Andromalius, Take Two: Goetic Stories

Andromalius † Take Two

Andromalius † Take Two

Goetic Stories

© Camelia Elias 2022. Published by EyeCorner Press 2022. Denmark. Designed & typeset by Camelia Elias. Set in Maiola and Laski Sans Stencil.

This book is published in three editions: a hardback edition limited to 72 hand numbered copies with original sigil art and 72 copies with single tarot cards. The hardback edition is bound in indigo silk with pearlescent coal mine end papers; stamped in silver & silver edges; signed by the author; printed and bound by Narayana Press on Munken Polar Rough 150 gsm paper. In addition there are unlimited paperback and ebook editions.

PAPERBACK ISBN: 978-87-92633-86-6

EBOOK ISBN: 978-87-92633-87-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without written permission from the publisher and the copyright holder.

www.eyecorner.press

You – full of mysteries which you label as ‘I’

You – the voice of the unsaid inside your frame.

– PAUL VALÉRY

CONTENTS

TAKE ONE

A question of aptitude

The better story

Spirit personalities

Andromalius reveals himself

Dissolving magic

Magical literacy

What is the Devil to you?

The intentionality of magic

TAKE TWO

Evocation of Andromalius

Power within and without

The official dispatch

To visualize or not

Lucifer’s oracle

How will you come?

Beyond time at the crossroads

By wisdom’s grace

Conjuration as a dialogue

A pact, or three

The taste of blood

Andromalius under the radar

A dead serious occultist

Spitting, spying, and eating books

Remote viewing at a literary salon

‘Yes, but I prefer not to’

Ceremonial magic and participation magic

Beyond the circle and the triangle

Andromalius goes to the fortuneteller

References

Acknowledgments

Permissions

About the author

TAKE ONE

A question of aptitude

THIS IS WHAT I SEE: Solomon the wise gathers the demons of the underworld. Then he goes: ‘Listen up, you. I need to build this temple and I need some serious skills. Go and do your best.’ Now, let me say that I haven’t come across anyone else who had a similar vision in which what the demons do is not merely obey a command, but rather, jump at the opportunity to show off their skills. After all, no mortal can do what they can do. By popular convention, it has been decided that humans are surrounded by forces that exceed their circumstance. Angels and demons are simply not subject to the same laws of physics that we are. There’s supernatural flying to be done, fast traveling, and the finding of treasures. Humans are lousy at these things in spite of having conquered space both through technology and the mind, the latter, if you’re the Buddha or his followers. So how do we imagine a different kind of conquest of the circumstances that limit us? Solomon had a great idea. We can only do what we can do, until we can do better. Solomon’s genius consisted in recognizing a scaling act in accordance with aptitude.

There is comparison and a meter that can measure standards and absolutes – good, better, best – and then there’s the ones who can perform according to this scale. If not humans, is there anyone else? For once, most monotheist traditions, from the Judaic to Islam and Christianity, believe in a performing absolute agency that holds ultimate power. So then, if we can’t, God can. And if God can’t be bothered, then there must be others in the type of vertical hierarchy that goes from us, below, to God, above. We could argue, in fact, that this hierarchy is precisely determined by the idea of duality and comparison.

Now let’s see how this plays out in our story here, several millennia down the road since Solomon. It starts with a ritual of recognition. I pour a favorite wine into my glass, Pelin de Urlati, a Romanian concoction of grape fermented with wormwood, or pure artemisia absinthium. My head is already high and in fumes, as Dragon Blood comes out of my suffumigating bowl. I’m burning incense to honor a demon. ‘You’re excellent,’ I say, and make myself comfortable in my chair, as if I were the boss of something. I’m addressing Andromalius, the 72nd demon in the catalogue of demons charted since the publication of the grimoire called The Key of Solomon in 1641. As with such texts, however, Andromalius has a slippery history, behaving almost like a cameo entity, now appearing and now disappearing from records. For instance, Andromalius is not listed in several important grimoires, from Grimorium Verum to Le Livre des Esperitz, but since he is listed in at least two others, as we will shortly see, we go with that.

Whoever or whatever Andromalius is, and regardless of his either inclusion or exclusion from other various grimoires, the idea that we’re interested in here is that he performs his office to excellence, that is to say, if you ask me about it. Meanwhile, what we know of Andromalius is that he a specialist in theft, being able not only to find thieves, but also to punish the wicked. What we also know is that he can find hidden treasures. Both in The Lemegeton, the manuscript published by S. L. MacGregor Mathers as The Goetia, and in the British Library Sloane MS 3825 and 3829 Andromalius’ office is described in terms of aptitude. This demon can ‘discover treasure that is hidden’ (MS 3825, fol. 126), or else, he can be summoned in an ‘experiment for finding out stolen things’ (MS 3829, fol. 17).

Although there are several stories about Andromalius’ ability to find hidden treasures, a most useful skill that has been exploited by both serious and con magicians ever since the Renaissance, what I’m prepared to do in this book is tell a few stories of my own. These stories are not merely anchored in the set descriptions of how to conjure a demon and put him to work that we find in most of the ‘traditional’ grimoires, but rather, they are stories of collaboration that are entirely based on the assessment of skill in relation to style. That is to say, I work with the Goetic characters from the perspective of fashioning the diverse encounters I propose to have with them in the image of concrete expectations. The extant grimoires already give us an idea as to what functions the so-called infernal spirits can perform. But what I’m interested in is also what I can further imagine. In other words, what I’m interested in is the power of the human imagination, the power of language and words, and the power of transmission. In this respect, just think of the very notion of demon. Etymologically, before the word demon is associated with the infernal, it actually means genius, via both the Latin and Greek derivation: from daimōn, a spirit or genius, to divine power or numen. Let’s just say that it takes a certain amount of genius to not only concoct these connotations, but also think of how absolute power corrupts. Before we know it, we’re with a whole world of divisions. Good and bad are here to stay, angel and demon are here to help or obstruct, while the ones who don’t know any better are left with their mouths gaping.

The better story

Enter Solomon again: ‘Show me what you’ve got. Strut your stuff. Do your best and astonish me.’ I take another sip of wine from my glass. ‘You’re excellent, my dear Andromalius,’ I address the demon again in charming terms, my voice being filled with sensual admiration for a job done well, as nothing is sexier than that. Now, we can argue that the entire history of conjuring spirits in Western occultism hinges on the idea of power. You conjure angels and demons with the sole purpose of accessing the type of power that is not within your reach, but I’m here to conjecture that power has little to do with it. You conjure spirits because you want to tell yourself the better story, the story in which you’re a protagonist who assumes a position of power. Assuming a position of power is not the same as experiencing power in and of itself. In fact I would venture to say that the sole purpose of ritualizing a relationship with spirits, casting circles where you can both invoke and evoke the presence of spirits, has to do with avoiding mixing the narratives of what is available to you and what isn’t. Just as you don’t negotiate with demons, as per popular folk wisdom, you don’t kid yourself about your position either. In determining first how you can know thy place, you experience power through negation and distinction. If you can clearly identify what story is yours to tell and what story is another’s to act and perform within, you’re powerful already. What follows from there is what you can further imagine.

In this book I’m going to tell stories of this character, that is to say, I’m going to tell stories in which comparison, that some would say is the very work and domain of the devil, will tell us something about how we perceive hierarchy in relation to our own standing – and here I’m not referring to the classical idea of the omnipotent magician standing in the middle of a magic circle. That someone is always higher in rank – and hence is assumed to have more power – is significant, because if we can identify that, then we can also assume that we might be able to get closer to the modalities of dismantling that very power to our own advantage. It is said that Solomon’s genius consisted precisely in his knowledge of how to manipulate with the diverse functions, offices, and powers of the demons in his command and use this manipulation towards his aim, to uncover demonic desire. When he failed to do so, legend tells us that it was because he was tricked by a demon who took advantage of Solomon’s own desire to know when he would die.

There is a midrash that tells us this story. There are several versions of it, all confirming Solomon’s relationship with demons via the exegesis of the biblical book of Ecclesiastes (2.8), though my favorite retelling of it is in Rachel Pollack’s rendition in the booklet accompanying The Raziel Tarot, a Hebrew themed tarot conceived by Pollack herself and illustrator Robert M. Place. Pollack tells this story via Myra Love who learned it in Hebrew School.¹ It goes like this:

There was once a demon-king Ashmedai who managed to take Solomon’s magic ring and put it on his finger in exchange for fortunetelling. If he was going to tell Solomon his fate, he would need a magical object, a talisman that could connect him to Solomon. Eager as he was, Solomon suspended his wisdom for a moment, and gave Ashmedai his ring. As soon as he did that, the demon could untie himself from Solomon’s binding, send Solomon to a remote place, and take his throne in his image. While in exile, Solomon heard of all the debauchery at the court and plotted to come back. Together with a trusted servant they were going to unmask the demon by exposing his chicken feet to the court.

In the context of transacting for power, this story is interesting as it mixes three narratives: one in which the demon is Solomon’s helper providing him with strategies to build the temple in Jerusalem; one in which the demon provides Solomon with a much needed shamir, a worm that can make holes through resisting rocks; and one in which the demon is a shape- shifter, or Solomon himself as a demon, having ‘lent’ his face and precious power to Ashmedai. As pointed out by Reuven Kiperwasser in his analysis of the tale, ‘Solomon and Ashmedai Redux,’² the story posits the demon as benevolent at first, and then goes from the non-demonic personification of the worm to the elimination of the demon altogether, being now reduced to a mirror, acting as King Solomon in his palace and enjoying his damsels and dames. What is more, although a demon, Ashmedai appears in the first story as a righteous Talmudic scholar, but by the time we get to the third narrative, we encounter a lustful and wicked spirit. One can only conclude that the chicken feet serve only so far, with Ashmedai failing in the end to walk the talk. What we thus learn from this story is that action precedes wisdom, an idea that, in a way, runs counter to Jewish hagiographies.

The point I’m trying to make here is that narratives about engaging with demons are anchored in statements about what is being done, or rather, what is being accomplished via skills. So we start with a consideration of how both parties involved, demon and magician alike, do their best. The magician casts a circle with view to not mixing his personal story with that of what the demon is conjured up to do, and the demon acknowledges what story he is now in, as contexts can shift faster for him than for the magician. What we thus call an exchange of power is in reality an exchange of metaphors, the magician being a stylist and the demon both a hero and antagonist.

In charting my own experiences of my dance with demons, as it takes two to tango, you can think of what I’m writing here as a text that might be dubbed a treatise on style. Occult style. As the occult has a way of staring us in the face, forever occupying the impenetrable obvious, that is to say, the surface of all things, I’m invested in what we can accomplish via dialogue with consecrated grimoire forces. I’m fascinated by how these forces have a visage, a function, and a fundamental human nature crafted in the image of our imagination. After all, if we do encounter a demon in our ceremonial and not so ceremonial conjurings, it will be because we already have an expectation. Not only that, but we have an expectation of just what each of these forces can do and to what degree of competence they can perform our inner or outer will, to refer here to the program in some occult circles that use this jargon. As our minds are primed by expectation as to what stories we whirl ourselves into, so the demonic forces follow suit. They follow the call, the voice and the pulse of the magician, his mind the empty mirror stylized precisely by what he puts in front of it.

Related to how I go about it, I must say it from the start that my practice defies what is to be expected from someone who has read the grimoires, among the most popular being The Lemegeton, or The Lesser Key of Solomon. The basic form of spirit evocation in what we term ‘Solomonic magic’ relies on the use of a circle of protection for the magician and a triangle within this circle for the capturing of the evoked spirit. While I will have an example of this standard procedure in this book, you will note that my allegiance throughout is with a variety of different types of evocation requiring different skills, such as the use of cartomantic divination, dream and omen interpretation, and ad hoc evocations, or the spontaneous conjuring that can happen even as I have dinner with family, drinking wine, and talking about what success means in the country of Denmark, where, as Hamlet once posited, things are sometimes rotten. At such family gatherings I can, for instance, act on impulse, and, depending on what the topic is, dispatch a demon to manifest an insight or a thing