The Hidden Wisdom of the Hex
Originally posted at The Conjure House.
What a wild ride that was.
It’s morning now, and I’m unsure if it’s a hang over or the last bit of the negative energy I summoned leaving my body. There is a quiet feeling, a pause in the air. The silence does not want to be broken.
My room feels like a church I’ve suddenly woke up in. I’m a bit lost, confused.
Did all of that really happen?
Of course it did. I have the video to prove that.
A great evil had been done by a jealous lover, breaking up a couple with words of malice and magic. I do not know her name, but I could feel her in the distance. My cards had found her, locking on to her energetic signature through pointed questions. Like a shark I can smell blood in the water, feel the outlines of her spiritual body.
A doll is made, rustic and simple. Asfoetida, Red Pepper, Black Pepper, Wormwood, and Vandal Root. On the video my arms are noticeably stiff, my muscles tightened. There is a pulling sensation towards the doll, and I feel like I want to scream and punch it.
To the graveyard we go.
There I call on the spirits of the displeased, of the righteous and furious dead who had been wronged in their life to rise up from their slumber and seize the throat of this interloper. I asked that all the hate and rage they felt be directed upon the guilty, that they cast off the bonds of sleep and stalk the winds once more. My comrade and I HEARD those legions rise up with our own ears, felt an entire graveyard turn on like some huge generator.
At some point that night 125 tons of screaming steel hit that doll at roughly 115 miles per hour, the kinetic equivalent of putting a hydrogen powered shotgun in your mouth and pulling the trigger.
Now that the sun has risen over the world again you reflect on what it all means.
Occult work is heavy, heavy stuff. You are tapping into forces and intelligences you only have nominal control over. It feels like strapping yourself onto some steroid-pumped Harley and giving it as much gas as you can. Thousands of years humanity has been at the magic game, and we still have only the barest hints of how it all works. After the hex I came across a psalm that gave me pause:
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
4 what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
5 You have made them a little lower than the angels
and crowned them with glory and honor.
6 You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
you put everything under their feet
It still amazes me when I think about what humanity is, that whole section of it’s being that the modern world is so eager for us to forget. We are strange things, gateways to the other side, capable of collapsing sub-atomic waveforms with a mere observation. We can call up nests and hosts of spirits, cross dimensional barriers, and even kill with but a look or a gaze. We are firecrackers, living atomic bombs, suns and moons and constellations of galaxies buried within our hearts and thrust scorching upon the plains.
So much of humanity’s true nature seems… lost, buried. We’ve forgotten almost all of our mystery. People wake up at the same time everyday, unaware of the subtle inclinations of the stars or the moon. They drearily roll through traffic listening to whatever pollyana is currently spewing out of the speakers totally unaware of how it might pinch or curve their aura. They work, live, and die on the same soil that has been enchanted and worshiped for untold Millennia.
All of it working like some gigantic clockwork device, humming with energy and intensity, singing in a language only a handful of people understand.
It wasn’t always this way. A long time ago humanity was plugged in. We knew to watch our dreams and knew how to keep out pesky spirits that troubled them. There was strength, true, but also fear. Death could come in a myriad of forms, all of them weird and uncanny. Creatures existed that could wink you out of existence. Hexes, jinxs, bad juju could all be gathered on a simple misstep or from the troublesome gaze of even the poorest neighbor.
Somewhere along the line it became easier to forget. Maybe it was the anxiety of it all, who can say? But for whatever reason we began to disenchant the world and pretend that all the wonders and splendor we had seen before had all been some convoluted gag. We hailed the new god Science and Reason and put everything beneath our feet that couldn’t be replicated a million times in a laboratory.
Each act of magic is unique, like a painting. We may know the technical details but when it comes to the actual act itself, the actual weaving of magic, it’s off the cuff and original. A true act of creation. Like the blues it can be good or bad, even mediocre, but when you hit that note, that word, that guitar strum or fine harmonica riff just right it seems like the entire universe sings in tune. For a moment you are the Tree of Knowledge spreading across the entire firmament, the center of the universe. You are a flower fully unfurled.
Magic is a radical act of empowerment. It is to take the nuclear-powered reins of the cosmos and direct it with Will. It is frightening, nerve-wracking, and orgasmic all at once. There is no safety net and there are things out here that can easily kill you or drive you mad. There is no guarantee on anything.
That kind of activity is not appealing to everybody. We traded wisdom and wonder for assurances and material comfort. Bit by bit, spell by spell, we put away our dangerous paintbrush and all its colors for a simple and utilitarian pen. We stopped desiring, stopped wishing, even stopped seizing or hurting. Now we could pay people to do that for us. No great loves and no great hatreds, no epic struggles worthy of songs. Days began to blend together.
“How was work today?”
“Same as usual. Okay I guess.”
People live now, if you want to call it that, moving from air-conditioned bubble to air-conditioned bubble. A great blandness poisons the air, causing us to seek greatness wherever we can. Devoid of anything worthwhile we trade in new cults bearing the names of manufactured gods like Nike, Apple, Crossfit, and Call of Duty. We are so sanitized, so cut off from the world of visceral experience, our 35-year old children blow the heads off of virtual enemies as a pastime.
We have cut off our legs, eager to sit in a chair. We have forgotten entirely that we once knew how to run and sprint.
There is a reason the Ruling Class doesn’t want the world to know about magic. It’s the same thinking underlining the banning of books and making sure slaves never learn to read. This entire artifice they call “consensual reality” is built upon everybody agreeing to play by the rules they’ve designed for it. Change comes at the speed of a glacier, not gunpowder or candlework; rulers, cops, and bosses are untouchable save for the slow and steady workings of the courts. This is as good as it gets, the people running the show have our best interests in mind, and excuse me sir will you please sit down and have some decency. One must divorce oneself from the emotions brought on by servitude, we are told to love even our enemies.
A raised fist unthinkable, a whispered word of malice not only impossible but undue. They make you believe that they and only they have the ability to get things done. The rebels, so deep in this spell of illusion, take these lies as gospel and seek to twist it to their own: Justice will be had when the right amount of people believe in The Great Idea; progress will occur but first we build the party.
Powerlessness becomes axiomatic.
Magic defies their laws, their institutions. You get me the hair of a president and I will bring down a kingdom, your boss’s signature on that recent write-up the signing of his own death warrant if you desire it. Action, not theory, propels and motivates the world around us. Magic calls us to remember that nothing is set in stone, that nothing is impossible, that you too with the proper words and effort can become a living dynamo re-ordering the face of reality.
You cannot enslave the living power of the Sun, you cannot possibly demean a creature whose power may fall but will rise again with each lunar cycle. Magic glorifies, it raises up, it reminds you that you are far greater than the sum of your parts. What is the unspoken glory of humanity that eldritch creatures emerge from the shadows to the call of a 16-year-old girl with an interest in the strange? That Princes and Lieges and hordes and legions are quite willing to shake things up for a few sips of rum and the puff of a cigar?
The world flows in a kaleidoscope of forms that we have only the barest hinting of. We have within all of us something more incredible, more powerful, then all the weapons they’ve built to destroy us.
Society, State, Capital. All are games, nothing more. An entire industry makes its living trying to get you to forget that you are real and they are not. The mundane world of day-to-day exists to curb the corners of your spirit, to put you in a grey cloud of doubt and pretend you’re just some nobody trying to get by.
Don’t believe it. Lean forward into the light.
Dr. Bones is a 9-year practitioner of the Southern occult tradition known as Conjure, Rootwork, and Hoodoo. A skilled card-reader and Spiritworker, Dr. Bones has undertaken all aspects of the work, both benevolent and malefic. Politically he holds the Anarchist line that “Individuality can only flourish where equality of access to the conditions of existence is the social reality. This equality of access is Communism.” He resides in the insane State of Florida with his loving wife, a herd of cats, and a house full of spirits.
Dr. Bones is one of the authors who appears in A Beautiful Resistance: The Fire is Here.