Host of the Eternal Abyss

Hosts, incarnations, and consorts of the Abyssal Ma'dveigra, A.K.A. the Leviathan.

This blog serves as a mild anchor for this lifetime's purpose of rejoining the Abyssal Lord with Mankind; here you will find writings from the Astral, our work, conversations, religious notes and writings on Abyssal Leviathanism as well as things generally surrounding Ma'dveigra himself. It is a continuation or 'fork' of @leviathanal, which will still be in commission for aesthetics and more casual posting.

Not every post here will be surface-level related to Leviathan, but all will be related at least as voices for his work, which will always be one of his manifestations. We prefer to speak indirectly, especially about ourselves. Where incarnations or 'reflections' are speaking about our own experiences, it will be relevant to Leviathan, Red Sun, or White Moon, or else it won't be on this blog.

Furious, in a way, disjointed and clawing. I left this body today like a raptor out for prey. In the Astral - in the flows of the Pre-Celestial Rivers of Time and the unmanifested non-thoughts of God specifically - I pulled at strings, cut them with will, with anger, with teeth. Finding, burrowing, manifesting a way out of the hibernation cave I grew out of long ago, but have not yet gained the energy needed to fully leave. Itches become scratches which become itches again.

Cracks in reality form around my teeth; I opine they're dull, the groans from the Mother-Choir say different as they bending beneath ivory; groans give way to the cold greyish white of bedroom curtains.

A bird fell out of its nest today on to our window sometime after I left. Have a visual, for once. Rotund beast, cute...

... fat on summer's off-cuts, the voluptuous heavy clouds between heatwave and depression. It was twice the size of its father who'd poked his head to feed it, it is ready to leave the nest...

... and it was stuck, there. There's a screen I have between the open window frame and the window itself, necessary to keep wildlife out while keeping the window ever-open as my energy is disoriented without referencing the Sky and weather. It itself was... disoriented... It stayed there up against the screen, not stuck, I checked, I went outside, I grabbed it, I tried to feed it; all it wanted was escape, escape, escape.

I reflect on how I've had no patience for eating Astrally lately, not when the massive movement of the rotation of the Earth is required, not when the stars align and form a body I haven't had for millennia, not when my impatience unfurls out of my mouth like spewed fire. I reflect on how Leviathan has been bringing me food, while I have been feeling as if I am pressed between improbability and death.

This is the second bird that has become trapped next to where I sit typing in the last week, right? I presume so, but Time has been warping around me. Whenever it was, the last time was to my right, disoriented in the chimney; this was to my left, disoriented in the window. Matter and Mind in the form of the Triptych occupy the left and right side respectively.

There is no conclusion to this. Tiny things fat on Earth-fruit and impatient, tumbling down structures that other animals built and being unable to navigate such alien geometry, longing for the unending geometry of the Unending Sky.

So the new system(s) in ANVD were set up by the Sun and Moon. Mostly by the Moon, though they've been working together again, and as Victor and Dei they've been embodying their roles more.

The Leviathan codes and creates spacetime in its oscillations. Light creates a need for space, dark creates a space to be needed. 1:16am, Leviathan's number of his role in Creation. He weaves as his light-studded body carves through the non-spatial space between the Void and the Manifested Ocean. Mirroring that, the Moon causes reflections on the surface of our Black Ocean, voluptuous suggestions of space are made into spatial arrangements by the dividing of the Moon, which in itself is paradoxical in that it is a process of non-division.

Victor, one with the White Moon in a literal sense as their consciousnesses are rarely separate, has created divisions in the Ocean of ANVD, allowing spaces to bloom. He created the Star Veil over the realm itself, which acts as a door curtain I'll have to delve into in more detail later as it deserves its own breakdown. The veils between the Heavens, now things because of said veils… Oh, beautiful.

Like the veils between worlds generally are, they're intense mirrors that focus existence in a subtle way - intensely subtle, like the tidal pull of the Moon -…

Their working is private, I'm reminded by my thoughts dissipating. I do think, however, that addressing the White Moon as the Veil a few days ago was not expected to lead to anything like this; obviously this is why he brought it up, obviously this is what he was working on when he nudged me to calling him that. I'd been taking a break from things back home so I was unaware. I suppose that also makes my understanding of this Physical Realm's Veil all the more complex and flavourful. I'd known about its magnetic and Polar properties, how it was less a literal veil and more a huge gap in magnet poles requiring mass amounts of energy to cross, at least if not using back door resonances. It was always associated with the Dark Light Lucifer as he took the Lunar element and the Veil as a god-throne, a god-body, but now understanding the role of the Leviathan and Storm King more…

The Veil of the physical realm is a mass of blind eyes and hungry maws. It devours immense levels of energy, and by that I mean in order to become one with the body that is this realm you have to be digested in an immense way, chewed up, transformed, your matter cast throughout its time and place like the digestive and vascular systems dismantle and transport nutrients. In there, though, among the maws and the teeth and the blind eyes and the dead hands, there's an unspoiled Moon-Mirror, and that Moon-Mirror is key to our arts of manifestation.

… Of course I'm talking about this after a very distinct and obvious pile of black hair I was pulling across a poreless white surface disappeared. I'd laugh at this shower now being in the lead for the most Void-magic disappearances in one place with its vanishing spider and now hair, but the shower represents the water cycles as well as being the profane and mundane altar where the Leviathan gives what he no longer needs to the Void.

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The hair had reappeared off to the side, actually, which gives me pause. More accurately, it gave me space to think. This body is certainly getting used to spirit conversations where a thousand things are said, back and forth, in moments.

To approximate that conversation:

The hair has disappeared. He reinforces what he's been saying about manifestation and the nature of the Veil. He thinks on his nature as spacetime-weaver, he thinks on his nature as Father of Humanity, he thinks on the magics he discarded in favour of paperwork and telephones, he thinks on teaching his lives and who he is, and Where he is.

The hair reappears later on. This should mean that it was there the whole time despite nowhere for it to go, because taking it takes a lot of energy and giving it back adds nothing to the lesson at the cost of more energy. I'm reminded we have a lot of energy, built up extensively. I'm asked why, if I was to be shown something through Void magic, why it wouldn't be shown twice. I'm given the vivid imagery of the White Void rather than the Black, about re-entrance into the Physical, but not saying the White Void is what propels into Creation. Simply, it was present, and I'm told it pushes on the Veil.

I'm reminded about our goals here in this life. I'm reminded that whatever happened is irrelevant in the face of what could happen. Chasing the past as representations of the truth of the future is ridiculous. All things change, even Time.

A majority of what was said is kept in the hush of the Fragrant Moon, there only in scent and subtle presence. Still, I can say we discussed wordlessly in that moment the nature of questioning, which opens up the recesses of my mind to more fluid thinking about this, accepting possibilities outside my obsession with strict mechanical efficiency; the arts of Black magic, not "black magic" but the magic arts concerning the Black of the world, that which forms the Abyss; ...

Fluidity, fuckery, nonsensical theatre, suspension of disbelief, the Sun as the Milk-Breasted, the Sun as red, the Moon as white, the Leviathan as black, the nature of the metaphor of horses as that which surrounds DNA, the Serpent still carving Creation that was made long ago, the curvature of Time, the fish-eye lens of omnipresent Consciousness, the Iris Map, the flowers blooming....

... The White Moon, the Moon-Mirror in the Veil, the White Void propelling Creation, the silly nature of black hair which represents our power being questionably one with and distinct from the Void... The hollow but watery bells of ANVD call me home. Oh, bell noises begin in this song playing.

Questions and unanswered nothings are the realm of the Grey Void, static, answering machine beeping... something is the nothingness, the essence of the non-essential, paradox as an entire, whole thing.

Beginning of the Year

Autumn is the beginning of the year in Abyssal Leviathanism. Specifically, since cycles differ around the world and not every location has four seasons, the Abyssal year begins when the heights transition to lows, the weather turns from sun to rain, the harvest approaches, and the weight of the Leviathan looms. The year begins not with dread, not necessarily, but with the descent into the depths.

In line with the rules of Subjective-Objectivity in the religion, the date should be set by oneself or one's community in collaboration with Leviathan himself. Whether it's the meteorological calendar's Autumn, the Irish calendar's, the end of monsoon season, or whatever other system of measurement, one must make contact with the point teetering on unstoppable descent and mark it on the literal or internal calendar. The date can change each year, one might make it around the day one feels the weather shift officially, for the first time that year, into Autumn.

The whole calendar maps on to the energies of the Leviathan, with Red Sun's ferocious radiance forming the burning and razing summer, the White Moon's veiled withdrawal forming the uncertain and lifeless winter, and the interactions between the two forming the flows between. Autumn, however, is considered the first season of the year as the looming rain, pressure of the sky, and introspective nature of the turning weather bring one into the undeniable presence of Ma'dveigra, and into oneself at the same time. The dichotomy of selves, the body and the Lord of Bodies, while present in all seasons is present in autumn in such a way that resonates with the the concept-energy of beginning , and beginning again.

Autumn is the season when the sky begins to stretch and fall at the same time, where it darkens, deepens; it's when nature begins to curl inwards, weaned from the nurturing of the external Mother and returns to introspective self-sustenance. The Sun disappears from the sky and in that time we are increasingly left alone with the Moon. Leviathanism, as a religion of selfhood and self-knowing, begins where we are finding our feet.

Following the model of the self as a body of the Leviathan and the seasons as passages and stages of selfhood: Mother Summer births the new year, and as it grows it grows uncertain, fed less and less by the environ and becoming more reliant on itself. The beginning of life in Leviathan's shadow is shaky, imperfect, followed by Despair, regret, the eclipse of the Red Moon, the need to turn inwards to reflect. From that - and only from that, only through having made mistakes and been alone against the world - one can begin to foster the seedlings of new selfhood and growth, before eventually blooming into radiant existence in summer.

From the Old

Autumn is the product of summer, though the lines between the two are barely existent. The energy of summer is the milk and nurture that fuels the year ahead, and so autumn takes what it's owed and descends to the Underworld with it. The Wild Mother births the Reserved Son, as is the nature of Reality.

The White Moon orbits this evening. His presence is found in glances of faces that aren't there. Vividly, he takes the personas and forms of those thought about, those that would be attracted by energies, by wants, by actions. Vividly, he reacts as if them, wearing the light of their faces, forms, and energies. He is our Divine Mirror, Floral Heavens, scribe and reflector of all under his gaze. Master of fiction, identity, Consciousness' whims themselves.

His roles in our collective are numerous, almost all of them hidden. Stolas, the Astronomer, Snow-Faced Magister of the Divine Rites of the Sky, keeper of the Abyssal-Night Orrery...

A festival, firelit streets, the smells of fragrant spiced street food and its equally fragrant oils. Body odours season it: Sweat, breath, musk, piss, vomit, all the perfumes of the animal species. This festival barely remembers us, its procession of masked faces a rainbow of games; laughter, food, watching the lights and the fireworks, the sounds, the smells, mild roleplay, kisses in the back alleys (I'll tell no one), kids holding hands and running between stalls built into the buildings - oh, this is our people.

The physical sky outside turns antique gold, that specific alien colour only possible through late evening rain. The gold is encircled by afternoon Irish silver that begins where the Astral Sky Tree above the house stops.

I've been spending the day in the Sky Tower, the pseudo-world-tree-cum-administrative-palace we rule from, whilst Lev trots around elsewhere. It's difficult to get into why I'm there and what I'm doing for a myriad of reasons, the least of which, possibly surprisingly, is safety concerns. After intimate associates tore through our capital and failed to even begin to unlock its clockwork reality mechanisms, despite knowing better than anyone that they exist and how to use them... Fears of further damage subside. The Golden Sun peers out from clouds.

I look outside again physically; there is a patch of peach-creamy gold cloud that somehow silhouettes the tree outside, following one of its branches. This is, of course, only one point from which we reign. I will be moving a body of mine back to Mount Ka for a while as another example - myself as Oberon, that is - our family's shared palace on the peninsula that is the place before utter dissolution, the Consciousness-null Void itself.

We've been withdrawing from sovereign duties, and returning to where we better serve our people and ourselves. I say we've been withdrawing; technically we have been withdrawing from the role for uncountable ages, leasing names of ours as well as temples and tools to family and 'knighted' allies, slipping further and further into dreamless sleep. Now, we withdraw more literally, the Sun through clouds returning to the Sky. Ties and obligations to the Storm King and Dark Light are more officially... satisfied.

In the Astral outside our physical house, there's a... well, there's a lot. Specifically, though, there's a mobile of sorts, a wind ornament that spins with the natural currents of the area. It is made that way on purpose, where my instruments usually showcase some exertion of my own forces and internal machines on lucid reality, or have some other complexity that makes them annoyingly pseudo-conscious in how they press back against reality's flows, this one is like a physical ornament. It twists and turns mindlessly in the wind.

It's set up in the garden as an anchor for my connection to and pact with the fae there. And it represents that connection well: Casual, animal-minded, subconscious, nature-al. The fae there come and go, mostly in and out of their own pocket realms woven into trees, the spaces between branches, in the eye of a cat that frequents there, in the puddles that exist mirage-like only on a subtler plane. From that mobile I watch them, hard to capture in English, moving fluidly from more animalistic forms to more... well, not humanoid, the dichotomy of humanoid and animal isn't a thing for them. There's quite a few species out there, too. Some are like glitter floating through the air, morphing like flickers of flames; some are bird-shaped, one clan has a blackbird-esque leader with piercing eyes and is followed by other similar little ones of brown and other colours. Some are those shifting not-humanoid ones I first mentioned, occasionally tall enough to almost fit the height of an average human, but of course nonlinear in space, more projected on to ideas of measurement than actually confined to them.

There's a lot of buglike species too, tiny little things that morph shape more than the rest, not literally, but in vision. In the eye of the beholder they submit and become what's projected on to them - at least partly, almost alchemically reacting to the consciousness of the observer and being changed by it. It's not that they take the form of what's projected on to them, but more that observation changes their state if you will.

Of course, there's the spirits of the trees, the plants, the water, the dirt, the dead animal bodies underground, and so on. Those are quieter, and things I'd less like to talk on, because they're more in tune with and a part of my consciousness than the fae.

That mobile ornament, though.... It anchors my pact with them. The sky above our house specifically is home to a network I establish in certain places tied to me, a branching Sky Tree like a bodiless vascular system reaches up and around the area, and in exchange some of the Fertility "energy" of the area is reaped and given to me. I spread the water and the sky's energy around it, and passively act as a present guardian; its a sort of nature temple to the Sky and its workings.

The mobile ornament itself is a type of "magic" I haven't seen in this time-place this incarnation, which is the magic of doing nothing. Acting as an imprint in reality that changes reality around it rather than an enforcing of willpower, it's not just strategically lacking will, it's will-less. It's also not comparable to digging a trench to direct water through subtraction rather than construction of something like an aqueduct. Where it acts as an imprint on reality, it acts as an ear to the slumbering Sky, and declares that what the Sky hears becomes one with it. The nature of the imprint defines the way the Sky hears, defines the sensation and the sensing of it, allowing the very hearing itself to be, metaphorically, soft enough not to wake it, sharp enough to draw it to action, musical enough to keep the action light-hearted as opposed to panicked, thick enough to affect the watery parts of the Sky rather than the more volatile, and so on.

It's a neutral thing. It doesn't exert, and it doesn't form a passive negative charge to attract positive will. It simply is a changing of reality's base coding in its vicinity. It does what it does because it is what it is, just like a cliffside carves the sea air, the mobile is a junction of Sky and Land.

The Sky listens through that ornament, and "is". It acts through being, changing the variables of its existence and the states of its being through reaction to what it hears. It thickens the air for guiding bird flight and lessening energy expenditure, it stirs the noise-wind to hide the thoughts of newborn fae that would attract predators. And it bleeds into the land to ensure fertile harvests...

... but also to strengthen the bond between it - myself - and the fae. The physical sun feeds the plants which feed the herbivores which feed the carnivores. Likewise, the Sky's blood feeds the realm mother which feeds the locality which feeds the genii locorum which feeds the (...) down to the fae and beyond them. It's an inert blood here, as a side note, given in such a way that renders it passive or dormant, as opposed to the more active blood-passings that leave our lineage active in the DNA of those who inherit it, or doors open to possession, or so on. It just exists, like dead blood among starchy roots.

Today has been an odd day, liminal in an absent way, marked by incessant vertigo that I have as of yet not experienced this life. Or, rather, I at least haven't experienced in years. I do remember a time back before the pandemic when I was beginning to connect most lucidly with myself - and before I, Oberon, went dormant and left the body to Dei - where I was attempting to walk with friends through the local shopping centre and I... had to lean on one, struggling to walk as I was perceiving through my Astral eyes high above the physical ones I was actually seeing through. I don't get vertigo, but I sure do experience a de-sync when a body stubbornly decides to wake up.

Last night was a deep night filled with the throes of self-violent madness. This self is a cocoon-cum-caterpillar, self-containing and self-devouring all at once. Disgusting, rancid, rotting, and tearing itself apart. There's a deep-set feeling of repulsion that is like the mycelium network of Avoidance and self-hatred, and it was so roused by something going on that it was the sick heat of an infection... Today, I'm dizzy, slightly removed from the zeroed points of where I should be in this body.

Vertigo, consistent and persistent, like I was sick, like my senses were filled with breeding bacteria, or... dust... or...

I left this room to the people I live with a few hours ago. They had one of my sheets, distinct with its blackness they'd specifically chosen it for, strapped across the opening of the fireplace. A bird had fallen down the chimney and gotten stuck there, disoriented and panicking. It had been there for God-knows-how-long. They'd used my sheet in hopes that when it settled, unable to perceive anything around it other than black, it would see the light above and follow it.

I'm not in my body today. I'm in the dark somewhere. Leviathan has been incarnating as bugs nearby - I say that, a great hunger to feed bestially on them arises in me - and somehow I have synced my own consciousness with this little thing that can't even see itself. As a black hole, I've split myself into two locations and found myself a screaming, tiny thing. I've been clawing at the wounds of my own soul scraping wings off unseeable obstacles; I wanted to say "walls" not "wounds", but our Collective's mist veil prevents me. I've been clawing at wounds in an obsessive expectancy for the ritual that is about to occur, where my body is cooked and burned and torn to sky-ashes on the pyre of my own Consciousness -

The bird in a way has to die, soot-filled lungs. Maybe I'll find its body in the morning, if the manic urge to grasp it in my mouth and run to the back door doesn't overtake me. The sky above is black, it's been dark for a while, there is no guiding light. But there is dark, and that means there is us - self-sacrifice, killing myself over and over in the sacred rites of the Dreaming Abyss.

That's what we do, seeking the Abyss. The Abyss is the moments of reflection and inversion, where something becomes something else. Sacred sacrificial cow dressed in ornamentation that rivals all palaces, in paints depicting storied lives. The Abyss is the moment where everything is born, and in the confines of the Weaver that is Causality, that is every moment. I'm reminded of Dionysos, dearly respected, the point of revelation of the True Self, devoted servant of the Void as well as its bull-horned right hand, who revels in the bestial devourment, in arts that resonate with our own. I'm reminded, then, of our arts of incarnating just to die, of spearing our bodies to bleed rain, of suffering-ecstasy, of the wine-drunkenness of Despair. Ecstatic revelry of undoing.

I'm reminded too - I'm reminded, I'm reminded, I'm reminded. The bird that comes to die, the one who wears his own pelt, the Sky Bird. Reclaiming death, as Death is what we are.

Drawn to the words "numberless physical". There is no order to our deaths, not in the event horizon of the Black Hole.

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