Christianity tends to feminise the seeker, who approaches the masculine godhead (though the Christ is dual, as the truth always seeps through). Magic approaches the feminine pole of the godhead as the masculine; this is why, in all of these systems, one must become male.

Yet, in the name of simplicity, each of these two approaches see only one side of the formula.

The godhead is dual—it is the principle of polarity. Everything works according to polarity. God and god, man and man, god and man.

The christian heretics found a feminised godhead, and played; we are the heretics now.

But we seek not only the feminine magician’s path to the masculine—but the feminine path to the feminine, and the masculine to the masculine, too.

For, in truth, the paths are four—and this truth confounds those who seek simplicity.

Must it always be a question of gender? Yes—because what more is magic, religion, divinity, than an infinite series of metaphors for sex.

So—what, now, do I seek?

Kundry’s path to the grail.

But the Devil appears, and He reminds me not the make the same mistake vain me do.

How do I approach the divine feminine from the feminine?What else is the pythoness?

Hollow—not that men might fill her, but because she is a living symbol of the divine.

She seeks hollowness, emptying not that her emptiness might be filled, but that her calling, drawing fecundity might overset the divine balance, and it might tip and overspill out into the mundane world. This is the method of the priestess, calling. She seeks not to reach, to climb, but to draw down. Yet here we reach the limit of the special metaphors—for in drawing down she surmounts the Abyss—she sets aside her veil that her call might be ever stronger, burning the eyes of all who seek to see—and thus she takes her mother’s place.

The joy is in the going, they say—and the youth rides the eternal white swan across the inky skies.

I say:

“Trams and dusty trees.

Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew

Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees

Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.

After the event he wept. He promised a ‘new start’.

I made no comment. What should I resent?”

The outer space of the kteis oversets the balance and the All-Father pours forth to satisfy the hunger of space.

A woman in the ‘active’ role? You understand not the limitless nature of activity.

A woman approaching the divine feminine is all circles intersecting—the spreading of pentacles.

Active and passive are misnomers. All fools know this.

Listen: Isis, she draws him from the place of the dead and he comes to her in his boat called Millions of Years an the earth grows green with the springing rain. For the desire of Osiris answereth to the call of Isis.

Listen: Because of the inertia of space ere movement arose as a tide, the divine feminine is called by the wise the passive principle in nature, an is thought of as cosmic water, or space that flows.

Hail to thee, fecundating, creative nous of the divine feminine in all your stimulating, seductive passivity.

***

And I ask myself: what is my name?

She tells me, be patient.

There are things yet to be revealed.

This is the path the Kundry. She was already No Man.

And in the candlelight fire gleams on the pen nib.

I am enflamed.

A joy, so indecipherable from sadness, that it threatens to break down the walls within through sheer force of Pressure.

Oh! How I love Her!

And how I adore he who serves Her.

His Love falls upon the soul like dew upon the pasture.

I demanded he be No Man, and think no more on serving.

It is I, proud Kundry, who must learn to serve.

Is this not the coiled splendour within me?

They joy is in the going

We eat the fruits of other’s toil.

The Devil tells me, fall not to Pride, oh you with cherry juice dripping down your childish chin.

Fall not to pride—nor rest in the valley of the worms.

Even a circle must have Balance.

What is my name?

Melissae; Honey Bee and Prophetess.

For there is Love and there is Love, there is the Serpent and there is the Dove.

Choose ye wisely, wise men say.

I say: there are more things on Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in wise men’s minds.

***

The Fool, he travels long and far; he undertakes many trials, survives many terrors, and is crowned a hero. He, if he is wise, forsakes the name of a hero for no name, no man: NEMO. And he tends the garden in the dark as best he might.

Having endured his share of darkness, he sets forth once more on twisted paths and is granted a vision of the castle, beset by waste lands on all sides. Still he endures, and wins the keep and there, in the darkness bright and deep, he attains. The broken king whimpers as the maiden descends. All purity and chaste, she holds her cup aloft. Maenads and things ethereal dance as she draws back the simple silken cover, red embroidered white.

And the mirror-bottomed cup shines its inner light, and spills.

***

I saw this scene before; before I ever met my Kundry.

‘“What is the truth?” Dr. Holly asked me, and knowing

that I could not answer him he answered himself through

a Voodoo ceremony in which the Mambo, that is the priestess, richly dressed is asked this question

ritualistically. She replies by throwing back her veil and

revealing her sex organs. […] It is considered the highest

honor for all males participating to kiss her organ of

creation, for Damballa, the god of gods, has permitted

them to come face to face with truth.’

“Whom doth the grail serve?” you beg of me.

“Tell me,” asked Dr Holly, “what is the truth?”

And Chaucer whispers, grinning from his monkish perch: “the question is simple, so answer me this: what do women want?”

These mysteries are one, you see, though caught about with allusion and confusion, as with a many-coloured coat.

And yet, this confusion and this veil—this mortal coil so pretty and so glowing, it makes of that unity two.

And thus ever is there an Isis Veiled and Unveiled

Thus Babalon or Kundry may sit exalted on the altar: but there will always be a shadow sister, to prowl upon the earth.

Let us speak plainly, for the hour is at hand. The Grail is a double-symbol: a simple bowl, and two snakes undulate and entwine to make a stand.

Now follow me when I say, the cup is both the symbol of the Babalon and the Christ.

It is the image of god indwelling man. The counterforce, the circuit return of the ever thrusting upwards snake.

And it is a truth, for this is what god feels like.

And it is a truth, for all wise men know God makes of His lover a woman.

Even BABALON sits astride (and I am beaten when in my Pride I would become Her).

But if I open, pour out all my cup, cry “I am empty, Lady, love me!” then She will come, and ride me like a whorse.

The Grail, it tells this secret, to we who would love our gods intimately—open thyself and empty thyself, and thou shalt find the inrushing of the dove.

Yet the Grail is ever held by a woman. And though we know, as I have spoken, that we all become feminine before our Lady-Lord, this is not all.

Listen: Wise Men, they chased the power of the phallus, found raging, turgid godhead in every pillar and tree.

Why dost thou think they were so desperate to proclaim the phallus universal?

Because our secret traditions, our mysteries untold, they place the meaning of life and eternal truth and godhead—verily godhead in this life—in the pearly, purple cave-system of She Who is Veiled.

They say, “this is but a pantomime, a shadow, of that which lies beyond the Abyss.”

I say, “the belief that the unmanifest is holier than thou is an ancient, Platonic hangup.”

We live in caves: but there is always a birth.

Thus man sets out to make himself god, while woman must only remember.

***

Now, allow me to tell you another secret, hiding in ancient, crumbling books.

The Grail does not exist.

Remember the femininity of Jesus, and that Babalon is Saturn, too: communion wine and Her cup of fornications, the sacrificial blood and the blood of the moon, the dying-and-rebirth and the bringing forth of life: all these are one, confounded in the mysteries of time.

But remember, time travels ever in mandalas, and Saturn oversees them all, grinning amongst His rings.

The truth is to be found in the body; yet the truth of the body is ecstasy, in the leaving and emptying and the filling and fucking, all of which is, somehow, one.

Remember: Kundry is naught but the Gospel

Remember: Everyman becomes No Man, after he washes and raises.

We rest in the garden of Nemo.

The Pregnant Goddess hath let down Her Burden upon the Earth.

And thus the cycle flows.

The witch-woman-crone-whore initiates.

The man dies and is reborn

The whore becomes the mother.

The man takes her daughter as his rightful bride,

sooner or later to be cast aside,

and the cycle begins all again.

***

There are two paths; the path of Parsifal, and the path of Kundry

But listen – what keeps Kundry in the castle of Klingosr, what keeps her doing his Will against her own, is precisely all the negative parts of the body – the astral body of shame – the chasing of men who offer release from that – rather than understanding that the release must come from oneself.

But that in itself cannot happen, until she meets one who does not wish to possess her.

Then the shame at not being sufficient is dissipated, for she is rejected utterly. And thus, in the garden of Nemo, she is free. Thus the Whore transcends the Abyss. She was always already open – now, she has no need of the other.

This is the secret of kundry

This is my secret

I am not enough

I will never be enough

There will always be rejection

And one will come who will reject me utterly

And then I can be free

There can be no validation in outside eyes

It is not that the priest makes the priestess, or goddess

He rejects her

And thus She comes

He chooses will over lust

And thus is her need to meet that lust disappeared

Thus she can finally become Herself, complete

And only then can she enter into circuit.

Thus she is glyphed as chaste and quiet – because it means, not trying to be a man, or pander to man’s taste

To be herself, utterly

Which is the companion of her Fool, Parsifal

Of course – for he is her Fool

But how can he be thus until she gives up her desire to be owned

And accepts it was her destiny to own

He asked, how can I serve the cup

This is the wrong path, a trick

For the simple answer is,

Serve your Kundry.

Redemption comes as a woman

But a woman who must be redeemed

Redeemed not because she is innately sinful

Remember Babalon only came after 2000 years of repression

You must redeem her from the sin laid upon her by the socius.

What we witness now, is a most dreadful abortion of these mysteries

A worship of the shameless whore for shameless sake

But shameless does not look like naked on a beast

Shameless looks like veiling

No shame to be seen exactly as she would be seen

No shame to be chaste

These fools have aborted the truth Babalon tells

And thus these fools all lie among the shells of Kundry, in the flourescent light of Klingsor’s castle

She escapes who has no shame

But shameless does not look like we think

Thus is the glyph of the Virgin, enrobed

And thus she is confused with the Magdalene

For they are one, not separate

And this, verily this, is the mystery of Kundry

That upon rejection, by the Fool,

She becomes Virgin once again

Intact

Veiled

Her cunt no longer open

She dove into the castle of Klingsor

And brought forth sweetness

This is the mystery of the daughter redeemed.

Pure fool, puts purity upon himself, as a mantle – purified from dross by the fire

So too with She – only, she remains trapped while she sees herself in the eyes of the other

That fire of disinterest – not the bang, but the whimper

Thus her world ends

And thus the new world, entwined above the abyss

Thus the new world begins

And together the haggard whore and babe in the egg,

Together they tend the gardens of darkness

Anointing this with oil

And this with acid

Knowing they will never see the fruits of their dark flowers.