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A Dream About The Black House and Anton La Vey

topic posted Sun, January 7, 2007 - 3:19 PM by  JA
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In 1975, as a teenager, I had a rather haunting dream about Anton LaVey's The Black House, the headquarters in San Francisco of the Church of Satan. It is still as fresh to me today as it was 32 years ago. I would like to share it with the tribe, and if anyone wishes to comment feel free to do so.

In my dream, my family took a trip to San Francisco. This never happened, but as with dreams, anything can happen.
My mother and sister went shopping. My dad and brother went off together and I was left to my own needs so I strolled out for a walk.
I soon found myself standing outside a tall, narrow, black house with a pointed roof. It was squeezed between other buildings, and to the left of the front door a narrow, gated walkway ran to the back. I went out into the very sloped street and peered up at the roof where a small black window was located. I sensed something was up there, and a creepiness rippled through me.
The front door opened and a man in black stepped out. He was handsome, though bald, and when he saw me, he was quite friendly.
He invited me inside. I accepted his offer. He was very gentlemanly. I saw the sign before I entered. Church of Satan, EST. 1966.
Inside was another man, younger, dark haired with a moustache. He smiled, but the woman with large eyes never smiled or spoke.
They gave me a tour. One room was all black with red accents, another room was all white, so bright my eyes ached. They called it the room of Purity. I kept thinking of upstairs and soon found myself climbing the stairs which grew more twisty and angled the higher I got, until they became a ladder and I went through a trap door into the attic. I saw the door. It was locked, chained, bolted, very secured. And it rattled like crazy as the 'it' on the other side tried to get out. I didn't get very close. Seeing it vibrate, hearing those drumming bashes, made me retreat back downstairs. Nearing the dark pool below, red glowing faces chanted at me. I edged past and out the front door and no one tried to stop me. Out in the street my brother and dad found me, and said we needed to get back for supper. I walked with them to the car and that concludes my dream.
Over the years, this dream has kept floating around, so being a writer I have decided to incorporate elements of this into the novel series I am writing. I will change it for my fictional story's benefit, but posting this real life dream is a means to giving myself some closure.
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JA
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  • Unsu...
     
    A cross of H.P. Lovecraft's book-to-screen version of "The Shuttered Room" w/ scream queen Carol Linley & actor Gig Young merged w/ your own astral travellings, I daresay. I have never been TO the Black House, only having seen it in footage from various documentaries. Ironic, then, isn't it, that an experimental reborn Xian band from Utah carries the name, "Five Minutes After I Die" being their one-shot CD? . . .
  • Unsu...
     

    My Vivid Anton LaVey Dream

    Tue, May 14, 2013 - 5:08 PM
    Ole' Anton gets around in the paradigm mills, and I'm a staunch secular materialist Atheist, but LaVey has encroached on my dreams or at the edge of them throughout my life. Here is an account I wrote on my Tribe.net profile blog of dreams. -Jay Mal

    LAST SPELL CAST PAYS THE BILL

    At what appears to be the seaside resort of Santa Monica, CA I’m visiting with an obscure man who seems to be a cross between an “underground press” publisher and an attractive dark haired sex object. Apparently my meeting wasn’t to be the sole one. A tall powerfully built middle or older aged man dressed in white Levi’s pants, shoes, and a brilliant blue, white, red, tropically designed shirt. He was shaved bald. The three of us were introduced and at a café with large comfortably designed, wrap around booths with plush velvety upholstery, we were seated having cocktails.

    I’m aware of my host’s healthy glowing, pink Caucasian skin. It becomes equally apparent that the bald man next to me is Anton Szandor LaVey, head and founder of The Church of Satan. His jovial summer dressed persona is fatherly, knowledgeable, seductive. I stare at his eyes and behold that the colors within are pink and amber, similar to an animals, most likely a lizard. I feel myself aroused, afraid, fascinated, flightly. His manner is charming, extremely polite, hardly the portrait painted by the mass media.

    I’m also aware of another presence within the LaVey form. I can sense its intelligence and evil? Dread? Or were those ignorant human terms, I pondered? I listen as LaVey politely asks questions, still numb to the reality that I’m actually sitting with “The Black Pope.” I don’t over trust him however. Being part of several political minority groups, this heterosexual, White racialist identified man in real life was the last person I would identify with. While I didn’t feel like an ally, I did feel like an equal, an alien intelligence like him, within my form who coexisted with violent, erratic creatures like humans, the great difference was that his human disguise represented the dominant political/economic group. Sometime later I return to another part of the Santa Monica neighborhood to a lovely white, Spanish style hotel complex. In a separate reception hall area, I again meet LaVey as he shows me items for a memorabilia show still being assembled.

    Most extraordinary are the show cars. His collected entry includes a long fancy race car, somewhat similar to the one from the early 1960s THE MUNSTERS TV show. This car is vermillion colored with a long engine, a 1920’s retro hot rod design. The riding cabin has large glass windows, making it more like a ridiculous living room on wheels. “I remember you were the one who made nostalgia for outdated memorabilia fashionable again, old pop hits, 1920’s things, stuff like that” I say. He gently smiles and provides such a feeling of camaraderie that I want him for a lover, friend, protector, companion always realizing that some other more feral aspect dwells beneath the surface. We gently laugh together, which spurs me to think that just having sex with him wouldn’t hurt. Inevitably we both get in a ritual mood. LaVey evokes incoherently, tenderizing the atmosphere with a different current as I take long brown feathers in my left hand and twirl a black leather sling shot in my right hand above my head, evoking and uttering words towards an African deity “Ellegua Eshu,” the Yoruban equivalent of the Dark One. We spend an afternoon doing this, our ritual inevitably to have some disturbing global effect.

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