In the first part of the journal entry, I reflected on a conversation with my mundane friend, Mr. H, who was fascinated and skeptical about my occult interests. Mundanes often view magic as something fantastical, much like collectors who own rare art but fail to appreciate its depth. While they may be curious, few actually pursue or understand magic beyond the surface level. Magic, like art, is sacred and complex, and it is challenging to share its true meaning with those who only see it as entertainment. This encounter made me reflect on the difficulty of explaining magic to someone who only views it as “woo-woo,” failing to grasp its deeper, practical applications.

In the subsequent sections, I delved into the three fundamental components of magic—psychological, physiological, and energetic. Mr. H was quick to attribute magical effects to the placebo effect, but he failed to see the broader picture. Magic works by combining all three aspects, just as the ancient Egyptians did in their powerful rituals. Psychological techniques work with the unconscious mind, while potions and substances affect the body on a physiological level, and energy manipulation adds a third, elusive layer. Modern practitioners often focus solely on the energetic level, but true magic is holistic. It integrates all three components, creating a powerful synergy that goes beyond what science, medicine, or religion can accomplish individually.

I reflect on how pop culture both gets things right and wrong about magical practitioners, especially regarding natural gifts and abilities. Every person, magical or not, is unique, but it’s only when you look closely that you realize the differences in how individuals approach magic. Pop culture, particularly TV shows like Charmed or Harry Potter, often confuses people about "active powers" and magical gifts, leading to unrealistic expectations. Many believe that having natural psychic abilities makes them special, but in reality, abilities like psychic vision or mediumship are more common than most realize. The real work comes in what you do with those abilities. I’ve seen so many psychics who can communicate with spirits but are simply used as vessels—tools for the spirit world, without the ability to actually change anything they foresee. True witches don’t just observe, we create change.

I stress the importance of pushing beyond natural abilities and never being satisfied with staying at your starting point. Even those who discover magic later in life, without natural gifts, can surpass naturally gifted individuals if they have the right hunger and determination. Success in magic isn’t about what you’re born with—it’s about how far you’re willing to push yourself, to break through barriers, and learn from mistakes. The only practitioners I’ve seen fail are those who either give up, refuse to open their minds, or stay stuck in worshiping idols and feeding their energy to parasitic spirits. Ultimately, real magical growth comes from challenging yourself, learning new skills, and seeking the guidance of wise teachers—whether human or spirit—who can help push you further down the path. Magic is a journey, and settling for less is a sure way to stagnate.

In the latest journal entry, I reflected on one of the most powerful and complex gifts I’ve received in my practice—the Scythe of Santa Muerte—and the contract that came with it. What’s particularly amusing, and somewhat disconcerting, is that Santa Muerte made it clear from the start that I would misuse the gift, it would be taken away, and eventually returned. Knowing this ahead of time didn’t stop me from walking right into it, and I ended up using the Scythe in a way I shouldn’t have. It was a situation where my emotions overrode my logic, and despite knowing better, I acted in the moment. Santa Muerte, of course, anticipated this—it was woven into the contract from the start. The lesson here is that sometimes, even when you know something is coming, the weight of human nature can drive you toward inevitable actions.

The nature of working with death and Saturnian spirits is often misunderstood. They aren’t malicious forces, as many believe, but rather neutral entities concerned with balance. My misuse of the Scythe didn’t change much in the grand scheme, as Death gets everyone in the end, even the universe itself. It’s all about ensuring the scales are balanced, and they don’t mind how that’s achieved as long as everything adds up. High-level magic, at its core, is really just understanding how to navigate these cosmic balances. But as with all things, there are layers of mystery left unspoken, and perhaps it’s best to leave the rest unsaid—for now.

In this journal entry, I reflect on the story of Black Sabbath, a magician who fell victim to a group of old crafters during his travels, mistakenly believing he was undergoing a magical initiation. In reality, he had unknowingly offered himself as payment in a ritual involving Santa Muerte. After suffering physical and spiritual consequences, he sought my help. While I managed to break the contract, explaining that Santa Muerte wasn’t truly interested in him and the harm he experienced was more of a warning, the situation reminded me of how often dabblers in magic end up in over their heads when dealing with real practitioners and powerful entities.

This situation with Black Sabbath is not unique. I’ve encountered many who dabble in magic without understanding the seriousness of what they’re getting involved in, and more often than not, they end up in trouble. When I share stories of these experiences, particularly at local moots or in online communities, I’m often accused of fear-mongering or being overly involved with "dark arts." It’s frustrating, as many modern practitioners ignore the reality that magic, like nature, isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. The "love and light" crowd tends to overlook the dangers that come with crossing powerful forces without proper knowledge or respect, often resulting in hard lessons that could have been avoided.

In my recent reflections, I’ve been exploring the intersection of technology, magic, and tradition. Despite my background in computer science and a once keen interest in "grey hat" hacking, I’ve found myself slipping behind in the ever-evolving tech world, much to the amusement of my younger clients. The algorithms that shape our digital experiences have a love-hate relationship with me, sometimes delivering profound content and other times provoking annoyance to keep me engaged. One such moment of fascination came through a Tarot de Marseille animation that beautifully illustrated "the path" of the occult seeker—beginning with initiation, facing challenges, and ultimately confronting the abyss. It reminded me of the timeless symbols that continue to surface, even in the modern age.

I’ve also been reflecting on the Tarot itself, particularly the Tarot de Marseille. Unlike the more visually symbolic Rider-Waite-Smith deck, the Marseille deck’s simplicity can be a challenge for many, though I find it a valuable teaching tool for psychic development, spellcasting, and revealing occult secrets. During my time studying the deck, I learned some of the rules passed down by a student of Philippe Camoin, a descendant of its original creators. The "rule of gazes," for example, provides structure in a reading, showing how many cards to pull and where to place them. The Tarot can easily become a crutch for some, but when approached properly, it offers not just insight but a system of laws that reveal deeper truths...

I’ve reflected on an encounter with a man I dubbed "The Fool." Several years ago, this man approached me for help after getting tangled up with a German witch who roped him into ritual work involving the devil. His fascination with the occult, combined with a lack of real understanding, led him to become a pawn in her rituals. Even after their relationship ended, he couldn’t shake his obsession with the entity she summoned, continuing to offer it energy and attention despite receiving nothing in return. When he returned to me two years later, his situation had worsened, as he found himself manipulated by not only the entity but also a girlfriend and her mother, becoming their personal servant. Despite his hopes for power, he was stuck in a loop of servitude.

I offered him advice again, this time urging him to develop his own magical abilities, work on energy manipulation, and stop relying on spirits to do all the work. The core issue with the Fool wasn’t his magical potential, but rather his psychological state—he was naturally submissive, a slave to others' will, which is counterproductive for any serious magic practitioner. Though things eventually improved for him, it was a slow process, and he had to learn to reclaim his personal power. There are lessons to be learned here about the dangers of giving too much power to others—whether they be humans or spirits—and the need to stand on one’s own feet in the craft.

 It’s been years now since I accepted the offer to help create something new, something that went against the grain of everything I’d been told by the old guard. The plan? To build a mystery school—a society, a place, an experiment. A test to see if we could do what so many seasoned witches swore could never be done: to teach magic openly, to bring the arcane out of the shadows, and to share it with those the elders deemed unworthy.

Looking back, I see now that I’ve always had a bit of a rebellious streak in me when it comes to the local practitioners. Don’t get me wrong, they possess power, wisdom, and experience, but there was always something about their secrecy that rubbed me the wrong way. I was never one to stay in the proverbial broom closet. Even in my early days working in construction, I had magical clients calling me for help and advice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I wore my practice openly, even if the rest of the world kept it under wraps. This might sound odd, given the anonymity I enjoy here in this journal, but it’s true—I’ve never hidden who I am. And maybe that was part of my naïveté in the beginning, trusting that people who said they wanted to learn magic really meant it. I’ve met plenty of great practitioners in my time, the real deal. The fascinating thing about these truly skilled witches and magicians? They don’t write books. They don’t teach openly. They’re not chasing after Instagram followers or writing for that absurd publishing company with the crescent moon logo. No, these people lurk in the shadows, working quietly, occasionally turning up at the odd Pagan moot to scope out talent. More often than not, they’re looking to see if there’s anyone worth assimilating into their private practices—though some, like Mr. Q (yes, I see you), just show up to see which plebs they can manipulate for their own ends.

These real practitioners stay hidden, keeping their craft close and inaccessible, and sometimes it’s hard not to feel a bit superior when you know the difference. I get accused of being elitist sometimes, but it’s not because I’m puffed up by my own skill or think I’m better than others. It’s just that I know what it takes—the sheer determination, the grit, and, yes, the metaphorical balls—to really get anywhere with magic at a high level. The quality of modern-day practitioners is… well, let’s just say it’s lacking. The 21st century has become a playground for spiritual dabblers, and if you’re serious about magic, you either have to commit or bow out. There’s no middle ground. That’s what led us—me and another practitioner, someone with the same frustration I felt—to open the doors. To let the profane, the mundane, the wannabes in. We thought, why not?

Why not try to teach the unworthy, to show them what real magic looks like, and maybe—just maybe—find the one or two gems among the hundred fools. And for a time, it worked. We found some hungry souls, people who really wanted to learn and progress. We built workshops, created communities, and soon enough, the experiment stretched across the globe. But for every one true student, there were a hundred more who just wanted to play dress-up. Magic is serious work, yes, but it’s also fun. And I never cared much about what someone looked like—after all, glamour magic is a thing. But I do care about their ambition, their hunger to know. And it became clear that most people just didn’t have it.

They’d spend thousands of pounds on crystals, without a clue how to use them. They’d collect tarot decks like trophies, but couldn’t pull a single accurate reading if their lives depended on it. Witchcraft has become an industry. And not because there aren’t real practitioners out there—there are—but because that’s what people want. They want the aesthetics, the tools, the trinkets. They don’t want the actual work. It’s frustrating, sure, but it’s also just the way things have gone. The world’s full of people who want the look of magic, not the substance. Now, as this grand experiment I’ve been part of begins to wind down, I find myself reflecting on it all. I started this journey to prove the old witches wrong, to show that it could be done—that magic could be taught to anyone willing to learn. And in some ways, we succeeded. But mostly, I’ve learned that the old ways really are the best. The closed circles, the secrecy, the intense dedication—it’s there for a reason.

Magic isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay... 

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Welcome to the official YouTube channel of the infamous Cunning Man, known only as Psychic Villain. Here, you'll find videos on folk magic, spellcraft, divination, and the hidden traditions of the occult, all shared anonymously. Join me as I explore the mystical world through rituals, tutorials, and ancient practices—always keeping one foot in the shadows. 

As I mentioned before, creating something like a magical vinegar is a deeply personal journey, a blend of intuition, experimentation, and tradition. But it’s not a journey you take in complete darkness. There are always clues left behind, remnants of past practitioners’ work that help guide the way. If you’re willing to share your own formulas with me, I may consider sharing mine in return. But for now, I’ll offer you a starting point. One of the oldest recipes for a vinegar steeped in magic and mystery comes from none other than

The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, published in 1747. It reads:

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Welcome to the official YouTube channel of the infamous Cunning Man, known only as Psychic Villain. Here, you'll find videos on folk magic, spellcraft, divination, and the hidden traditions of the occult, all shared anonymously. Join me as I explore the mystical world through rituals, tutorials, and ancient practices—always keeping one foot in the shadows. 

 There’s something about the legend of Four Thieves Vinegar that’s always captivated me. I think, more than anything, it’s the perfect blend of history, magic, and mystery. It’s one of those tales that we can’t quite verify—was it true, was it exaggerated? Did these thieves really manage to ward off the plague with nothing more than a simple concoction of herbs and vinegar? That’s the beauty of it: a story lost to time, passed down with reverence, filled with just enough magic to make you wonder. The legend goes like this: during the time of the Black Death, four thieves managed to survive amidst the chaos and disease, looting the homes of the dying without ever succumbing to the plague themselves.

When they were finally caught, their secret was revealed. In exchange for a lighter sentence, they divulged their method—an herbal vinegar mixture that kept the sickness at bay. There’s something thrilling about the idea, isn’t there? The notion that a few common herbs, when combined with intention and precision, could protect against something as devastating as the plague. The line between magic and the mundane blurs in the most exciting way. Here we have a formula, yes, but it’s not just a simple recipe. It’s an act of magic disguised as medicine, a few mysterious ingredients woven together to produce a potion that does something far greater than the sum of its parts.

I’ve always loved this story and the formula that came from it, not just for its intrigue but because it’s a perfect example of what makes potion-making such a deeply creative and personal practice. It takes the would-be student on a journey, teaching them a few fundamental rules while still encouraging creativity and ingenuity. After all, there are so many variations of Four Thieves Vinegar—each one slightly different, each one a reflection of the practitioner who made it. The challenge, of course, is that you’re limited to just four ingredients.

Four thieves, each with their own role to play, each carefully chosen. And that’s what makes it brilliant. So many beginners, in their eagerness, want to throw every herb and correspondence into a potion—every single ingredient they’ve read about that could possibly help. But magic, like good crime, is about precision. It’s about knowing exactly what’s needed and nothing more. When crafting a Four Thieves Vinegar, you have to think carefully. You must choose four ingredients that not only work individually, but also together. There’s no room for excess, no space for chaotic combinations. I like to think of it as assembling a team of criminals for a heist. Each ingredient is a member of the crew. You’ve got the safe cracker, the lookout, the muscle, and the getaway driver.

They might not all get along, but they need to be professional. There has to be honour among these thieves. They need to complement each other, each one serving a unique purpose. One to break through, one to shield, one to soothe, and one to strike. It’s an artful balancing act, and when done right, it’s a perfect symphony of power. The other thing that fascinates me about this formula is how it walks the line between magic and practicality. Vinegar itself is such a mundane substance—nothing magical about it on the surface.

Yet when infused with the right herbs, it transforms into something protective, something powerful. The mundane becomes magical, and that’s the core of what I love about potion-making. Everyday ingredients, handled with care and intent, can become vessels for extraordinary power. Of course, I won’t give you the recipe—not because it’s forbidden, but because it’s a journey each practitioner has to take for themselves. That’s part of the magic. You have to learn how the ingredients speak to you, how they interact, how they come together.

Every witch’s Four Thieves Vinegar will be a little different, because every witch’s magic is different. It’s not about blindly following a formula—it’s about understanding it, living it, and then making it your own. And that, I think, is the heart of why this story endures. It’s not just a legend about survival during the plague. It’s a lesson in magic itself.

The balance between creativity and discipline, the interplay of ingredients, the power of simplicity. It’s a reminder that sometimes, less is more, and that the greatest power often comes from the simplest things—when they’re combined with the right intention, of course.

Secrets are funny things. At this point, I’ve forgotten more of them than I currently keep, which is probably just as well. It’s not just the secrets from other lives that slip away, but even the ones shared in this life. Most of the time, it’s simply a matter of not finding what people have to say all that interesting. The truth is, I’ve kept far more of other people’s secrets than my own. And over time, they blur together into a fog of trivialities and forgotten details—whispers that were once so urgent to someone else, but never quite made an impact on me. It’s odd how some things are so delicate and huge for certain people, yet the very same matters can seem entirely trivial to others. I suppose that’s always been the case.

What weighs heavily on one person’s shoulders can barely graze the next. For me, I’ve always been the stable one. There’s a certain use in that. I can take on more responsibility than most, but there’s a price. The weak tend to cling to stability like a life raft, and I’ve found myself surrounded by those who can’t quite stand on their own. That’s another funny thing about getting older, isn’t it? You notice things about the elderly that start to make sense as the years pass. Patience, for one, seems to go out the window. I’ve seen it time and again. The older people get, the less they seem to care about the trivialities of others’ dramas. It’s as if, after so many years of carrying other people’s burdens, they finally allow themselves the freedom to just stop giving a damn. It’s not that they don’t care about anything, but their tolerance for nonsense?

Well, that seems to evaporate. And I can understand why. There’s a beauty in it, really. Take the old man’s slippers, for instance. Hideous things. But oh, so comfortable. That’s what life becomes about after a while—the comfort over the appearance, the easy over the complicated. We spend so much of our lives worrying about how things look, how they come across, and then one day, you wake up and realize you just want to be comfortable. The fuss, the performance, it all starts to fade. Maybe that’s why old people seem to grow bolder, sharper in their words.

They’ve earned the right to let go of what doesn’t matter, to embrace the simplicity of an easy life. I’m not quite there yet, but I can feel it creeping in. The things that once demanded so much energy—keeping everyone else’s secrets, minding everyone else’s business—don’t feel as pressing anymore. It’s freeing, in a way, though it does leave me questioning what I want to carry forward. What’s worth holding on to, and what can be left behind, forgotten like all those secrets that once seemed so important?

I suppose the real secret is this: you don’t need to keep everything. Some things are meant to slip away, to lighten the load. And the older you get, the more you realize how little you truly need to hold on to.