There’s a real illusion of actual personal intelligence being conveyed when we use words written by somebody else to describe how we feel. Leaning too hard in any one direction: intellectual, emotional, physical can become a crutch to help navigate around weakness as opposed to fully exploring it. The whole of what it means to be Me should not just be relegated to an intellectual regurgitator of ideas. Balance is necessary to understand the totality of the higher Self. Neglect one, and I neglect an integral part of what it means to be Me.

I speak Martian. (Not literally, this is just an example). So the only way I can relate my experience to a non-Martian is to find a way to translate my language into something easier to understand.

Yesterday, I finally got around to giving “The Repairer of Reputations” a good solid read. It’s a disturbing story. Although picturing a cat flying in the face of the person perceived to be Mr. Wilde was really funny. There’s a lot to unpack there, specifically with language. One part in particular points to something that relates to what I’m writing here—when Hildred demands to Louis that he needs to “renounce the crown.” Louis has no idea what he’s talking about.

Question: If I am seeking to peel back layers in an effort to interface with my NeterSelf through Process (which—in my language would be initiation) when does it become detrimental to continue ascribing our own words, language, perceptions of reality into the world around me?

Answer: It doesn’t become detrimental unless I absolutely refuse to acknowledge that there are worlds (both objective and subjective) with their own languages and cultures outside of my own. Maintaining this awareness requires me to engage with the world outside my own while I simultaneously translate external stimuli into a language I can understand up underneath colloquialisms and pleasant superficial conversation. The moment I reject the notion of other worlds, is the moment I embrace total solipsism.


Need an easy way to impress? Figure out a way to get your point across in a language others can understand. In other words, translate your language into something more—digestible. Good comedians excel at this. How do I know? They make me laugh.

The method in which we perceive interfacing with different languages is both troubling and fascinating. Language barriers can cause:

1 Feelings of inadequacy. They think they’re better than I am!

2 Feelings of ignorance. They’re dim-witted.

3 Feelings of insanity. They are crazy.

4 Refusal to recognize difference. I can’t understand this person so I’m not even going to try. Aka “speak English!”

5 All of the above.

I take my initiation seriously. Probably too seriously. And while you and I are vastly different individuals, I’m sure that we all value consistency. You know—upkeep, maintenance. This is the cornerstone of my initiation as a Setian. Who’s responsibility is it to write everyday? To workout even when my body says no? Mine. I am the master. And this is my Temple.

Consistency gives me control over my World. And by association, this carries over into the world outside. As a result of this I feel like I’m moving at lightspeed in a world that exists in slow motion all around me. This happens even among other Setians. I just can’t understand why—other than the fact that we all develop differently.

I get discouraged when so much of what I’m trying to say gets lost in translation as a result of my consistent practice colliding with the horrific and inconsistent outer world. This is actually a good thing, because if I didn’t feel this tension then I’d settle in real nice and stay warm.


Communication problems are arguably Magic problems, seeing that Magic is communication. And part of my communication problem is that I communicate in a literal way.

You say: “tell me about this thing.”

I say: “let’s do it.”

In my world, these two statements are the same. Telling me about a thing only goes so far. I only learn about a thing by doing it mySelf. Failure is always an option to me. It’s been my best teacher.

When I look up to the stars at night and try to hold onto any one detail, I always miss something. The whole picture needs to be looked at in order to be absorbed. When I speak, I speak like a sky full of stars. I kiss the shooting stars in the words I say as they fly away.

Everything that comes with physical life is temporary and therefore not as important to me as apprehending the parts of mySelf that I cannot see. Even so, holding onto something for too long is bad. An extreme example: Euripedes’s characterization of Medea. She’s miserable because she doesn’t understand how to let go.

I want to shift gears a little bit and talk a little about superiority. Humans have been making religious groups, political organizations, bowling teams, corporate think tanks, etc. since forever. Its become much more of thing with the advent of Capitalism in the West.

So why do we make groups? To be better. Better doesn’t mean getting over an ailment. It means becoming superior! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. Us and Them. All of that PT Barnum “Are you not entertained?” circus maximus malarkey.

Here’s the bottom line: I don’t want to be superior. I want to be Me. I am.

It’s always been intriguing to me that Setians are referred to as Nobles. Set’s Elect. Using those terms to describe oneSelf is akin to waking up in the morning and telling yourSelf “You’re beautiful.” or “I love you.” These expressions make you feel good about yourSelf. Grab a mirror and say it with me: “I am Noble.

Wonderful. This is positive conditioning. But this can also work against you by giving power to words others use to intentionally destroy you.

Language is a magical weapon.

Why am I Noble?

I am Noble because I exhibit qualities I find to be ethically and morally important. The highest good for Nikoletta Winters is found in Honesty, Transparency, and Provocation. Subjectively, if I live within the scope of what I find to be Noble, then I am indeed Noble. The word shouldn’t evoke a sense of false aristocratic superiority. It should evoke a sense of goodness (godliness) that is derived off of what I do as Process. This is just what I think.

There are language differences informed by individual experiences that change the context of words, expressions, and emotional responses. The sheer complexity that makes up the equation of a conscious being is unfathomable when an individual’s abstract subjective culture is combined with their objective socio-economic culture.

Xeper through the Mirror of the Self!


Behind Invisible Weapons

Close your eyes. And repeat after me…

Belief is strange. It has a magical quality that can completely transform reality if you buy into it. It’s so strange that if we’re told something enough times we might grow to adopt it as “Truth.” Even if that “Truth” is actually an invisible weapon disguised to hurt you.

Life inherently has no meaning. Any meaning that we attach to life begins first as a thing created by the mind. Therefore, any meaning that we ascribe to the world in front of us is first derived from the one we cannot see.

When we are young, we live like immortals. Bathing in the ignorance of youth. Waiting for time to never end, we are bewildered by the possibilities that the tomorrow might bring.

What feels good? Everything that doesn’t hurt. Until everything that is good hurts you.

In the end, everyone leaves. This is reality. Believe in free will or do not. Are you awaited in Hell? Or will you rot away below the earth without a care? Are you destined for greatness? Or do you carve your own path? In the end, everyone leaves. This is reality.

Behind Invisible Weapons

A Martian on Mars

Had a neat dream last night.

I was in this warehouse full of bodies. It was freezing. Black and white tile floors.

I had a choice to choose a synthetic body to inhabit. Let’s call this synthetic body an “ideal vessel” for my consciousness. This huge silver machine clicked on and gazed directly into my everything. I remember a cold shift occur, and one moment I was standing in my old body, the next I was looking at it through a new pair of eyes. My old body fell to the floor in a lifeless pile and was swept away by this huge silver scraper into these blood gutters morphing it into a gory mess of hair, skin, and bones. It made me feel emotional watching this. Which is interesting because if I now occupied my ideal body who cares about the old one?

My first reading of this dream feels like trying to reconcile attachment to my old body in the same way I might be attached to an old house. It’s lived in, comfy, and I have memories of which I associate that thing with. Everything leaves, dies, goes away. Old bodies. New bodies. All temporary. The conintuum of the higher Self isn’t so easily explained. And despite being so far removed from my old body, I remembered what it was like before. Even though I held issue with my previous body I didn’t dislike it. I liked my old body despite its faults. Which means I’m capable of finding something positive out of what I perceived to be a shitty situation. Getting used to a shift, a change, something new, takes a lot of work and effort.

I enjoy the challenge of being in less than ideal situations. Conflict comes in all levels of the human experience, but are there any that seem less ideal or more difficult than others to successfully live through? I think no. Because no matter what type of existence I lead in a human sense, I will always perceive my own struggles as both the most difficult, important, and unique.

Language. I don’t speak a language even remotely similar to you. Translation: We are similar in that we both share differences.

There’s something to be said about feeling “foreign.” I will always be a foreigner. It’s part of the experience of human existence to feel like a stranger in a strange land. I’m a Martian wherever I go. Even on Mars.

Xeper through the mirror of the Self,

Adept Nikoletta Winters

A Martian on Mars

Highways of the Higher Self

Today, Dr. Michael Aquino released an interesting book–an  “automobiography.” It’s entitled “Ghost Rides” and features a look back at some of the cars he came across during the adventure of his life. It features an introduction by horror author Don Webb. It can be found HERE.

The release of “Ghost Rides” has actually inspired me to write a car story of my own…here we go:

I have had cars come and go in my life, and there’s one in particular that will always “be the one” for me. My dad and I flew down to Atlanta when I was thirteen to pick up a car in northern Florida. When I first laid eyes upon this beauty of a car I knew that I would never look at another car the same way again. Behold the Camaro 1971 RS. The car needed a lot of work, not to mention a paint job (it was a vomit green color), but that didn’t matter. It was TOUGH. My dad and I drove this baby from Florida all the way back to the Northeast and along the way we had many adventures, including one evening where the power steering gave out and he had to muscle the muscle car into a gas station to figure out a solution. He went to find someone to talk to. I was left completely alone in the car, in the dark for sometime. My mind wandered into places a thirteen year old normally shouldn’t go, but I was acutely aware of problems I had with mySelf and began to speak to “Satan” openly about exactly where I wanted to be in twenty years. Some “deals” were struck, with what I would eventually reframe as my first conversation with my “NeterSelf.” This was 1997. What I said in that car and where I “drove” mySelf to in 2017 all lined up with what I said that night. And while I was far from the day where I would understand what Greater Black Magic even was, especially as a means to communicate with a part of mySelf far removed from the “world that is,” I regard this “apocryphal communication” as my first GBM working.

Within the mythology of mySelf this is the moment where my life began to get turned upside down on its head. All of this happened in the passenger seat of the sexiest car I’ve ever laid eyes on.


When we finally got home, my dad started to really work on the car a lot. He would lift weights like a beast and work on the car immediately after. I had the opportunity to help him on several occasions, even if that meant holding the light up for him to check the timing belt. My dad painted the Camaro “gun metal.” He rebuilt the engine. Completely redid the interior, black, black, black, no. 1. He put a blower in the car, and a cal induction hood on it. The car went through a total transformation, which also is quite apocryphal to me within the mythology of Me. I often wonder where I would be now if I hadn’t taken that initial “drive” on the highway of my higher Self. I digress.

My dad was planning on passing the car to me, but my parents started going through some rocky times after 9/11 and he ended up selling it to a collector in Washington state. I had a lot of good memories in the Camaro. My dad was a car nut the entire time he was around in my life and it was the one thing I always felt that I was able to bond with him on. There were certainly more muscle cars he rebuilt along the way, but our 1971 Camaro RS, was the last and most important car I’ve had the pleasure of “getting to know.”

One day, I want one my own…

Xeper through the (rearview) Mirror of the Self,

Adept Nikoletta Winters

Highways of the Higher Self

I’m a God

Just gonna–uh, leave this one here.

I’m a God

The One

My earliest memories hover around when I first experienced Self-awareness.

Like a cloudy dream, I remember sitting on the floor in my parents’ kitchen with a gallon of milk. I needed two hands to lift the milk out of the refrigerator. It was heavy. I put a cup down on the floor and tried lifting the gallon in order to pour it into the cup. I watched with a brief joy of the cup filling up and then the cup overflowed. Milk went everywhere. Imperfection.

I liked to dance myself silly in the living room. I would dance so hard I would give myself carpet burn on my knees and arms. I remember popping into our stereo system a clear cassette tape with James Brown’s “I Feel Good” on there. When the song was over I would get up and rewind it. I would dance and spin circles in unison to the trombones for hours.

Freedom has always tasted just like a good James Brown song. Tight, funky, far-flung, alone, and feeling good.

You can’t be big and small at the same time. You need to be the one.

The One

Poisonous Please

Sweet snowy rain

I hear you rumble–

Breathe upon me

Until the moon has failed

And shattered every heaven

Out of itself, out of herSelf

Until the moon has failed

And the fires of Her bleeding stop.

Covered fully, still covered

An eyeless wingless winged angel weeps

No process, devouring every clock.

I tear away at my scalp

Ripping out each hair together

Wrapped around my wrist

A halo and a rope

What does it take to let go?

Do I tear the hanged man away

From the caring or the apathy?

Or do I offer him

The poison of the pleased?

They used to say all the things to me

That hinged on early Victory.


Forget the old emanations.

Swirling above in hotel suites

Far above the stars.

Poisonous Please