Hermetic Library Zine

A wild and wooly whatever blog of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library Zine

by John Griogair Bell

“Therefore am I called Hermes the Thrice Great, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That is finished which I have to say concerning the operation of the Sun.”—The Emerald Table of Hermes

[Previous]

Therefore am I called Hermes the Thrice Great 1 by John Griogair Bell using MidJourney and DALL-E.

John Griogair Bell is the enigmatic super-villain, known only, to some, as Librarian.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

by SD Master

As a young child of about five or six years of age, I had a recurring nightmare that frightened me and made it difficult for me to nightly sleep. I would find myself walking into a room and as I passed a closet door, a hand would reach out, grab me and drag me into the darkness, where I would feel myself falling and would awake in another dream where I would die a violent death.

Over and again, night after night. It got to the point where I hated to sleep because I was afraid of the nightmare.

One night, before sleep, I told myself that all I had to do, if I found myself enter the room, was to just stay away from the door. When I finally went to sleep, I found myself in the room with the door before me. Being aware in the dream, I walk around the door and sat on a nearby couch. Suddenly, a hand reached from the sofa, grabbed me and upon entering darkness, found myself falling. Still aware, I willed myself to wake. It was then that I saw a huge eye staring at me. It held me transfixed until I released my control of the dream and again began to fall. As soon as I felt myself free of the gaze, I willed myself awake.

I was never bothered by the nightmare again.

From Quotes, Quips, and Whimsical Conundrums by SD Master.

SD Master is a mystic who writes poetry.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, USA

by John Griogair Bell

“Therefore am I called Hermes the Thrice Great, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That is finished which I have to say concerning the operation of the Sun.”—The Emerald Table of Hermes

[Next]

Therefore am I called Hermes the Thrice Great 1 by John Griogair Bell using MidJourney and DALL-E.

John Griogair Bell is the enigmatic super-villain, known only, to some, as Librarian.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

from The Headflux Chronicles, Book 1, by Will Lorimer

5

THE NEW CAPITOL

The New Capitol of Bigger was not based in any specific location. Revolutionary advances in technology had freed architecture from the gravitational restraints that had held it shackled since civilization was initiated by the erection of the Great Omphalus of Ancient Ma’at in the Chord, a testament to the genius of the original Foundling Fathers of Tumpty.

Such advances in technology also meant that the heritable descendants of the Old Natural Order no longer needed the support of laboring masses. These elites of the New Natural Order were symbolized on the great Seal of Bigger dollar bills by the radiant crystal cap of the Omphalus. Conversely, the laboring masses were represented by the truncated masonry below, supporting the said crystal cap featured on the same Great Seal — all of which meant that the mass of nanos were now redundant.

Simply put, civilization had reached its goal and would go the way of the dodo. Henceforth, the Numpty elites, freed from all restraints, would wander the Whole Natural aboard fortified floating N-class carriers such as the New Capitol, the first of a new genus, which in addition to armaments, contained a replica Capitol, complete in every detail, a Library of Congress, a Senate, and a shining granite Omphalus, identical in every detail to the old Worthington Memorial, towering over a new Scalphouse, where the Imperator, or the ‘Imp’ as he was more generally known by friend and foe alike, looked out onto broad lawns and cherry trees. It was the perfect end to a great dream that had been, for the majority of nanos since Foundation Times, a protracted nightmare.

THE ROAD TO NIPPY (#2)

‘Who’d have thought it?’ Tamson reflected, regarding the familiar outlines of the Citadel in the distance.

After centuries in the City of Westminton’s shadow, Auld Nippy was now the Capital of the Wayward Isles. Its new legal status had been confirmed by the decision of the Wayward Congress to ‘up sticks’, as the Speaker of the Old Congress had put it, ‘accept the inevitable’, and move to the vassal country that ironically had been granted notional ‘independence’, only a year before the catastrophic floods left much of Mingland submerged.

This tragedy was marked on daily newscasts by the sad stump of Pig Pen, which in beer times had towered over the old Houses of Congress in Westminton. Nowadays, however, only the upper portion of the clock face showed above muddy waters, which were still giving up the dead of the drowned city in tangled rafts of bloated bodies, buoyed to the surface by gaseous escapes from below.

Mud; there was so much mud about the lands of the new South, following the magnetic reversal of the Poles and their subsequent shift from their former positions, the loss of such a weight and depth of ice elevating the shoreline around Dreedland, sinking low-lying Mingland, which now lay to the new North, and generally destabilizing the tablets in their orbits. All three (or four if Sumpty was added) now swung closer to the Eye of the Makkar, which these days, rose in the west and set in the east, and burned so much more brightly in the sky. Its heat was searing and only partially alleviated by the n-centric shields stationed in fixed orbits above densely populated areas of Dumpty, Rumpty, and Tumpty, leaving desert areas such as the Chord all but uninhabitable, igniting brush and jungle fires across great swathes of territory.

The resulting pall of smoke, releasing vast quantities of carbon into the atmosphere, had kindled a revival of religion among born- again billions who believed that the Day of Tamson, as prophesied in the penultimate book of the Metshatsur (the Holy Book sacred to the three principal faiths), was now at hand. Everywhere, Foundationism, or Religious Literalism as it was also called, was on the rise. Sacrifice of animals had been reintroduced into Xtian kirks. Wigs preferred dreadlocks and the conservative dress style of their remote sheep-herding ancestors. Even moderate Knotters were hirsute in everything they did.

Children, segregated by faith into separate schools run by Wig, X-tian, and Knotter Blind Scholars, were inculcated in the three C’s — Creationism, Catechism, and Catastrophism, leading to an outbreak of catatonia among adolescents during hot afternoons in seasons that had turned into one long summer.

‘Tamson,’ Honour said, interrupting his reverie, ‘what say you to a little detour?’

‘Where to?’

‘The Royal Museum of Dreedland.’ ‘Any exhibit in particular?’

‘Yes, a recent find.’

‘Let me guess,’ Tamson said, side-winding the Skeet through thick traffic, past the security barriers being erected in preparation for the expected mass protest of penguins at the new Congress building later that day.

‘The ah ... famous beardie dolls,’ he said, taking the Chambers Street turn-off.

‘Manikins, Tamson, manikins.’ ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes you do. Who was the sorry manikin of legend?’

‘Oh yea,’ Tamson smiled, ‘the children’s story. Or was it an opera?’ He frowned. ‘I’ve got it.’ He hummed, his forefinger marking time to the beat, ‘the Apprentice’s Emissary was a sorry manikin and a sorry manikin was he ...’

‘That’s enough.’ Honour winced.

‘What I want to know is why there were only twelve dolls and yet thirteen coffinettes?’

‘Coffinettes?’ Honour laughed. ‘Is that what you call them?’

‘Well, the lead boxes were scaled to suit the wee fellows,’ Tamson said, slotting the Skeet into an empty parking bay, conveniently placed before the wide steps leading up to the imposing entrance of the museum. ‘Obviously, you didn’t read the same paper.’

‘No,’ Honour said, dryly, reaching for her old hat and coat on the back seat, ‘I only read the broadsheets.’

[Previous]

This is a satirical SF novel in the tradition of Swift, with footnotes that give an alternative history of the world.

Will Lorimer is a multi-media artist and the author of a number of books.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

by SD Master

Knock knock No ones Home Just an Empty* House* That We* Call Home. Another Tym*, Another Place, Another Door, Another Face.

Knock knock The Sleeper* Stirs… “Who Breaks my rest and Slows my Pace?”

Knock knock The Door Swings wide… A Traveler* Enters and tries to Hide

Out… OUT! Licentious Fiend… But I Awake and Find IT’s* Me… What's going on… I don't know… It's just a Farce Another Show…

Awake AWAKE it's Time to go!

And Raise* The Beast* That You Call Home…

From The Great Work by SD Master. To request a PDF of this book from the author, email SD Master.

SD Master is a mystic who writes poetry.

1 = The Magician, Mercury, Risen, Understands the four cardinal points, Internal Combustion, Dreams, The Game, Infinity, Reality/Dreams/Both. The Rose.

2 = The High Priestess, The Camel. The Veil, Mystery, to travel through the desert, keep your hands out of your pants. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut.

4 = The Emperor, Government, A cube, “Reality” (as opposed to dream). Do as your told, not as you know. Aries the Ram or the Lamb.

5 = The Hierophant, Pontiff, Spiritual Instruction, Seated between two pillars, Reality and Dream. Interprets either, controls neither. Is As.

7 = The Chariot, To stand on the Fence. To guide previously unruly opposite sides in the same direction. Light in Darkness. Run away from, run towards.

Beast = 25112 = 2, #2 in the Tarot, “The High Priestess*”. In the Bible 666 is the Number of a man. (See Code for 666). Question, Why must 666 equate to any one individual… why not to every “Unregenerate” man? 4” below your navel. You can’t defeat the demon you enjoy playing with. Come Up! Fox, Red.

Door = 4669 = 7, #7 in the Tarot, “The Chariot*”. Enter the room. Venus between Chockma and Binah.

Empty = 54727 = 7, #7 in the Tarot, “The Chariot*”. Without a tenant, an uninhabited suit of clothes. Soulless. Without truth. A liar.

House = 86315 = 5, #5 in the Tarot. “The Hierophant*.” A suit of clothes. Inhabited by, worn by… the Spirit.

IT = 92 = 2, #2 in the Tarot, “The High Priestess*”. Isis looked, however, Thoth had to make IT (Phallus) out of Gold, for she could not find Osiris’s. Raise yourself from lead to gold.

Raise = 91915 = 7, #7 in the Tarot, “The Chariot*”. To bring up. To help to evolve. To explain The Purpose of Life, To Quicken ones energy.

Sleeper = 1355759 = 7, #7 in the Tarot, “The Chariot*”, Means “A Fence”, has at least two sides, Black and White, mostly on the dark side (Sleeping). Understand that there are Two sides to every Fence. Someone who is easily controlled by those who are awake, or has a friend with a snake. If you stand on the fence, you risk being shot at from both sides… however, you are in a unique place to understand Both sides.

Traveler = 29145359 = 2, #2 in the Tarot, “The High Priestess*”. The Reincarnated. Old Soul.

TYM = 274 = 4, #4 of the Tarot, “The Emperor*”. That which is at the junction. Controlled.

We = 55 = 1 = #1 of the Tarot, “The Magician*”. Those who subliminally instruct. Players of The Game.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, USA

by T.A.L. de Sacks

(Rhymed Version of the Incantation, “The Sebettu” of the Babylonian and Assyrian Invocatory Utukkū Lemnūtu Series)

Incantation:– Seven are they, seven are they, Beneath the waves of the tideway, Above the storm clouds of the heavens, Both places stalked by the seven. Born in the watery abyss, Membranous and androgynous, They rove as a fiery wind. They are without children or kin. They heed no prayer, nor supplication, No offering, nor libation. As vile ravens and wild horses, They are ruthless and remorseless. They block and befoul the highway. The wanderer they will waylay. Evil are they; evil are they! Seven are they, seven are they! Oh, mighty gods, keep them at bay! By Marduk and Ea, the wise, May these demons be exorcised! By “Sharur” may they be pulverized! By heaven and earth be they exorcised!

T.A.L. de Sacks writes poems, fictional literary letters, & invocations or prayers for ritual use (most of which are based on esoteric traditions of antiquity practiced in Europe and the Ancient Near East).


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

by John Griogair Bell

“To what god shall we appeal for aid? It is Anubis, the watcher in the twilight, the god that stands upon the threshold, the jackal god of Khem, who stands in double form between the Ways. At his feet, on watch, wait the jackals themselves, to devour the carcasses of those who have not seen Him, or who have not known His Name.”—Aleister Crowley, The Book of Thoth, XVIII. The Moon

Anubis 1 by John Griogair Bell using MidJourney and DALL-E.

John Griogair Bell is the enigmatic super-villain, known only, to some, as Librarian.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

from The Headflux Chronicles, Book 1, by Will Lorimer

4

In dictionaries of the ancient Dreedic tongue, the name ‘Tam’ derives from ‘Tome’ — in other words, a weighty book. However, the arcane meaning of the term is altogether more obscure.

It is generally accepted that the ‘Tamsons’ or ‘Children of Tam’ (Tam being the third son of Norah, the second wife of the Patriarch, Hambra), were a black people who survived the Flood after Foundation and led by the giant Tam disappeared from view after wandering off into the mists of antiquity with an unspecified ‘treasure’. However, this is a historical confusion: black, in this sense, does not refer to skin colour, but describes an ancient Ma’atian tribe, experts in magic, since the original meaning of Ma’at is ‘black earth’, referring to the fertile soil of the El River Delta, which is black in colour and extraordinarily fertile, despite the surrounding desert, and is the key to understanding why Ancient Ma’atian civilization rooted in the Chord.

The word black, when combined with magic, as in black magician, actually means someone whose magical knowledge or practice derives from Ma’at, just the same as the Master Numpty’s claim for the ancient Dreedic Rite of Feenumptry.¹⁷

Scrambling back down the unstable slopes of the Red Castle, Tamson had the uncomfortable sense he was being followed. However, only when he reached the hired Skeet, parked at the boom of the monument to a bygone industrial age, did he look back up the way he had come. But there was no sign of pursuit save for his skid marks in red grit, zig-zagging down from the vent which still belched noxious plumes below the summit.

Satisfied, Tamson got back in the Skeet and drove off; but still the nagging feeling persisted, though nothing was evident in the rear-view mirror. Then, at the end of the rued track, about to rejoin the multi-tracks, he was distracted from the feeling which had mutated into an irritating itch in his back, right where he couldn’t reach it, by the welcome sight of police out-riders on Tricoseles, a type of Blur only used by the Special Services division, leading a convoy of stretch Skeets, overtaking the traffic tailing back all the way to Nippy. Engaging the speed-upper that

could have disqualified him from driving for a year, his burst of acceleration unrecorded by on-board spyware, Tamson nipped in at the back of the convoy and travelled the last five klicks to the airport in fine style, enjoying the ride and the breeze through the open window at his side.

Pulling up at the back of the line of stretches parked in a sectioned-off area in the airport, at the side of a large glass structure known as the Green Brick, which housed the VIP hospitality suites, Tamson waved to a tall, spare figure he recognized. They were dressed in the grey livery of a bygone age, with a matching cap pushed back at a cocky angle, and stood, smoking, under a plastic shelter designated for the purpose.

‘Tammy old boy!’ the chauffeur of the late Marquis exclaimed, in his mock-poshney accent, brushing back a long lock of lank grey hair which fell across his wrinkled brow as he stooped to peer in the window. ‘I remembah you when you vere fresh out of nappies,’ he said, carefully stubbing out his snout on the heel of a patent leather shoe, then straightening up with a wince, rubbing the small of his back with one hand as he flicked the bu away with the other.

‘Vluddy hell,’ he said, as Tamson got out of the Skeet, ‘You’re even taller than I remembah.’

‘I was a boy then,’ Tamson said, stretching his arms, wishing the secretary had hired a bigger model Skeet.

‘Vings must be vad iv you’ah scoutink out-ah heah too.’

‘Walking tours of the airport, I don’t think so,’ Tamson chuckled, clasping the proffered hand. ‘Chas, it’s been a long time.’

‘Ten yeahs, not cowntink v’ last time you wanted somevink owt ov’ me.’

‘Yea, the speed-upper.’ Tamson smiled. ‘You always were a genius with gizmos, Chas, forever tinkering while you waited for the Marquis. That was a good turn you did me.’

‘Any time, Tammy old boy. We’re family, and there’s not many of us levt since they shut down the House of Pleasure.’ Chas grunted awkwardly.

‘Actually,’ Tamson said, soo voce, drawing close, ‘I even used it today.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Tagging you, as it happened.’

‘I might hav’ guessed that was yoah at the back of the convoy.’ Chas grinned. ‘Always a chancer, eh, Tammy old boy?’ He winked, rogueishly.

‘I’d love to chat. But you know me, late as usual.’ Tamson shrugged. ‘Old money, so with the way the exchange rate of the Merk is going I can’t afford to miss her. Where’s the Tumpty Terminal?’ he asked, noticing fifty or so protesters in ill-fitting penguin suits, outnumbered three to one by riot police, who were penning them behind electrified security barriers in the forecourt of the main terminal building directly ahead.

‘Are you surah it’s not escort work?’ Chas said, slyly, stepping about and pointing to a steady stream of people bypassing the picket line of penguins and heading into a wide entrance. ‘Take the second speed wall on the left after the information display. Get off at T-fifteen. It’s marked.’

‘Thanks, we’ll catch up next time, I promise,’ Tamson said, already striding towards the entrance.

‘Go lightly and watch yuah back,’ Chas called after him, using his catchphrase from the old days when he used to pay Tamson 10 Dreed Merks for washing the Marquis’s custom Cheat, parked in the lane at the back of the House of Pleasure.

Speed walls, the only way everyone but officials and VIP’s had to get about the airport, were anything but speedy. Invariably, forward motion came in shunts, as people and their luggage were haltingly carried forwards between concealed sensor arrays which counted the change in their pockets, riffled through the cards in wallets, and checked respiration, pulse, perspiration, and other body indicators from one-way glass screens. The consumer side of these screens promoted the latest rental consumables that no- one but old money aristos and the geriontric class could afford to own, in ever-changing nanokin dioramas: dageurrodramas, as they were known, because they had the same needle point sharpness of an early photographic process from two centuries before. However, these images were in 3D and targeted the predilections of individual punters racked like sheep behind their remote-locking release bars, in what Tamson considered would have been beer called the ‘snitch’ rather than the ‘speed wall’.

Surveillance was his bane of the times. However the government fear factory ran it in the media, terrorism was nothing new. Carnage came in different forms, but in the end was always much the same. Planes crashed, vehicles collided, ships went down at sea. What made his times different was that technology had given the corporate ‘powers that be’ the means to pry into the minutia of citizen’s lives, and there could be no justification for that, not when the watchdogs and their records were exempt from public scrutiny.

Liberty was not dilutable. You either had it or you didn’t. At that moment, Tamson didn’t, unable as he was to escape the leering looks of four saleskins on the tracking screen before him, as they demonstrated the latest face-morphing rental products which, in the past few years, had largely replaced cosmetic surgery, as in blurred shifts they flipped personality and faces while the background changed scenery.

Is that that the way I see myself or just how I am perceived by the Eye that never lies? he wondered, knowing that the dagerreodrama was tailored to fit his personal data and whatever subliminal cues had been picked up by concealed cameras behind one-wayglass. The concave depths of curvilinear surfaces suggested a diagnosis of a multiphrenic personality, with a penchant for desert locations, tunnels, prison camps, and ancient walled cities populated by Blind scholars and their followers.

Like those orthodox Knotters up the line, Tamson considered, observing the family group for visual relief. Two girls and a mother, hiding their faces from unbelievers behind the flowing green robes of the father, who was stroking his knotted red beard in a suggestive manner that implied a none-too-subtle cultural insult, glaring back at Tamson from the safety of his security bubble — which was no security at all when the speed wall suddenly stopped, the overhead lights flashed, a section of wall peeled back, and the unfortunate Knotter family was dragged away by security men into the background scenery: in this case, scaffolding framing another speed wall which curved away into the distance, one-way glass revealing passengers trapped on the inside, staring, goggle-eyed, at the dagerrodramas playing out before them.

It was a metaphor for the Whole Natural, Tamson concluded, perceiving the security guards as minions of a shadowy director, and the unfortunate Knotter family as poor players whose time on the public stage was now severely curtailed, probably because their body readouts did not match the stats on record. Too bad, he thought, forgeing them as the speed wall shunted once more, and then again. Renewed motion gave him hope that he still might make it to the terminal in time for the mysterious Contessa.

At the T15 exit, a flashing line on the display board indicated flight QA2626 from Barbieland had landed twenty minutes before. Which of course meant that the Contessa could be among the passing tourists, all of them skimpily dressed and well-grilled, as the Eye-worshipping Barbians invariably were, except for a bent old bag-wonan at the back of the group, passing through the arrivals gate, her face concealed by the downturned brim of a floppy hat, hauling a squeaking trolley on which was placed an old leather suitcase bound by string …

Tamson could not have been more surprised when, coming close, she looked up and said, in a husky, low tone, that strangely seemed familiar somehow, ‘Tamson Stewart-Seth, I presume?’

Then, so perfectly timed it was obvious that there was nothing accidental about it, Chas appeared, as though from nowhere, picked up the Contessa’s luggage, and ushered them both towards an inconspicuous door, just to the side, that led out through a corridor and some empty office rooms to the back of the terminal.

‘Aways at youah service, Ma’am,’ Chas said, at last delivering them to Tamson’s hired Skeet, still parked at the back of the line of stretches round the side of the green brick building. ‘Till the next time, ma’am.’ He bowed, clicking his heels, straightening up with an arthritic creak, and re-taking his leave with a parting wink at Tamson before he could direct a question.

He had so many – that was the trouble, Tamson reflected, wistfully regarding his friend’s retreating back. Chas, walking into the distance, exchanging nods with other chauffeurs chaing by their stretches as they waited for the VIPs to emerge from the green brick building, while across the way, police bundled penguins into the open doors of windowless blue Hogs, clearing the way for the diplomats arriving for the conference of Natural Leaders at the new Congress building.

The Road to Nippy (#1)

Back in the Skeet, Tamson was faced by a wonan¹⁸ of poise and elegance in an understated charcoal grey silk skirt and matching classic top, that complimented her sleek, bobcut auburn hair.

Responding to his quizzical stare, she nodded towards her old hat and coat neatly folded on the back seat. ‘A subterfuge,’ she shrugged.

‘Tell me,’ Tamson said, as he inserted the keycard into the ignition slot, ‘what made your secretary pick my walking tour company when there are so many to choose from in Nippy?’

‘Our business is purely of a personal nature. I bring you news of an inheritance.’ She sighed, moss green eyes gathering moisture at the corners, suggesting a secret store of sadness.

‘An inheritance!’ Tamson exclaimed.

‘Patrimony is a more apt description, though you may find that hard to believe.’

‘Indeed, since my father’s still very much alive.’ Tamson frowned, suspecting it was all a weird joke.

‘Look, can you please drive? I won’t feel I’ve arrived until we are out of here.’

Tipping an imaginary cap, Tamson winked. ‘Today I’m yours to command, Contessa!’

‘Ms is the title I go by these days. You can call me Honour.’

‘Honour?’ Tamson repeated, turning to regard her pale, now familiar face, which was illuminated from below by a stray beam of the Eye momentarily escaping the clutch of the climate shields and reflecting off the passenger door wing mirror at her side, ‘Miss Perfect, can it really be you?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, meeting his astonished stare with an amused twinkle. ‘But I would much prefer if you called me Honour. It’s so much simpler, don’t you think?’

‘As you like, Honour,’ he grinned. ‘Tell me, was Chas’s sudden appearance prearranged?’

‘Tamson, please, no more questions. I’d like to get going. And besides, this is my first time back in years.’

Respecting her wishes, and avoiding the potholes ruing the tracks, Tamson drove through thick traffic tailing back from the exit. But then, leaving the airport, the curious sight of a pair of scarlet knickers stretched across a triangular road sign warning drivers to ‘yield’ at the next junction, put him in mind of the long summer afternoons of his early adolescence when there were no clients in view at the House of Pleasure and the girls were sprawled in their undies before the vid-screen in their recreation room below, boles to hand. Smoke, pheromones, and cheap perfume: a heady mix had circulated in the air between strangers familiar as bunions on opposing big toes, cursing their lot and generally bitching. All waiting for the moment when the bellhop ushered the first gentlenan of the day into the salon above.

As often as not, when the Upper House of Congress was sitting, this first customer was the big old Marquis, whose ancient line of aristocratic forebears numbered some notable giants of Dreed history among them. He would arrive still in his ceremonial garb of the Lord High Protector, his long red velvet robes edged with ermine, the gold chains and seal of his office glittering across his bulging waistcoat as he entered by the back door from the lane behind, where Chas the chauffeur always parked the Marquis’ customized Cheat.

The old gent had been genial as the day was long, always a joke on his lips, a coin in his hand and a pat on Tamson’s boom as he was dispatched below to find Honour in a dingy warren of subdivided basement rooms. The rooms were where she and the other girls lived, one floor above the vaulted rooms where Mother Sin stored her knock-off goods, shoplifted to order by waifs and strays drawn to the House of Pleasure by the ever-open back door.

More often than not, Tamson would find Honour curled up on the small yellow sofa in her room, looking up from behind the covers of one of the classic old books she liked to read, her green eyes piercing the warm gloom of the muslin curtains in the window bay, lit by the late afternoon Eye as it dipped behind the spears of iron railings outside, lining the pavement above the basement window. In such moments, it was as if sparks flew out of her, lighting embers that still burned in the memory ...

‘Please, can we go by Blabberton Dykes,’ she said, abruptly, gesturing to the left. ‘It looks quieter, and besides, I prefer that way.’ Breathing easier, she turned away to take in the view of the Firth and the fortified N-class carrier everyone was talking about: the mobile seat of Bigger Government, defender of the privileges of Biggians across the Three Tablets, moored in the mouth of the estuary beyond the shining mud flats which these days extended far out into the broad river.

Then there was the New Capitol’s famous Omphalus, which so reminded her of one prodigious member in particular, silhoueed against a horizon of brilliant blue that was all the more vivid for the funereal grey of the climate shields above.

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17—While Feenumptry has been called many things, no one who knows anything about the Brotherhood can dispute that it is the longest running, most successful pyramidal moneymaking scheme ever, bar none. From its formation in Nippy in the late sixteenth century, by the mid-ninteenth century it had spread across the Natural, with temples in all countries and numpties in al most every organization, corporation, government — the rule is, the more powerful, the more numpties, proportionately. Each ritual ‘step’ up, or ‘degrees’, as the rites of passage are also called, requires money — and there are thirty-nine steps up the so-called Omphalus of Initiation, for those with the drive and resources to reach the Crystal Cap of the apex and join the Fux. Indeed, it is as the cynic might expect: the higher the step, the greater the cost. Under the eighteenth century constitution, when the Order was reformed, revenue is apportioned between the initiate’s sponsor, the Temple, the Grand Council, and the Supreme High Council — as symbolized by the radiant Eye framed within the triangle formed by the Crystal Cap of the Omphalus, which also features on Bigger dollar bills …

18—An adult female nano.


This is a satirical SF novel in the tradition of Swift, with footnotes that give an alternative history of the world.

Will Lorimer is a multi-media artist and the author of a number of books.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

by Ashley Costello

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From the “Everything is connected” collection. Black paper cut in one piece, placed over white paper.

Ashley Costello says: “I am a a spiritual being having a human experience. I currently enjoy alone time, cycling and photography. I am an artist who prefers to work in black and white, although I love color. My art teacher told me that I would never make it as an artist, and I will make sure that he was incorrect.”


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, US

by Jan Shaw

Ha ha ha, well there it is. Much stuff happened there & entropy cottage became often my chosen destination rather than school. Yet as this is about squatting the next thing that happened was April 1st 1984…

Urban Renewal Group

Urg! That was what we were called, there was a meeting somewhere in a student’s type room, there must've been about 30 to 40 people at this meeting, many I'd never seen before — some I had. As its over 30 years ago now I can't remember a fucking thing about it other than Witney Blanket led the meeting and talked about the reasons why we were gonna do this mega high profile squat. What the logistic requirements were, what squatting actually was…as for me I'd heard of it but knew not much about it (other than what I'd absorbed from entropy cottage) some of the peeps will of been clueless about it. I kinda think I was there with my best mate at the time, yo! Or John. His brother was zippy — another cool dude, squatter, punk as fuck. John & zippy lived in cookridge another Leeds 16 suburban ghetto. So we'd met via friends like Stu or Tom Kincaid (rip) and they'd followed our punk rock band The Pagan Idols since its inception in approx. 1982.

John and I really became best friends due to Stu. Stu I'd known since I was 14 when one day he & Tom called round my house & asked me to join their band, which was kinda funny at the time cuz I had my right hand all strapped up cuz of a work injury — oh, I might've been 16 then? I'm sure I read a diary of mine that documented this so at some point I will try & cross reference. Yeah, so, we'd got this band going in Tom's bedroom and various people were there, such as John, zippy and Paul. Singing along to our songs.

And after stu & Anna moved from harehills they went to Anna's house in Chapel Allerton. It was a cool house & Gina, Anna's sister lived there too (whom I had a massive crush on) so basically me & john used to go round to visit & stayed there for — what felt like a week — if not two weeks at a time, I'm basing this on having to sign on every two weeks and I do recall walking from there once or twice on that fateful journey to the dole office (think my signing on day was a Tuesday, often you'd see yr mates & have a bit of a chin wag or a roll up before continuing on our merry way. The process of signing on was quite straightforward, you would turn up on your allotted day. — Tues, like I said for me – you had to arrive at your allotted bay for your surname, then you had to get there before 10.30 or summat. And then they'd ask UB40? Ha ha no, not the band…that was the name of yr signing on card…if u didn't have it they'd ask 'national insurance number?' I had been doing this a fair old while & lost my ub40 long time ago therefore by now I'd memorised my NI # = ne7*8*9*t…which is what I think it is…anyway).

Sleeping in the armchairs or staying awake all night chatting & stuff or mooching around Chapel Allerton. Sometimes we'd stay awake and write stories which often took a bloody long time. Sometimes we'd stay awake all night…well, more than some times, often we'd stay awake all night and these episodes would feature in the narrative that would be written. In the morning often we would allow the daytime peeps, namely Stu, to write a piece – they were often very bizarre stories. Yet it passed the time.

One time in conjunction with raising hell fanzine we embarked on a Michelin guide type review of Leeds city centre cafés which was an entertaining enterprise. Maybe, if you are able to download some very early issues of raising hell zine, you might be able to read some of those reviews. Think we had various criteria to fulfil such as; price compatibility with emphasis on the cheapness, quality of the beverages, biscuits, cake, etc, the ambience, location to signing on places/dole office or to Leeds flea market. Now, Leeds flea market was mostly situated in the old market stalls, outside (I stress old market as in mid-80's think they had quite a devastating fire which destroyed some of the old infrastructure. I recall my dad who was a firefighter at the time attended to it also) anyway, this flea market was a magnet for us punky squatters due to cool cool stuff & cheapness!!!!

It was where we bought our second hand Italian paraboots that were de rigueur fashion items for crusty punker squatters nationally. We realised this when we occasionally visited Stonehenge for a festival or solstice or even venturing forth to various locations within the UK, like Nottingham to see Crass & flux, for example.

Around this time in my life which was probs most of 1982 and 1983 up to 1984, as there were some meetings which John & I attended that were about setting out doing a huge squatting event in Leeds city centre on 1st April 1984, all fool’s day! Classic, really looked forward to it. And when it happened it opened the floodgates for activists all around. Causing a squatting scene that flourished for many many years! Ha ha ha rewriting the beginning of this chapter may happen occasionally due to writing maybe one paragraph a week and not being top of the game all the time. Yet as long as the main narrative continues I'm happy, lol!

So, the meeting, 30 or 40 people, lots I'd never met — all here cuz we wanted to do something and we were eager to fuck shit up. Like I said, can't recall anything of it yet feel the atmospheric vibe of it going on eternally within my soul. It was talk of insurrection it was talk of anarchy it was talk of activism it was talk of direct action it was talk of mutual aid it was talk of ideology it was talk about action to be it was secret it was clandestine it was something real that we could do against the powers that be that would fuck shit up! And we wanted to fuck shit up! Not smash old factory windows with stones on the walk back, pissed up, from the Warehouse or Phonographique nightclubs. Or go joyriding in stolen motors & torch them or go shoplifting for choc bars, or do other levels of petty crime. We wanted to fuck the system! Destroy serious culture! We wanted anarchy in the UK! Punk rock had promised us this yet we were clever enough to realise that it was not going to be given to us, we had to do it ourselves. We had to reclaim our rights, stolen from us by those who'd fooled us into saying they were going to look after us…such as politician's etc etc! Well, yeah that was the vibe — there wasn't a PowerPoint demo or anything it was talk of the building, where it was, and what may happen. It was an old rates building, in the city centre, opposite a huge tower block police station (?millgarth?), and next to the brand new law Court buildings. Therefore extremely high profile – which, retrospectively, was the whole (maybe main) point.

From mine own addled brain; squatting is not breaking into empty or occupied buildings, it is entering a building that has an entry point and then, within, you can claim occupancy. Gaining entry is by a possibly open window or door or roof skylight kinda thing. This is a dodgy grey area obviously and as such I'm too drunk to get into it at the mo. Needless to say, on April 1st 1984, we squatted a big building in the centre of Leeds!!!! Yeah!!!! Punk fucking rock!!!!!

And, once within it we swarmed all over the place! It was about 4 or 5 stories high with multiple rooms. I recall Ben Sik'o'War suggesting & beginning to construct, from the first minutes, a huge skate ramp in a big just under ground floor area. Whilst this construction was taking place the barricades were also going up. During the occupation some meetings took place with the diverse people within. Skate ramps, barricades were two of the topics of these meetings that were realised. Others were potentials of what this space could offer:

soup kitchens, homeless peoples refuge, jobless people's space, band practice areas, lesbian gay disenfranchised peoples meetings, etc.

Often we'd have shared sleeping spaces – one of these times I do recall due to a photograph of me, playing an acoustic guitar with Rich? Of the scum dribblers and that reminded me of those times. Next vivid memory is in a room chatting with snakey and Becky. What did we chat about? No freaking idea! About possibility probably, some of which probably came to pass, possibly some that we dared to dream that were too much to achieve in this lifetime, in this place at this particular time on the planet. There's other photos: such as sitting outside the side door, waiting for people to visit our vegan/veggie cafe we'd set up or for people to come & ask for information. Basically we were there for all of 4 days!!!!! That's all the time it took for the system to evict us. No surprise really, but in that short time, networking was done, realisation that squatting was real, knowing that the system could be fought, realising that direct action works was amazing and self-empowering!

We had a world to win & we could win against all the shit! Jeez just had an epiphany… 32 years and 4 months and 4 days ago (at this time of writing!) No wonder I can't remember shit! But yet I feel it, the feeling of that time is awesome and it consumes me totally. Not brilliant to convey to readers but it’s all I have. Any other snippets of memories or such I will record & collate & update as much as I am able.

We searched the building up n down. Found many weird computer yet not computer machines that were fed paper. We found much paper that were to be fed to these machines — which we soon found a use for! We found many many empty rooms, some we'd designate for anarcho punk meetings, some for psychic experimental types, some for homeless people. Some for lots of other people. This place could've homed hundreds! Often we'd find ourselves downstairs involved in making up the skate ramps, or we'd be half arsed involved in building up the barricades. Or we'd end up in the kitchen/food area. Seriously can't recall fuck all about this lol!

Think Faith or Ros and Cardigan will have been there, along as with Dallas and Tony (van driver -Adrian, real name) afterwards I ended up in Chapel Town area of Leeds, infamously near to the Hayfields pub. Yet before all that we had the eviction carnival. Previous to the carnival we had the TV cameras in! Lol! A BBC look North 6pm programme. They came into the building and we were all lined up in a line as the camera panned across us. Previous to this, I'd heard about it so I'd ran or walked quickly in a cool, I don't care about anything kind of walk to a phone box & phoned my mum & dad's house…no answer! So, I'd rung my best mates house, spoke to his mum & said 'I'm gonna be on the Look North news, please record it'. Which they must've done cuz I do recall watching it later at some point & analysing my movements.

A few things are thrown upon by this. 1, betamax And vhs were in the warzone at this point, we had beta. My mates mum had vhs…to me none of this matters apart from she was in when I phoned whereas my folks were out! Oh, that's the second point! Third, I guess, is my obvious ego. Then again as it’s an autobiography type story…guess, thinking of me is a plus. But it's more of being a young lad, never been on TV, never again to be on TV, it is, was, a big deal! Yeah, they asked us to line up — about 10 of us and then they panned the camera along us. I remember standing there, wearing my mod helicopter's jumpsuit, thinking what the fuck am I meant to do? As the camera got closer I started to check my pockets. Funny thing about a helicopter jumpsuit is that it had lots & lots of pockets! Therefore I was in pocket heaven when the TV camera eye swept over me within the Rates Building Squat!

Now, if I could find that piece of film that would be soooo funny! My next half-assed project! There's pictures of me & John & Roz/Faith sat outside the side door. What were we doing there? I dunno, can't recall right now lol. And then there's the carnival photo's! I do recall some of that day, Gary Buddha in one room, me sat or stood up on a 3rd story window ledge leaning out shouting stuff, being daring and amazing! Loadsa peeps took part that day — lots of normal people saw this spectacle enfold & continued with their day — I truly think these were the people we were trying to connect with, to give them a glimpse into another world. The world where we have no power to influence anything, the world where we're not allowed to vote upon, the world where the rich & influenced carve up the planet to promote profit to themselves and their friends. We wanted them to 'wake up'! But, as I've been here 30+ years it does seem, à la matrix films – many of the people choose the blue pill rather than the red. Fair enough, if I had my time again I'd probs continue with my cadet training & join the Royal Marines as a 16 year old.

Ha, daydreaming is a cunting bitching fucktard knobwank ain't it!? As if wishing for shit is ever gonna change anything! Unless it gives you insight into useful stuff, which it does for me sometimes.

Oh, on that day we chucked out loads of that ticker tape paper we found in some of the offices. There's a few photos out there. Me teetering on window ledges enjoying the expressionism, the exhibitionism, the daredevilishness, the feeling of being part of something right against something that was wrong, being punk, living anarchy, being an anarchist, living for the moment believing we were gonna live forever!

Oh yeah, we got evicted. A CPO (compulsory purchase order), meant they (bailiffs & police) could forcibly evict you. We'd planned & had meetings and had blockade crew arranged but, in the end, we left peaceably without a fight…to infect further areas. In the local media: Leeds Other Paper (later the Northern Star — before it folded in mid-90’s was an independent kinda radical weekly newspaper for Leeds. Notable for many various random things; boff’s topical cartoons, opera reviews done by my dad [a very occasional select few], TV reviews done by my house mate Andy, also news reports about squatting & such that the regular media wouldn't touch with a barge pole!…as I was saying, the L.O.P. (Leeds Other Paper) actually featured us within our pages and our eviction carnival too. Some of the people involved in our occupation must've been clued up about local politics too as soon after everything was all cleared up & everyone had moved on, questions were asked about the Old Rates Building and its future. Apparently a councillor Mundy was reported to say that there were 'plans in the pipeline'…a few years later or maybe it was a year to the day, some graffiti appeared on the blocked up windows saying just that phrase, with a bit more added: “plans in the pipeline, eh?”.

On reflection it was just allowed to become another empty hulk of a building with many possibilities yet left to rack & ruin. Oh, guess what it turned into a few years later…yup, a car park. Well, parking your SUV can be a nightmare these days! I actually wrote a paragraph or two about this episode, called 'a splash of life' (inspired by one of the banners from the carnival day – which followed us to other squats…photographs of this are around somewhere). This appeared in my friend’s zine Peace of Mind. Will copy n paste soon hopefully.

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Jan Shaw has been interested in occultism since teenage, now very middle age.


Hermetic Library Zine is a wild and wooly whatever of occultura and esoterrata compiled together for the Hermetic Library via email, web, rss, and in the ‘verse!

So, what have you got for the Zine? Send something for the Hermetic Library Zine!

Become an ongoing supporter as a Patron or Subscriber. Or, if you’ve something else in mind, get in touch!

Hermetic Library, PO Box 368, Moberly, MO 65720, USA

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