“So outside my misery, I think I’ll find… a way of envisioning
A better life for the rest of us… the rest of us,
There’s hope for the rest of us, the rest of us…”

— “Hope,” track 16 of XXXTentacion’s final album, ?

I’ve waged a one-man battle for truth, light and love for what might be years now. I’ve given my all to strike down falsehoods, to counter the stagnation of culture. The last battle in what seems like an endless war is for control over the narrative—exposing the truth and the lies, constantly having to fight the spread of disinformation by the cult’s sympathizers. The philistines can have their false Halo, their hijacked Legacy, their whitewashed history and their hollow and meaningless symbols—We don’t want them.

What We want is a future for Our magick.

It Was All a Dream

My life isn’t perfect, but by the grace of God, I’ve found a fragile modicum of stability after years of chronic homelessness and bouncing in and out of inept and bureaucratic shelter programs that harm more people than they help. I live in a decent place, even though I share it with a moody and unrepentant asarai who played a significant part in ruining what might have been the most prosperous relationship I’ve ever been in—Keep this last part in mind for later, it’s significant.

Suffice to say, I’d rather live alone, as I’m sure I’d be far less stressed, but ask anyone in New York City about what an Olympic feat it is to afford rent by oneself. My greatest fear, then, is that to achieve greater independence and stability, I may have to leave this city, the place that has taken so much from me and yet gave so much in return. Such is life. Well, if anyone is looking for a quiet, productive roommate who occupies less space and attention than a housecat, feel free to shoot me a text.

I make ends meet financially by frequenting casting calls, modeling gigs, and my side work as typist and editor for whoever comes calling with a contract, no matter how small. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to ask for help, or to let people know that I need it—better than to suffer in silence, as so many hardened people are wont to do. But I’m certainly in a better place than I was this time last year.

Here, in this affluent high-rise where the sunsets are mesmerizing and the cacophony of the city is deafening, I have my altar set up, and my library, and my friends, Nadja and associates are free to browse through it to their heart’s content. In my library, I have such difficult-to-find and out-of-print books such as Viola Johnson’s Dhampir: Child of the Blood, Katherine Ramsland’s Piercing the Darkness: Undercover with Vampires in America Today and a first edition copy of Vampires Among Us by the late Rosemary Ellen Guiley, whose autograph I wanted so badly in that book, and of course I own more occult texts that are about other subjects besides Vampyres and Vampyrism.

Incense and candles of all colors and scents are lit in such numbers here that a perpetual fog blankets the common area, and everyone from the neighbors to the Domino’s delivery drivers know this as the “witch’s place.” I’ve had a great deal of acquaintances over, curious as to what my day-to-day life is like outside of appearances on TV shows and turning up on Friday nights.

But it was one guest in particular that irrevocably changed my outlook on many things, and had it not been for him, I don’t think I’d have experienced the many blessings that have come to me in recent weeks, nor the mission that has become my primary focus in life in this moment.

The Nasarim

Forgive me for coming out of left field with this, but I know a select few of you reading this who are truly Awakened can relate to this sentiment—The endless search for others like yourself, constantly calling out, praying to find somebody like you, somebody who understands, and, in my case, the crippling loneliness and jaded detachment that comes from living in a swamp of costumed pretenders that make a mockery of our Blood. At first, my search was selfishly narrow, and I continued to ask myself, “Where were all the true Vampyres in New York City?”

To pose the pertinent question of, “Is Gotham truly dead?”, the answer is a resounding, “Yes,” in spite of whatever laughable half-assed propaganda put out there intentionally for you to see by the Haven heathen fetish troupe. These philistine mongrels and their cult sympathizers, allowed to run amok by the “king of Gotham” who seems content in allowing his “kingdom” to fall into shameful ruin, succeeded in killing whatever culture and magick was left after the Alpha skipped town nearly fifteen years ago, if, indeed, he didn’t just take whatever culture and magick was left. The only true Strigoi Vii I’ve met here, I can count on one hand—the rest are unabashed pretenders, infiltrators or those that just don’t quite “get it.”

Then I found Him—the Nasarim.

Thought I can’t quite remember why, I had been stricken by an awful malaise that left me bedridden almost the entire month of March. The Nasarim and I had spoken infrequently since I’d met Him online the Halloween prior, but it seemed Fate looked upon me with a smile, as spring had finally arrived with April and so, too, did I seem to “defrost” and slowly return to my old, busybody self—with His help, of course.

His arrival into my life was enough to pull me out of my wretched position. He was a strapping young man of average height, quite muscular. Large, mocha-colored eyes peered out from under heavy brows, which communicated as much optimism as they did pain. A bleached-blonde Bacchus, His stride was of one who knew what He wanted and would do whatever it took to get it. Strange tattoos and occult jewelry adorned His frame. I looked upon Him in such awe as Hadrian did Antinous, or Alexandros to Hephaestion.

My only complaint about Him would concern this entourage of parasitic groupies He seemed to bring everywhere with Him—a predatory, sex-crazed meth addict who utterly lacked boundaries; an obsessive, promiscuous, underage alcoholic floozy; and an obnoxious deaf boy who seemed the type to fuck anything that breathed. The Nasarim was a performer of sorts, a musician, amateur in His management skills but certainly not in His talents, and these groupies seemed eager to glean from Him what ever of value they could: time, energy, social media “fame”—a phenomenon those in my generation have labeled, “doing anything for clout.” The meth addict made me uneasy in his invasive and predatory behavior towards the Nasarim, myself and even my roommate. But it was the little girl who concerned me greatly, with her crush-like obsession of sorts for the Nasarim she’d allegedly held since grade school. Though she seems to pursue Him primarily for sexual gratification, there seems a darker, parasitic aspect to this unrequited “love,” as it were, where one would think she might wither away like a flower should she be away from Him for too long—typical asarai behavior. She’d displayed mild and temporary interest in me, but I am a professed, salad-tossing vegan and, save the rare exception, have little place in my heart or loins for seafood.

The Nasarim and His fan club would stay over my place for days on end; He would toss His clothes into my hamper—never did I complain, ever the happy housewife—as I’d offer Him my place to sleep, my towel and even entire outfits of mine, while His groupies would go days without brushing their teeth or changing out of their clothes. Ick.

Whoever said gay men held higher hygiene standards than cis-women clearly never met this guy’s fans.

And it was this motley crew of confused, degenerate, superficial and sex-addicted parasites that would accompany the Nasarim about, like stray kittens, a portable swamp of asarai draining Him of His energy every day without His knowledge. I’d even been accused of such behavior, if only on account of my public identity as a “vampire” and the Nasarim’s desire to not antagonize His “friends.”

Ah, there’s that loneliness aspect again—Just as I yearned for companionship on equal footing, someone of my wavelength who could understand me and prayed for the spirits to bring someone like Him into my life, so, too, did the Nasarim—young, immature and impressionable—loathe His own alienation and would sooner embrace the company of such two-legged ticks and leeches rather than be totally alone, in spite of how He may publicly, hypocritically, celebrate meditative solitude. It doesn’t take much to come to the correct conclusion that yes, I’d fallen for Him, and perhaps, self-destructively, love Him as much now as I did then.

He was a New Ager, but not quite. Though young, inexperienced and quoting sources I’d personally verified as incorrect once when I was His age, He was a bright and intelligent young man, empathic in His own right, though paranoid and at times overzealous. His clairvoyant abilities were astounding—One day, at His house, He showed me an amateur comic series of His own creation and explained to me that each person He’d drawn, He would come to meet in real life. As much as I loathe to think I am merely the figment of His imagination in some strange, alternate quantum ChalkZone reality, I could not help but stand in awe at the pieces of artwork He held before me—of the girl, of Himself and finally of one “Rain Calloway,” a cyberpunk dressed to the nines in a black, Matrix-style coat, combat boots and, oh, ye gods, the goddamned hachimaki.

The icing on the cake was an unfinished sketch of Himself and “Rain” kissing passionately beneath a palm tree. I could not make this up if I tried, nor would I concoct such a ridiculous tale—and I trust that neither would He. But it is a stream of horrifying coincidence.

From His wrists and neck hung all sorts of occult jewelry. I can’t say how much of it He paid for—a bit of a kleptomaniacal streak going on in that one—but even in His bedroom, from the walls and the ceiling hung beads of every composition and purpose. His bedroom was painted ceiling to floor with sigils, paths, lines and symbols that would make a DMT user go mad. A very messy makeshift altar sat in the corner—its discombobulation perhaps a metaphor for His personal life.

Finally, to listen to Him speak was to hear the next McKenna or Manly P. Hall, in spite of His slight lisp and inherited street mannerisms. Indeed, I felt as though my spirits and His had brought us together for the purposes for which We’d both prayed for in life—I for a consort, a Black Swan who understood and could share my passion for magick and culture; and He for a teacher, a confidante and one friend He could trust that didn’t merely want something from Him. As I’d indicated previously, He was still very much a beginner, managerially speaking. He’d been performing for years and has an impressive discography composed of the most radically dissonant genres that it’s hard to believe this is just one person. Even now, I’m astounded at His artistry and creativity. But, unfortunately, as it currently stands, His current territory remains open-mics in run-down Brooklyn coffee shops and ratchet Harlem nightclubs.

My Blood boils at the fact that His talent remains, for the most part, unrecognized.

It began innocently enough, waking up in His arms as the morning light peeked through the curtains. We both feared what was coming, or did We? We seemed to invite it so hypocritically with open arms, even as—though He vehemently disagreed—We became toxic for each other. In spite of His love of solitude, however, and my loathing of it, He promised me that, “in spirit,” He’d always be there. Inexplicably, I’d somehow awaken should He be at the door, as during so many of His 2AM excursions. If I’d said His name aloud or visualized His face, sure enough, I’d receive a message from Him.

I wonder how modern science would seek to attempt to explain such a phenomenon. I’d never known a bond or connection like that—That’s true magick.

Though it began innocently enough, it ended far worse than I care to explain, though many are left to (accurately) surmise just how badly, judging by my impromptu disappearance from social media some months ago and the rather shocking transformation I’d made soon after.


“Love that is day and night. Love that is sun, moon and stars. Love that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, no other words but words of love, no other thought but love.”

— “The All-Enclosing Theme,” Walt Whitman (1819—1892)

In spite of all this, I bear Him no ill will. When We had finally eliminated—for the time-being, at least—the groupies from our midst, and it was just He and I, We’d had quite a deep and illuminating discussion, where He’d press me with questions about magick and history and this sham of a community I’d struggled so hard to expose. And He asked me, when all was said and done, what it was I was fighting for. For truth? For light? For Blood? Of course. But when those intangible concepts were achieved, if they could be achieved, then what?

It was then that He became the inspiration for what I felt was needed, what We must do, our Mission which We must achieve, finally, which is to bring together Others of like mind and spirit.

I was narrow-minded and selfish. Though my love was a Nasarim, a Vampyric “Potential,” it was short-sighted of me to go on this false hope that I’d one day establish a House here in New York City for true Vampyres only—I personally don’t believe there are enough here in the City in order to do so, especially none within our age range. He helped me realize that I could no longer focus solely upon Vampyres, and that I might have an opportunity—with a little help from like minds—to do something beautiful for this dying city. We certainly had the devotion to the dream.

After the Nasarim had exited my life, I’d fallen into such a dangerously deep depression that my loved ones feared for my life. What saved me, cosmically enough, was the fated phone call from this established production company soliciting me to appear on a television show about vampire myths, with two all-expenses-paid trips to New Orleans and Los Angeles to film. Having just exited a relationship with a musician desperately seeking a record deal and a mansion in Hollywood Hills, I, the semi-retired blogger and hopeless romantic, was caught somewhat off-guard by this proposal, but didn’t hesitate to accept. And in between all the flights, and all the shooting, and the shady Facebook Lives, the whispers in my head grew louder: The previous generation is a bunch of hopeless clowns—They will never achieve anything of worth or value. If I wanted to see the future that We deserve, I’d have to take the first step and find others who believed in and shared that dream, so We might all build this magnificent Family together.

Shifting my focus away from the irredeemable Gotham cult and their philistine swamp of cocaine, herpes and bochincheras, I’d come to find my energy was now more pure, flowing, increasing, since it was no longer being sucked away by snaggle-toothed role-players and other parasites. I was diverting my energy, my Zhep’r, my inner Light, to a cause which deserved it—doing something worthwhile for everyone. As my Radiance, my Beacon, increased and shone brighter, I came to attract others who wanted to build this community, who wanted to contribute to this dream and help it come to fruition. I’d told them the stories of where I came from—the horrors, the abuse, the cult-like brainwashing and emotional manipulation, and of my great awakening and my escape. Though they could not relate, they sympathized, and understood that our dream could save other young, vulnerable people from becoming victims like I once was.

It hearkened me back, quite violently, to one night where the Nasarim had come home with me after a performance. I’d given Him my Sanguinarium ankh to wear, a gesture of pure love and trust, and we’d both gotten caught in a sudden strong thunderstorm. My only concern was with His safety; His tendency to walk five miles home alone in the dark worried me endlessly. My hair was longer then, still dripping wet and hanging in my face as I held Him, and suddenly He began to cry. He looked up at me and whispered, “I love you,” and I lost myself in the moment—those rich, dark eyes, those golden curls, and the innocence. The trust. The magick. He was the Beauty that subdued the Beast, those dark eyes penetrating my Sanguine soul as He’d whispered, “I love you, bozo.

For Him. For me. For all of us.

For our future.

There is hope for our future.


This is not to suggest that I am doing this for Him alone, or for Him at all. He was the catalyst, He was the inspiration and the drive for what had to be done, what should have been done long go and what We all must move forward in doing. In His own words, He gave me, “a piece of love that would help me grow,” and that seed blossomed in ways I can’t describe.

The universe is in full control, He once told me. This didn’t all randomly fall into alignment by chance! Our meeting was fated, and so, too, was everything that followed. Every day is a new opportunity! And this life, this universe, this Gnostic masquerade, is beautiful! Now I feel the power within me, the Current, the Blood Pool and Fire of the Dragons coursing within my veins, pushing me harder, sending me farther, to achieve that dream of true unity.

I’d said once before that a wildfire destroys all in its path, but leaves soil in which seeds may sprout, and now is the time that many of us are coming together, those of us in Spirit, those of us who possess Zhep’r and inner Light, to plant the seeds for the future we want to see.

A street gang of drug-addicted, philistine harlots in Halloween drag can’t kill the magick—they can’t even come close. It is beyond their power and their means. The magick is only dormant, sleeping, waiting to be Awakened by those who are worthy enough to be passed the proverbial torch.

It’s the current generation of Magickal Children who inherit the Legacy now, not just the Legacy of the Current of the Blood but of all magickal and spiritual paths. All of us priests, mystics, gnostics and warriors must come together in united Spirit and Light—It’s our City now, it’s all ours for the taking: our Potential, our Zhep’r, our ascension and illumination!

It is our responsibility to reach out to and inspire others, and we have the opportunity now more than ever to build something honest and true, a Society of the Elect, one of integrity, love and loyalty, steadfast in our consanguinity, unity and fraternity.

There is hope for the next generation.

Ashé, my Family,
In Love and Loyalty

Eternally yours,
In the Blood,
Vincent Irkalla, 23:13, 20 Aug, SY 23


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