Monday, April 14, 2014


As papers are being written, deconstructions are being remembered. While laughing at the poor plastic disposable camera, Lock and Derrida wanted to know the word of the prophet. I said: 'the prophet wants more puns.' That was exactly 13 years ago. Some things never change. We still want more puns, and to unlock derisions.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014


While walking the dog to pick some violets, I also go through a few ritual steps. For instance, every time I get to a crossroad, I stop and watch. Usually there’s always something there that makes me think. But this is not the kind of thinking that I associate with being an intellectual – Lord only knows, I get enough of that already on the job that pays for my bills – but the kind of thinking that has my head completely in the service of my senses.

Being quite tired of the lying industry that the academia has become, with academics thinking and writing for big publishers whose voice of commonsense equals that of sales, I have to admit that I like to give myself the opportunity to eat my own head, as it were, and feel what it’s like to have it as part of my gut. In other words, the more of my senses that I can activate, the better. Usually this takes care of my frustration with seeing how little I enjoy writing anything on dictation and thus doing good business for the university. You know, the kind of academic business as usual, where the only question that we ever pose as thinkers is this one, also business as usual: ‘What’s in it for me?’ ‘How about living the moronic life,’ I always want to retort, but I keep such opinions to myself.

So, yes, the crossroads. Today a blue thing was lying in the grass, on top of the mound around which cars usually swing. I go to the top, while becoming invisible – I can spare myself the speculations from the drivers – and have a closer look. A glove. A blue glove. A rubber glove. I get even closer and read the writing on it. Blue Star, it says. Oh, how appropriate. Cosmic brightness – I have to admit that I love everything that counters the moronic life, especially the one that has us all talk the so-called rational talk, or the talk that then transforms into moronic books that other morons can endorse.

So here’s the connection I made. The Blue Star is that thing in the universe that the astronomers identify with the giant star. The Blue Giant Star often turns into a supernova. There’s a beautiful Blue Star right in the constellation of Orion, and flanking what the astronomers also call the Witch Head, which is a reflection nebula. What bliss to be able to turn your head and actually spot it. The Rigel Star area, formally known as the IC 2118, has enough light in it to illuminate the best of magic there is. A sorcerous encounter between a glove and a dog-walk at the crossroads. I have to admit that I love my life and some knowledge that’s in it.

Back home, I asked the cards about it – and for whatever reason, I thought I’d ask the cards I made myself in the image of the Lenormand Oracle. The cards I call A Helium Poet – must be all that cosmic gas and dust that’s in my eye. The eye in the belly, as my head was deliberately placed there for the purpose of the walk, for the purpose of the shamanic experience: To be out in nature and pay attention. Listen and watch.

Says the Helium Poet: ‘Ask the Moon about climbing to the Star to touch it.’

‘How difficult is the Mountain?’ I furthermore asked.

‘As difficult as your ability to surrender your Heart. Take a dive with the Fish,’ the Helium Poet intimates, ‘and you’ll find your Heart right there where it actually is. In the love of this: the earth and its sky.’

May you all shine brightly.


Note on the deck: A Helium Poet, Lenormand Cards, Camelia Elias (30 cards) and Witta Kiessling Jensen (6 cards), 2013.

§ Via Taroflexions 

Friday, March 21, 2014


It's Bach's birthday. I always celebrate the master. But today it occurs to me that the very time I ever got really stoned on hashish, the only thing I wanted was to listen to Bach. I did. I dissolved into the oneness of all things. I heard every single note. I like to get stoned, but not without formulating an intent for it. So, tonight. Yes. I'm ready. My sister dearest is here too. She's one hell of a cognitive psychologist, and, as it happens, also a terrific necromancer. We'll get down some roots. Ask the plant to ally itself with our tones and tunes. Show us the sound. The extinct instrument, the cello da spalla, the one that scholars and musicologists speculate Bach used for his compositions, will lead the way to the underworld. It's a good place to be, also right now as we're under the influence of the vernal equinox. Here we come then. Let us hear the voice of the ancestors and Bach's. The sun in the anchor. The thought in the heart.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014


Here’s a story. For once the Danish postal service is behaving decently – usually they mess things up all the time. No one would admit this, as this is Denmark, right? The milk and honey land? Right. Everyone is perfect here. And most happy, they say.

So the mailman wakes me up very early morning. A package. I’ve been waiting for this one for a few weeks now. Now it’s here. My own, rather ad hoc, logo design for my cartomantic website, Taroflexions, has been immortalized in the form of a pendant. Handcrafted and hand hammered in the woods of Tennessee by magical silversmith Aidan of Tveir Hrafnar, specializing in talismanic jewellery.

This piece is simply beautiful, like all true labors of love. It came out of a whisper that was then heard by someone out in the sticks. This is what I call touching true inspiration. Taroflexions hanging on my bosom feels like butter. I’m with Empedocles on this one. The four elements stylized as diamonds, clubs, hearts and spades make me think of what is truly important, namely, being hopelessly in love. Such a state is always beyond duty and obligation. Beyond good an evil. Beyond humanity. Nature never judges, but it avenges herself when insulted. I like wearing the earth around my neck. The telluric forces ignite my passions, and I burn in deep waters without thinking.

I drew three cards for it. ‘What do you come to me with?,’ I asked.

Ace of Diamonds, 5 of Clubs, and 4 of Hearts. A message of craftsmanship and dedication, indeed, landing in the heart of emotional stability. The silversmith has not left the woods in three years, he told me, and I’m jealous. I hold Taroflexions in my palm and make a wish for a wooden house surrounded by trees. ‘There was a cut piece that I dropped in my workshop, and that I was unable to find again.’ It looks like the monogram, my initials, the CE, the semiluna with a dash, didn’t want to leave that place. I told the silversmith that I like the idea of bits of my soul scattered in certain places. I think of such places as a refuge. I need those for magical purpose.

4 hearts for the 4 suits. Counting my blessings can start at number 4. I can plant my stang in the North. That’ll make 5. Divining for the letter can make you hear the winds. Nature’s breath. With it we can do magic of the highest.

May you all be blessed with understanding, and beautiful things.


Note on the deck: Otto Tragy, Stralsunder, 1910.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014


Frigg's wisdom: the ultimate oracle is to have the sun on your tongue.

Monday, March 10, 2014


People often ask me: why the Arctic? – my favorite place. While I know exactly what to answer, at the same time I don’t. Perhaps this has to do with how I see the Arctic as my home. A home with no boundaries, no black and white aesthetics – mind you, I already wrote about this – no square rooms, no chickens in the yard, no statements.

What then, if not all these things, all some fine signs of civilization? Round huts, colorful silks, wolfs that are not wolfs, and weird museum objects bought on ebay and coming god only knows where from? Well, yes. That’s it. I surround myself with things that have a value beyond that which I myself can participate in inscribing. The culture way.

Sometimes I laugh at myself for the reason I often invoke when I have to explain why I’m against marriage: so that I wouldn’t be caught dead with owning a single photograph of myself wearing a fancy dress and being captured in a setting that all too well screams: ‘mine.’ Family pictures tend to have borders. When people pose for a family picture there’s often lines in it that delimit some borders: ‘This is mine, and that is mine, and she is mine, and the house is mine, and the dog is mine’. You get the picture. Mind you, I’ve also written about this before. But it seems that it makes a good subject every time. It’s as eternal as the phony image that we all buy about how good life has been to us. How lucky we all are. We are now with just the person we’ve been dreaming of. So we hurry to inscribe ourselves in some picture. That’ll do it. Hold it. The marriage, that is.

Of course, deep down we all know that the more the status quo images scream status quo, the more they are just that, status quo. Symbols of desires that are not even our own. Nothing more. There’s no substance in a house of squares, a family of squares, a dream of the other as a square that we’ve made to fit the image that we want to promote of ourselves. As settled people. Now we’re serious. Important. Now we have something to say.

So, yes, the Arctic. The good news is that you don’t have to show off any settlement. Up there. In the Arctic you’re not settled and realized. You don’t have a life purpose. You don’t act as an inspiration to all those who can become better at taking risks. In becoming good entrepreneurs. The more money kids of 12 can make, the more spiritual they can get. About materialism. We hear. There’s solid logic in that. No doubt.

Oops, the wolf that’s not a wolf is making sounds of restlessness. ‘You’re not writing about your regrets again, are you?’ Wagging her tail. ‘Look at the statement I’m making to the moon? What do you think of it?’ ‘Oh, I like it,’ I say. ‘Come here and give me a kiss.’ Wolfie complies on the spot. Smootch. Hmm. The taste of wisdom. I’ll write about that. If I have it. If I’m in doubt as to whether I have it, I know what I’ll think off. The Arctic. Living the life with snow and cards. Lots of cards. The Popess flanked by the Hanged Man and struggling with Spirit, or La Force. The Spirit will come through, if conflict is resolved. ‘Don’t inscribe yourself in any dumb pictures, you hear?’ ‘I hear you.’ I say this with conviction. The kind that’s cold and hot at the same time. The kind that makes others mad. The boxes. The hollow men. I hear a howl and slip through a vortex. I call it mine.


Note on the cards: Tarot de Marseille, Edition Millenium, as reconstructed by Wilfried Houdoin, 2011.


Post via my cartomantic website, Taroflexions.

Sunday, March 9, 2014


Today I wrote the following lines on my public media ‘wall’:

The thing about women’s day is that it makes you think of your losses, and the reasons why you haven’t become what you really wanted to become, in my case, a forest ranger. On women’s day, and as an academic in the academic world, I think of my specialty, namely, lying for the patriarchy so the patriarchy can keep happy. On women’s day I always say to myself: shame on you. Off to the forest to shed some tears by a tree, and cry me a river.

These lines sparked some wonder and amazement. Women around the globe are still dreaming of becoming ‘independent.’ One of them, a good friend, told me that she still plans on being whitewater raft guide. I replied in turn that I would follow such ladies.

Of course, regrets of this kind are often the result of the realization that we all have very limited options to choose between, and which culture endorses. When I grew up the dominant discourse dictated that unless you were a doctor or a lawyer you were nobody – Forestry, you say. Ha. So, just about everyone I went to school with tried their luck at getting accepted at the university in these very programs, the medical or law school. No one in my high school made it. After failed attempts, 3 or 4 times were not unusual, some went for what else was there, almost nothing. One or two actually got to finally graduate from an academic institution, but not in what they wanted. Hence, today none are terribly happy with their lot, myself included.

All things considered, I think I have a good job at the university, but I work under men and they don’t quite get what I’m up to. More often than not they put it on account of my having a dubious ethnicity. Hence my dubious interests, however ‘academic’, mind you, are not to be reckoned with. I suppose that this makes the men in question happy that they don’t have to dismiss me entirely on account of my gender – which they almost always do. If confronted they would deny it, as it’s not in line with the party politics these days to say that you don’t like women. But we women know all about it. We know what’s what. And yet we can’t do much about it. Things don’t change. Mostly because most men don’t like conflicts. Hence they lie a lot. And then make war. Especially at work. Everywhere. So it goes.

Another friend from Romania posted today, on women’s day, a video. I instantly got tears in my eyes – like I didn’t cry enough for all women’s lot and losses. It was the old recording of Maya Plisetskaya dancing to Ravel’s Bolero. This recording was my mother’s favorite. I saw it many times, yet something struck me today. I always thought that the reason why mother liked this sublime dance so much was because she was a lover of the Russian language, which she saw manifested in aesthetic forms that appealed to her. But today I saw something else in it. I saw the power of the ritual dance. The return of the Goddess. Men are there to serve her, creating her circle, but they are not above her. And nor is she above them. But she is still the Goddess. I suppose Maurice Béjart’s genius, when he choreographed this piece, consisted of this acknowledgement, namely, that the woman is not someone one merely needs to reckon with, but dance with. Ah, well, some would say Béjart was smarter than most men because he was gay. Could be. I’d like to work under gay men for a change, if keep working for men I must, and test that hypothesis.

With my dead mother in mind, a woman who had the great fortune of becoming economically independent at the age of 40, I asked another working council to tell me what I might consider doing, as a woman, for myself, in the name of all women who have to put up with the ways of culture, dictating which professions are better than others, and making us all, women, believe that as long as these dictations come from men, they are safe. Says the council of 13:

Break it off with them men, the rich ones and the bossy ones. The ones that keep you forgetful of what your shackles sound like when you don’t move. Rock the boat of all the official men in your life. There will be rumors, but you can start those yourself, for a change. Avoid the wrong crowds of men who say one thing and mean another, and stop giving chances. Leave things behind. The world of the 3 kings is not your world. Lose some more. These losses will be your conscious losses, not the dictated ones. Enter your own religion, and see the darkness within for all it is.

Happy women’s day, or perhaps I should say, have a good one, have yourself, serve yourself to yourself, and forget all about what’s proper according to laws that are not your own. Write your own laws. Heal yourself. Go to the forest and ask a tree to assist you. It will not judge you. Breathe in its power, and let that breath go through your legs and into the ground. Feel the lushness of the earth. It’s where all the vitality and life comes from. Men can’t give you that. They may say humiliating things to you in order to convince themselves that they can control you, but you can ignore them. Leave their lies behind you. It isn’t men that give you power. It’s a fallacy to think that if you can get the man you get the power. Go to the earth instead. Acknowledge it, and thank it. Dance on it. Dance with it, and with each beat make sure you go faster, firmer, and freer. Let the love of yourself flow, and with it, with this love, fly away. May you all be blessed with the power of saying NO to all that which does not serve you.


Note on the deck: Cartes Patientes, Mesmaeker, Belgium, 1930.


Post via my cartomantic website: Taroflexions.


Monday, February 17, 2014


Asking people about their passion is one thing. Asking them about their purpose is another. The first presupposes ‘now’, the latter an illusion. While the purpose in life has always been physical – 'be fertile,' they all say, of the earth and women – passion is of another dimension. We can passionately declare that the purpose in life is to do the best we can right now. Try not to kill anybody, be too angry with idiots, leave grand legacies to your kids, or think that just because things happen to you they are significant. If we all relaxed about our purpose in life, we might discover that we can be at peace with each other and with this planet we’re on.

Enjoy your passions. (Parenthetically speaking, I must say that I prefer passion to purpose, as I have this nagging suspicion that a lot of what we call 'purpose' has more to do with our concern with what others think of us, or even worse, our anxiety that we might not live up to the neighbours' expectations, than with our knowledge of what we're really good at. But let that be the topic of another fragment. Right now, I'm not sure I want to waste my time commenting on self-delusions.)

Wednesday, February 12, 2014


Samfundskritik, or reflections over lunch at the university. Reading study curricula. Pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages of rules and regulations and competencies and skills, and I scroll, and I scroll, and I scroll, and I scroll, and I scroll, and I do't find any knowledge, and I scroll, and I scroll, and it's rhetoric, and rhetoric, and rhetoric, and rhetoric, and concurrence and concurrence and concurrence and concurrence, and more concurrence as competition with invisible enemies and better universities whose study curricula are probably even worse, as they are also addressed to their worst enemies, and it's ranking, and ranking, and ranking, and ranking, and it's vacuous, and vacuous, and vacuous, and vacuous, and vacuous, and it's knowledge, they say, and it's interesting, they say, it was in the media just yesterday, and it's soundbites and soundbites and soundbites and soundbites, and it's in the media, it has just been made popular, and popular, and popular, and popular, and it's knowledge they say, because it was in the media, and the big professors are in the media every day every day every day, and it's vacuous and vacuous and vacuous and vacuous, and they all start believing it and I'm thinking that at the next big meeting on reforms and reforms and reforms and reforms I'll propose that we study the wisdom of students, for it's there it's there it's there it's there it's there, I'm sure of it, it's not popular, and it's not competitive, and it's not about being successful, and relevant, relevant, relevant, relevant, of course the wisdom of students is not relevant in a university that aims to be number one number one number one number one, even though it will never be number one, Oxford and Harvard are number one, even if that is a contradiction in terms as you can't have two universities that are number one, but then hey, we live in the age of Wittgenstein, and quantum physics, where all these things are possible, and not to forget the power of the media endorsing vacuous professors, and educated lawyers from Yale who have just turned creative writers and got their books on the bestseller list, with New York Times or something, there are many number one bestseller lists but it's no different than having Oxford and Harvard as number one universities, well, maybe not factually, but what's in a name, what's in a name what's in a name, a name is a name is a name is a name, well, the lawyer turned creative writer got the creative baby ranked number 15, but hey, it's the bestseller list, what do you know, that's something, you know, and the vacuous journalist asks, so, what's your advice to creative writers who may also experience 49 rejections like you did before they have their books ranked number 15 on New York Times number one bestseller list, well, they have to keep the dream alive, oh, wow, that's so deep, and the journalist doesn't say, could you please be more specific, and perhaps give me something other than a vacuous cliche, but there are no critical journalists out there any more, only gate keepers and gate keepers and gate keepers, oh, the ministeries of education around the world, we do live in a globalized world after all, all want gate keepers, and nobody asks bullshit what it is all about, but hey, the vacuous professors have just been in the media again alongside the creative lawyers who think that we need to keep the dream alive, so we do. Amen. It's nothing personal, just business as usual.

Saturday, February 8, 2014


For Austin Osman Spare

If I raise my pen and write, ‘Behold’, the next thing that I do is draw circles on your belly with black ink. I draw ritualistic blood from your passion. With it I close the gate of senses behind me. I throw you on the bed – my bed – and with my black hair turned white I tingle your nostrils. The art of memory is no game for you. Your love is more profound in your tears not your plans. ‘Behold,’ I say, the heat from my palm turns redundant knowledge into ubiquitous urge, and you find your affinities change. I serve the logomachy of Zos and you just follow like a Zombie.

Friday, January 10, 2014


Lately I’ve have been inspired to reassess some of my thinking around what I’m doing where magic is concerned. I’ve been exchanging recently some fascinating ideas with three of my favorite people in the business of performing magic: card reader extraordinaire Joeanne A. Mitchell, psychologist, anthropologist, occultist, and Obeah man Nicholaj de Mattos Frisvold, and philosopher, writer, and adventurer, Drew Jacob. A few personal stories were recounted between us, on the basis of which I have come to formulate more concisely what magic is for me (a few other ideas on this can be found here).

Magic for me is an appreciation of a specific mood that is either induced by ritual or ceremony, or that arises by itself when prompted through the activation of a heightened awareness about a certain event. This latter situation can manifest in very simple terms. Yet, as with all things magical, it proves nothing. What it does, however, and which I value the most, is take care of my experience of being astonished on a daily basis. And I have to admit that I’m addicted to being astonished. Everyday I look for something that will astonish me. Perhaps that’s why I work with poetry, both in terms of producing it and in terms of studying it in the scholarly fashion.

To give an example: Since the famous occultist and rocket scientist, Jack Parsons, reminds me of my father who died in 1976, I tend to think of him on his birthday and of what it is that he shares with my father. They were both rocket scientists - my father worked for the military in Ineu, Romania, where they built missiles, Parsons for Caltech, in the Jet Propulsion Lab – they both died in their 30s, and they were both magicians.


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So, on October 2 last year, I take my dog out for a walk, and while thinking of the two in tandem, two crows start following me on the road. I greet them properly, as I decide that it’s the two I’ve been thinking of, the two Jacks – incidentally my father’s nickname was also Jack (in Romanian, Gicå). They say something, and I say something, and it’s all very good. On the way back, I am intent on honoring them with cooking lunch for myself in the form of scrambled eggs and bone marrow (my father’s favorite). I’m very excited about this project, and I can see that the crows are too. They follow me almost to the entrance to my block. I go upstairs, open the fridge, and… the horror. There are no eggs in the fridge. What to do?


I can’t let the two down, so I go out again, and hit the local supermarket. I get two dozens of eggs. That’s 24 eggs in two egg cartons. I open the first one and I gape: 10 eggs are brown and 2 are white. ‘No way,’ I said. At this point I’m beginning to get a very clear sense of why I bought the second egg carton. For proof. For you see, what would give me better proof of the two rocket-scientists having turned into crows than seeing that they have now also turned into eggs? Logically speaking, I figured that if the second egg carton will feature all the eggs brown, then that will be my proof. You can imagine my excitement. I open the carton, and voilà: all the eggs are brown. So, out of 24 eggs bought on Jack Parsons’s birthday, when I asked him specifically to hang out with my father and have a chat with him, two eggs turned out WHITE. Does magic exist? Obviously it does. Incidentally, Jack Parsons’s name was John Whiteside Parsons (born Marvel Whiteside Parsons). White marvel indeed. He is my man (most occultists express reservation towards Jack, but I care little for others’ opinions).


Now, let me tell you another story.

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Some 4 years ago, after a conference here, I invited some friends from the US over to dinner. We've been known each other for ages, and we always meet regularly at the Maple and Eagle conference in Helsinki. So, the couple comes over, and I try to explain to them something about my Jugendstil old clock on the wall, which to me resonates like the biggest cathedral in Denmark. They concur that it’s special. After a lovely evening, and getting ready to leave, the woman tells me at the door that she wants to send me a gift from the US once she's back. She doesn’t say what it is. Two years pass. I get nothing from the woman, and I don’t think too much of it. People are busy all the time. Then one day I find myself in an occult shop in Oslo, and I try many Tibetan bowls on display. I don't buy any, as these things have an exorbitant price in Norway. But I'm intent on going home and on line immediately, and finding some on the internet.

Back in Roskilde I end up spending a whole night, at least until 4 am, searching for Tibetan bowls and listening to various sound samples around the globe. I decide to buy three. Just before I hit the ‘buy it now’ button, my partner asks me: ‘Where do those bowls ship from?' I say: ‘The US.’ ‘Bad idea,’ he says, ‘you're going to pay custom and the price will amount to the same as you would have paid for in Oslo.’ Then he says: ‘Wait until the morning, and we can both zip into town and visit a new age place.’ I listened to him reluctantly. My finger was still burning with the desire to hit the button.

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We finally go to bed. My finger has not cooled off. Eight o'clock in the morning the postman rings on the door. I'm sleepy as I only had 4 hours in bed. I go to the door moaning. I don’t expect any packages. I’m trying to remember what books I’ve just ordered from amazon. Pestering habit. I open the door and sure enough, a package. My partner asks from the bedroom, also in an irritated tone, ‘Who's it from?’ I’m astonished: ‘Christ almighty, Tina sent her package. After two years!' I then muttered something, ‘how nice that she remembered’ while unwrapping the package. ‘What’s in it,’ the man wants to know. I read the label: 'Bowl' it says, and then I shout out more convincingly: ‘it's a bowl' - while thinking, ‘probably ceramics.’ Then he says, being more perceptive: ‘Please don't tell me it's a Tibetan bowl.’ ‘No way,' I’m thinking. I open the box, and voilà, a Tibetan bowl. My partner fainted on the way to the bathroom. Absolutely perfect. Perfectissimo. Does magic exist? It goes to show. Does it have a name? No, it doesn't. It’s a sinking into heavens. Tina saw my love of vibrations, but then she just had to wait two years to send her gift exactly at the right moment. When I pointed my finger at it. Adamantly. And that’s all there is to it. How nice that I didn’t have to go anywhere. The Tibetan bowl was delivered to my doorstep when I wished for it the most. So it goes.


Now, almost in the same vein as above, let me tell you a third story.

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A week later, after the above incident, I was organizing a conference at my home university. The participants were about to arrive, and some did arrive a day earlier. I invited a couple of friends into town and to have dinner. Over food and drinks, my partner, who was also the co-organizer, expressed concern with the coffee breaks that always drag too long, and the impossibility to get people back to the lecture rooms on time for the next panels. I said to him, ‘you need a bell’. After dinner, we were strolling in the streets, and we passed a Tibetan place with lots of bells in the window. I said, ‘oh, let's just enter and get you a bell, so you can gather the sheep.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don't want to waste these peoples' time with your bells.’ ‘Ok,’ I said. ‘It’s your hassle.’ The next morning, the first to arrive at the conference was a woman from Japan. She gave us a present: A bell. Whoa, astonishment again. What magic! Needless to say, the bell was used throughout the entire conference to great effect. My partner didn't have to turn into a Lutheran fascist.


Now, as I started out saying, do these stories prove anything: the existence of magic, God, or some other such things that the incredulous are not so sure about? They prove nothing. But what they do is tell us what we can make out of the way in which we interact with the world. By letting ourselves be enchanted with how things come to us, or with what happens when we point our index finger at someone or something, we get a sense of what it means to be alive beyond our pulsing blood through our veins.

I like to think of old bones, dead people, and their breaths populating the atmosphere. If I believe in anything I believe in this fact: The fact that we all live on top of one big cemetery. For all we know, those we bury don’t go anywhere. They share their last breaths with all of us. There’s gravity here. Even if ashes are spread they still fall somewhere on the ground. Everything dies and everything gets re-circulated. I believe in the magic of the bells ringing. For the dead and for myself. Perhaps it's this sound that makes our wishes find embodiment. When I ended up cooking Parsons and my Father with a splash of bone-marrow on my frying-pan, I sure had a good day. A totally magical day. Now, if a crow approaches me, I ask it: which Jack are you? It usually answers. I value the experience of magic above proof and rationality.

On a more mundane level, let’s just say that the stories about the clock ringing, the bell ringing, and the bowl singing, offer me the following moral story: I never have or enter a Tibetan place. All I need to do is wish for something from there, and I get it instantly. I like that. So magic for me is a mood enhancer. It is beyond proof and beyond dismissal. Magic, if we go with it, empowers us, and makes us think that if we can think it, we can have it, even when we don’t get it. I have hundreds of magical stories to tell, and so does everyone else who is interested in being astonished. That's all it takes.

Good luck with your magical moments and don’t forget to tune in to what else is there beyond the measuring of how far our mental elastic stretches. As for rationality: Oh, I leave that to whose who don’t have anything better do to, than to sit around and call others crazy.


A note of thanks:

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A few of Frisvold's books in my collection. 
Tina Parke Sutherland, for the bowl and the vibrating thought. It found me.

Reiko Nita, for the chicken bell. It still pecks.

My father, for saving my life once through a cunning folk magical intervention (I'll tell that story some other time).

Jack, for all that sublime nonsense on Babalon and other such creatures.

The three occultist musketeers, Joeanne, Nick, and Drew, may you be blessed.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013


Keeping with the tradition, I wish everyone coming my way here a Happy New Year.

Today’s text was inspired by three cards drawn from the Dark Goddess Tarot by Ellen Lorenzi Prince. Yet, apart from a general greeting to you all, derived from these cards, I also want to keep my own tradition of dedicating this type of text, the prose poem, to special people I know (for more about this you're welcome to check out The LogicianEight Senses Plus Two, or Frag/ments).

 This one goes to a cavalier errant.

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For Drew Jacob

Compromise is wisdom, they say. But I say, death always comes to the philosophy of ‘it’s good enough’. Fortune favors the fantastic. Riding a unicorn is an act of boldness and challenge. The unicorn knows only the best and the rider knows what the rider doesn’t know. It is only through cunning that you can put the sun in your crown. But why does it matter, you may ask, when even on the throne you can feel your robe burning from too much friction with the stone. On the last day of the year it’s always a good idea to have a sip of rum laced with gunpowder. Lean back and reflect on the use of what you can do. Let it come to you through your song for the pine trees. And if you are myopic, like myself, then take the fork of Isis, the one that she wears on her head, and look through its moon like through a looking glass. The first thing you’ll see is freedom, not the walls of your home with all that’s in it, the stuff that’s merely good enough, and which greets you cheerfully everyday with these words: ‘Hello zombie, how are you today? Are you responsible? Are you respectable too?’ Let the gunpowder work through your veins. Take your ragged red robe and turn it into a sunrise. Hit the road. Meet some heroes, and offer them your holy grail. And then say thank you to the fork, the fantastic, freedom, and the followers in your household who hold the tambourine high for you so that you can do your dance better than just good enough: A dance with the dead, the mystery of the night, and the sun between your legs. The unicorn has just impaled a post-it note with a new year’s resolution on it: don’t fake it.

isis_2Screen Shot 2013-12-31 at 2.52.17 PM Camelia Elias, 2013

§ Note on the deck: The Dark Goddess, by Ellen Lorenzi-Prince, 2013, ArnellArt.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013


People said: 'We also want THAT,' and I said: 'OK'.
Learn by living magically!

Monday, October 21, 2013


A student told me today: 'You’re simply so awesome.' He said that last week too. 'Well good,' I was thinking. I was talking about Marxism, my favorite movie, The Life of Brian, the stoning scene in that movie, and being stoned in general. I mean, why don’t we ever vote into public office the ones that don’t wear a black suit? Ideology is a manipulation of rhetoric, some say. I believe that. All we need to do is pay attention to what words are being repeated by our politicians to get a sense of just how poor a state our thoughts and souls are in. In Denmark right now the holy cow is ‘democracy.’ Right. I run to Borges for a second opinion: “Democracy is an abuse of statistics,” he said, and he was right.

I got flowers today and a beautiful birthday card. Tomorrow I turn 45. That’s awesome enough. I look at my little fun table and enumerate the luminous things on it: A Victorian-time crystal ball next to a black tourmaline stone and a leaf skull. An antique Chinese bronze, enamelled censor, all the rage. I swear the incense smells better when it comes out of it. Next to it I have a Brazilian nut. For protection, the Brazilians say. Behind the scrying device there’s a stone filled with natural mountain crystals that my sister dragged all the way down from that witchy place, the top of Brocken in Germany. She was hiking there by night. She stumbled over the stone, picked it up, and decided that my name was written on it. When she realized how beautiful the stone was after she gave it a vigorous wash in the river the day after, she considered keeping it for herself. But then she got cold feet. You never know with those energies, and once a decision is made in that context, you don’t take anything back. The crystal ball looks on to the other crystals. My sister is good at gazing into the beyond. She is what they call ‘a natural’. Then there’s the Japanese bell that my friend with the card gave me. The sound of that can raise not only hell but some 9 heavens too. The pink Thulite stone sits next to some Samhain pumpkins and among cards. Lots and lots of cards. I’m of the opinion that if I didn’t read cards, I’d die from boredom.

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The birthday card I received today makes me think of the Lenormand cards. Taken together, the Mouse, the Heart, and the Moon suggest the following: spent passion leads to stoning. My friend is good with weeds, so who knows what she had in mind when she encoded the rune stone Thurisaz in the Moon. First I thought it was Wunjo, the rune of joy, but the more I look at the faint drawing behind the silver, the more I can see it’s the rune of monsters and giants. As they say, when going to the other world by any means, if you expect to see monsters, you’ll see monsters, and if you expect to see fairies, you’ll see fairies. Perhaps that’s what the Book on the birthday card is all about. The primary meaning of the Book in the Lenormand cards is secret, not knowledge. Some kind of smoke comes out of the Book. Before the book my friend drew a spark. First I thought it was a Star, the card of inspiration, but now that I think of it, I can see it’s a spark. Try to hit two stones together and see what you get. There are definitely two red dots in the Star, so, I’d say something is going on here. And I’m not saying this because I’ve just had a huge meal that consisted of entrails – my favorite kind of food steamed to perfection in the French pressure cooker along exotic spices that can indeed induce altered states of consciousness.

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Although I don’t celebrate anniversaries, tomorrow my sister and the family circus will be visiting. I think I’m going to leave everything on my magical table as is. After another day of teaching, getting everyone into divining will be a good idea. Unless, of course, another student will tell me how awesome everything is. How awesome Gertrude Stein on the reading list is, and by association, how awesome I am again. At 45, if I can allow myself to say that I can do more than feel the pain of others, then I can also look at the roses and say, everything is as it should be. Just awesome.

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§ Note on the items:
  • Lenormand Oracle, Dondorf, Francfort (the purple), 1880.
  • Playing-cards, hand-stenciled, Grimaud, 1853
  • Chinese censer, 1890.
  • Crystal Ball, Two Worlds, Manchester, 1890.
. . . . . .

Saturday, September 28, 2013


Today it's my nephew's birthday. Paul turned 19. 19 adds to 10. 1+0 for new beginnings and then a jump into the void. I wish Paul all the best with making the best of it, indeed.

He called me. I didn't call him. 'I'm making a cake,' he said. 'Are you coming over?' 'No, I'm not', I said. 'I abhor anniversaries.' 'Yes, my dear auntie,' he said winking.

I sat down and read cards for him. I made a card myself. I fiddled with some filters on my iphone, and ta da, there it was, the message that I wanted to convey. Something with a castle in the sky. The key to it, and then some propulsion through space. But the key is important. It's the link to the earth.

Sometimes I spend money on ebay buying what others might call 'junk'. So I have a lot of junk in my house. I rummaged through my junk today to find a key for Paul. I did. I got this one from an archeologist working for a museum in Holland. It's from the 1300s. Old enough. A key for the castle in the sky, earthbound.

Happy birthday, Paul. I'll come to kiss you tomorrow, or some other day.

Your devoted 'auntie' C.

© Camelia Elias, ink on paper, with medieval key and cards, 2013


Note on the deck: Tantric Dakini Oracle by Nick Douglas and Penny Slinger, 1979, Destiny Books.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013


The Queen’s root is divided into five hearts. The sign of the body. Five spots are anointed and the sixth gets an extra push by the indexical finger dipped in mandrake. Opening the heart needs help. The imagination turns black on the eighth count leaving room for all on call to state their names. Chronophagoi. All-y on all-y al-kal-o-id is the mantra of the time eaters. A purple breath is behind the Queen’s back. Her earrings absorb the sense-u-al unknown. All rise for the lawless covenant. The naked and the cloaked play a game of poison.

Mandrake, Camelia Elias, ink on paper with root, bark and poppy.
© Camelia Elias, Mandrake, ink on paper with root, bark, and poppy, 2013

Friday, August 23, 2013


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The sky is still clear and the moon is about to rise. Up here in the North the moon is always special. Even two days after it’s been full. The events around the full moon in Norway smell good to me. And this has to do with my heightened awareness of how the material world is enriched by the spiritual world in such a way that it doesn’t allow me to think anything, but rather just practice being in the world – whatever world. Today someone wanted to know how I reconcile being a Marxist with being a shamanic diviner. As if we can claim any of these labels to ourselves. I will reproduce my answer here, and then give a concrete example. To keep it simple, perhaps I could say this: there is no reconciliation in the sense we normally think of the word, where we think of making an effort to let two different worlds meet. What enables me to walk between the worlds – let us call these worlds the worlds of logos and mythos – is the fact that I keep the narratives that inform each world apart. I make a strict distinction between them. I do not reconcile the metaphysical with the physical. I practice being in each world as I please. I don't THINK about being in either world. I just am. I follow the rules of what works for me in each world. If anything in my PRACTICE of living approaches the idea of a reconciliation, then it is to be found in bringing things and ideas from one world into the other. This obviously presupposes that I don't THINK that what I bring from the woo-woo world into the rational world is woo. Nor vice versa.

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As a Marxist I can still accept the idea that what life is all about is how to maintain being connected to all things, which is the very core of shamanism. It is of no good to me to be disconnected from my material possessions – it is still a truth that money makes the world go round, not love – any more than it is good for me to be disconnected from my sense of being in the world as a spiritual being - here, with a wink to all the atheists I know, and who are very spiritual. I don't know if this answers the question that pertains to asking why I don't offer a critique of the transcendental as I do of ideology.

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But the truth of the matter is that if you stand your ground, whichever ground, you do so because you are familiar with the house rules. So, in effect, it is never the thinking that informs my living but living. Sometimes this living involves an appreciation of having a luxury cabin on top of a mountain in Norway, only so that I can get to talk to the spirits of the land. So, indeed, I never speak metaphorically when I speak about the spirit world, but in fact quite literally and without any (Marxist) remorse.


Two days ago my partner and I were roaming the mountain plateau in the Trysil area in Norway. The plateaus are the thing for me. We were going for the top. Not long into our walk, he pointed to a hawk. As it happens, I’m convinced that one of his power spirits is embodied in a hawk. This conviction is simply the result of observation. There is hardly any walk in the woods that we do together – anywhere – when the hawk doesn’t appear. And I know it doesn’t come for me, as I’m never the one who spots it first. So the hawk is his thing. We marvelled at its hovering and then we moved on. At about half the way, I caught myself smiling at the green moss, only, I also realized that it wasn’t my face I was seeing, but rather that of my dead mother. It occurred to me instantly that the full moon in August is not only associated with harvest. It is also associated with death. In traditional folklore we often encounter the idea of honoring the dead by the third full moon in summer.

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As we reached the top I suggested to my partner that we place 4 stones on the highest point in honor of our dead parents. This felt good. On our descent a spectacular dance awaited us. 4 hawks were dancing in the air in a fantastic formation, where there was only one spotted earlier. One of them got very low, flying in our direction. But 4 hawks! I told my partner: ‘well, your favorite number is 4, so there you have it.’


But as it happens when one finds oneself walking between worlds almost unawares, a different awareness can set in. He said, ‘well, we did place 4 stones for our parents on the top, so don’t you think that that was enough to call on all of them here so that they can acknowledge our act?’ Indeed, it’s a good thing I live with a Marxist who is also very spiritual and not in the slightest interested in the so-called rational world.

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So, in addition to what I said earlier, I think that all we need in our practice of living is to be aware of our environment; pay attention to it. That, and the fact that if we expect to see the spirits of dead people around us in the material world, then we can be sure to see them. It’s as simple as that.


Walking between worlds is not a question of what we believe, but rather a question of what we practice. If we practice awareness of our expectations, and of how each world behaves, be it physical or metaphysical, according to our expectations – then we get a lot more out of it than if we merely speculated on the conditions for the existence of each of these worlds. We live what we practice, not what we preach. Just to get a visual in place, on the question of walking between the worlds as it was prompted by the question of reconciling between the two, I grabbed one of the numerous decks of cards I always travel with, an old fortuneteller’s Dondorf Lenormand, and asked the question:

To what extent can we think of the world of logos and the world of mythos in terms of their encounter?


The Stars, The Tree, and The Bear suggest the following: The link between the metaphysical (The Stars) and the physical (The Bear) is found in the World Tree. The shamanic tree that has allowed for many a travel between the worlds in the past. There is a long tradition for such a practice. Let us honor it.

§ Note on the cards: Dondorf Lenormand, 1890

Saturday, August 17, 2013


My mother, Ana, and my father, Georg.

As I often think of what my father would have been like at my age – he died at 39 and I’m very close to 45 – I find myself strange places and feeling his force. Well, he worked for the armed forces, so perhaps therefore. But above all he was a mathematician. And to the surprise of a few in the family, he was also a magician. He saved my life when I was three and suffered from unexpectedly high fever coming from nowhere. When the doctors were giving up, he performed a nice folk magic ritual and vanquished the fever on the spot. I still remember his pose over a glass of water in which he had extinguished three matches. He made me drink that water, and abracadabra, all returned to normal. One of the other few memories I have is our discussion about what to become. He wanted me to become a teacher at the university. His wish came to pass, for, although he died when I was 8, I never forgot what he wanted me to do. But these days I think of all sorts of teaching that I do outside of the university, and which also brings me most joy. Perhaps the reason why I find this more joyous is because I don’t have to do it for a living. My cartomancy website Taroflexions is an example of such teaching, where I try to say something useful about reading cards - even though, god only knows, I probably exhibit there the same presumptuousness and arrogance as I do in my day job. As they say, a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do. Positions of real power are rarely available to us. With this in mind, I would have liked to ask my father about power and women in positions of power but without any real access to it. You can ask me. I know all about it.

Lundkvassberget, Norway

So yesterday, as I was climbing a little mountain in Norway to see a stone from the ice-age landing in the middle of nowhere, I was thinking of my father. Once I reached the top I saw a circle of stones near the big stone. The historians don’t quite know what to make of it. Some say it’s a burial ground from the stone age, some say it’s a sacrificial place, in which case it can go back some 5000 years. Be that as it may. As I was inhabiting the circle, with the big monolith behind me, I picked up a round pebble from the ground.

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This was a most precious gift, as it gave me the idea to search for some other 23 and make a rune set. I had just bought an antique little box from a local shop, and somehow the idea of making it the house of 24 new rune stones, which, however, have lived close to a very old stone, seemed appropriate. I rather enjoyed making this set, and I was keen to see it at work here in the wilderness.

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I posed a question about competence. I wanted to know wherein my best competence lies, and what I can use it for. I guess this springs out of the perennial self-check with reality, especially when I, like most, fancy doing something else for a living that’s very little related to what I am also fortunate enough to possess, namely a job that gives me plenty money and plenty to think about. I won’t focus on the hassle aspect as we find that in everything else too. I cast all the runes on the table – this is what I like to do best, namely use all the stones, and here’s what the stones say.

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 The strong cluster in the middle formed by Fehu, Kenaz, and Thurisaz, tells me this:

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I have financial strength and control over my property (Fehu). So my competence lies within the ability to manage my estate (if I can call it that, as it’s not that grand). What I do for a living is teach (Kenaz) – surprise, surprise. I use the torch to illuminate the path of others. But this torch is also made of a burning fire, for indeed, who wants to hear the truth? Truth is never popular, and as I have a habit or spelling it out (Thurisaz), more often than not what is illuminating is also very discomforting. Thurisaz, the rune of giants and trolls is not one you want to find landing in your lap. Thor’s hammer is sacred to Loki, the trickster, who both covets it and fears its force. So, from this cluster I can conclude that my best competence is to speak loudly a truth that comes out of personal conviction. The horse rune here, Ehwaz, touching the cluster, and especially Fehu, the rune of wealth, enforces the idea that that although my convictions are personal they are also consecrated. You hear a message, or you have a message, you don’t just leave it there, but rather bring it forth in an institutionalized setting.

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Ehwaz here is also the link to the next cluster that almost forms a circle. These stones are not as close to each other, but they definitely have something to say that’s very coherent. Algiz, the Elk rune of protection aspires to create a link to the spiritual in its manifest form. This rune is opposite Ansuz, the shaman’s rune, or the rune of the spiritual leader. Sacred to Odin, the god of wind and spirit, Ansuz is the rune of language. The symbol must be translated into coherent speech, so it can properly mediate between the uncontrolled forces of Hagalaz, the rune of hail and destruction, and Jera, the rune of harvest, accomplishment and generosity. Together they tell me that the disturbing teachings I’m doing prepare the ones who bother to listen, not so much for how to avoid destruction and accept the cycle of tides, but more for how to honor the destructive powers in nature insofar as they always lead to light.

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An almost hidden rune, but still facing up in alignment with Hagalaz and Jera is Sowilo at the end of the tunnel, the sun rune, suggesting the idea that there is life force, hope and attainment outside of all that necessitates the call for protection and the investment of energy in conflicting forces.

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On the far axis to Wunjo, the rune of joy, we find Uruz, the rune of the wild ox, standing for all the wild, raw, and creative power. Uruz is also in alignment with Thurizaz, which enforces the untamed and frightful nature of Uruz as a stuborn, undomesticated force. Leaving from Wunjo, the only far off rune in this cast, and acting here more as a satellite for everything else, we can see how Uruz is also aligned with Kenaz, Fehu and Ehwaz. So there’s a direct line from pure joy to pure wildness that resists being contained within the culture world.

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The bottom line would be to say that while my best competence lies within giving off passionately from what I have, and however violently (Kenaz, Fehu, Thurisaz), what backs me up in my endeavor is the wisdom of knowing (Ansuz to Kenaz) when to back off (Ansuz to Hagalaz), and when to act from a defended space with view to restoring peace and balance (Algiz to Jera). See here how the central runes form a boat. I have no idea what my father would make of all this, but I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t regret my not teaching mathematics in favor of talking about stones, and wind, and ice-age old divination.


Note on the rune stones: Self-made from stones surrounding the ice-age stone at Lundkvassberget in Norway in an antique Norwegian box from 1880. I make magical things like this for friends and others on special request.


Note on the post: This was first published on Taroflexions, my cartomantic and divination website, but as it has a bit of a memoir in it, written in the same style as other texts on Fragments, I reproduced it here as well in its entirety. For more readings of the sort described here - especially cards - you are welcome to visit the appropriate website.