Tag: theriomancy

PSA on Bone Reading Sets

I’ve temporarily removed listings for bone reading sets while I replenish my stock.  This to ensure that those ordering sets aren’t waiting any longer than necessary–typical wait time for completed assembly of sets, depending on price and complexity, is 6-8 weeks.  Typically I’ve been able to stay well ahead of schedule, but I want to continue this trend, so temporarily I’ve removed the listings while I restock and get myself ready for the next batch.  All prior extant set orders have been shipped.

Soon also to come to Bones to Pick will be blog posts on a variety of topics related to sacred scavenging and theriomancy, as well as posts showcasing the products and services of fellow colleagues and practitioners.  Stay tuned.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1URmoti

Today’s pocket ‘fidget’: fossilized claw core…

Today’s pocket ‘fidget’: fossilized claw core from a sabre-toothed cat (Smilodon fatalis). Smilodons were one of early man’s predators. Much like lions, they also lived in prides or close-knit family units. They’re famous for their long, saber-like canine teeth. Smilodon relics are excellent for connecting with deeper ancestral mysteries.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1P413YV

A comparison between the upper canine teeth of a jaguar (black…

A comparison between the upper canine teeth of a jaguar (black piece, fossil) and an adult African lion. The African lion is by far much larger than the jaguar, but when it comes to bite pressure and overall torque, the jaguar comes in ahead. This can clearly be seen in the dramatic thickness of the jaguar canine root–almost twice as that of the lion, and much heftier, mineralization aside.

The jaguar tooth is part of a set of fossil relics to go to a devotee of Tezcatlipoca, and is not for sale.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1JPMh9i

Protip: Preserving and Consecrating Animal Teeth

image

Pictured: A Eurasian Cave Lion (Panthera spelea) lower carnassial, and a bottle of Leo Oil from Midtown Mojo Manufacturers)

Some animal teeth can be a bit troublesome to keep and work with at times.  When a tooth lacks the natural lipids found in the mouth, they split, crack or break.  This is especially common with teeth that have come from juvenile or young adult animals, where the teeth may still have hollow areas or undeveloped dentin layers.  Even fossil teeth, depending on age, wear and degree of mineralization, have been known to crack and break.  Usually if I need to store teeth before use I’ll wrap them in paper towels soaked with baby oil.  I’ve even used Dentene mouthwash.  However, there is one method I use frequently that not only helps to preserve your animal teeth, but also can turn them into powerful amulets and talismans.  If you plan on incorporating a special animal tooth in your spiritual work, use a condition oil.  Hold the tooth in your hand while praying or focusing on your intent, and vigorously rub some of the oil into the tooth as you’re doing so.  The oil should absorb through the dentin layers, leaving the tooth with a nice glossy finish and, depending on the oil, a nice scent.  I will periodically reapply oil as needed; over time the tooth will develop a very handsome aged patina.  For extra “oomph”, leave the anointed tooth with a candle (specific, dressed or no depending on what you’re doing; YMMV) to incubate overnight, or time your anointing to fall on a specific day or hour.

Teeth themselves make for excellent amulets, and humankind has been using animal (and sometimes even human!) in that capacity for centuries.  People have used them for strength, protection, and to connect with the energy behind the animal the tooth or teeth once belonged to.  Teeth are a very intimate part of the animal.  They reside in the head and are responsible for feeding, nurturing and communication.  A very important and useful way of connecting with the consciousness of the animal to which it once belonged.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1n2mr7O

“The face of earth hath maddened me, and I
Take refuge in her…

“The face of earth hath maddened me, and I
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce
To the abodes of those who govern her”
-Byron

Panthera spelea, cave lion metacarpals and phalanges. Tapping the ancestral current.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1ZGRTGs

A New Year’s Thought

I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions, but one of the things I told myself I’d be doing is writing a little more on what I do.  People have been on my case about that for quite awhile now.  I must admit I am at times shocked by people who come to me seeking advice about a certain animal or “totem”, or to obtain a certain relic for their own uses, but they couldn’t tell me one true fact about that animal that they didn’t learn in some New Age animal totem dictionary put out by Llewellyn.  But you know, pounding words out on a blog post, that’s not always easy for me–my spirituality isn’t up for public consumption.  There is Work I do for community and individuals outside of family (not counting the Work I do inside that circle), but that’s on a ‘need to know’ basis, and normally done offline.  I’ve always been an in-person (some would say in your face) kinda guy.  Some of the pacts I’ve made with the spirits I work with involve not doing things like taking photographs of workings, sacred vessels, and the like.  Not in every case.  But in most.  Enough that I don’t do it often.  But I’ll try to do what I can, when I can, and when I feel like it.  Or, put simply–when I’m able.

Point being, I’m not an Internet Mage.  Time spent blogging and talking about what I do is time spent away from WHAT I’m doing.  I see so many internet personalities online blogging about their workings, rituals, spells, hoodoo and so on, I begin to wonder when they find the time to do any actual Work.  Everyone seems so concerned about what other people are doing online that they’re not focusing on themselves and what they should be doing.  But then again–and I say this myself all the time–try not to judge people by a thing they post on Facebook, or something they make on a blog post.  Not always easy advice for me to follow, as I tend to be a rather judgmental person.  I’m far from perfect, I’m a work in progress like anyone else.  But I suppose this leads into another “resolution” that I have for the new year: Do the Work, worry about your own ass and the hell with others.  At least, the others that don’t matter.  I’m normally pretty consistent with that, but I do trip up every so often.  As one does.

Right now it’s morning, and I’m thinking about what I need to do for the day, so I suppose I should get on with it.  I’d like to wish everyone following this blog a very happy and prosperous New Year, and thanks for jumping aboard.  Us folk here at Bones to Pick have learned and grown a lot from our journey so far this year, and we look forward to more of it in 2016. 

~Joey

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1RgpLai

A tiny peek into my Cyprianic shenanigans. Note that this is a…

A tiny peek into my Cyprianic shenanigans.

Note that this is a late-term fetal abortion, from a catch-and-release program. Instead of being thrown out as biological waste, these tiny kittens-to-be are given a new life, so to speak. In the lifestyle of a necromancer and theriomancer, nothing goes to waste.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1QUWMab

A dark sorceress whispers venomous magic in my ears

A dark sorceress whispers venomous magic in my ears

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1OAx37P

Growing Pains

So I’ve recently celebrated my first year in Palo. It’s been a very interesting year, and also a very difficult one.  It’s to be expected.  Initiations are rebirths, they are beginnings.  Starting from the beginning isn’t always easy.  In early societies (and even some contemporary ones in other parts of the world), a child wasn’t even given a name and fully welcomed into the community until they had reached two or three years of age.  Childhood is difficult.  Childhood can also be deadly.  Initiations are like second childhoods.  It opens you up to different energies and currents, you enter into a strange new world where everything (or everyone) will test you to the limits of what (you feel) you can handle.  This year I learned many hard lessons, and experienced some painful losses.  All these climaxed into one singular event that changed something deep and fundamental within me.

I had just left the hospital with my brother, exhausted.  Being a spiritworker isn’t easy, and the job (and the obligation it comes with) is that much harder when the person you have to assist in passing over and elevating happens to be someone you have a deep emotional attachment to.  My grandmother was dying.  I should have seen it coming.  My paternal ancestors have been appearing in strikingly vivid dreams and visionary states.  What I was mistaking at first as a side-effect of initiation turned out to be them coming to call her back home.  She had recently celebrated her 93rd birthday.  It was her time.  But a mere four days before this, a good friend of mine died very suddenly.  I’d seen her alive maybe 48 hours before.  Four months before that, a cousin of mine whom I loved deeply was gunned down by a drug-dealer with two previous murders under his belt.  It was an awful year.  Leaving that hospital after witnessing my grandmother passing on was Strike Three.  I was weary down to the bone, from this and the other deaths that preceded it.  But the finale was yet to come.

About ten minutes down the road, we were approaching a crossroads, where we’d turn to reach our uncle’s house, to check up on our grandfather, who suffered from dementia and was unable to be at the hospital at the time.  I could faintly hear a series of popping noises coming from outside.  I had no time really to register what they were at first, when I saw an orange streak dart out from between two houses and into the road.  It was a big orange tomcat.  The cat ran into the opposite lane of traffic, where only a single black truck was headed down.  There was no one behind the truck, and enough of a gap between the two to where the truck could have easily stopped.  Instead, the individual driving the truck rammed the gas and sped up, running the cat down.  They did not once touch the brake.  The cat flipped like a ragdoll and thrashed, blood flying in the road.  I could hardly take that all in before a second figure darted into the street from the opposite direction–a boy ran into the road, quickly scooping the cat up in his arms.  I screwed my eyes shut, because at that point I couldn’t stomach seeing the kid hit,  it was all happening so fast.  Thankfully, he’d managed to get safely to the side of the road, with the cat bleeding and kicking feebly in his arms.  My brother, who the whole time had been screaming in white-knuckle terror at the scene as it unfolded (to be fair, we both were), swung the car around to the other side and parked at the curb.

I immediately took the cat from the boy’s arms and carried it over to the curb.  It was bad.  Very bad.  I’d seen animals die, many times, through various means.  This situation was bad because it was borne about from a deliberate act of sociopathic cruelty.  The person driving the truck had the option to stop, but chose not to.  It was clear this cat was probably someone’s pet.  He was very well groomed and heavy, and soft of body.  In no way like the feral cats I’d handled in the past.  Just a cat who’s owner made the poor decision to let him roam outdoors.  He was also dying.  The left side of his face was smashed in, and his eye was hanging loose.  It was a rare moment in my life that I was suddenly struck with pure revulsion and horror.  That this poor animal could be in such a horrible state of disrepair, and still live.  Blessedly, this didn’t last long.  I stroked his fur and soothed him as much as I could, whispered and told him what a good kitty he was.  Before his heart stopped, he’d tried to purr.  The sound of it broke my heart. 

So there I was, kneeling at a crossroads, the smell of blood thick in my nostrils, the sounds of firecrackers going off like gunfire, an animal bleeding and dying in my arms.  It was at that moment there that time for me stopped entirely.  I saw myself in my grandfather’s boots, a combat vet in the Phillipines.  I saw my deceased cousin in the shattered eye of the cat.  I felt his soul slip like warm velvet from my grasp.  Everything around me took on a surreal quality.  I prayed.  I prayed and I stroked the cat until the spasms died down and his breathing stopped.  The scars from my initiation burned.  My whole body burned.  I felt the cat’s blood seep into me, not just clotting on my skin, but seeping deep into my soul, changing something fundamental inside of me, yet again.  Again, I was going through an initiation, or perhaps this was only the next phase.  That next painful step, at the nexus point between life and death.

The boy explained that a bunch of neighborhood kids had been setting off firecrackers, and that he had been going to investigate when he saw the cat get run down in the road.  His house was close by, he was staying with his grandparents after school.  I told him to go home and tell them what had happened, and to thoroughly wash his hands and arms of blood.  I watched him until I was sure he’d reached home safely, and turned my attention back to the cat.  With whispered prayers, I laid the cat at the base of the tree by the crossroads.  I felt it the best I could do under the circumstances.  To sanctify his cruel death there.  I prayed for him, prayed that perhaps he should find my grandmother, seek out the ancestral procession leading her home.  That he should find and be at peace.

In the years I’ve actively worked as a theriomancer and psychopomp,
there is one singular fact that I know all too well: Cats, whether they
be of this world or not of this world, always seem to know
exactly where they are going and what they are about.  It’s a simple
fact, yet a fundamental one.  A cat is born with an instinct for the
necromantic as the falcon is born with an instinct for the shifting
winds.  Hours later my mother had come home from the hospital to get some rest, she related a most curious story.  In the hospital parking lot, she’d seen a cat.  A big orange cat, sitting in the parking lot, staring at her and my father as they were walking to the car.  Much later on that same evening, I’d overheard my brother saying that that cat was sitting in our grandmother’s lap in heaven.  Good kitty.  You were such a good kitty.  You had found your way.  

In the year since I’ve been initiated into Palo I’ve had experiences both amazing and horrifying by turns.  Even painful.  Some of these I will relate here, with certain deeply personal aspects omitted, as these things shouldn’t be up for grabs on social media, both as personal and as sacred as they are.  Death can be painful and messy.  So can rebirth.  Have I found my way?  In a word, yes.  But the way isn’t always easy, the going is tough.  That cat and I, we met and parted at the crossroads of life and death, but we each took away with the other an exchange of ndoki that will remain with us.  My scars will always remember; my mind will never forget.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1UpmXvd

Growing Pains

So I’ve recently celebrated my first year in Palo. It’s been a very interesting year, and also a very difficult one.  It’s to be expected.  Initiations are rebirths, they are beginnings.  Starting from the beginning isn’t always easy.  In early societies (and even some contemporary ones in other parts of the world), a child wasn’t even given a name and fully welcomed into the community until they had reached two or three years of age.  Childhood is difficult.  Childhood can also be deadly.  Initiations are like second childhoods.  It opens you up to different energies and currents, you enter into a strange new world where everything (or everyone) will test you to the limits of what (you feel) you can handle.  This year I learned many hard lessons, and experienced some painful losses.  All these climaxed into one singular event that changed something deep and fundamental within me.

I had just left the hospital with my brother, exhausted.  Being a spiritworker isn’t easy, and the job (and the obligation it comes with) is that much harder when the person you have to assist in passing over and elevating happens to be someone you have a deep emotional attachment to.  My grandmother was dying.  I should have seen it coming.  My paternal ancestors have been appearing in strikingly vivid dreams and visionary states.  What I was mistaking at first as a side-effect of initiation turned out to be them coming to call her back home.  She had recently celebrated her 93rd birthday.  It was her time.  But a mere four days before this, a good friend of mine died very suddenly.  I’d seen her alive maybe 48 hours before.  Four months before that, a cousin of mine whom I loved deeply was gunned down by a drug-dealer with two previous murders under his belt.  It was an awful year.  Leaving that hospital after witnessing my grandmother passing on was Strike Three.  I was weary down to the bone, from this and the other deaths that preceded it.  But the finale was yet to come.

About ten minutes down the road, we were approaching a crossroads, where we’d turn to reach our uncle’s house, to check up on our grandfather, who suffered from dementia and was unable to be at the hospital at the time.  I could faintly hear a series of popping noises coming from outside.  I had no time really to register what they were at first, when I saw an orange streak dart out from between two houses and into the road.  It was a big orange tomcat.  The cat ran into the opposite lane of traffic, where only a single black truck was headed down.  There was no one behind the truck, and enough of a gap between the two to where the truck could have easily stopped.  Instead, the individual driving the truck rammed the gas and sped up, running the cat down.  They did not once touch the brake.  The cat flipped like a ragdoll and thrashed, blood flying in the road.  I could hardly take that all in before a second figure darted into the street from the opposite direction–a boy ran into the road, quickly scooping the cat up in his arms.  I screwed my eyes shut, because at that point I couldn’t stomach seeing the kid hit,  it was all happening so fast.  Thankfully, he’d managed to get safely to the side of the road, with the cat bleeding and kicking feebly in his arms.  My brother, who the whole time had been screaming in white-knuckle terror at the scene as it unfolded (to be fair, we both were), swung the car around to the other side and parked at the curb.

I immediately took the cat from the boy’s arms and carried it over to the curb.  It was bad.  Very bad.  I’d seen animals die, many times, through various means.  This situation was bad because it was borne about from a deliberate act of sociopathic cruelty.  The person driving the truck had the option to stop, but chose not to.  It was clear this cat was probably someone’s pet.  He was very well groomed and heavy, and soft of body.  In no way like the feral cats I’d handled in the past.  Just a cat who’s owner made the poor decision to let him roam outdoors.  He was also dying.  The left side of his face was smashed in, and his eye was hanging loose.  It was a rare moment in my life that I was suddenly struck with pure revulsion and horror.  That this poor animal could be in such a horrible state of disrepair, and still live.  Blessedly, this didn’t last long.  I stroked his fur and soothed him as much as I could, whispered and told him what a good kitty he was.  Before his heart stopped, he’d tried to purr.  The sound of it broke my heart. 

So there I was, kneeling at a crossroads, the smell of blood thick in my nostrils, the sounds of firecrackers going off like gunfire, an animal bleeding and dying in my arms.  It was at that moment there that time for me stopped entirely.  I saw myself in my grandfather’s boots, a combat vet in the Phillipines.  I saw my deceased cousin in the shattered eye of the cat.  I felt his soul slip like warm velvet from my grasp.  Everything around me took on a surreal quality.  I prayed.  I prayed and I stroked the cat until the spasms died down and his breathing stopped.  The scars from my initiation burned.  My whole body burned.  I felt the cat’s blood seep into me, not just clotting on my skin, but seeping deep into my soul, changing something fundamental inside of me, yet again.  Again, I was going through an initiation, or perhaps this was only the next phase.  That next painful step, at the nexus point between life and death.

The boy explained that a bunch of neighborhood kids had been setting off firecrackers, and that he had been going to investigate when he saw the cat get run down in the road.  His house was close by, he was staying with his grandparents after school.  I told him to go home and tell them what had happened, and to thoroughly wash his hands and arms of blood.  I watched him until I was sure he’d reached home safely, and turned my attention back to the cat.  With whispered prayers, I laid the cat at the base of the tree by the crossroads.  I felt it the best I could do under the circumstances.  To sanctify his cruel death there.  I prayed for him, prayed that perhaps he should find my grandmother, seek out the ancestral procession leading her home.  That he should find and be at peace.

In the years I’ve actively worked as a theriomancer and psychopomp,
there is one singular fact that I know all too well: Cats, whether they
be of this world or not of this world, always seem to know
exactly where they are going and what they are about.  It’s a simple
fact, yet a fundamental one.  A cat is born with an instinct for the
necromantic as the falcon is born with an instinct for the shifting
winds.  Hours later my mother had come home from the hospital to get some rest, she related a most curious story.  In the hospital parking lot, she’d seen a cat.  A big orange cat, sitting in the parking lot, staring at her and my father as they were walking to the car.  Much later on that same evening, I’d overheard my brother saying that that cat was sitting in our grandmother’s lap in heaven.  Good kitty.  You were such a good kitty.  You had found your way.  

In the year since I’ve been initiated into Palo I’ve had experiences both amazing and horrifying by turns.  Even painful.  Some of these I will relate here, with certain deeply personal aspects omitted, as these things shouldn’t be up for grabs on social media, both as personal and as sacred as they are.  Death can be painful and messy.  So can rebirth.  Have I found my way?  In a word, yes.  But the way isn’t always easy, the going is tough.  That cat and I, we met and parted at the crossroads of life and death, but we each took away with the other an exchange of ndoki that will remain with us.  My scars will always remember; my mind will never forget.

Originally posted on: http://ift.tt/1UpmXvd

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