THE MAGUS-CURRENT PROCLAMATION - A working Aleister Crowley linking sigil- hyperchaossigil

THE MAGUS-CURRENT PROCLAMATION

There is a truth I have carved into my bones, a truth the timid magicians of the age dare not pronounce: all magick that is inherited is already dying. Tradition is a taxidermy of the real. Books are embalming fluid. Orders are mausoleums. The true Current does not live in what has been written—it lives in what we dare to create. Magick is only alive when it breathes, when it stains the fingers, when it roars through the nerves with the heat of a god remembering its name.

If you want the current, you cannot learn it—you must seize it.
If you want power, you must tear your way past the ghosts of the Orders and take the pulse of the thing itself.
Go to the artery.
Go to the Will behind the Wills.

Ellis was the first signpost, the first red tear in the fabric. A sigil that refused to be a sigil. A creature pretending to be a drawing. A whisper that became a storm. It showed us that a glyph, once awakened, becomes a living vector—mutating, surviving, spreading through minds like fire stalking dry grass. And if one sigil could evolve, I understood instantly: so could an Adept’s name. So could a lifetime of magick. So could the Work itself.

This is when the old map burned away.

I saw Crowley not as a man but as a current—a 93-engine still vibrating behind the veil. Spare appeared as pure subconscious venom, a crooked lightning. Blavatsky revealed a cosmic edifice, half-finished but still humming. Lévi shone with balanced force, Bardon with elemental intellect, Aiwass with silent blade-light. These weren’t “ancestors”—they were engines left idling in eternity, waiting for anyone with enough audacity to ignite them.

So I did what no Order ever taught, because they feared this truth:
I carved hypersigils from their names and bound my own sigil into theirs.
Not beneath.
Not beside.
Into.

I drove my Will like a nail through their currents, fusing glyph to glyph until the linework shook with voltage. And the moment that fusion sealed, the air thickened. The current shifted. Something in the world acknowledged me, and I it.

This was no ritual. This was no séance.
This was a declaration of magickal sovereignty.

And the results came like storms.
Crowley’s current didn’t arrive as a personality—it arrived as force, the true Beast-vector, stripped of biography and scandal. Spare came at my subconscious like a hammer. Blavatsky expanded my skull into architecture. Bardon sharpened thought into blades. Lévi imposed symmetry upon chaos. Aiwass—ah, Aiwass—entered like the quiet before lightning splits the earth.

These hypersigils are not drawings.
They are magickal machines, built with deliberate blasphemy.
Living gates.
Engines of Will.

And as I worked them, something extraordinary began to rise: they linked themselves. Not as ink—ink is the corpse. As current. As resonance. As a living lattice of magick threading itself through my life, my workings, my dreams, my movements. A network was forming—an astral machine awakening node by node.

This is when I understood my duty.

I began seeding the hypersigils across the world—
the UK,
Paris,
Spain,
France,
the United States—
leaving them in sacred sites, haunted corners, forgotten shrines, stone circles, forest altars, abandoned churches, museum stairwells, crossroads that devour time. Every placement lit a spark. Every sigil became a living ember lodged in the skin of the world. I felt the network thicken. I felt the Aeon stir.

And now I speak this plainly, not as metaphor or mysticism, but as command:

We must keep magick alive.
We must spread the current.
We must place these linking sigils across the world until the world itself becomes a circuit.

Magick dies when it is hoarded.
It thrives when it is scattered like seeds in the dark.

Imagine thousands of hands drawing the Spare hypersigil.
Imagine hundreds of Wills invoking the Crowley-gate.
Imagine Blavatsky’s cosmic engine reigniting through forests, oceans, and cities.
Imagine the Beast-current rising—not from one prophet, but from a global web of sorcerers refusing to bow to the slow death of tradition.

This is not a cult.
This is not an order.
This is not a religion.

This is a living organism of magick—a field, a force, a heartbeat carried by those of us who refuse to let the Old Aeon choke the life from the Great Work.

The hypersigils want to spread.
They want ink.
They want hands.
They want stone and wood and walls and hidden doorways and sacred soil.
They want to be left where the world can swallow them and birth them anew.

And so I give the call, with my whole Will behind every letter:

Spread the magick.
Keep the flame alive.
Draw the sigils.
Link the currents.
Leave the gates in sacred places.
Let the world bloom with power again.
Let the New Aeon rise through our Wills, not through prophecy.

Magick survives only when we dare to create it.
The Future is a sigil we carve together.

—Tony Newton