Ashmore Transmissions

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept.

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The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Jane Dougherty wrote a poem as a response to my note.

I lost my breath, and it didn’t return until now.

There is a dark, quiet magic in her words. Something that reminds me of what I have lost. What was taken from me, she carries it.

All I could do was read back what she created. If this were a battle, she won with the first three words. But it isn’t, and I am proud she wrote these lines that mattered so much to me.

Please read the original work on Jane Dougherty’s Substack.

If it reaches you the way it reached me, reply to her post. Then forget my echo of her work, and ask the hollow dusty dearth. Who knows?

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Edna St. Vincent Millay lived in defiance of the world. Her words offer no consolation. She did not bow to death. When she heard his calls, she sang a dirge stripped of music.

No heaven.

No comfort.

No surrender.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

1892 † 1950

Dirge without music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Do not approve. Do not resign.

Leave an offering †Join the secret cult.

Original photos by Julia Kadel and Carl Van Vechten. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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César Vallejo was beaten by life.He knew hunger, prisons, and exile. His blows of God meant the world itself.

The fascists and their wars broke him.

When they reached the Mediterranean, cutting him from his beloved Spain, he died in pain.

No salvation.No glory.

César Vallejo 1892 † 1938

The Black Heralds

Some blows in life, they’re so heavy . . . I don’t know. Blows as if dealt by God’s own wrath, as if, ahead, the rip of every single thing we’d ever suffered had pooled inside our souls . . . I don’t know. These are few, but there they are . . . They carve dark trenches in the toughest faces, the fiercest backs. Perhaps they’re the racks of barbarous Attilas, or else the black heralds that Death has sent us. They’re the steep fall of some Christ from the soul, of the laudable faith that Fate can make foul of. Those bloodied blows are the sounds of bread crackling in oven doors, turning to charcoal. As for man . . . woe is he . . . woe. He turns his gaze, as if answering the call of a slap on the shoulder: his expression is wild and all that he’s lived through is settled, like penitent pools, in his eyes. Some blows in life, they’re so heavy. . . I don’t know.

(Translated by Yvette Siegert, Public Domain)

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé! Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte. Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema. Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!

(Written 1918)

Leave an offering †

Join the secret cult.

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This transmission is preserved in the catacombs.Receive “I Am The Demon Of The End” at Cult of Ashmore →

I Am The Demon Of The End contains the final words. Nothing more can be said.

Mystery, Babylon The Great (Aurora Gamourtian) summoned this voice, the last to speak.

It reveals the ultimate truth. The last truth we need to hear.

You shall enjoy no longer. The enjoyment was always destined to be mine, for I am the demon of the six rhythms of Hell and you could never hope to know my depths.

Everything crumbles after these words are read.

If you dare to accept yourself as you are, listen, and read:

Background images by Kunj Parekh and Saya Wonder. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

The signal carries further than this transmission.Continue through Transmissions →

New writings, transmissions, Black Tapes, and other fragments surface through The Signal →.

If something remained with you, leave an Offering †.

Listen: Bandcamp — YouTube — Spotify

I am dust.

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This transmission is preserved in the catacombs.Receive “A Hunger” at Cult of Ashmore →

A Hunger speaks from the depths.

JLG Noga summoned this demon.

It shows the way to Nirvana—a place that could have been mine. But I turned from the light.

Now, show them the light we see. In slow gorges, if you can. The slower, the better. It’s more tender that way.

I know this hunger. My memories have returned.

Read all the words here:

Background image by Marius Gerome. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

The signal carries further than this transmission.Continue through Transmissions →

New writings, transmissions, Black Tapes, and other fragments surface through The Signal →.

If something remained with you, leave an Offering †.

Listen: Bandcamp — YouTube — Spotify

I know a way out.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com