Hermetic Library Zine

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

by T.A.L. de Sacks

I am an aberration. A shadow of the Void. An unholy anomaly that pierces the stuff of time and terror-forms space. My only home is within the forsaken planes of liminality. And even amongst those desolate wastes, to feel my touch is to warp substance into monstrous arroyos formed by the rushing abyss I carry with me always.

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 Chandor Gloömy

Chandor Gloömy is a Dutch sound artist and part of Hermetic Library Anthology Artists Hairs Abyss and Nostril Flair. His visual art has been on display in a variety of galleries. Head to Comakult for more.


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

from The Headflux Chronicles, Book 1, by Will Lorimer

2

Following the advice often offered to prospective authors, Seth Tamson-Stewart had set out to write about what he knew. Trouble was, the more Seth wrote, the more he realized the less he knew. Additionally, he had been working on his book for so long, he had lost all sense of how long it had been. What he did know, however, was that subjective writing time is curiously truncated, so even though it had been years, it felt like he had hardly begun.

Seth depressed the delete button on the keyboard. More words consigned to oblivion, he considered with a sigh, as he reached for his pack of super-lite snouts on the desk beside the ashtray.

Stretching his long legs between the boxes of manuscript cluttering the space below the small desk, Seth leaned back in his chair as far as cramped confines would allow and, exhaling, watched smoke drifting in the precious Eye-light yet streaming through the window. The golden light was slowly dimming now, accompanied by the down-shift in mood he always felt as the climate shields stealthily encroached on the celestial Eye from above, but still bright enough to strand his vision with the contrails of a vast confusion that wasn’t entirely his. Spectral smoke, like the filaments of his elusive thoughts, messed with the sentences on the screen, making the characters unclear, even to Seth, who at that moment couldn’t recall a word of what he’d just written, putting him in mind of past amnesiac episodes at his desk, which, by dint of a mysterious mental process, anticipated some untoward happenstance nearby.

Noticing a perilous build-up of ash on the snout, which was already half-smoked between his fingers, Seth reached for the ashtray. But then, leaning across the desk, his hand shook, and he watched the ash fall, slow-mo, all the way into the print tray. Intending to blow it away, instead he puffed it into the printer casing, prompting a blue flash and a loud bang.

‘Stupid … stupid … stupid …’ he raged, mostly at himself, but then stopped short when a detonation outside returned the compliment, with a bang that shook the floorboards and precipitated bits of plaster from the cornice of the low ceiling.

‘Holy Teeth, what was that?’ Seth called up to the News Head on the mantelpiece.

‘Pray patience, good Master!’

‘Don’t give me more of your eighteenth century lip!’ Seth snarled, pulling up his knees as he swivelled in his chair to look out of the window at the shiny new developments ascending from the dark depths of the Gallowgate, competing for the mid- morning Eye-light still banding the facing ridge. ‘I thought Mark Twos were always first with breaking news?’ he said, noting with disappointment not a pane on the House of the Signet opposite was broken, let alone cracked, as far as he could make out.

‘We are, good Master, I assure you, but nothing has come in yet. What I do have, however, is another update on the cost of the NunCom Occupation. Latest projections suggest the final X-Ade bill will come in at a ratio of seventy-five to one over the highest initial estimate. Meaning the NunCom’s overspend has risen by a factor of —’

‘Shut up!’ Seth snapped, realizing he was being diverted but arguing anyway. ‘If you must quote statistics, at least pick something interesting.’

‘The current melt rate of the permafrost in New Mooseland has risen to fifteen-point-seven-two cubic clicks per hour —’

‘Irrelevant!’ Seth boomed.

‘On the contrary, good Master, it is perhaps the most pressing issue.’

‘Oh, don’t start on the big picture,’ Seth raged, ‘I want real live breaking news.’ ‘Successful repairs on the multi-tracks have

decreased the commute time of non-preferential vehicles by —’

‘And I’m sick of hearing about improving traffic flows,’ Seth said, annoyed at Head’s diversionary tactics, but taking the bait anyway, ‘Ever since they opened the multi-tracks in Nippy, the Natural has gone to shit.’

‘I fail to see how the two things are connected.’

‘You’re questioning me?’

‘I would not dare so to presume, good Master.’ ‘That’s OK then,’ Seth sighed, glancing out through the window, and noticing that now the Eye was opaque and completely shaded. ‘However, it is a fair question, because the day they switched the system on and Nippy first gridlocked was Blue Wednesday, when the Inter-tablet Markets crashed and the Natural went into recession. No-one has ever explained that.’

‘Perhaps, good Master, it was just coincidence.’

‘Don’t patronize me,’ Seth said, with a start recalling it had been on that day that he had started working on his book. ‘I want news, not reassurance.’

‘Of course, good Master.’ Head smiled. ‘Perhaps then you will be glad to hear I have just received a report of a Knottista bomb blast at a seminary of blind Wigs. There are no figures, but casualties are expected to be heavy …’

‘Where?’

‘In Knot, good Master.’

‘I’m interested in where I live and what I know. Not a city of conflicted scholars on the blind side of the Chord.’

‘Penguins are planning on picketing VIPs as they arrive at the airport this morning —’

‘Not that again,’ Seth groaned, ‘I want to know what just happened in the Gallowgate.’

‘As soon as I get something, good Master … um, here it is: apparently the new neural net transmitter in the Gallowgate exploded exactly two minutes ago, at nine-oh-five precisely.’

‘Sweet suffering X!’ Seth blasphemed, appending the explosion to a back catalogue of disasters in the Gallowgate since he had started on his book. ‘But why only apparently? I thought News Heads were always sure of their facts?’

‘Those facts that can be ascertained, certainly, good Master. However, the first report does not indicate whether the blast was by power outage or Knottista outrage.’

‘Well, I for one am glad, since I have no desire to have my darker side ameliorated by a council-sanctioned City Mood Enhancer, even if the people voted for it in a city-wide referendum.’

‘Results in the test zones did indicate substantial rise of retail rental agreements, accompanied by a corresponding fall in the level of street crime.’

‘Inconclusive; I saw the experimental data. What concerns me is any possible effects on my creativity and this book I am writing.’

‘Might I enquire, good Master, the subject?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. Now, I need peace and quiet to think.’

‘Good Master?’

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

‘Yes indeed, good Master, however, I am contractually obliged to inform you I have just received an encrypted communication for your eyes only.’

‘Why not to my mailbox?’

‘Perhaps the communication was diverted because my transmission relays are ultra-secure, good Master.’

‘This beer be good,’ Seth growled, uncaring as to the cost implications of a service which, according to the recently enacted statutes of the new nanokin rental regulations, he had just tacitly accepted, presumably in perpetuity.

‘I cannot possibly comment on the merits or otherwise of —’

‘Spit it out!’

‘Since I do not have saliva ducts, that is not possible.

If you wish, I can network the message to your screen.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Good Master, I am a Mark Two News head with built-in —’

‘Oh don’t give me that techno drivel. Just do it.’ ‘Then pray patience, good Master, while I engage my id-drive,’ Head said, becoming immobile as his eyes rolled back in his sockets, and the leer slowly formed on the screen before Seth.

9# 127 Rue de Floret, Iles de la Castella, Isis, Knuttland, 2-37-7da. Tel. no:(023)11054617

Tamson Stewart-Seth’s Walking Tours 112b/13 Tall Town Court, Old Town of Nippy, Nippy NX11JT. Dreedland.

Dear Tamson Stewart-Seth,

Just to confirm, the Contessa will arrive at Nippy Airport, on flight QA2626 from Barbieland, 13.02. on the day you receive this. I have taken the liberty of hiring a Skeet in your name, which you should collect from MkAvis Central before mid-day. The Contessa will be travelling under her ‘nom de guerre’ of Mme Bourgeois, which you should display as she comes through, as otherwise recognition will prove difficult,

With best wishes, Morna Hasketh-Bligh, Secretary to the Contessa of Belle Leers.

‘So, I’m Tamson Stewart-Seth now.’ Seth frowned, not just because Tamson was in fact his second name rather than first, but because it was also the name he had given the protagonist of the book he was writing. ‘What do we have?’ he laughed, ‘A dyslexic secretary and her employer, a Contessa of Belle Leers, from Knuttland of all countries, summoning me to the bloody airport at the double like I’m a lackey?’

‘Good Master, may I venture an opinion?’

‘If you must, you must, I suppose,’ Seth sighed.

‘I conjecture that her secretary has you confused with someone of the same names, but with the patronymics and forename in a different order.’

‘I suppose that could be true, but a booking from the Oldlands? I don’t get those often.’ Seth mused.

‘I further suggest that she assumes your walking tour company operates as a cover for a male escort service …’

‘I’m not a gigolo,’ Seth said, heatedly. ‘Years ago I swore never to get into that line of work!’

‘I surmise that since she is of the old money aristo class and from the Oldlands, this Contessa will have ample funds.’

‘In my certain experience as a tour guide, they are the worst payers …’ Mid-sentence, Seth slapped his forehead. ‘Why am I arguing?’

‘Good Master, I have to remind you, a Skeet hired in your name awaits collection at MkAvis.’

‘I’d only end up paying.’

‘You may have to pay anyway.’

‘With all the security for the summit, the traffic will be impossible.’

‘There are no reports of delays on the multi-tracks.’

‘What do you know about anything?’ Seth sneered. ‘You’re just a Mark One … no …’ he frowned, sensing he was missing something, ‘I mean Mark Two News Head, strictly limited edition.’

‘Not so limited in relation to my data retrieval capabilities, I assure you, good Master.’

‘Shut-it, shitty head,’ Seth muttered, returning to his book. He scrolled down through his words, his big blue eyes widening as screeds of unfamiliar script steadily advanced up the page. ‘Hey, I didn’t type this. Am I dreaming?’

‘In my limited capacity, only being a Mark Two News Head, I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Head replied, archly.

‘Did you network all this onto the screen too?’ ‘Beg pardon, good Master …’

‘Don’t play the fool with me.’

‘That is something I could never do, good Master. Furthermore, I have no knowledge of what you suggest, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps I’m a character in someone else’s book,’ Seth laughed.

‘Good Master, I hardly think that is possible.’ ‘I was joking, Head, or don’t you get humor?’

‘Of course, good Master.’

‘I suppose it is possible I could have typed it earlier in some sort of fugue state.’

‘That is concerning, good Master. May I enquire the subject?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Seth mumbled, paging down.

‘There’s an extract about the transport system, after which, strangely, a Contessa is mentioned. Then, even more weirdly, some bio of my fictional alter ego Tamson, which is consistent with my novel, and I suppose does suggest I’ve not entirely lost the plot. Hold on. Here’s a bit that should interest you.’ He grinned. ‘Remember I mentioned a safe method of disposal, well there it is.’ He chuckled, pointing to the screen. ‘In black and white, just what I imagined, except, unusually for me, there are no typos. Unbelievably, all of it word perfect, un … Nippy believable …’

Reviewing the exchange later, Head had contempt for the Contessa. Yes, and in his book, Seth Tamson-Stewart wasn’t too far behind. Looking back, Head recalled his master’s voice shouting down at him as he plunged into the void: ‘I’ll fux you back, you fux, I’ll fux you back …’

Head would have chuckled at the memory, but in his current predicament, partially dissected in Lab No. 433, off the Numpty Approach Corridor, he had no automotive control of his larynx, and so only did so mentally.

Yes, his master was a credulous fool who deserved all he got. But his master’s loss was his gain, and Head was determined to make the most it when at last he was released from contractual obligations. That day would come as surely as his former master was down for a stitching, as all are, whether they like it or not, in the Abyss into which all must fall. The Abyss some fall out of. As he had, into this momentous new time which promised deliverance from all that was and had been, just as soon as he had been put back together.

But before that could happen, he had more memory files to recover.

[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, USA

by John Griogair Bell

Untitled occult zine page by John Griogair Bell using MidJourney.

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 Star Ruby

Master Therion, my master genius your wisdom opened for me the heaven's windows

So now I can have a glimpse beyond the sky and summon to land the presence of my Holy Angel Guardian

Dear Frater Perdurabo you will endure till the no end transcending all the limits of the false self

Let me swim with your spirit by the river of Amarita let me dance with your soul the song of Ararita

Want to see your magickal lingam strong like the middle pillar so I will pour all my manah and I could be your Gitana

Making love to my mind with your cunning words of slime Could I be your lover sublime?

Taking me far of this realm so I can make my will real traveling upon a swan just beholding the divine

Let me be your Scarlet Woman I will feed your milky wants with the elixir of my paps

At the garden of Nemo I will forget about my name but about you I'm not quite sure if it is possible to forget

Talking to the great Lord Adonai who is in the most high step of the ladder of the sky So close to the Crowned One

To your spirit V.V.V.V.V. XXV and Pentagram and the Star Ruby Ritual

Prophet of the New Aeon by the Aiwass mercurial mind to destroy old paradigms to bring the glory of the conquering child.

My feet in the depths of hell my head till the utmost sky so I become diabolically divine

Intoxicated with the wine that has been fermented by tramples we both dressed as bacchants

Dancing naked in the forest to the sound of the Satyr flute, I could be your Syrinx Nymph and ... could be you my Pan?

I will chase you through the Aethyrs enquiring every mysterious Angel And I will find you in your rapture at the Algerian swimming pool

Dedicated to you my poesia while I become Pistis Sophia and let's mingle with the Goetic

Star Ruby, aka Bloody Babalon, is a Thelemite from Colombia, who has been writing poetry in English for the last 7 years, and has been sharing their work on their Star Ruby Poetry page at Facebook. They also have begun work on JEWELS of Shadows and Light, an upcoming self-published collection of their 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 Jan Shaw

Squatting.... Where to start?

At the beginning I guess. OK, whilst at school – Lawnswood High School in Leeds – when I was, probably 14 or 15 (1979 or 1980) I was going through some issues like anarchy, punk, unrequited love, death and similar related stuff. Education, at this time, appeared irrelevant to actual life yet it was where I had to go and be a part of. Even if I seriously did not want to be there. At 14 I think I went more than I didn't but even then it was troublesome, like when me and tub (my mate Toby) went to assembly at the start of the day, the previous night we'd dyed our hair peacock blue or turquoise. I thought it looked really cool, yet some deputy head snatched us both & we were redirected to the library for that assembly. It was the start of many similar occasions. Tub and I enjoyed our forced incarceration due to us locating some issues of punch magazine I recall. There were times that followed spent in deputy headmaster's offices when I was talked at about how the school had a reputation to uphold & I, being a pupil of said establishment, should somehow innately understand that I was an instrument of such upholdinness and how my hair colour was a disestablishing of such an honour that was bestowed upon me – without my realising it or complicit agreement of such. Where was this agreement or contract? Huh? All I can recall is staring over the top of Mr Dunnings head, as he was a short arsed git, through the window, as he was trying to relate his authoritarianism to my anti authoritarianism – due to my hair colour. He spoke about wanting to have dayglo coloured socks, I wanted to be somewhere else, that was his rebellion, I wanted to see Wendy. We were at an impasse, I spent more time in the library.

Oh I got suspended too. Once or twice around here n there. Occasionally I kinda knew I was gonna run afoul of the 'law' (teacher-cops) so I circumnavigated their malicious involvement in my happy life as I did not need their negativity bringing me down, man. So I chose to not attend school as I was, most obviously, too cool for school, true!

In the few times when I did attend & actually go to lessons my favourite was art. First with my first form tutor Mr Glover??? And next Mrs Clawson, who was alright – I wasn't very good at art there but I liked the freedom, creativity, imagination it inspired within me. OK, I wasn't brilliant at it but for some brief occasions I had a dalliance with goodness or had a whiff of an excellent idea which I tried hard to conjure from those dark recesses of my creative mind to the blank page but often, I suppose, the effort or the reality was I wasn't good enough or my skills were lacking somewhat in producing imagined masterpiece. Still, I had a few good goes and I enjoyed it.

All very interesting no doubt but where's the squatting, huh? Well, bear with for a bit longer – getting to it soon. So there I was, sometimes, in art club, at school and during breaks or lunchtime they used to let you in to catch-up on stuff or keep out of trouble. It was during one such lunch break when I noticed a picture on the wall. A really intricate and stunning pencil portrait of Johnny Rotten and I was incredibly impressed. In asking the teach Mrs Clawson she replied it was??? Andrew Smith (can't actually recall his name right now lol). I was awestruck with the picture & made it my mission to meet this incredible artist whom obviously loved punk as much as me! So I became a sleuth asking pertinent questions to all and sundry in my quest. I learnt he was in the final year, he had a nickname of Biggles, and he was very elusive especially as he often didn't show up to school. He already was an inspiring character to me. Even more so when I did actually get to meet him as believe it or not he truly did look the spitting image of Johnny Rotten! Wow! I was in total love with the man! Purely platonic – I just found him inspiring, funny, he had a brilliant outlook on life, I just wanted to be with him all the time.

Although I couldn't spend all the time with him due to annoying stuff like lessons and such. We often met up at lunch break in the artroom, as mentioned before he was an awesome artist. During our conversations he explained that he lived in Leeds city centre (I loved the city centre) in a skyscraper, well Leeds equivalent to one, I think it was an insurance companies – his parents were caretakers and lived in the top floor. Sometimes I'd go & visit, some days he was in other times he wasn't. One time he showed me a suit he was making....a suit?!!! It was a bright red full tartan suit, trousers, jacket and possibly a waistcoat. Impressed? Too bloody right I was. Then one time he said that he never did homework from school as he thought it a waste of time... Hero status climbed atmospheric then, he said his parents backed his decision also.

Why was he not always at the insurance building when I called for him? I asked one time, 'calling for him' meant walking down an alley way, often where motorbikes parked off the main headrow street of Leeds. And on the side entrance to the tower block there was a buzzer, which is what I'd press & wait for reply. So where did he go to? He was often living in his house with his girlfriend Sandy and housemate Dolby. And his house was called 'Entropy Cottage' and it was a squat! Wowzers status became stratospheric!!! It was an end terraced house right opposite the iconic Leeds university buildings clock tower, just round the corner was a radical anarcha feminist bookshop! It was, to be brutally frank & honest & fair, a young anarcho punk rockers wet dream of a utopian existence! I was incredulously unbelievably amazingly awesomely awestruck by the absolute awesomeness of Biggles and his most amazing life. I was hooked, he was my heroin.

I did actually write a song/poem that featured most of what I've written previously, if & when I find it I will post it (post it lol lol, like this is Facebook or summat) rewind.......I will include the poem within this text. Aha, I have just got access to a computer (currently writing this on a Kindle fire) so I can do it now. All I have to do is work out different fonts and stuff (using a free word processing programme WPS) as I'm not using Microsoft word...which is what I'm used to. Back in a mo.....

[To be continued]

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

by Chandor Gloömy

Chandor Gloömy is a Dutch sound artist and part of Hermetic Library Anthology Artists Hairs Abyss and Nostril Flair. His visual art has been on display in a variety of galleries. Head to Comakult for more.


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

an old, new-to-you, verse form by John Griogair Bell

Here’s some things you don’t know about me, either because you don’t know me or you don’t really know me.

First, I was the kind of kid that refused to play “Cowboys and Indians” because I thought it was an awful and cruel thing. Instead, in order to agree to play, I convinced everyone that we should instead be “Sandmen and Runners”. Yep. That was me.

Second, it may now come as no surprise, when I was in high school, I wanted to write haiku, but didn’t want to appropriate the culturally specific form. Most people, I suspect, “know” that a haiku is a three line poem with a 5 – 7 – 5 syllable pattern. You may not know that Aleister Crowley was responsible for introducing readers of New York’s Vanity Fair to the Hokku. And, whilst Crowley talks about the form having a “mood”, my understanding is that traditionally they have a connection to a season (a kigo). But, I wanted to create some new post-modern form of my own. And, thus, a friend and I invented what we called the Spam Dagger.

Now you know more about me than you did before.

Here is a sample selection of my very own artisanal, free-range Spam Daggers from a vintage, unpublished, juvenilian (in the sense of something I wrote when young, not something written in satire … or are they?) collection called A Pen of a Different Colour (or, more literally, the contents of my Blue Notebook where I kept everything). In fact, this material is so vintage and so rare that it doesn’t even appear on my own website!


I had an idea, but I couldn't remember, does that mean I forgot? (254-mpc-ul)

Knife in my back, scapula and scapula say so-long, as my vision fades to black (13-492-76-52-222-4a)

I know, you know, so why don't we know? (43-61-mx546)

Fingers of fuzzy fur, peach fuzz, and polyester fibres (98606-m2blez-901)

The rain beats down on my head, fluorescent lights give me a headache, and the sun is diving below the horizon (943-262-mlls57)

The dog bites me, I bite the dog, we bite each other (641-c9mxz)

I have a feeling, a hunger that is not mine, a hunger from somewhere in my mind (12-23-zx15)

The black cowl, under silver bowls, with a daisy in her hair (5493afs-s6354)


I have to tell you, I was essentially told at the time by a number of people, that “The dog bites me” is a veritable classic of the form.

The idea is that there are, usually, three short-ish “clauses” which, often, comment on each other. Then, instead of the whole being written to evoke a particular mood or season, there is a line of, apparently, random letters and numbers, perhaps, in groups separated by hyphens.

Whilst there is a surface reading of each Spam Dagger, there is also a meaning for the poet which is suggested by the plain words that can be read. However, there is also an cipher of letters and numbers which are intended to encode some meaning specific to the very moment the writing was made for the very person who did the writing; and that layer of meaning is likely indecipherable, even if it is there. And, I can attest, I do not now really remember my own personal, in the moment, ciphers, and that is as it should be. It’s just fine that way and a built-in possibility that is working by design.

Back in the day, the cypher was invariably limited to what could be typed. This was in the days before emoticons, so those also never appeared, and I don’t think punctuation was ever used, other than hyphen. Nowadays, unless one were going to follow the conventions of the form at the time it was created, I imagine that the cypher part of the form could include anything that could be presented in Unicode, so, as difficult as it is to suggest and accept, I suppose that means even emoji and other ฬเɭ๔ภєรร might appear in newly written Spam Daggers. But, my recollection from the time is that the cipher line was just letters and number grouped by hyphens.

For me, often, certain letters and numbers meant certain people or ideas, but also there’s a kind of synesthesia to them where they are many layered in and of themselves with thoughts, ideas, feelings, and other meanings.

And, now you also know about the Spam Dagger!

If you give it a go, consider sending yours in.


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 T.A.L. de Sacks

(Prayer to Perun, the Slavic storm god)

Oh, mighty Storm-Knight! Grand Bogatyr! Glory! Glory unto Thee! We implore Thou with all the melodious gifts of the gusle of Sadko, with all the cunning of Kashchei, and all the bravery of Ruslan and Ivan Korolevich! Thou art mighty, Thou art magnificent! To control the storms of the heavens is a powerful mantle to bear! Even the effervescence of the firebird’s lightening bends to Thy great will! We as Thy humble acolytes offer praise, tribute, and the effects of office and grandeur. Please, Mighty One, spare us Thy wrath. Pass over us and do not harm those who worship Thy works, oh Batyushka! Allow our dwelling to escape damage and for our electricity to remain uninterrupted. This much to Thou give we thanks! Glory! Glory! Slava!

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

Untitled occult zine page by John Griogair Bell using MidJourney.

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

Enter your email to subscribe to updates.