Crowley’s Baphomet

 Aleister Crowley’s Baphomet: From Lévi’s Symbol to Living God of Thelema

Crowley did not treat Baphomet as a mere diagram or philosophical abstraction the way Éliphas Lévi ultimately did. 

For Crowley, Baphomet became:

The hieroglyph of the perfected Magus

The Eighth Head of the Supreme Secret Formula of the Ordo Templi Orientis (O.T.O.)

A direct name and form of the Thelemic “Secret God” who speaks in Liber Cheth vel Vallum Abiegni (Holy Book of Class A)

The deity of the Gnostic Mass (both the Lion-Serpent and the “Baphomet” to whom the congregation cries “TOY” in the Creed)

Crowley used the name and image in at least five distinct contexts. Below are the actual rituals and texts he either wrote or adapted that explicitly invoke or identify with Baphomet.

The Supreme Ritual (Liber V vel Reguli – 1921, revised form)

Published in The Equinox of the Gods (1936) and later as “The Mark of the Beast Ritual.”

This is Crowley’s single most important daily invocatory rite after 1918.

•  Opens with the Baphomet/Babalon embrace in the Anthem

•  The magician traces the eleven-pointed Star of Babalon/Baphomet in the air

•  Ends with the declaration:
“I also am a Star in Space… I also am the Beast 666… I am Baphomet the Publican and the Lion-Serpent!”

The Gnostic Mass (Liber XV – 1913)

The central public and private ritual of O.T.O.

Baphomet is explicitly named in the Creed:

“And I believe in one Earth, the Mother of us all, and in one Womb wherein all men are begotten… and in the Serpent Baphomet, and in the Lion-Serpent, the Sun, the Lord of Life and Death…”

The Priest, after the consecration, becomes the living embodiment of Baphomet when he cries:

“There is no part of me that is not of the Gods!”

The Initiation Ritual of the XI° O.T.O. (ca. 1912–1914, written by Crowley)

The supreme sexual-magical operation of the Ordo Templi Orientis.

Baphomet is the secret Eighth Head of the Serpent in the O.T.O. initiation ladder.

The rite is performed “in the name of Baphomet” and uses the formula of the “Homunculus” (the magical child produced by the alchemical union of the Knight and the Virgin).

The sign of the degree is the same “as above, so below” posture of Lévi’s Baphomet.

source:%20Higher%20Intellect
https://share.google/Ut2tq6mOzc1maidJB

Liber Cheth vel Vallum Abiegni (Class A Holy Book, 1909)

A direct address from Baphomet himself:

“I am the Snake that giveth Knowledge & Delight and bright glory… I am Baphomet, that is the Eightfold Word that shall unseal the City of the Pyramids.”

This text is used as a meditative invocation by many Thelemites when working with the Baphomet current.

https://lib.oto-usa.org/libri/liber0156.html

The Paris Working (January–February 1914, with Victor Neuburg)

A series of 24 sex-magick operations intended to “invoke Jupiter and Mercury” but which repeatedly produced the presence of an entity who finally declared:

“I am Baphomet; I am the Head of the Lion-Serpent; I am the God who giveth the Eighth Key.”

The visions culminated in Crowley receiving the “Baphomet Seal” (the famous lamen with the inverted pentagram, horns, and the words ΒΑΦΟΜΗΤ).

Crowley’s Personal Baphomet Invocation (never published in full, but reconstructed from diaries and letters)

https://hermetic.com/crowley/libers/lib415

Crowley’s private method (used especially in the 1920s at the Abbey of Thelema) combined:

•  The “as above, so below” posture of Lévi

•  Vibration of the name BAPHOMET as an eleven-lettered name (counting the ph as separate in Greek)

•  The Bornless Ritual (Headless Rite) modified to end with “I am Baphomet, the Lion-Serpent and the Snake that giveth Life”

•  Sexual adoration of the partner as Babalon, with the magician consciously identifying himself as Baphomet in the act

https://digitalambler.com/rituals/classical-hermetic-rituals/the-headless-rite/

To invoke Baphomet in the Thelemic sense is therefore to invoke one’s own deepest magical identity — the Beast conjoined with Babalon, the Lion-Serpent crowned and conquering.

The Creation of a Moonchild

 The Lunar Genesis: 

A Theory on the Forging of the Moon Child

In the shadowed annals of esoteric lore, where astronomy bleeds into alchemy and the whispers of ancient cults echo through forgotten tomes, lies the theory of the Moon Child’s creation. This is no benign fable of celestial wonder, but a grim hypothesis rooted in the interplay of cosmic forces and human depravity. The Moon Child, as posited by occult theorists from Aleister Crowley to nameless medieval heretics, is not a mere metaphor for lunar influence on the psyche. It is a literal entity—a being wrought from the union of ethereal lunacy and mortal flesh, born not of love but of calculated abomination. 

To theorise its genesis is to peer into the abyss of forbidden knowledge, where the moon’s pallid glow conceals rituals that twist the natural order, birthing something that defies both divinity and damnation.

At the core of this theory is the premise that the moon, that eternal sentinel of the night, is no passive orb but a sentient repository of primordial chaos. 

Ancient texts, such as the fragmented Liber Lunae attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, suggest that the moon harvests the unformed souls of the unborn, those spectral essences lost in the void between conception and birth. 

These are not innocent spirits but remnants tainted by the world’s unspoken horrors: the miscarried dreams of tyrants, the aborted ambitions of the mad, the stillborn echoes of genocides past. The theory posits that under specific astral alignments—particularly during a blood moon eclipse, when the earth’s shadow devours the lunar face—a conduit opens. This rift allows a practitioner, versed in the black arts, to siphon these fractured souls into a human vessel. But the vessel must be prepared, for the moon demands sacrifice.

The creation process, as outlined in Crowley’s veiled writings in Moonchild (1917), begins with the selection of progenitors: a man and woman whose bloodlines carry the stain of inherited madness. They are not chosen for vitality but for their proximity to the brink of sanity—the poet haunted by visions, the widow consumed by grief, the exile driven by unquenchable rage. 

These individuals are isolated in a sanctum aligned with lunar ley lines, perhaps an abandoned observatory atop a desolate peak or a subterranean chamber beneath a tidal estuary. For nine lunar cycles, they engage in rites of inversion: fasting under full moons to weaken the body, ingesting hallucinogenic elixirs derived from night-blooming plants like belladonna and mandrake, and reciting invocations that summon the moon’s “silver venom”—a metaphorical toxin that erodes the barriers between flesh and ether.

Copulation occurs only at the nadir of the ritual, during the eclipse’s totality, when the moon’s light turns crimson, symbolizing the alchemical rubedo, the reddening stage where base matter transmutes into something profane. But this is no act of creation; it is an assault on nature. The theory warns that the Moon Child’s conception requires the deliberate introduction of discord—perhaps through the ingestion of a “lunar sacrament,” a brew containing mercury salts to mimic the moon’s metallic essence, or the ritual scarring of the womb with symbols drawn from Babylonian star maps. 

In darker variants of the theory, preserved in the grimoires of 17th-century witch-hunters, a third element is introduced: the essence of a sacrificed innocent, whose life force bridges the gap between the celestial and the corporeal. This sacrifice, often a child on the cusp of adolescence, ensures the Moon Child’s soul is not singular but a mosaic of stolen fragments, rendering it immune to earthly morality.

Once gestated, the Moon Child emerges not as a wailing infant but as a silent harbinger, its eyes reflecting the craters of its lunar progenitor. Theorists claim it possesses innate abilities: the power to induce madness in others through mere gaze, to manipulate tides within the human body causing hemorrhages or euphoria, or to commune with shadows that whisper secrets of impending cataclysms. Yet this power comes at a cost. 

The Moon Child is ephemeral, its form unstable under sunlight, prone to dissolution during solar eclipses. It exists as a bridge to the void, a living portal through which lunar entities—demons of insomnia, specters of regret—may infiltrate our realm. In this, the theory reveals its darkest implication: the Moon Child is not a gift but a curse, engineered by those who seek to unravel the fabric of reality. Historical accounts, though apocryphal, speak of such beings influencing events like the Black Death or the fall of empires, their presence heralding eras of collective delirium.

Critics of the theory, from rationalist astronomers to modern psychologists, dismiss it as the fevered delusion of occult charlatans, attributing “Moon Children” to genetic anomalies or mass hysteria amplified by lunar folklore. Yet the persistence of these narratives across cultures—from the Aztec’s lunar deities demanding blood to the Slavic tales of werewolf offspring born under the full moon—suggests a kernel of truth buried in the mythos. Perhaps the moon, in its cold indifference, does indeed seed aberrations in the human lineage, not through ritual but through the subtle pull of gravity on our fragile psyches. 

In an age of space exploration, where humanity dares to colonize the lunar surface, one wonders if we are unwittingly birthing a new generation of Moon Children—astronauts returned changed, their minds imprinted with the silence of the void.

In conclusion, the theory of the Moon Child’s creation serves as a macabre cautionary tale: that in our quest to harness the cosmos, we risk forging monsters from the stars. 

It reminds us that the night sky is not a canvas of beauty but a veil over horrors unimagined, where the moon’s gentle luminescence masks a predatory hunger. To pursue such knowledge is to invite the eclipse into one’s soul, ensuring that the child of the moon rises not in light, but in eternal, suffocating darkness.

Crowley and the Boleskin demons

Demons Unleashed: Aleister Crowley’s Wild Rituals at Boleskine House

Picture this: the misty shores of Loch Ness, Scotland, where the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley decided to hole up in a creepy manor to summon angels… and a bunch of hellish demons. Boleskine House, perched on the southeast bank of the legendary loch, became Ground Zero for one of the most ambitious magical workings in history. Bought by Crowley in 1899 for about £2,000 (a steal for a demon-summoning HQ), this place wasn’t just a vacation spot—it was custom-built (sort of) for cosmic chaos. Let’s dive into the spellbinding details of what went down.

Why Boleskine? Location, Location, Invocation!

Crowley, ever the dramatic Thelemite, scouted Boleskine because it ticked all the boxes for the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage—a grimoire he discovered through the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. This wasn’t some weekend hobby; the Abramelin operation demanded total isolation in a spot with specific features: a north-facing door from your prayer room (oratory) leading to a sand-covered terrace, ending in a lodge where spirits could chill. Boleskine nailed it—secluded, scenic, and supposedly built over the ruins of an old church that burned down (with parishioners inside, per local lore—talk about bad vibes!).

Crowley dubbed himself “Lord Boleskine” and got to work, carving out the southwestern wing as his magickal lair. He turned the biggest room (with a fancy bow window) into his oratory, slapped in a north door, built the sandy terrace and spirit lodge outside, and even shipped in massive mirrors from London to line a custom wooden altar setup. Why mirrors? To amplify the energy, of course—because nothing says “serious ritual” like a funhouse for demons.

The Abramelin Operation: Angels, Demons, and Six Months of Celibacy

The ritual itself? A marathon of spiritual boot camp. Phase one: At least six months (up to 18!) of hardcore prep—daily prayers, fasting, no booze, no hanky-panky. The goal? Invoke your Holy Guardian Angel (HGA), basically your higher self or divine guide, for ultimate enlightenment.

But wait, there’s a twist: After cozying up to your angel, you summon the “12 Kings and Dukes of Hell” (think big-name demons like Lucifer, Satan, and pals) to bind them and boot their bad influences from your life. It’s like therapy, but with incantations and potential possession risks. Crowley dove in headfirst, performing invocations with a small crew of followers, aiming for that transcendent HGA contact.

What Went Wrong: Interruptions and Infernal Leftovers

Crowley was knee-deep in the ritual when—bam!—a summons from Golden Dawn boss Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers yanked him to Paris for some order drama. He bolted without wrapping things up, allegedly leaving those hellish dukes unbound and roaming free. Crowley later admitted his “black magic” experiments spiraled out of control, and locals whispered about unleashed forces.

The fallout? Tragedies galore. His lodge keeper, Hugh Gillies, lost two kids—one to a sudden illness at age 10, another mysteriously at just one hour old. Crowley himself claimed weird happenings, and the house earned a rep for hauntings: strange creaks, ghostly figures, and even a 1965 suicide by an army major who blew his head off mid-conversation (yikes). Fires ravaged the place multiple times, including a total gutting in 2015 while empty. Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page, who owned it from 1970-1992, heard tales of apparitions from caretaker Malcolm Dent, who reported doors slamming and a beastly presence lurking.

Beyond Abramelin: Other Occult Shenanigans

While Abramelin was the star, Crowley hosted various rituals at Boleskine until 1913, blending Thelema, black magic rumors, and Golden Dawn vibes. He used the house as a base for writings and workings, infusing it with his “Do what thou wilt” ethos. Legends say the unfinished ritual cursed the joint, linking it to Loch Ness Monster sightings (Crowley joked about summoning Nessie) and endless eerie events.

Boleskine House, restored by a foundation in recent years, stands as a testament to Crowley’s audacious quest for the divine—and the dangers of half-finished spells. If you’re brave, it’s now a museum of sorts, but maybe pack some holy water. Who knows what lingering demons are still RSVPing to the party?

Lucifer Rising the true story behind the ill fated film

 Rise and Shine: The Wild, Witchy World of Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising

Buckle up, film fans and occult enthusiasts—today we’re diving into one of the most gloriously chaotic cinematic sagas ever: Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising (finally completed in 1980, though it kicked off way back in the groovy ‘60s). This isn’t your standard blockbuster with explosions and superheroes. Oh no. This is a 29-minute psychedelic ritual invoking Egyptian gods, ancient magick, and the dawn of a new age, all wrapped in stunning visuals of volcanoes erupting, gods summoning, and a flying saucer buzzing the pyramids. Think of it as the ultimate mood board for the Age of Aquarius… with a side of rock ‘n’ roll drama!

Kenneth Anger, the underground filmmaking legend and self-proclaimed magus (he was a big Aleister Crowley fan—more on that later), envisioned Lucifer Rising as a celebration of Lucifer not as the devilish bad guy, but as the “bringer of light.” Egyptian deities like Isis and Osiris summon him to kick off a new occult era. Shot in epic locations: the Sphinx and Karnak in Egypt (Anger fibbed to officials, saying it was a harmless documentary), Stonehenge in England, and even volcanic sites in Germany.

 The cast? Rock royalty and eccentrics—Marianne Faithfull as the fierce Lilith, Donald Cammell (director of Performance) as Osiris, and a cameo from Jimmy Page himself.

But here’s where it gets fun—the behind-the-scenes soap opera is better than any reality TV!

•  Lucifer #1: The Jailbird Edition
Anger’s first pick for Lucifer? A young musician named Bobby Beausoleil, spotted at a wild San Francisco event (legend has it he was playing guitar and… well, getting very up close and personal with a performer). They filmed some footage, but things soured. Anger accused Beausoleil of stealing film reels (Beausoleil said nah, it was just test shots). Drama ensued—Anger even publicly “died” in a Village Voice ad! Fast-forward: Beausoleil joined the Manson Family, got convicted of murder, and ended up composing the final soundtrack… from prison! With his inmate band, the Freedom Orchestra. Talk about redemption arcs.

Soundtrack Shenanigans: Rock Gods Edition
After the Beausoleil fallout, Anger turned to Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin (a fellow Crowley obsessive who bought Crowley’s old house!). You can check out article on Boleskin House in another article.

 Page recorded a moody, atmospheric score… but delays and arguments led to a spectacular breakup—Anger cursed Page in the press, calling him a washed-up has-been. Page’s version leaked later (it’s eerie and guitar-drenched), but the official one is Bonus Chaos: A real UFO photobombed filming (they recreated it), Marianne Faithfull smuggled herbs into Egypt (yikes, death penalty territory back then), and Anger burned his old scripts in a ritual fire for the finale.

In the end, Lucifer Rising is a hypnotic fever dream: swirling colors, symbolic rituals, erupting lava symbolizing rebirth, and that iconic ending with a UFO over the pyramids. No dialogue, just pure visual magick set to Beausoleil’s haunting score. It’s influenced everyone from music videos to experimental art, and it’s a testament to Anger’s wild vision—he made actual ceremonies on screen to “make Lucifer rise.”

The Beast and the Filmmaker: Aleister Crowley’s Profound Influence on Kenneth Anger

Aleister Crowley, the infamous English occultist known as “The Great Beast 666,” cast a long shadow over 20th-century counterculture. Few felt his pull more deeply than underground filmmaker Kenneth Anger, who not only embraced Crowley’s philosophy but wove it into the fabric of his cinematic visions. Crowley’s religion, Thelema—centered on the maxim “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law”—became a guiding force in Anger’s life and art, transforming his films into ritualistic invocations rather than mere movies.

Anger’s fascination began in his teens. Introduced to Crowley’s works through friends like filmmaker Curtis Harrington and actress Marjorie Cameron (a key Thelemite and star in Anger’s films), he devoured texts like The Book of the Law. By the 1950s, Anger had fully converted to Thelema, viewing filmmaking as a form of magick (Crowley’s preferred spelling, with a “k” to distinguish it from stage illusions). He even named his seminal series the Magick Lantern Cycle, a nod to early film projectors and Crowley’s esoteric teachings.

Crowley’s impact is unmistakable in Anger’s oeuvre:

•  Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome (1954): A psychedelic ritual depicting gods and mythological figures in a dreamlike orgy of color and symbolism. Actors portray pagan deities, embodying Thelema’s Aeon of Horus—a new era of individual will and spiritual awakening prophesied by Crowley.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047114/

Invocation of My Demon Brother (1969): Featuring rolling footage of Crowley himself, occult symbols, and a soundtrack by Mick Jagger, this short is a chaotic evocation of Thelemic opposites—passionate unions of light and dark.

https://archive.org/details/invocation-of-my-demon-brother-lucifer-rising-kenneth-anger

•  Lucifer Rising (1980): Anger’s crowning achievement, portraying Lucifer as a light-bringer ushering in a new age. Directly inspired by Thelema’s view of Lucifer (not as evil, but as a liberator) and the Aeon of Horus, it features ancient sites, erupting volcanoes symbolizing rebirth, and Egyptian gods summoning change.

Beyond films, Anger lived Thelema. In 1955, he visited Crowley’s derelict Abbey of Thelema in Sicily, restoring erotic murals and filming rituals there. He mentored figures like Jimmy Page in Crowleyana and saw cinema as ceremonial magick—spells cast through montage, color, and symbol to awaken viewers’ true will.

Crowley’s influence turned Anger’s work into more than avant-garde experiments; they became modern grimoire, blending homoeroticism, pop culture, and ancient mysticism. As Anger once said, movies could be “mantras.” Through him, The Great Beast’s light (or shadow) continues to flicker on screens worldwide, proving Crowley’s enduring, enchanting hold on the rebellious and the visionary.

The Great Beast and the Guitar God: Aleister Crowley’s Spell on Jimmy Page

Aleister Crowley, the self-proclaimed “wickedest man in the world” and founder of Thelema, left an indelible mark on rock ‘n’ roll through one of its greatest guitarists: Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin. Page’s fascination with Crowley wasn’t just casual—it was deep, obsessive, and woven into his life, music, and mystique. From owning Crowley’s infamous estate to etching occult symbols into albums, Page channeled The Great Beast’s energy into the thunderous riffs that defined an era.

Page’s Crowley obsession kicked into high gear in the early 1970s. In 1970, he purchased Boleskine House on the shores of Loch Ness in Scotland—Crowley’s former home from 1899 to 1913, where The Beast performed intense rituals, including the Abramelin operation to summon his Holy Guardian Angel (and allegedly left some unruly spirits behind). Page rarely lived there due to touring but restored it and ran an occult bookstore called The Equinox in London, stocking Crowley rare editions.

Musically, the influence shines through Led Zeppelin’s catalog:

•  Symbols and Sigils: On the untitled fourth album (Led Zeppelin IV, 1971), each band member chose a symbol. Page’s mysterious “ZoSo” has been linked to Crowley’s writings, alchemical texts, and even a sigil from occult grimoires. It’s never been fully explained—Page loves the mystery!

Lyrics and Themes: Songs like “Stairway to Heaven” fueled backward-masking Satanism rumors (mostly debunked), but tracks reference Crowley directly. Robert Plant inscribed “Do what thou wilt” on the original vinyl of Led Zeppelin III. Page etched “Aleister Crowley” into the runoff groove of some pressings.

•  Kenneth Anger Connection: As a fellow Crowley devotee, filmmaker Kenneth Anger enlisted Page to score Lucifer Rising. Page delivered a moody, droning soundtrack, though their collaboration ended in a dramatic fallout (complete with public 

Page collected Crowley artifacts—manuscripts, paintings, robes—and even designed stage outfits with astrological symbols like Scorpio and Capricorn. He downplayed direct “magick” in music but admitted the occult fueled his creativity, saying Crowley represented freedom and rebellion against conformity.

Crowley’s shadow added to Zeppelin’s mythic, dangerous allure, inspiring generations of rock occultists. Through Page, Thelema’s “Do what thou wilt” became a riff-roaring mantra for rock excess and artistic liberation. The Beast would approve!

If you’re into the occult, ‘60s counterculture, or just love a good cursed production story, hunt down Lucifer Rising. It’s short, strange, and utterly spellbinding. Hail Lucifer… or at least, hail the light-bringer of weird cinema!

You can now get a special version of Jimmy Page’s Lucifer Rising Soundtrack as well as the  Bobby Beausoleil  Version there are some(expensive!) booklegs and versions out there of both the film and the soundtrack. We’ve linked a rare early version of the film as well as Pages original soundtrack for you to get an idea of what the film was like. 

https://youtu.be/0nT0oCY022M

https://youtu.be/2e1QjB6fmKs?si=OhuIerPhWvyiOGvG