The Secret of Writer’s Island

The Secret of Writer’s Island by JC Collins – Philosophy of Metrics

It was the feeling of needing to do something which I had already done at some point in the future but because I wasn’t there yet I still needed to do it. Its force drew me forth towards an inevitable outcome. I was as much a victim to its timeless dark temptation as it was a victim to the growing light inside me.  Writer’s Island would be the crossroad where our past and future crashed together, giving birth to a new present.  An ever moving present which was unforgiving to the weak and corrupt.

The bones in my fingers snapped and popped as the weight of the lat pulldown machine stretched my hands.  Pop, pop, pop, and the tingles spread up my forearms. Grunt, but not too loud, and set the weight back down.  Breath heavy and curl my fingers inward. It feels good. 

Something is coming up but I pushed it back down.

What day is it?  Not sure. All days are alike. It’s Friday I think and it’s snowing outside.

Months have passed and the outward expressions of inward thoughts have remained quarantined like an island surrounded by thick fog. Over five years I wrote myself right over the edge of a cliff and splattered on the rocky edges below as the foamy waves washed my bones out to sea.   

Damn, now I’ll have to go and collect those bones at some point.  One more thing to do.

Holding the dumbbells I allowed their weight to stretch my arms for a few moments before starting the hammer curls.  In the mirror, I could see my reverse form and watched as the muscles rippled and veins pulsated with each movement. I could feel the muscles in my arms tightening and hardening. It feels good.  Feeling anything is good. 

Putting the weights down I turned and walked towards the water fountain. Others moved about in varying degrees of commitment. These shadow people and the endless dance of imperfection they performed around me in this world.  What did they want?  What did I want for them? What could I do for them? Sometimes the pain of others is unbearable. Sometimes, but not as much anymore.

Something is coming up but I pushed it back down. I won’t be able to do that for much longer.

Now I’m on a plane heading North again to the mine site. Heading home. No. Home I just left.   Marianne? Where did I leave her? This isn’t home.  This is something different. A sort of home where I work. There are people who like me there. But not love me. It’s okay. It feels good. 

A day goes by, maybe two. It’s been busy. Now it’s morning and I’m waiting outside in the cold wind for the bus. The bus takes me from the work camp to the mine site where my office is located. It’s cold. Sub-zero cold. I could be waiting inside but I need to feel the harsh wind bite into my face and cut through my jacket. It feels good.  Feeling anything is good. 

Standing there in the wind and cold I begin thinking about Writer’s Island. I think often of it. It’s a small island amongst many small islands just off the coast of Newfoundland, not more than a short boat ride from where I was born. The places where we are born are our real homes. Our energy is anchored to those places and the further we go from home the more our energy flows become stretched and streamy like a broken web in a breeze.

But we still have our light which comes from elsewhere. 

Another day passes and I’m on the plane heading home. Marianne picks me up at the airport as she always does.  It’s our thing.  A short reunion after a short separation.  Shake and repeat. At home, I’m sitting at my desk in the den. She’s sitting in the chair across the room. We’re talking, but not about the things I need to talk about. I need to tell her something.  A secret which I’ve kept hidden for ten years or more.  Something which I did but haven’t in fact done yet. 

Something is coming up and I tried to push it back down. I wasn’t able to keep it down there with the other things.  It’s coming up now.  There is no stopping it.

Marianne has the most intensely intelligent eyes I’ve ever seen.  It’s one of the things which drew me to her years ago.  Staring into those eyes now I begin to tell her a tale of human weakness and the corruption of a man’s heart.  

In 1899, occultist Aleister Crowley purchased a two-story villa on the south-east bank of Loch Ness in Scotland. It was known as the Boleskine House and Crowley intended to use it to conduct a six-month-long ritual.  This ritual is called the Invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel and is meant to call down the light of one’s higher self.  The ritual was written by the head of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a man who called himself MacGregor Mathers.  It was a translation from a late medieval manuscript called The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Malin the Mage.  

Mathers said the guardian angel is connected to man, but he is in no way a part of him. About this relationship, he remarks that the guardian angel “knoweth better than you your nature and  constitution, and who understandeth the forms which can terrify you, and those of which you can support the sight”.

Crowley himself said “There is a single main definition of the object of all magical Ritual.  It is the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm.  The Supreme and Complete Ritual is therefore the Invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel”.

Setting himself up in Boleskine House, Crowley went about preparations for the Supreme Ritual.  Along with calling down, or calling forth, the light of the Holy Guardian Angel, Crowley also meant to call forth the Lords of Darkness and bind them to the light of the Holy Guardian Angel. The intent was to control the darkness and make the world a better place.

Crowley had a weak constitution and was an irreparable drug and sex addict.  It should had been questionable at the time whether Crowley had the fortitude and discipline to complete the  six month long ritual.  Being that magic ritual was starting to be understood at the time as a gateway into the subconscious mind, the state of Crowleys subconscious should have been considered before making the commitment to the Holy Guardian Angel ritual.

Three months into the ritual Crowley stopped and traveled to Paris before moving onward to Egypt.  There are several reasons for this, one of which involves in-fighting within the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and the other to allow for Crowley to chase after his drug and sex addictions. The consequences on Crowley’s life for leaving the Supreme Ritual incomplete are hard to determine, but it is clear that his life continued into extended debauchery and culminated in his eventual bankruptcy and failure at ever realizing his broader dreams and goals.

Marianne blinked and just stared back at me, as if she already know what was coming next. I told her about Writer’s Island and how I have felt for at least ten years that I needed to build a structure there and complete Crowley’s six month long ritual.  It was a calling, a force, an energy, which kept pushing and pulling me towards that fateful commitment.  What I didn’t tell her is that I had a strong knowing that I had already completed the ritual on Writer’s Island but just hadn’t got to that point in my life yet.

It was the feeling of needing to do something which I had already done at some point in the future but because I wasn’t there yet I still needed to do it. It’s force drew me forth towards an inevitable outcome. I was as much a victim to its timeless dark temptation as it was a victim to the growing light inside me.  Writer’s Island would be the crossroad where our past and future crashed together, giving birth to a new present.  An ever moving present which was unforgiving to the weak and corrupt.

As I waited for her response images of myself on Writer’s Island flashed through my mind.  The wind blew across its rocky surface and shook the battered wooden walls around me.  Spiritual and psychological warfare had taken place here. I lay in a musty corner surrounded by grass which had grown up through the floors boards.  Even though I was half-starving and could barely lift my emaciated body to walk outside, the light inside of me felt powerful and all-encompassing. It was as if bringing the Macrocosm down into the Microcosm was too much for the human form and its energy had reduced me to almost nothing. 

Outside I could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. Somewhere there was the rattle of bones as they tried to find their way home to me across the barren and hard surface of the island.  A boat engine in the distance. Someone was coming for me.  Who was it?  Was it Marianne? One of my sons? Someone that loved me was coming to save me.  But did I need saving?  Was it six months yet? 

One tear rolled down my dirty cheek as I coughed and fell over on my side.  Through blurred vision, I could see the light of the doorway and someone walk into the room.  It was me.  A younger and stronger me.  The figure approached and knelt down by my face.  Both looked at one another and grinned.  

Marianne shifted in the chair and said something about being scared as too who I would come back as.  We talked about that for a while and throughout the conversation, she started to become more comfortable with the idea.  But at the end, she said it wasn’t worth talking about because we’d have to be rich for me to quit work and commit six months, or more, to such an adventure.  Until we are rich it is all just imagination. But I know it has already happened.  So everything is going to change at some point. It feels good. 

Something is coming up but I pushed it back down. I won’t be able to do that for much longer.  JC

JC Collins can be contacted at jcollins@philosophyofmetrics.com

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