Motorcycle Magick

Motorcycle Magick
By. Fra. RMVS

USA, 1992

The taming of the iron horse is best left to those magickians who are dabbling with the discovery of their own minds, the simple fact that they can go beyond what they learn in books, and that actually doing a ritual is more than sitting in an easy chair with a candle burning, smoking a clove, wondering who is still down at the corner coffee shop. The allegory of iron horse is all to clear- the imagery of sweat running down the beast's neck is replaced by what one has to do at seventy mph on the highway when the oil, streaming down a pair of greasy jeans, causes one's feet to slip off the pegs, as some dirty bastard has stolen the oil plug. Also replace the breaking of a leg or snapping of vertebrae when a horse goes down with the sinking, sliding sensation of five hundred pounds racing through an intersection sideways, angle between the tank and the ground growing alarmingly more acute, as the pads on the brakes have failed. Vulcan's heat steams through the leather chaps, the denim, and then into flesh, blood, and finally grinding away the bone, a sigil of liquids and calcium, imprinted only on the pavement and not in the gleaming chrome of the four-wheeled chariots bringing the dead in and out of life daily. Replace taped legs with old racing compound, and food with gasoline. The imagery is only complete in the unit.

The fool who steps onto the bike and rides someplace and then gets off is the one who dabbles. The true magickian is always part of the bike, part of every bike, and when his ass physically touches the seat, it's only a higher level of a continuing saga. Those who get off the bike anytime after their first ride never realized the initiation, the infection, the consumption and the fraternity that the chunk of metal has with the human psyche. The motorcycle/human interaction can be looked upon from a Zen viewpoint, but there is little melancholy about it. Once the initial equilibrium has been reached—your mind lets you get on the bike without intense overt concentration, without fear, you have achieved the first link in motorcycle magick. Remember this point very well-those who are concentrating on the function of the bike alone reinforce/imply a separation in the system. There is no separation unless one is learning or one forces it in the system.

When the humancycle is going along some desolate, flat, dry California desert straightaway at 130 mph, the world becomes very clear, very focused. Each instant life makes perfect sense. The humancycle is wrapped so intimately and tightwound beyond recognition as a new entity. It's focused completely on the road ahead, looking for that pebble or small pothole that will send the entity smashing and careening to the end of a career. It's magickal- the vehicle, the mind, and the body are a total of one. The pothole is not going to selectively hurt only one. If the body goes, the mind withers and the cycle is useless. The mind will despair at the loss of either the body or the cycle. The cycle, certainly the skeptics note that it has no consciousness, no life of its own- but does a cell in the liver? - does the left foot shifting the levers away? It makes no sense to consider the components as anything but a cohesive unit.

Many have read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the new-age anthem which mystified the world only to those who could not differentiate allegory and life, and created another paranoid, mechanical knee-jerk reaction to the dangers of motorcycling. The dangers arise from the enforced separation. While many of the metaphors and the actual functions described there are correct, the person was lost in a second world, unable to function on their own, and was looking at the motorcycle itself as the genesis of healing, separate and different from himself, an alterego condensed as the powerful part of his psyche…and also the escape from his own mind. His journey was pure escape, running away from a past which was never explicit. Charging away from the fears and problems that each one has. I say work it out for yourself.

Anyway, the clash takes on a new attitude. The gearbox is an extension of many things, the levels in the first triad of the O.T.O., the range of lifespan and death, the false neutrals being only twitches in the system, illustrating the uniqueness of each drive. Neutral is the base equilibrium, the place where you must begin. Starting in a higher gear will only create lesser or more pandemonium. First is down, sinking into consciousness, birth, the formation, and hitting the lowest of the lows, the bottom, most torquey gear in history. This is the famed Ratio One, the motivator of all movement, the first step up to another dimension. Second, third, fourth, all extensions of life, death, living and speeding up, pushing back and forth among them, spending most of the ride at the higher levels but realizing that is the ruts, the pits, that the genesis, the birth cycle is the conscious initiator and formative instructor of all that you've become, as the humancycle. All of this is smoothed by the clutch, the open funnel of knowledge, that forgiving allowance of the magickal steps which helps to focus energies of the left hand, gloved or unclad, smoothing the differences between steps in the lifecycle, the progenitor of the smooth and continuous transition. Think of this as reading a book, hitting a plateau of insight, whatever. When the time comes to shift, you'll do it- and either bog down, grind the hell out of the tranny, or perhaps actually make the shift. As the humancycle, it's essential to have this become automatic.

As in the book Intuitive Magick, think of the frame as Nuit, along with your arched back, encapsulating all of your world, supporting, the mother unit. The cams and shafts, pistons, circulating oils and coolants are Osiris, forever rising and falling in sychrony and unity, creating a rhythm, a speed, a condensed cycle dictating the limits of performance. Horus is the screaming baby of a loud exhaust, squealing pain and joy into the world, announcing new births and the limits of metal and flesh extended into time, space, and the inner void. The pegs become the two pillars; the brakes a unit of smokeless incense, creating heat and action, a mood and attitude sublimely. There is no altar but the wholeness of the scene; no host nor sacrament of unity; each and every part of the humancycle is part of the gods. Separations are false and impure, a danger on the road to the whole.

Saturn reflects the eyes and the mirrors and gathers up all useless information. While there is no reverse but a painful backpedaling, the magick in the humancycle is often the hindsight, the evaluation of what has gone past, and in addition, the selection of those fated objects, hurling effortlessly but chaotically, springshotting into the future will crash the bike. Motility is the protector. There is no banishing, as that is an ignorance of the past or a concentration on a skill that should be automatic. The humancycle has a near infinite number of tools at their side, number one being the prevention of catastrophic occurrences. Each tool is a magickal talisman, evoked in tight spots, when the rain has been pouring down coldly on your hands, frozen cold and blue, wrist painfully aching from the throttle. The reciprocal action your ass has as the back tire slides out on a greasy highway surface, burping and gurgling from the first rain in four months. The clean lines the humancycle animal takes when burning up the roads at 2AM, alone, crisp, and alive.

Your robes, your uniform are your own. I pick the dead hides of animals, perhaps the flesh horse, as a robe and swathing cloths. You may be the ultimate practitioner of sexmagick, offering your body in shorts and thongs, a tiny helmet perched upon your Appolonian hair, with a streaming vision of Diana, goddess of the hunt on the back, also near naked, chasing her version of the coyote. These are the impressive sigilizers, the later-day converts from the profession, those whose skin melds a little too closely with the path they are following. I sweat the blood of my days in a sticky little robe- be free on your horse! Be free on the fleshgrinder of the road, truly becoming dust unto dust and biology unto asphalt. There is nothing so sexy as roadrash, the true sign of an initiated roadwarrior….

…but forgive the sarcasm. This time should come to nearly all when the magick leaves you, but for a moment. Perhaps you were concentrating on the lines- the path- of the humancycle ahead of you racing down her path in the crux of the mountains. Perhaps your self-maintenance was lacking. When the oilpan is above your head and the abrasion simply can't yet spill blood- it has been vulcanized!- then the realization might finally hit. The magick is a two-way street. The symbolism can only be enhanced by the hurt. When the humancycle has gone down, its self-evaluation is never separated. Even when the components are apart, the injuries are related as a whole, never apart. This is the final and risen form of the melding, the realization of a true will between the mind and the external manifestations of vehicles. The human flesh-form, the metal cycle-form, both are large talismans of the same entity, vehicles of the blood-engorged mind whipping under a mixture of the Great Work through speed.

Then, and perhaps only then the higher triads emerge. Truly until a forced set of destructive circumstances form upon a person, there is usually no reason to seek out the answers to higher questions. When death stares you in the face, either by realizing that as a whole you are flying down the road, or picking yourself up off of it, knees shaking (assuming that you can stand) looking down at your yoni or phallus or other reference to that twisted piece of metal, that there is an ending, there is a death. This is the time of ownership and reference; the realization is that control is up to you, barring mental or physical impairments. Excuses are challenges, a call to sit back with the remote, or curled up in yet another Steven King novel, sleeping away the years, listening to the ravings of other lunatics…

Experience mounts. The humancycle acquires newfound talents of gyroscopic action in the fold of the black path. The motorcycle does not wobble. The human mind does not pay attention to the motion of the ground underneath. The feet do not reach for the ground on panic, on the illusory manifestation of danger. The Individual can retain a tight control not only of what they know, but also what they do not know and all available options at any moment. Decisions are at a subconscious level, existing with the true will of the whole. The interaction is subtly but definitely tangled together. Picking them out is looking for the elusive engram, a spaghetti-trail amongst the foreign goop that is shopping, washing, bathing, and mowing the lawn, paying the stupid bills. Each moment on the bike produces higher states- those of yoga, perhaps racing and tearing ass down the tree of life, the bells of the sepher sephiroth singing like the green and red lights in the mirrors. Downshift, first third, then second. Around the corner, yellow sign, no lights, pick up to third, crack open the helmet. Laugh. Adjust. The QBL builds up heavy, thinking 749 cc's, 55 mph, 12Krpm, street numbers, 777, makes and models and ages and pints. Money to fix that plastic, rebuild that knee, how many liters of petrol to sink into the prodding bump your nipples have been hugging for three hours now near the Joshua Trees and the sterile sands of jackrabbits. They watch, not dashing out as Horus circles for once on the ground.

On the centerstand, the proud but lonely king, male heraldry and pagan-iconism at its highest glory. Proud peacock leaning over to the earthmother whispering about separation and speed. The ignition key resembling the final insertion of energy, the collapse of the sigil and the destruction of the subconscious will to ride, the present company whole and complete, burning and destroying the sigil in the firing of gapped plugs as the will is realized. Visceral motion calmed down. Digestion stopped; tension relieved into other forms, bled off from the lines in the face and the veins to the frontal cortex. Eyes open and searching, active satellites in the dark.