i recently came out to many people as someone who regularly practices black magic without a human guide. due to my natural ethics and honesty, i decided to expand a little.
this is a portrait of Circe with her lions, allegedly, men that she had turned into beasts for her own pleasure. the mythology casts her as virulent, vindictive, cruel, slightly caustic but incanting. she often turned men into beasts. she was a sorceress, knew the use of herbs and potions to put men under, knew how to kill with them. she knew how to rally her coven for protection and she knew how to trick. while i have no evidence of this next part, i feel confident in my connection to this deity to repeat; she too knew how to tell long winding stories while men were under the spell of poppy so they drifted into dreams of her making. she was the original hypnotist and a goddess in human form, defending her island against the warriors the seas brought.
i call on Hecate and Circe this new moon. Hecate to guide me to her ancient wisdom and Circe to provide me with the last spell i need. witchcraft is a birthright and so is dark magic.
black magic comes from many cultures. my heritage has been decimated, erased, it’s why i call on greek deities. i call unknown sellos to the water but i cannot repeat their name. by the changing of the eastern bloc and the division of Czechoslovakia, the migration of gypsies and the mixing of bloodlines to settle in places like warsaw or budapest, my heritage has been lost, like many. my deepest connection is to a place no longer in existence but that would sit closer to the northern border of slovakia and hungary, probable that it is of czech descent, and a people practiced in the art of dark magic. to come into your own power is to take risks. my lineage has been erased. my great grandmother has no name. she abandoned my grandmother in a hungarian orphanage and fled. i cannot trace my roots and i feel no comfort in the guides of other cultures, understanding more and more that my family were card readers, players, con artists.
i grew up in a family of storytellers; my grandfather, Papa, being the best. he would spend hours telling us tales. my mother called them “stories” not lies. we all did it, on both sides of my family coming from hungary poland germany we all centered around those borders closest to my older country. i learned to tell jokes before i learned how to count. to tell little lies. little stories. i heard my dad’s cons on the phone. my brother’s made up anecdotes. the story games we played on car trips to cross the bridge. the narration that saves tribes on long passages. i have denied these roots for far too long to comfort the droves of others that deny ancestral pain and healing. i come from a nomadic heritage that continues to be erased. this new moon is dedicated to Hecate and my eldest ancestors, bred in a land that no longer exists but its closest counter part is Hungary and Slovakia. may you show me with your slight of hand my way out of the maze so I may execute my last event, my last use of our dark wisdom, to release us from our chains.
black magic is a birthright and i got my very black wings back. Dear Circe, show me how you wound the trellis with the sweetest smelling poppy, feeding goats to lions, feeding men spiked wine and then turning your cheek to face the ships that brought them, with a snap of your fingers you turned them to swine.