Low Magick by Lon DuQuette (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📗

Will. I say “perceived to be my Will” because it is not until one has developed a significant level of illumination that one can with any degree of certainty know what one’s Will really is.

Please don’t assume that just because I have practiced magick for such a long time that I possess an unclouded vision of my true Will or that I consider myself an illuminated master. I do not. What I do possess, after all this time, is a great deal of magical experience; and experience is (or at least can be) the breeding ground of wisdom. Naturally, that potentiality disintegrates if I can’t accurately recall and evaluate these experiences so that I might apply their lessons to the present state of my magical development. For this reason, I believe it is vitally important for magicians to keep a written record of their exploits. As I mentioned earlier, in order to write this book, I have dug deep into dusty boxes and storage bins to extract and organize the buried chronicles of my magical adventures and misadventures.

For me, reviewing old magical diaries is never a pleasant experience. Every time I open and read one of my ancient journals, I am paralyzed by a combination of nauseating embarrassment and amazement. I grit my teeth and squirm as I relive the events, the thoughts, delusions, and presumptions that occupied that shallow, self-centered, naïve, ego-blinded young fool who gawked back at me from the mirrors of yesterday. My singular consolation is the fact that I’ve survived to rejoice, “Thank God I’m not like that any longer!”

Painful as the experience is, reviewing my magical records affords me the opportunity to chart the general trajectory of my spiritual evolution. I have even been able, in several instances, to pinpoint the exact minute my magical efforts (high or low) have actually caused change to occur in conformity with my Will—times that have dramatically altered the course of my life, and the lives of others. In fact, at this very moment, you are reading the words on this page as the result of a magical operation I set in motion thirty-five years ago.

About a year before my traumatic evocation of the demon Orobas,30 I was enmeshed in what I will politely describe as a crisis in my life. I was twenty-six years old, married, with a two-year-old son. I was desperately trying to wean myself from a very unhealthy career as a musician/recording artist, and struggling to bring some semblance of stability and direction to my life. Several years prior to this, to address an intense spiritual hunger, I entered the initiatory world of the Western mysteries—specifically the degree work of the Rosicrucian Order, AMORC, The Traditional Martinist Order (TMO), and the Builders of the Adytum (B.O.T.A.).

As fascinating as my studies were, they were just that—studies. My life needed changing. I didn’t want to merely study magick; I wanted to perform magick. But what kind of magick? I had heard some pretty scary things about the evils of magick, so I was desperate to find a safe place to start.

Early in January 1975, in an old and stuffy little occult bookstore in North Long Beach, I purchased How to Make and Use Talismans31 by Israel Regardie.32 I trusted Regardie, having read several of his classic magical texts. This little book, however, was different. It was actually a how-to book of practical magick. Regardie’s sane and straightforward explanation of the fundamentals of talismanic magick instantly dispelled my superstitious doubts. His generous offering of charts, diagrams, and illustrations (which I promptly copied and pasted into my magical diary) made it a treasure-trove of easy-to-use information. I couldn’t wait to graduate from student to practitioner. After reading it through several times, I knew exactly where I needed to begin.

Regardie suggests that planetary talismans33 can be helpful in overcoming unfavorable aspects that might be afflicting one’s astrological chart. That really drew my attention. I knew I had difficult aspects in my natal chart, so I contacted my brother, Marc34 (the astrologer), to see which planet could use a little extra help. “All of them,” he coldly informed me. But, because it rules my chart, he suggested I first try to make better friends with the Moon.

With Regardie’s little book as my guide, I started gathering symbols for a Lunar talisman on January 23. At midnight on January 27, after anointing it with drops of dew that had formed in the moonlight falling on my 1952 Chrysler, I consecrated it with as much ceremony as I was capable of devising.

My Moon talisman was the most beautiful thing I had ever made with my own two hands. It was a double-circle model made of card stock. I extracted the sigils of the Lunar spirit and intelligence from the moon kamea35 in the book and carefully drew them in silver paint against a field of deep violet36 drawing ink on the front and back of one of the circles. On the other circle, I painted a silver image of the elephant-headed Hindu god Ganesha37 (to whom the Moon is sacred) on one side, and on the other side painted the appropriate planetary and geomantic symbols. Around one perimeter, I wrote in Hebrew the divine and angelic names, and on the reverse side part of the Psalm 72 “… abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth.” When it was finished, I lovingly slipped it inside a linen bag I had sewn with violet thread. On the flap I embroidered a silver crescent moon.

I was very proud of myself, but I still didn’t feel like much of a magician. I did carry it around for a few days and felt curiously empowered—but empowered to do what, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure what I should do next. The answer came (as so many important answers do) while I was taking a shower. I should make all seven of the planetary talismans!

For the next four months, with the help of Regardie’s little book, and