Death Is Only the Beginning

By Brandon Notch

Death Is Only The Beginning

This is a story of a man who has mastered the ability of artistic expression through extrasensory, clairvoyance, and occult powers; while conflicted within his own thoughts, reflects upon his dark past. Living life the hard way, broke and homeless, one will do just about anything. Bringing illumination to the dark side of things like the alchemist that have come before his time, working with magic and unknown forces he mistakenly sparks a transformation becoming, “The Tattooist” and blurring the line between worlds. He sells his soul to the devil and walks that common path as his demons come out to play dancing under the moonlight. Fighting to survive amongst stone cold killers while hoping to see a glimmer of light penetrate to the depths of hell. The big end becomes the new beginning as this mad man tattoos a spectrum of color into your subconscious, a place where only black once resided. Come along on this journey as we search for enlightenment, and seek the true meaning of life while riding in a car full of murderers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524620875

Brandon Notch

Brandon Notch is an independent artist, writer, tattooist, philanthropist, member of San Bernardino Masonic Lodge (number 178), and thirty-second degree Scottish Rite Freemason. He is a freethinking individual with interests in philanthropy, philosophy, nature, art, science, and consciousness studies. These come through in his work as he paints, draws, and writes, bringing his creations to life and exposing them to the world. Brandon comes, like most, from a broken home, bent and confused about the state of our existence and the world at large. He started on his search for answers at a very young age and found himself standing in the middle of the dark night of the soul as he continued to seek enlightenment even to this day. With the sobering moment of self-realization upon him, he discovered that his journey has just begun. Turning his attention toward his intent, he was guided inward to illumination, the true self penetrating the veil. With a Catholic upbringing, he started to familiarize himself with holy scriptures and ritual but was quickly distracted by what he believed was real, the illusion created by other people’s thinking that formed a sort of prison for his mind, confining him within the construct and concepts of imposed belief systems. He eventually moved out of the abstract idea of organized religion and continued on his own personal journey, meditating upon each experience like waves of energy coursing through his being. Brandon was eager to experience all that life had to offer, and with the freedom of being an artist, he found himself traveling the world and meeting many people from all walks of life. His beliefs rise and fall with each wave of new information and each experience as his vessel rocks back and forth in the perpetual motion of chaotic order.

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© 2016 Brandon Notch. All rights reserved.

By artist and author Brandon Notch

Editor: Michele Lee Nock

Cover design: Thane Townsend

Interior artwork: Antique illustrations provided by Frater Nathan Setnakh www.fratersetnakh.etsy.com and provided by www.etsy.com/shop/ValentineGrimm, purveyor of digital printable images.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance, to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/27/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2088-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2086-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2087-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016911968

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Introduction Into

My Dream World

Chapter 1

Mystical Concepts

Chapter 2

Alchemy of life

Chapter 3

Dark Nights Of The Soul

Chapter 4

Evil Feeding Ego

Chapter 5

Search For Reality

Chapter 6

The Morning After I Killed Myself

About The Author

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Heinrich Nollius Rebis Theoria Philosophiae Hermeticae (1617)

Photo provided by Frater Nathan Setnakh www.fratersetnakh.etsy.com

Introduction

Into

My Dream World

H istory is created by those who write it.

Everyone has a story. It is what defines us. Our stories continue to change as we evolve in-and-out of our own skin, changing and manipulating the world around us. Layers must be peeled to no longer hold back the pain as each tear releases. From pain comes beauty allowing the flower to bloom from the inside out. Like shedding your skin with a rusty razor blade on a bad acid trip in a lonely desert. We all must shed something and leave it behind as a marker. The proof of your existence, and that it’s just a story.

In some sense that’s all we have is a story. What you’re about to read is just that, and I claim none of it to be true. As the only truth is in the present here and now, in the moment, and no two are the same. Constantly changing, evolving to harmonize in that instant, the equilibrium of dark-and-light, space-and-time. Stay in the moment as they transition, constantly shifting before your eyes. Like your thoughts coming-and-going, but how often are you even aware of what you are thinking, and if they are your own thoughts to begin with?

Be a witness to all of what life has to offer, and enjoy this wild ride in a car full of murderers with the smell of aftershave, gun oil, and decomposing flesh. Under the fingernails lies that impossible stench that refuses to wash away. Dried blood in my hair, that blank stare, trying to make sense of it all, and understand what has been done. Not knowing where you have been. The taste of blood and that annoying sting of a bitten tongue. The original sin. Once man got the taste of blood there was no going back, like a serpent circling itself eating its own tail. It’s all coming back to me now, I have been here before. What has already been started still needs to be finished. This is my story. It will entertain you and make you reflect. Think. Contemplate what is important in your own life. I’m going to ask you some questions before we continue to advance.

What if you could see into the future?

What if your future is merely your past?

What if you have lost the ability to see what is real in your life around you? Blinded by the truth you stand there with your eyes wide shut unable to see that your truth is merely a perception confined to your beliefs and expectations created by outside influences programed within you.

What if through learned behavior your moral compass becomes blurred?

What if you were a witness to a murder?

What if at that moment, you had a gun aimed directly at your heart? Witnessing your skewed memories pass by, the flash before your eyes, followed by last thing you see and hear; a brief crackling noise followed by that high pitched tone ringing through your head. Your dimly lit flame extinguishes. Passing through to the dark, you momentarily find the light, only to be thrown back into the reflection. Dreams within dreams not yet realized, total amnesia passes over.

Ask yourself, what if that murderer is you? Killing your dreams, your future possibilities and probabilities, killing yourself before you have had the ability to write your own story. There is no answer anyone can give you that you yourself don’t already know, it is all found within. Open your mind and your heart will soon follow. It is impossible for one’s heart to be opened without the mind first being free.

Sit back and relax as I entertain you with provocative stories, bringing illumination into the dark side of things like the alchemist that have come before my time. I will put you in the front seat of this car, as if you get to witness life for the first time, twisting the perception of your own reality. Time to get your hands dirty. What you’re about to consume is not the diary of a mass murderer, although I may have come across a few in my lifetime, and yes, I have felt compelled to kill. I believe we all get tempted with the urge.

This is a story of a child growing up under unusual circumstances, meddling in the black arts, the dark Qabala. He becomes an extremely successful occultist in all the wrong ways, finding himself on the right hand path. This child, soon to be a man, conflicted within his own beliefs, on the search of enlightenment with a gun in hand. I feel like before I can go any further I must have some sort of warning, like a list of possible side effects on a prescription bottle. This story will not attempt to cure the blind, herpes and or anyone with autoimmune disease, nor any other ailment. Or the blindness of ignorance for that matter. This story of death, betrayal, and mind-altering experiences is meant to be thought-provoking. There I warned you, don’t take it literally, this is all metaphorically speaking, enjoy the ride.

I was born in St. Paul, Minneapolis, 1979. My father was a businessman, a very successful one at that time. He owned the largest marketing agency in Minnesota, with no end in sight he decided to invest. Becoming an avid real estate investor, he realized he had a unique ability to transform the undesirable into the irresistible for those that could afford it. We lived next door to the mayor’s mansion, my brother, two sisters, and a grizzly bear. Yes, you heard me right. My dad had a grizzly bear as a pet. When my father lost it all, divorced-and-broke, we lived life the hard way through trials-and-tribulations. I was left to fend for myself among my siblings, like a pack of wild animals turning against each other, clawing, fighting, biting, and killing because they’re hungry. Losing the ability to think in the moment, the animalistic behavior of man, the reptilian brain kicks into auto pilot.

After living on the streets trying to find my own way in a city of lost souls, fighting to survive another day was a common occurrence and nothing came easy. Hoping to see a glimmer of light reach the depths of hell within my own consciousness, I questioned my existence. I eventually learned to rule over the dark, like a great prince, as I cast my shadow and shed the light. My perseverance to survive, at least for the time being, and that to succeed, to reach enlightenment, matched that of my own teacher, my own life, and beyond my wildest expectations. I made a pact with the devil himself, my old friend Lucifer. Blood would be shed in promise to the task I swore upon the blood oath.

I am going to give you an insight into my life. A chance to look through a window, to take a peek at what I’ve been through and some of the situations that I have lived to tell about. I will tattoo a spectrum of vivid colors into your subconscious, a place where black and white once resided. Take it as you wish. Believe what you want to believe. But ask yourself, have you ever been in a car full of murderers? I have.

My name is The Saint, one who has mastered the ability of artistic expression through extrasensory, clairvoyance, and occult powers. I am infamous for telling the greatest adventures. I am the creator of my own destiny. King of my own domain. I push through people’s limitations and walk the common path as certain blessings are granted among that bloody bond. The tattooist and the client is where it all starts. My artistic expression and extrasensory perception manifested into my work as I labor on creating entries into this world through supernatural forces. Torn flesh and blood mixes with the ink. Blood purging from the body. Free, free at last, so fleeting in its time. Crucifixes and demons hang on the walls. Spirits of many dance around, looking, watching and cheering on with bloodthirsty cries. They have come to watch the gladiators fight. As I slave to the needle under the mirrored image of my own lost soul. Where angels fight with devils, and those that may want to enter are welcome to come in. With one foot into the light and one into the cold frigid dark, the equilibrium will be restored, and you will be home again.

One can get lost within the surroundings of the eerie-lit tattoo studio, creating chilling laughter within one’s soul. The power relations through the participants in the tattoo studio transforms it into the ritual room. With the release of pain, liberation comes in a form of a blood sacrifice to receive the reception of ink. Burnt offerings to calm the senses and put the soul at rest. The distinct aroma, mixture of incense, cigars, pipe tobacco, and marijuana materializes as the buzzing sound of the tattoo machine rings throughout your head. The tattooist lays down the first drops of ink; cutting like a dry razor blade across the skin, like his fore-fathers/ancestors did before him. The ability to create. Manifesting from the nonexistent into our physical reality as he works his magic.

A light has been turned on, and you can’t help but to take a look at what was previously out of sight. You seek, and sneak a peek directly into the center of the extremely brilliant bright white radiance. Gaze for a second too long and it will permanently blind you. Continuously chasing life, illumination, searching for that, that is eternal, only to find yourself sitting in the dark observing the reflection of the Shining One. Your mind has been awaken, banishing the dark if only for that moment. That familiar voice speaks from within, singing throughout your head. An alarm, your subconscious warns you. Those that can see only what our souls can see are usually up to no good.

After digesting these stories, maybe it will have an impact on you, in a way that will make you more aware of the truth you seek. Instead of believing all the lies the programming wants you to believe. You think it’s just a coincidence you unexpectedly stumbled across my book?

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Memento Mori by Alexander Mair (1605) Photo provided by Frater Nathan Setnakh

www.fratersetnakh.etsy.com

Chapter 1

Mystical Concepts

W hen answering the question, Who the fuck am I?

I’m a nasty motherfucker with a heart of gold that has descended upon you from a cold day in hell. I have many secrets. I am instinct, raw, crazy at times, and a bit sensitive when need be. Yes, I am human. I have an unquenchable thirst for hidden knowledge and a dark fascination with esoteric mysticism. I have mistakenly germinated the so-called Impossible Seed within my cold beating heart as the wickedness grows out-of-control from the depths of my shadow. I find myself pulling away from the world at large, locating my sanity through my craft, with my studio as my sanctuary. I’m a well respected luminary in my own right and member of an ancient and noble secret society, the Fraternal Order of Luminaries.

My friends call me, The Saint. You need not to call me that as we have just met, and I do believe we are not quite friends yet. People believe I am protected by powers greater than our own. From what, you may ask? My own demons: The evil within the hell on earth that I have created, or yet to create. I ride the storm waiting for that moment to jump off, only to confront my demons head on, finding a solution within my means. Trying to live in that momentary place of peace while washing out the blood from underneath my fingernails. I am a maniac within my own walls of sanity. Realizing that I have descended far from grace, I try to climb the ladder onward and upward, becoming fully aware of the fall with my perceive realization flipped upon itself. My mind never sleeps as I travel far beyond the deep, down the rabbit hole and through the pits of fire I go. Upon the great depth a soft voice is heard. The cavernous seductive valley of the dark speaks of enchanting worlds. I fear no evil as I am accompanied by my guides, spirits that have been freed from souls. An unpleasant emotion alarms me as I advance back into being, afraid I may have just sold my soul, though I’m not quite sure the soul is mine to sell.

I am a spirit hub of many entities coexisting, living within these walls of flesh. I’m an old soul that has lived many a lives. I permanently paint in flesh for a living, creating physical transformation through blood, sweat, and tears. Rites of passage, pain becomes pleasure with the reveal of new ink. This ritual is as old as time. What other career can compare? When I tattoo there is no room for mistakes. The soul of the art is captured, bounded, and frozen momentarily in time till the body is returned to its natural mother, to clay or burnt to ash. The great equalizer in life is death. We are all dead, just not yet buried. The souls are capturing part of the spirit within your imagination, and directing it back from whence it came. I put the profession of tattooing in the same league as a doctor or a lawyer. I manifest energy around people, and allow the truth to heal and change them. That is a God-given talent and a gift. I am the best at what I do. I will eventually have to choose, to be humble, or allow my ego to take control. But who likes cocky fucks?

I’m the baddest mother fucking tattoo artist this world has yet to know. I enjoy my moments of brief schizophrenia. I will fight my demons head on with you in the passenger seat as my witness. I was given the power to see people for who they really are. I will find where the innocent roam. Searching every aspect of your subconscious guiding the dark to the light, over the rainbow we go as I pave the path to enlightenment. I create from what others cannot see. I do not force my perception, it comes natural. I stand in the eternal stream of light and life, letting myself go with the current, allowing it to take me where it might have been brought. More often than not I find myself crawling out of the dark nights of the soul, the light penetrates into the depths of the deep, illuminating even the most hidden aspects of the subconscious mind.

I am merely channeling through thought, allowing others to communicate, by transposing information into this time of existence. You do the same, you just don’t realize it, you have been listening to the voices in your head for so long that you think it’s you. Relationships are an interesting thing, especially the ones with ourselves, and that is the relationship we most neglect, the one we forget to foster, feed, nurture, and grow. The uglier things become because we feed the ego, we give life to our demons, we allow them to resonate to the surface and take flight with our hidden desires. Remember that you are dying, you die a little more each moment, and you’re dying to do something with your life. It’s a sobering moment reaching the gates of death realizing you never lived, I know this firsthand, and I have returned to write my story, into the world I go, I lose my mind and find my soul, I am here to create, intensely laboring on as I bring my entries into this world through my creations.

This is just one story of death, betrayal, and mind-altering experiences laying ink in the skin while on search for the meaning of life, true enlightenment will be bestowed to the one that has passed the threshold. I am from the other side, you know, the mirror image within your own soul’s manifestation. "Me, me, me… schizo-… Ha, ha… No joke." I am a struggling artist deep into the occult, living in the city of angel’s, Los Angeles. My medium; ink, skin, flesh, blood, body-and-soul. Good old fashioned ritualistic tattooing is my craft. Manifesting spirit into skin; painting in the flesh and telling tall tales, stories from here and beyond. I walk beside death and destruction, yet I’m not a thing of evil. After an encounter with me, you truly are a different person. Like this crazy fucking journalist guy sitting in my chair as I start to tattoo the iconic image of the Virgin Mary into his inner forearm.

The Journalist just happens to be one of my victims for today. He walked in off the street looking for a new tattoo not knowing he was going for a ride with me. Let’s just say he got more then what he bargained for. The Journalist seems to be in a lot of pain, or maybe it’s all that smoke clouding his mind making him focus in with a heightened sense. That awkward moment of being thrown into an unknown situation, the stillness fills the air as he tries to compose out of his abstract thoughts. I briefly stop, giving the Journalist a break from the buzzing of the tattoo machine as I change my gloves, they certainly dirty up fast with all that ink and blood.

Quickly back to work and only moments later the Journalist interjects, Hey Saint, I need a smoke break, brother.

The Saint lifts his head up with a confused stare, It’s always after you get a fresh pair of gloves on that the client needs a break. Plus I have yet to make you truly bleed. The Saint stops tattooing and lays down his machine, looking up at the skeleton clock, nodding his head. This mysterious dark figure, a soulless creature rises from the seat, and I believe he calls himself the Journalist.

Looks fucking amazing, you are the best, says the Journalist.

We just started. I’m not even close to done yet, the Saint spat out.

The Journalist walks outside to the elaborately, almost excessively, decorated vine covered ornate patio, Are you going to have a smoke with me? He asks.

The Saint going into the restroom yelling over the bathroom exhaust fan, I will be out in a second. I have to hit the head. The Journalist lights up a smoke as the heavy metal music blares throughout the studio, some satanic tune. A familiar smell fills the air, marijuana, that wacky tobacco. Saint thinks to himself: I guess everyone smokes nowadays.

The Saint finished washing his hands turning the faucet off with his elbow, grabbing a paper towel to dry them, and using it to open the door. He is a germaphobe with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Consumed with hidden paranoias he looks at the world through a microscope. With his exaggerated self-importance and complex delusion of excessive cleanliness, he walks out of the restroom just as his cell phone rings. Ring, ring.

The Journalist blurts out, You know your phone is ringing.

Oh, thank you. I thought it was just the ringing in my head. Saint thinking to himself: I know, I’m not fucking deaf, thanks.

I’ll let the answer machine do its job. I don’t like to get interrupted when I work, says the Saint as he appears to get annoyed when people point out the obvious.

It’s a beautiful summer day with a light warm breeze passing through the studio. A sense of change in the weather strikes the Saint as he grabs a few cold beers out of the refrigerator and steps outside onto the patio handing the Journalist a cold one. You know, you really have something here, says the Journalist with his arms stretched out taking in a moment of the suns warmth. This is the life, the Journalist appearing to be in a deep reflective thought with a slow pause of contemplation he blurts out, I’m sorry. Do you want a hit off this? Puff puff pass brother.

Saint keeping his thoughts to himself, what are you sorry for? He then replies, No thank you. It will just slow me down as I work. I’m good with beer for now.

The Journalist out of the blue asks, Say, do you believe in a soul? After a couple hits of marijuana things apparently got real. The Journalist got really deep, as if he’s coming to a crossroad in his life. It is no mistake he has come across the Saint on this very day.

The Saint says sarcastically, Why? Do you think you don’t have one? Ha, ha. I believe in the eternal vibration of energy, Nada Brahma- all the world is sound… There is a fork in the road at this moment of time, which way are you going to go? He asks, What direction are you heading?

The Journalist is so relaxed in the moment he zones out completely in his own thoughts not hearing the Saint at all. He’s leaning against a support beam on the patio as if his legs are failing him and he can’t hold himself up on his own. He unwittingly blurts out, I believe everyone is born with a soul. At the moment of conception the soul starts to grow, feeding off the energy of the surrounding environment. Dreams within dreams are not yet your own. The ability to decipher between the two worlds, one a physical manifestation, your perspective of your perception of reality. The other of abstract thought, unrealized formation, aspect of creation. The minute your first breath was taken, your essence, your spirit became trapped within being, matter, life. At that split moment duality is born and spirit is imprisoned within the soul of body. Life is full of moments, parts of a story once told, which in most cases are not even your own. Without question you accept them to become your memories, allowing others to write your story. Life has purpose we are not here just to work, pay bills, and die.

The Saint only hearing what he wants to hear blurts out, What the fuck are you talking about? If you have lived the life I have you would learn to enjoy the small things in life and take nothing for granted. Saint thinking to himself: That marijuana must be doing something upstairs, his head is all clouded, and it’s making him think too much. He appears slightly disconnected from this reality, maybe his psychosis is kicking in.

The Journalist making a statement announces to himself: An artist will lie to tell the truth, and a politician will tell the truth to lie. Learn to read your opponent. The Journalist and the Saint are no different than two peas from the same pod unable to recognize each others connection. Right away some sort of primitive instinct of the ego kicks in as they try to read each other, and figure out dominance. The ability to see ones strengths and weaknesses is an art of its own. Everyone has their purpose, it’s just a matter of finding the right tool for the job. When you master such techniques you become more skilled in overcoming the challenges proposed by your choices in life. Know thyself and you will understand clearly that you create and ultimately become your own worst enemy. The Journalist continues telling himself: Never trust an artist, they mingle with both sides of the track. From politicians, lawyers, rock stars and judges, to the dirtiest gangsters on the block, stone cold killers…

The Saint sipping on his beer takes a minute to check his voicemail messages on his phone before he gets back to work, slinging the ink. He immediately shouts out, Shit! It’s the bank. Someone drained my account. Some jerk off got a hold of my debit card and apparently they like coffee as much as I do. Saint pitches his beer into the ground and storms back into the building. Entering his sanctuary he starts pacing back-and-forth by the tattoo station, looking at the ground shaking his head mumbling to himself. Feeling somewhat violated he attaches old emotions from past traumas to this particular incident. The Saint frustrated and not in one’s right mind thinks to himself: I’m going to find this fuck so help me God. I will make sure he has no fingers to eat with, chopping them all off one at a time, with a pair of old dull rusty pruning shears.

The Journalist dumbfounded takes one last hit before putting out his joint, proceeds back inside and chimes in. Trying to calm down the Saint he blurts out, Identity theft, assholes get a life.

Yeah, they should get a life instead of trying to steal mine, or at least be a real criminal. A politician, a lobbyist, or play in the financial district on Wall Street, steal from large corporations that can afford to lose a couple dollars.

You’re right, they’re just a bunch of pussies. Maybe they should play in an intersection, better yet try the freeway. Thank God the bank caught it so quickly. You should get your money back I would think.

Saint taking a minute to think about how his money got stolen in the first place, ultimately and finally pushing it out of his mind. His expressions quickly change from anger and frustration to eventually calm and collective. He remembers and tells a story of a lesson his fraternal brothers bestowed upon him, about mastering your emotional response to anger. "I was once called to the top floor of a parking garage where a whole lot of my brothers surrounded me partying like drunken animals. They spit on me and called me names, just downright rude and aggressively taunting me. They were trying to get me angry and they succeeded. When the beast awoke within, the brothers proceeded to cheer and holler, as now the ritual can commence. They lined up and formed a funnel in an unusual manner making way for an unruly goat that was just released into the crowd, telling me we got your goat and you better go get it back. As soon as I wrestled it to the ground the brothers jumped in and helped tie a rope around its neck.

The brothers cheered with bloodthirsty cries as they started a procession across a narrow bridge into a nearby building. Once we entered I realized something awful was going to happen. I found myself in the middle of a large ritual room surrounded by dark cloaked brothers. A great roaring fire burned just to the left of me, and centered stood a large raised 12 foot round marble altar with a sizable pentacle and grooves cut deep upon it. A type of sacrificial altar with years of use covered in blood stains. Golden cups were placed underneath openings beneath the tips of the five pointed star. As I was handed a large razor sharp hunting knife, I knew what was coming next. The brothers prepared the goat for sacrifice, tying ropes to its legs they stretched it out over the pentagram. Chanting filled the air, ‘kill your goat, kill your goat, kill your goat,’ but all I heard was the cries of this poor creature, the innocent goat. Something within me reached out without question causing me to jump onto the raised platform grabbing the goat from under its mouth and cutting right through, slitting the jugular. The throat slashed wide open, the blood gushed from its neck flowing through the deep grooves of the pentagram and into the cups. One cup was offered up to the Gods and poured upon the open flame. One was offered to me and the other three were taken by the heads of protocols. A prayer was given ending with, ‘Life to life nothing will go to waste,’ after this gruesome sacrifice we feasted upon the dead, dined on the fresh kill with no remorse. I then was told, ‘May this be a lesson to you Saint, from this day forward may no one ever get your goat.’ The horrific sounds and visual of that night will forever stay with me."

"That’s crazy, but I suppose it got the point across to master your goat,