A house in the woods of wood, a house in the woods – I want. A house in the woods of wood, a house in the woods – it’s mine. ‘Let’s do the antler’s dance’, the magician says, and starts playing a forbidden tune. Meters and meters and meters of silk match the rising and falling tone of La Force, the magician’s violin. My hands on the wand, and the antlers aloof awaken the fox. Shapeshifting. ‘Your secret name is Alogon,’ the magician says. Ten ton alogon pragmateia. The theory of irrationals – the irrational silence, the decapitated silence. ‘Play, play, play a tune for Alogonashi Korponensis,’ I say, in this house of mine, house of shares, house of bears, house of snares. ‘(A)Log( )on to the square root of two, that’s what I say you are,’ says the king of cups, while pouring and poising the wine. The Korppoo house is our private extension of the Steiner Library in Turku, we think. Witches to the left, witches to the right, shamans to the left, shamans to the right, magic to the left, magic to the right. ‘Lo’, the below and the above say, ‘don’t forget about us.’ ‘– What are you looking for today,’ the magician wants to know. ‘I don’t know,' I say, 'but I formulated an intent. To have a book find me. So give me something on wheels’, I say, 'to give this incantation wings.' He bows and says, ‘Boethius. Present, future, past, present, future, past, present, future, past. If time was irredeemable. But I’m not sure it is. The point is that the center is the point.’ And so Boethius goes consoling us: "I know how Fortune is ever most friendly and alluring to those whom she strives to deceive, until she overwhelms them with grief beyond bearing, by deserting them when least expected. … Are you trying to stay the force of her turning wheel? Ah! dull-witted mortal, if Fortune begin to stay still, she is no longer Fortune." Hells, bells, honey smells. I ring the bell and get in. ‘Western esotericism for you today, courtesy of Donner, bonner, honor,’ the chief librarian of the occult greets me, while looking alogonashingly at me and handing me a book of a lot to go with my tarot. Book hook look took. But where is the one I intended to find me? I charge my index finger with the power of the bell hooks sent on by the magician earlier on today and go for Spellcraft. A manual of Verbal Magic. I take it to my den without opening it. This one has something coming out if it. This one is a good one. This one is a good one having something good coming out of it. This one has the Ace of Cups a-washing. Whoa! What’s this doing here? This is not a book about Tarot – not even in the slightest. And yet all the chapters begin with the Marseille, spell bidding and spell binding. Can this be magic? “Magic is a joyous exceptional experience which leads to a sense of well-being,” says Sybil Leek which makes me say: 'so mote it be, so be it, let it be, be it.' The center is the point. Expanding.

Anthony Johnson doing the magic

For more tarot related posts see my Taro(t)flexions.


Bent said…
Careful with that spell, Eugenia!
panentheosopher said…
Wherever I am, the center finds itself. Whenever I am not, the center holds a memory of me. Whoever I am, the center is secret; whatever I am, the center pivots round: why ever would it however be otherwise?

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