four sacred orders exist today much like any of the other great and magical things of the past; as fantastic dreams, half remembered and half realized by a select few among us whose souls simply refuse to forget. We’ve been forced to co-opt tiny communes and retreat centers, nestled away in remote locations outside of human cities, or else mask ourselves within your martial arts schools, art studios, laboratories, libraries and universities, all of which must now be shared with dreamless apes who’ve overrun a world that was once ours.

         For now, your blunt invasion of our once sacred spaces means that the best of you will benefit from our influence and patronage, while others will just find themselves moved, even at times unconsciously, to snuff us out. Very soon, however, the Covenant of the Djinn will once again burn so overwhelmingly bright that everything which is still mortal will simply burst into flame before us.