Signed copies of The Sutra of Pale Leaves today, including the second volume which has not been released yet but includes my first official Call of Cthulhu scenario, “Wonderland.” Then I ran a three hour session of Six Seasons in Sartar and a debut three-hour “Wonderland” session.
Inspired by a recent podcast interview I was in (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pjx0W8Bjejc), I thought it might be interesting to examine Church of Satan founder Anton Szandor LaVey’s thoughts on ritual magic, which he referred to as “Greater” Magic. Here is a brief overview of what I think are the most salient points.
The Materialist Magician. First and foremost, LaVey’s cosmos was strictly material. There is no ontological category of “spirit,” and the mind is electrical activity in the brain. On the other hand, LaVey’s universe is largely unmapped and unknown. Our sciences have only allowed us to glimpse a fraction of its phenomena. It is clear that he was convinced of the efficacy of magic, but also that the mechanics of magic had their basis in as-of-yet unknown natural law.
The Magic of Emotion. For LaVey, the ritual manipulation of symbols and elements are only as useful as the emotional response they cause. The candles, the Bell, the Sword, Baphomet, etc have no intrinsic power, the power is in the emotions they trigger. Magic works by raising, and directing, emotions. The exercising—and exorcising—of emotions was perhaps even more important to LaVey than if the ritual “worked.” If one is wronged, society does not allow us to take matters in our own hands. Yet if the wronged party fashions a voodoo doll of the one who wronged them, and ritually dismembers them in a blinding rage, the negative energy is released. If the victim of the hex also happens to expire, all the better. LaVey did apparently embrace Wilhelm Reich’s concept of biochemical “orgone” to an extent, and saw emotional energy as a physical power that could be directed to effect change, but the psychological benefits of releasing pent-up emotion were important to him as well.
The Magic of Limitation. Limitation, balance, and conservation were defining features of his view of magic. Human potential is not unlimited. Greater Magic (i.e. ritual magic) was about the expenditure of energy, biomechanical in nature. It was raised and released through intense emotions. It could shift odds in your favor, but not perform miracles. He referred often to the Balance Factor in this regard. A skinny, unemployed young man with poor social skills could not expect to perform a ritual to win the stunning beauty next door. But if he joined a gym, got a good job, and employed a little Lesser Magic (applied psychology, manipulation, charm, seduction) the scales could be balanced enough that magic might tip them in his favor.
Because magical energy is expended, it should only be used sparingly, and LaVey was also concerned with techniques to replenish it. He often referred to this as “revitalizing.” One of his most intriguing theories was ECI, or Erotic Crystallization Inertia. The theory is that the period of our sexual awakening becomes fixed in the individual’s mind. The music, the clothes, the sights and sounds and sensations, etc. By re-creating those conditions, and surrounding themself with them, the magician is revitalized, recharged.
The Magic of Opposition. A magician’s power, the efficacy of their magic, is rooted in non-conformity. A magician cannot be part of the herd, and doing what is popular—rather than what is unusual or even better unique—and generate very much magical power. Dynamic change comes from division and opposition. A deck of cards is static and unchanging until you divide it and shuffle. To effect change, the magician wants to be outside the system inasmuch as possible. Using an extremely trendy piece of popular music to cap off a ritual is less effective than a piece of music that no one else is listening to. The energy of the first piece is spread out over millions of listeners, but the rare piece is for the magician alone. Conformity saps the magician of what makes them a magician, their Otherness or Outsiderness.
Also under this heading is the idea of Inversion. “It will be observed that a pervasive element of paradox runs throughout the rituals contained herein. Up is down, pleasure is pain, darkness is light, slavery is freedom, madness is sanity, etc” LaVey writes in The Satanic Rituals. There is magical power to be found, in the ritual chamber, by Inversion. Again, this is seen as revitalizing. “Wherever…polarity of opposites exists, there is balance, life, and evolution. Where it is lacking, disintegration, extinction and decay ensue. It is high time that people learned that without opposites, vitality wanes.” Ritual inversion, for LaVey, empowers the participants.
The Command to Look. So far we have limited our discussion to LaVey’s ideas on Greater Magic, the harnessing of emotional energy in the ritual chamber. But perhaps LaVey's greatest contribution to the magic arts was Lesser Magic, the use of cold reading, somatyping, applied psychology, and the like to beguile, bewitch, and manipulate. The Command to Look is a Lesser Magic principle that nevertheless also reaches across into Greater Magic, so we need to dip our toes into the waters here.
LaVey was inspired here by a (then) obscure book by photographer William Mortensen, The Command to Look. I say “then” because much like “Ragnar Redbeard,” LaVey’s interest in Mortensen rescued this book from obscurity and put it back in print.
Mortensen’s book is revolutionary, to say the least, with principles of manipulation that are truly “occult,” or “hidden.” The book is about photography, composing images that seize and hold the viewer’s attention. LaVey would adapt these principles to Lesser Magic (to manipulate people you must hold and command their attention), but he embraced them in the ritual chamber as well. So it is worth our time to look at them.
To seize and command the attention, Mortensen said you needed three steps. First, you must make them LOOK! He uses a coercive technique here, trying to inspire a lizard brain fear response by the use of four shapes. The “S” shape, reminiscent of a serpent (but also sexual, in the curves of the body), the Lightning Bolt suggesting sudden danger or swiftness, the Triangle representing sharp teeth, and the Trapezoid, a dominant mass that implies obstacle. These images jump out at the viewer, triggering a threat response and thus attention.
Now the image must INTEREST! It draws your attention with images that trigger one of three emotions. Sex is the first. The viewer must be aroused or titillated. Sentiment is the second. The image must inspire tender emotions, nostalgia, or sentimentality. Wonder is the last, presenting images of awe, mystery, strangeness, or fear.
Finally the viewer must ENJOY! The image must keep the eye, presenting new details or revelations. Or the viewer must recognize the subject matter, and relate to it.
This is a very terse overview, but let’s test it on the main focal point of the Satanic ritual chamber. The symbol of the Baphomet.
Composed of sharp triangles it immediately catches the eye. The fact that one point is down also suggests a lightning strike. Hidden in the top of the Baphomet—the two upper points and side arms—is a trapezoid, a dominant mass. When you see the Baphomet it seizes the mind for a second with a sense of “danger.”
But then the Wonder sets in. We know immediately it is the Devil, and the Devil has been intriguing people for millennia. We stare and wonder about those curious characters around the five points. Then the enjoyment sets in. We participate in the image, recalling all the associations with the Devil we have learned over our lifetimes. The Baphomet is the focal point of the ritual chamber because of these factors. It grabs our attention and holds it.
Also notice the color composition. White on black. In a darkened ritual chamber, those white lines stand out in stark contrast.
One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small, and the ones that Mother gives you, don’t do anything at all…
My grandmother passed away just months before my birth.
Had I been female, I would have been named for her. But, born with a penis, I was an Andrew instead.
I was almost an Alice.
No wonder Wonderland was always waiting for me.
And if you go, chasing rabbits, and you know you’re going to fall…
Perhaps the best place to start is to remind ourselves that Hastur, Hali, Carcosa, and the King in Yellow were not created as part of the Cthulhu Mythos.
They predated it.
All but the “King in Yellow” and the “Yellow Sign” first appear in the work of Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914), whose “An Inhabitant of Carcosa” was published in 1886. Eerie, dream-like, and haunting, the protagonist of the tale wakes from a fever (we will be getting back to that) to find himself in an unfamiliar countryside. Meditating on the philosopher Hali, he thinks about the nature of death as he follows an ancient road to see where it leads. The land around him is littered with tombs and tombstones. When he arrives at last at the ruined city of Carcosa, he recalls that he was once a citizen there, and realizes that he is himself long dead.
But if Bierce would go on to be remembered for other things—“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” is one of the pre-eminent works of American literature, and The Devil’s Dictionary is a piece of satire that favorably compares with Voltaire—he was also Patient Zero of a virulent form of fever.
Fevers are fascinating things. Frequently they spread, passed on from victim to victim. The skin is cold and clammy, there are chills, restlessness, edginess. In some cases hallucinations. We say that artists in the zone work “feverishly.” Lovers are called “feverish.” Intoxicated people resemble the fevered. And so do all those who have seen the Yellow Sign.
Only four of the nine short stories comprising Robert W. Chambers' (1865-1933) 1895 collection, The King in Yellow, can actually be categorized as horror or weird fiction, but those that are make an indelible mark on the genre. Here the Hastur we know really begins. Bierce was Patient Zero, but the virus he passed on to Chambers mutated. The stories in The King in Yellow are linked by three internal elements: an obscure book and play also called The King in Yellow that infects readers with a slowly growing madness, a symbol or sigil called the Yellow Sign that has much the same effect as the play, and the King in Yellow himself (aka the King in the Pallid Mask), a terrifying entity who seems to be both the essence and the manifestation of the book and the Sign. Masked (or IS he?), he recalls the Plague Doctors of 17th century Europe.
The Bierce connection comes in the borrowing of Hali, Carcosa, and Hastur. Chambers uses these as set pieces in little snippets of the play, The King in Yellow. Carcosa, on the shores of Lake Hali, is no longer on Earth but on a world with twin suns and black stars in or near the Hyades. Hastur is no longer a pastoral shepherd god but something decidedly more sinister. We don’t properly get much of the play, but what we do see recalls both Poe’s “The Masque of the Read Death” and “The Fall of the House of Usher,” with an ancient royal dynasty seemingly meeting its fate at a masquerade.
H.P. Lovecraft read Chambers in 1927, caught the same virus, and named dropped The King and Yellow and Hastur in 1931’s “The Whisperer in the Darkness,” along with the Lake of Hali and the Yellow Sign. Lovecraft never actually wrote about Hastur and company, that was for disciples like August Derleth and Lin Carter to do, but he passed the fever on and made it part of the Mythos.
The fever we would seem to be tracing here then is kind of a viral meme, a set of names and concepts spread by language from one mind to the next. Its vectors—the living organisms that pass a virus along—were Bierce, Chambers, Lovecraft, Derleth, Carter, Blish, and many many others. Now you can add my name, and the names of all the authors of The Sutra of Pale Leaves (Damon Lang, Jason Sheets, and Yukihiro Terada), to the list of culprits as well.
When the men on the chessboard get up at tell you where to go...
The Sutra of the Pale Leaves, the latest campaign to be released for Chaosium’s legendary game of cosmic horror, Call of Cthulhu, is a new take on Hastur and the Yellow Sign, at least so far as Call of Cthulhu is concerned. The King in Yellow has been part of the game since its initial publication in 1981, just about a century after the meme first appeared. Call of Cthulhu has tackled Hastur in campaigns like Tatters of the King and Ripples from Carcosa, but in a fairly traditional manner. Encountering him, reading The King in Yellow, and seeing the Yellow Sign are all accompanied by the game’s signature mechanic, SAN loss. The implication of this is that encountering Hastur is like encountering any other element of the Mythos, the human mind is damaged by learning too much about the true nature of the cosmos.
But Hastur doesn’t quite work like that. At least not in Chambers. The King in Yellow infects. It gets under your skin. Reading the Necronomicon destroys the mind through revelation, but the dreaded tome is indifferent to you reading it. The King in Yellow by contrast wants to be read. It is inviting you to the dance. Reading The King in Yellow starts out as a fairly pleasant experience, innocent, lyrical. Only in the second act does the hammer come down, and by then it is too late. The play has you, like a drug trip that starts out fine but then goes very wrong, or Bierce’s protagonist who only realizes after that he is already dead. The play is sugar-coated. A razor blade hidden in a mound of cotton candy. It is a very different kind of evil.
A few years ago I was approached about The Sutra of Pale Leaves to see if I wanted to contribute to it. I was intrigued because it was a campaign set here in Japan, and even better, set during the “Bubble Era” of the late 1980s. Japan--where I have made my home nearly a quarter century now--had one hell of a fever about a decade before I arrived. Between 1986 and 1991, the Japanese economy soared higher and faster than even the most severe febrility. If you were anywhere on the planet back then, Japan was the new buzzword. When I was a child, Japan was known mainly for cheap but reliable cars, cheap but reliable radios, and the plastic and rubber toys in our closets. By the time I was an adolescent, however, Japan seemed poised to inherit the world. The science fiction of the period--like Gibson's classic Neuromancer or in films like Blade Runner--depicted a distinctly Japanese future. Japanese anime was winning global fans, their video games were dominating the market, and they were terrifying American conservatives by buying up American landmarks. And all of this was nothing compared to what was actually going on back in the nation of Japan itself.
A deeply conservative culture, where restraint, frugality, and modesty are defining aspects, the Bubble (as this period came to be known) changed everything. Having leapt into position as the second largest economy on the planet, and with a super-charged yen, disposable income was plentiful and consumerism and materialism were rampant. The young began to flock to urban meccas like Tokyo for the excitement, the opportunities, and the nightlife, a trend that even today leaves rural Japan filled with ghost towns. It was the rage to carry and clothe yourself in expensive Western brands, to flaunt your wealth and status. Alcohol overuse and experimentation with drugs (unusual for this no tolerance nation) boomed. Sexual experimentation, taboo-breaking, and youth culture upended a society built on seniority first. The music, the entertainment, the clubs all became edgier and pushed the limits. In the Bubble, Japan was having a party, and it was a wild one.
It was the perfect setting for the King in Yellow to make an entrance.
Aside from the lure of the setting, the indie game studio behind the Sutra, Sons of the Singularity, was based here in Japan and already had a reputation for doing products that “got Asia right” (something we have not always seen from Call of Cthulhu products). There is a tendency to fetishize Japan, and while the Japanese do not get bent out of shape about it (they found all of the Yakuza running around with samurai swords in Kill Bill just as amusing as the rest of us), a great many Western-written game books get lost in the weeds of ninjas, geishas, and katanas. I knew from their previous work the Sons were not going to fall into that trap.
But what really got me hooked on the idea was the approach they were taking to the King in Yellow.
Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know…
The Sutra of Pale Leaves is about an Eastern manifestation of the King in Yellow, the Pale Prince, and instead of a play the Prince is associated with a scripture known as the Sutra of Pale Leaves. The work originated in India and migrated east, first into China and later Japan. Unlike most Mythos tomes, the Sutra does not drive people mad by revealing incomprehensible cosmic truths. Instead, it is a virus. Rooted in the Japanese concept of kotodama, the idea that words possess their own living spirit and can possess the mind or alter reality, the Sutra is itself the principle antagonist of the campaign. Without giving the game away, The Sutra of Pale Leaves doesn’t blast SAN. Instead repeated exposure to it gives you a new statistic that increases with continued exposure. The Sutra gets inside you and grows.
This was far closer to my conception of Hastur and the King in Yellow than I had previously seen in Call of Cthulhu. Kenneth Hite had previously referred to the Mythos as mental plutonium, with exposure wasting and sickening the mind. The Sutra, however, was malware. I was on board right away.
And I knew exactly what I was going to write.
When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead…
As the name “Wonderland” suggests I am brought Lewis Carroll into the mix.
Every since I was a child, the Alice stories have creeped me the fuck out. Somehow I inherited an old volume collecting both Alice stories, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, with all of the original illustrations. Pure. Nightmare. Fuel. If at the pallid heart of Chambers’ stories is a book that haunts people, that one certainly haunted me. And I was Mark Petrie, the weird little kid into horror. Still, Alice made my skin crawl.
I am hardly a pioneer in this territory. While Disney did its best to Technicolor the stories up, there were still a lot of people sensing an undercurrent of darkness there. American McGee released his dark Alice video game in 2000, following it up with Alice: Madness Returns a decade later. The immense popularity of these games spoke to the fact that many people knew there was some really dark $h!t hiding in those stories. L.L. McKinney’s A Blade So Black (2018) continued the plunge, ground-breaking in reimagining Alice as urban fantasy and a presenting a very nightmarish Wonderland. A certain game designer, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-Because-He-Was-Very-Canceled-And-I-Do-Not-Want-The-Headache-of-Putting-Up-With-the-Potential-Comments-His-Name-Might-Invoke, gave us a Wonderland ruled by vampires in A Red & Pleasant Land for Lamentations of the Flame Princess. It had, incidentally, the best in-game punishment (I mean “explantation”) for where characters go when their players don’t show up that session. We could go on. There is a lot of dark Alice out there, including The Matrix and Tim Burton’s treatment. But my “hook” for the scenario was a song. Jefferson Airplane’s 1967 “White Rabbit.”
“White Rabbit” strikes me as the intersection between the King in Yellow and Alice. The song is, obviously, about psychedelics, and that it slid under the radar of the censors in the late 60s boggles the mind. Now there are accusations that Carroll was knowingly writing about drugs, but I have never particularly subscribed to them. In an era when opium was bought over the counter, people were drinking wormwood, and cocaine was in Coca Cola, drugs were thought about differently. But Jefferson Airplane’s song paints Alice as a kind of spirit guide into the psychedelic (go ask Alice, I think she’ll know). She knows that you can ingest things to become bigger or smaller. She’s chatted with hookah-smoking caterpillars and fallen down rabbit holes. The men on the chessboard got up and told her where to go, etc. She is being painted almost as a Decadent, a late 19th century artistic and philosophical movement embracing hedonism, breaking taboos, and fantasy over logic. They liked their laudanum. They liked their absinthe. They liked their opium. They liked anything that expanded their consciousness. Chambers made many characters in the Hastur stories Decadents, or members of the demimonde, the shadowy half-world on the liminal periphery of polite society. The King in Yellow is simply another drug they are ingesting. Subsequent writers would continue the theme. You come to The King in Yellow when you want logic and proportion to fall “sloppy dead.” Not just “dead,” folks. Sloppy dead. That’s a wet, messy death.
And bringing “Wonderland” to Japan is not as odd as it might seem.
There are, currently, five Alice in Wonderland themed bars, cafes, or clubs active in Tokyo. In the “Lolita” (ロリータ) subculture of Japan, where young girls wear Victorian or Rococo fashions, Alice is her own division of that subculture. It is not terribly uncommon to spot girls in blond wigs and powder blue Alice dress. Carroll’s work first hit these shores in 1899, with Through the Looking Glass appearing first as “Mirror World.” But Japan embraced Alice early. The stories have never been out of print here, and there have been numerous anime and manga adaptations or references. Netflix’s recent Alice in Borderland is just one of the latest.
“Wonderland,” then, was my ode to the song, to Carroll, to Alice haunting the fringes of subculture, and especially to Chambers. Appearing in the second volume, Carcosa Manifest (the first volume of the Sutra, Twin Suns Rising, is already out), “Wonderland” is about an attempt to make the Sutra of Pale Leaves go viral in ways only modern memes can, taking advantage of a new technology emerging during that period. It is about another kind of Decadent, or resident of the demimonde, that was also emerging in Bubble Era Japan, the otaku or “geek.” These were Japanese who retreated into their own realms of fantasy, namely anime, manga, models, and games. It is also a sly nod at another brand of insanity that was spreading in Bubble Era Japan, a hobby that would eventually come to be known as table top roleplay playing games, shared hallucinations that some of us are addicted to.
Feed your head.
Feed your head.
