#3 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN
Every map’s got an agenda. Maybe to show roads, or rivers, rising water levels, political boundaries, population growth,
whatever it is they’re trying to get you to see.
Mostly, maps are used to know where you’re at, and for most of them people out there, this is the important part, cause they’re running around always looking to get from one place to the other, in some big hurry to get to some big important thing, pissed off, rushing around, not seeing much.
We know where we are, cause we are always nowhere, and we know how to get there- fast.
Our Destination is Desolation, and if you can dig that and understand that we go to go, not always with somewhere in mind, cause we just wanna be on the roll, and feel it for what it is, see what there is to see and let the visions come.
A map can be geographic, or it can be abstract- but whatever it is, its got its own thing going on from whoever the cat was that scratched it down, right?
We say, scratch all that.
There’s a bad mojo that’s spread out from the digital thing that lights up faces in the dark, and this tech-hex has shot through the blood of all.
In this case, motherfuckers always know just where they are, cause they can see the little flashing dot that says “you are here, man,” making ‘em feel all safe and sound in this great big box that has been traveled and explored from one end to the other, nothing new under the sun, its all been said, its all been done, Jack.
Did you know there’s such a thing as paper townsites? Places that ain’t even real, they just throw ‘em on there to fuck with copycats?
Believe that there’s no Goblu, Ohio.
No Mount Richard, either, but the maps, they're some other dudes creation, so when you follow their map, you follow their way, you live in their world, see?
Our peregrinations and pilgrimages should free themselves from this techno-invention intervention, and return to the old way- dirty denim clad bastard saints, scrawling out directions and maps, drawing their own place in the world, making it how they remember, telling the story their way.
A map can be geographic or it can be abstract, but can it also be connective, can it make you feel, can it travel time?
Put something down that works for you- like one big long sigil from a week on the chopper- all them twists and turns, but instead of places, mark down just how you felt when you saw something that blew your mind, or freaked you out, right, and then come back to it, right back to that place, not in space, but in time.
When you’re grey and gaunt, you can cast that spell and come back.
The Fool travels the road and gains power from under wheel or heel, and much of what he gains is in the wander, the lust for motion and to become lost, and mayhap to find himself once again out there in the green cathedrals or the red desert ashrams, each sacred place he comes across like a benediction from beyond.
You can’t spiral your way out into the great unknown if you won’t wing it.
Where you been and where you can remember is the World, what separates the real from the photo or the digital ghost.
The Real, mapped out by touching it, seeing it with your own damn eyes, and going down roads that ain’t even on those other maps.
The Holy Mountain is Within, and to find it, you gotta get lost.
#2 LESS THAN ZERO
One sigil and sign under which we move and manifest within our Motorcoven is that of :.<0.:
“Less Than Zero.”
Like the X on the head of the Hierophant, its meaning is legion.
With it, we mark ourselves as those who have gone beyond, outside of this world, gazed long into the endless and the abyss, and ain’t coming back- because we’ve got that choice, we’ve got that knowledge, that power to move without its confining boundaries.
It’s about not giving a fuck about this godawful society, its gnawing, shallow bullshit, the half-people that wander around in it self-satisfied
with their car and house and pile of plastic and high tech garbage.
Burn it all and scatter the ashes to the wind, ride or die, less than zero, more than human!
It’s the 0 in 108, consciousness separated from matter by the void itself, that which comes between everything and surrounds everything,
unseen but felt, sought after in those moments where the sun meets the highway and obliterates everything.
It’s in the moment of the bad crash, the tornado as it touches earth, eyes on the heavens in the grip of the trip, the hard come-down, the little death, called <0rgasm that comes as a pre-cursor to the big one we are all chasing down.
This Coven seeks out that emptiness, that void, that lives both within us, at the heart, and within the cosmos, at its heart.
We wanna comprehend that true feeling- to be completely empty, to let ourselves be swallowed up in it,
out there on the deathless black route that leads to nowhere-
to just give ourselves over to it, till there’s no when, no now, no nothing.
But more than all that stuff, it’s a doorway. When the stars roll aside, in those great big fucking moments of death and resurrection,
and they reveal the tunnels behind them, the longest ride to the unknown.
For every positive, there’s a negative, dig? Everything to the right has a thing on the left. A rider and his shadow, subatomic particles,
darkness and light, creation and destruction, a Tree of Life and a Tree of Death, and the roads and highways and secret tracks that connect it all-
And we don’t fear- we explore them at High Speed.
#1 BLACK HEARTS- RAISE BLACK FLAGS.
To be black flag is to die to the world, understand?
If you die before you die, then you don’t die when you die- you keep riding, endlessly, forever amen.
To be black flag is to not need to tell the world you’re this, or you’re that, its just to be that.
To be content with just the clothes on your back, the pack on your bike, the pact with the dust and the blacktop, and the sacred mile.
A real Rider, I mean, one who follows the Rider, is to be a witch.
A real witch, not some chick with a skull and her tits out, but someone who groks the Weary Way, the Crooked Road between here and there,
and that the road is the way.
Peregrination is our most righteous action, and its holiness flows through every other act we perform.
Because of this, our praxis is the upkeep and the changing of our cycles to the forms we want, and to know them, to place ourselves into them,
a symbiosis between rider and ridden.
It is the wrench, and the knife, the tent, the grave at the crossroads, the moon, the mighty plants that lead us to the Emerald Tower.
Our tires tattoo sigils across the face of Mother Road, while the light of the stars bleeds down and blesses our passing.
We search them, and beyond them, reform them into our own constellations, draw maps on old leather, re-discover the world our own way and name the mountains and rivers big Names of Power.
We sleep in caves like wild men, fires blazing in the night to mark our revels.
We call up the devil with whiskey and smoke, baptized in oil from our machines- every 666 miles we make the Anointing Oil of the Covenant.
Our Catechism grows, a living text received from beyond the borders, and it lays out the
Great Work that our coven undertakes. It is shared when seen fit, with other servants of the Unknown Rider.
To be black flag is to be without colors- there’s no state, no city, no lines on paper that can define where we wander, no territory but the endless Void, vast and lonesome, Less Than Zero.
It’s the will and the way, the music of the desert, the coyote’s howl, the echo in the deep canyon.
It’s the last words of the wrongfully accused, the lank jackals that ride outside the confines and prison bars of the big city- it’s to be the scorpion sting and the rattlesnake bite that brings on the death-rattle shakes, dig that.
It ain’t soft beds and nice clothes, it ain’t green or gold.
Your homes in the Kingdom are just luxurious tombs to die in, while comfort grins in the graveyard.