Justice spell for America (Yule gift from a Golden Dawn pirate)

 It's a great day in America. Yule 2024. Did you miss me? Of course not. Bitches, you are. 

Got you presents. Oh, you care about that. Too bad, the presents are worst than socks.

And as my dead mother would say, "You deserve no better." You are on fire, America. Or at least, smouldering. Nice toxic smoke going on, about to go ablaze. And you voted for it.

As Mom used to say, "Christmas shaming time!" But your shame is nothing compared to mine. Since this is my blog, I have to win, so here is my shameful "I must be kicked out of the family" confession for those of you who missed the last two decades of my life.

Ready? Because I wasn't ready for any of this nonsense. And I left blogging. Yeah, dumb.

I was laid off from Loco Gyro, so Sister Gart could convert that food court into an exercise center which she thought would make more money for the sporting goods family. Given that a decade of restaurant management left me disgruntled, I chose to leave the profession. Had no idea what to do. Thought about returning to dubious erotica . . . 

My girlfriend, Khari, mild mannered school teacher, secretly occult Spider Queen, made me promise to get my GED, and nothing more. I ended up taking a vacation year. 

For some reason, I had decided that it was not time for me to be a writer . . . 

When I returned to the job hunt, Loco Gyro was beginning to suffer the meltdown of shopping mall bubble. Their business model had been built on selling stores to "independent owners" in new shopping malls. My "downtown" location had been the one place not built on that model (which is why 9/11 killed my business off, being about feeding office workers lunch five days a week). The GED was an afterthought . . . 

Just wanting to get it out of the way, I had taken three of the GED five tests on one night. I was the last person to leave Emily Griffith Opportunity School that evening, so the overseer was able to run my tests through the scoring machine. Normally, they have to wait, due to privacy issues. But I was the last one there, so I had three scores, night one. 

And I told Khari my scores. I personally didn't think much of them. What does a 98 percentile in social mean? The other two being 97, so what? Been out of school twenty years. High school dropout . . . no, correction, my mother sabotaged my education . . . and I was willing protecting my siblings . . . it was complicated--do you want to discuss mental illness because we will be doing so some time in the future on this blog. I laugh now . . . 

The second night of testing came on the heels on blowing a job interview because I needed one Friday night a month off because of my Wiccan ministry student commitments. Yeah, going back to food service was complicated because I was a fucking serving pagan minister of some level or another. I was ripe for chaos to happen. 

I scored a 99 in math on the GED. The only score that I did not know was English. 

My original 1984 "Fresh to Freedom and Denver" setting was Urban Shaman. 

And I fought with myself on the way home that night. You see, my mother and one of my sisters forbid me to have an education because I am a "slave," family property of the strongest of the bloodline's spirit mediums. Yes, I grew up in a cult. They called it, "Law."

"Why the hell didn't I go to college?" My anger flowed. I might be Sith. Blame Master Cherubim. After all, our lineage does go through both Aliester Crowley and Israel Regardie. Toss in my bloodline's insanity, and standing in front of the Council of Gods . . . 

Anyways, I am ready to fight a single fight with my "wife" about going to college.

And from the moment we had brought the house together, I considered her my wife. If you have to go to court to dissolve a relationship, that's a marriage. September 2002. Not romantic. We have since rewritten history to reflect her version of reality. Because . . . 

One of my friends loves to ask, "Why Khari?" I ask that myself. But the Spider Queen ends up in multiple timelines in the "what if" game, and we met at Cassandra's in 1997 (say what you will about the woman, she introduced us to one another) at That Event. 

(Fun game I play, or not so fun, is "What if my father would have lived past my 19th birthday--September 1984--what would we be doing today?" In later years, it became about thinking what projects I would have pursued, if I would not given into the family's demands not to surpass a certain level of success and recognition. What if art?)

And for me, the answer to "Why Khari?" Because I started to obey her. Yeah, simple.

At some point, I knew that I trusted her, and that we were together for the long haul was I gave her my tamest cat, Talisman (originally Little Miss Dynamite), for safekeeping. 

Talisman was part of a trio. Her brother-husband, originally Morning Star, until he either tried to take my face off, or killed the shower curtain thinking it was some form of angel (possible, at that point in my life, I was dealing in black magick in my 20s) was renamed Lucifer as a reminder that he was a devil cat. Their daughter, Electric Charlie, was quite simply mentally ill for a cat. They had came to me as part of a Crossroad Goddess Bargain to get myself out of mess that I was in. Prison has been a near thing for me. Devil cats!

So I get home, ready to argue, "Maybe school, not job," to be surprised by my "wife" telling me that she had to talked to a recruiter at the Community College of Denver, and he agreed that with those GED (just on the basis of the first three) that my enrollment and student aid should be fast-tracked, so that I could start classes the start of Fall semester.

I know! No argument! No proving my point! No sticking it to my restrictive family! No!

Why Khari? I don't know. Simple promise from me to get the GED tests done. And then behind my back, Spider Queen signs me up for a community college class catalogue. 

What was that? Oh, I am catching up the whole blogosphere up to what I have been up to for the last "however the fuck long it has been since the last time I blogged." And it's important because my mom's living with me. Yes, Lilith's dead; don't judge her on that.

It's true. My mom escaped from hell, and spending fair too much time at my house. 

Now, in all fairness, Lilith was an employee of hell, Egyptian scribe division. Yeah, as necromancer joke, as a Priest of Anubis and Isis, and an high adept level initiate of an esoteric Order that bases its baseline Neophyte ritual on the Book of Dead, I might have called in a a few favors when my mom died, and got her a job . . . pushing a cart. 

What? You never pranked a just-dead relative with creative use of the Egyptian Book of the Dead? Obviously, you never knew Lilith well, blessed be you. Sith be I, priest be I.

Traditionally, the "ancient" Egyptian priests said prayers to ensure the afterlife of the honored dead. Which means that they got to choose the type of afterlife that one suffered.

Which brings me to my forty-two Christmas gifts for America! Or do I need to shame more? What Mom? Oh, yes! So Mom, I figure is either an walk-away from the annual "Dead Vegas Employees have rights, Generous Seneferu says so" trip, or she yard-sailed walked the entire canvas of hell until Lilith found that Neon Cross that smug bastard left littering up the middle of the damned afterlife when he napped all righteous pagans. 

I wasn't happy to learn that my dead mother could visit me. Lilith had disowned me in life, and the first sign of a thaw was an invite to the Denver Zoo. For those who have visited my house for Khari's summer drumming, sometimes we have heard the peacocks from there in-between rounds--that's how close I live. It was if my mother had looked at a map. Lilith knew my walking distance. Only if I was still hell-bent upset would I refuse.

At the time, I figured that Lilith had finally learned about the blog, and called in a lawyer. Finally. A lawyer would tell my mom about the three things that I learned in 1984.

One, my religion, Wicca, was protected in America. And even if I was a Satanist, as Lilith claimed that I was, my religion would still be protected. My use of the Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram would not be considered grounds for commitment to an asylum, Sorry . . . 

Two, my family could not prevent me from using any pen-name that I chose to. That my family had no right to deny me "Michael Ramalia" as an openly Wiccan science fiction author pen-name at age thirteen to honor my recently slain Wiccan aunt. Sorry . . . 

Three, her lies about my sanity and IQ did not make it truth, that claiming that I was retarded did not give her my right-of-lawyer. That her bloodline had no legal right to deny me access to higher education, rights to investments, and basic freedoms. Sorry . . .

Basically, several posts on previous blog, long rot its memory, were addressed at my mother's insane idea that I was property, retarded, and at her legal mercy. Jailable.

Lilith, my dear mother, destroyed any chance that I could have a friendship with any of my siblings. So to be invited anywhere, after years of being told that I was disowned.

At the time, as I say, I thought it was that Mom discovered my Golden Dawn War blog.

Today, I know better. Within a "smells fishy" time period, we learned Lilith had stage four cancer, football size mass. How long did my mom know that she was sick? Why did she not go to the fucking doctor? Someone explained it to me that my mother was the type of person who saw sickness as "proof of sin"; hence, as non-sinner, my mom could not be sick. Nevertheless, I do believe that my mother tried to bring me back into the family. 

Unfortunately, one of my sisters did not get the memo, and is busy working evil to ensure that I have no friendship with any other sibling, Screams that she wants no contact, yet stalked me on Facebook, just before I got black-magicked by someone from my first coven this past summer. Oh, my god. The year that I had. So let's go for long story, short, right?

My mom rewrote history at the zoo, can now visit me. Might be hiding from Anubis. 

So shame, I have an education now. Literature and history. Bachelors in both. Two. 

Followed two professors. Went from Community College of Denver, took a lot of math and histroy from Metro State, to University of Colorado at Denver. The summer that I was moving from community college to university, I remember the Family Messenger telling that I had not earned the right to go to college and never would, before marching off to her chariot. There I was, transferring on my grades alone, no interview, just Auraria. Got a letter later lecturing me about not letting her get a word in edgewise, and neither Khari nor I could remember a damn thing beyond the damn demand that I drop out of school. 

But anyways, during my first semester in university, which would be my junior year, first semester, I chose to take a senior/graduate class on a famous Southern author. Retarded. This class will later serve as evidence that I do not retake Intro to Literature. I survived. 

So yes, I have some skills. I am not just a pretty face. I heard that laugh, You could pretend that I am pretty. Look, my mother abused me so much that I occasionally write dubious erotica for money. That's using your brain as a sex instrument. Yeah, I am a slut. Shame. 

See, how amused my mom is. But better yet. My more conservative sisters are envious. 

Want to know what amuses my mom more? The fact that I spent years building myself up, only to lost it all in a mere decade. Lost my business. Access to Amazon as a publisher. Broke the final ties with my family, thanks to a trio of deaths. Coven divorce. Church divorce. Revenge of First Coven. Oh, most important, kicked out of Golden Dawn. Ouch.

Oh yeah, about ten years ago, some Big Ego publicly Face-Shamed me for not sending him students as "payment for his elite teaching." Given his Third Order connections, I decided to leave the Hermetic Golden Dawn at that point, having no more use of the tradition. 

As in I apologized for not sending him victims, hoping that everyone judged him properly. What exactly he hoped to gain calling me out publicly, I could not figure out. Did he not realize that I still had evidence? And what set off Big Ego? What did I do?

Only recently did I realize what I had done . . . here, I resign from Golden Dawn. 

And guess what? I can. As of October 13th 2024, I am a Past Hierophant. Blessed be me!

After three convictions of black magick, losing my lodge to sabotage by Freemasons and a jealous spirit medium, and being publicly thrown out by Third Order, I am finally free. 

There is a new intended High Priestess in town (Denver 80205). "I am ready to initiate students into Outer Order." Hubris Alert! Someone thinks that they are Z.A.M. worthy. 

Once my thirteen Past Hierophant meetings are done, all younglings can douse themselves with gasoline, and lit up their lightsabres. Whoosh! Smell the Jedi! LOL!!!!

I willing sacrifice all the investment that I ever made in the Golden Dawn system, Hermetic, Thelemic, and Egyptian. All three Inner Order courses, Hang you all. Including that very expensive Inner Order course where I fell behind a month behind in homework every week that went by. "Dear sir, can I buy some time to do some reading?" Love him, but the homework was deep and wide. Even today with an education, I have doubts . . . 

No, I willing give it all up. As a Thelemic, I started in 1986. As GD, 1991--self-initiate; 1992 Hathor; Hierophant Intended Fall 1996; lineage healed 1999; Bast Temple 2000. History. 

But while you can take the boy out of GD, it is hard to erase that presence in your brain. 

The past year really drove that home. I had a series of health issues. Lots of dark bed time. Can't read. Just what already in my head. Fever. Migraine pain. Visions of gods.

Over the space of my ordeal, I came to realize that a lot of stuff that I thought mattered, such as my fight with Big Ego, really didn't. Because the world was about to catch fire.

So I got you gifts. Well, me and Khari stole you some gifts on Halloween. My last act as Chief Adept was supposed to be to burst the black magick using witch trying to kill me back to the stone age using Golden Dawn atomic hellfire. Does Golden Dawn have such stuff, you ask. Yes, it does. Running all through the system. Like a big old starship. 

And my wife, we have now been married for ten years--means the zoo was a decade ago too--my wife, she sees me working with the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Khari sees the author pretending to work on a novel about a lost Shakespeare play concerning the Forty-Two Judges of Ancient Egypt. How every time that the play is performed, a politician falls.

Spider Queen is less naive. There is a Golden Dawn pirate on the loose who has stolen a warship armed with forty-two cannon, screaming, "Oh, you are better than me?!?"

Someone took away my toy, and aimed it at someone else. My coven sister still lives. 

It's not fair. I still think she tried to kill me. Not just paranoid. Stalking for sure. I wanted to blow her up. I spent years, preparing like a Jedi, to withstand the forty-two judges. She claims to be the superior witch, that my magicks are puny, compared to Hulk Woman. So I going to do the world a favor, and blow her up. It was a mercy. My last act as Chief. PAX.

And my wife took it away, We still used it. Just not on my evil blood sister. Sad, right?

Hence, the forty-two gifts, we got you, America. Sorry, we are witches. Bad at shopping. 

Oh, my bad. Imagine that the forty-two judges are very angry gods who test you in the afterlife. Armed with scary knives. Big sharp knives. Designed to cut liars. To painful bits.

And the dead has to say a prayer addressing the forty-two, declaring their innocence,

At some point, in the creation process, while working with the godforms that underlie the entire Golden Dawn initiation system, top to bottom, like some cosmic string theory, my wife might have heard me talking to the "writer's room" that Donald Trump better hope that the Egyptian afterlife is not the real McCoy because there are sharp knives. 

Yes, my wife and I might have put "not yet elected to second term at that particular moment" Donald Trump into a forty-two Egyptian god powered wood chipper because Mad Uncle Morgan might have said that the only way that man is going to see the inside of a court room is if Egyptian gods themselves get involved. But don't worry . . . it's safe. 

One, we were lacking a witch. At least one. So until another angry witch shows up, Trump is perfectly safe. And Third Witch has to be special. She has to find me attractive; my wife says we are polyamourous, I say bullshit. Additionally, she has to support Khari starting a new Golden Dawn lodge, no matter how much reading the Spider Queen has not done. 

Two, we are beyond binding here. Binding did not work on this prize bull during Trump One. I was there during the First Binding of the Orange. I was convicted of black magick, and promised Soviet justice for treason. No, this is a Justice spell--this is about guilt. Has Trump done something so horrible that needs to be tried in a court of law? Justice. Easiest way to think about this is "Has Trump done something on the level of Watergate?" Meh. 

Three, quite honestly, voters wanted this man back in power. You could see it on the election map. As a "Jewish humor witch publisher," I could also see all the future buyer's remorse. While I don't know why voters put him back in office, I know that they expect more than he can reasonably deliver. The market is ripe for certain types of humor.

Yes, speaking of which, the Halloween performance went so well that I plan on writing a light "witch humor" How to Bind an Abusive President book, featuring a full Egyptian vocalization of the Forty-two Judges section of the Book of the Dead. Much money ahead.

If you are uncomfortable with the idea of me binding, or worse--judging your president, then you can defend him using the forty-two. Just say the prayer, declaring him innocent. Use three people. Better remote (astral) initiate him into the Golden Dawn. I dare you. 

Hey, Third Order should not have shamed me out of Golden Dawn, Hermetic, Thelemic, Egyptian, or otherwise. Did it not occur to anyone that I might have copied the nuclear plans at some point while I was in the room with them? I did tell everyone that I had been a confidence artist before I joined the school, right? Pirate, maybe? No secrets?

Well, it's too late now. If there's a sexy Third Witch, or Angry Witch Coven, or Treasonous Golden Dawn lodge, out there someplace, maybe Trump is toast. In the afterlife. Not this one. No, this is afterlife insurance, we are buying. Justice in the afterlife. There is no way that the world would witness it unfold in real life, right? Trump gift me . . . cue laughter.