The Hill of the Goblins and other matters
Sunday. Mid-morning.
We’re just south of Mold, tucked into a fold in the Flintshire landscape that the main roads have mostly forgotten about. I’m on a family retreat with my wife, our son and his partner, our daughter, and Rosie. Rosie is eleven months old now and is the reason we are all here. She’s the reason for most things now. The Welsh countryside handled the phones for us: my signal was nearly nonexistent, and the Airbnb WiFi was hit and miss, but nobody really minded. I did most of my reading in the mornings before the house woke up, which is my habit. And, during nap times, I would steal a few more pages.
My wife and I are settling into our new titles as Nanna and Pops. We are new to these titles and still finding out what they mean. What I know so far is that watching Rosie move through the world is one of the stranger and more absorbing things I have done. She is on the verge of walking. She can pull herself upright using furniture and edge along it, hand over hand, completely focused, working out in real time how a body operates in space. She crawls to whatever calls her attention and arrives at it with an expression of total seriousness. Watching a mind at that stage — before language, before category, just pure investigation — does something to you. I kept catching myself thinking, ‘That’s what learning actually looks like before we teach ourselves to be afraid of getting it wrong.’
I’m in a chair with a cup of coffee that’s gone lukewarm and a comic book guide to chaos magic open across my knees.
This is, I think, exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Mold is an interesting place to read this particular book.
The town sits in the Vale of Clwyd, and its name is Norman French — mont-hault, high hill — named after the man who built the castle here around 1140. Robert de Montalt raised his motte and bailey, and the Welsh promptly spent the next century taking turns tearing it down. Owain Gwynedd took it in 1146. Llywelyn the Great took it again in 1201. The English got it back. The Welsh took it back. This is how things worked on the Welsh March. The high hill changed hands, and the name stuck.
But the Norman castle is the newcomer. A mile west of Mold sits Maes Garmon — the Field of Germanus — the traditional site of what medieval chroniclers called the Alleluia Victory. In AD 430, the Bishop of Auxerre led a force of Romano-Britons against an invading force of Picts and Saxons. His weapon was a battle cry. He taught his troops a call, and at the critical moment, three times he cried Alleluia. The army took it up. The sound rolled back off the surrounding hills. The invaders, apparently, fled in terror.
A bishop who won a battle by understanding acoustics, psychology, and the power of collective belief. I’m going to come back to that.
And then there’s Bryn yr Ellyllon. The Hill of the Goblins.
In 1833, some workers quarrying stone just outside town broke into an ancient burial mound and found something that stopped everything. A cape made of solid gold, shaped to fit a single human body, hammered from one ingot into a piece of ceremonial dress that would have made the arms almost useless — the upper body pinned and immobilised, the person inside it turned into a figure of pure ritual power. It dates to somewhere between 1900 and 1600 BC. Whoever wore it was not going to fight or dig or carry. They were going to be seen. They were going to stand at the centre of something and radiate authority while the people around them supplied the meaning.
The Mold Gold Cape is in the British Museum now. The hill it came from is called the Hill of the Goblins because the local folk memory knew, without knowing how it knew, that something supernatural had happened there. That’s what happens when people bury power in the earth. The land remembers, even when the story is lost.
This particular corner of Wales is saturated. Layers on layers. You don’t read a book about magic here and feel like you’re doing something eccentric.
I came to The Psychonaut Field Manual sideways, the way I come to most good things.
I’ve been reading Sarah Lyons’ How to Study Magic, a book that does what it says and gives you the lay of the land across different magical traditions without trying to sell you any of them. She covers chaos magic, though lightly, and I suspect deliberately so. It’s clearly a territory she respects but doesn’t want to reduce. What she does instead is point toward the deeper water, like Phil Hine’s Condensed Chaos, Aidan Wacher’s Six Ways, and Bluefluke‘s manual for people who want to actually work the practice. She directs readers to the Ultraculture website for the download. I looked there and didn’t find it. Eventually I tracked it down on the Internet Archive. It’s a PDF. A comic book PDF. Forty-four pages of hand-illustrated guidance, drawn in a style that sits somewhere between a D&D sourcebook and an underground zine, and the best part is it’s free (as long as you don’t try to sell it).
The trouble with most introductory chaos magic books — and I’ve read enough of them — is that they fall into one of two failure modes. Either they go so deep into the historical and theoretical apparatus that the beginner drowns in citation before they’ve done a single practical exercise, or they’re so vague and evocative that you finish the book feeling spiritually stirred and practically no further forward. Bluefluke’s introduction names this problem directly: “Few legitimate books exist for the lone beginner, and even fewer aren’t just regurgitating century-old tech written in plain language under a cohesive narrative.”
The Psychonaut Field Manual is the book Bluefluke wanted to find and couldn’t. So he drew it himself.
It is “a theology-free manual containing all the best tech written in plain language under a cohesive narrative.” His words. And they’re accurate. He means it literally. There is no required belief system here, no tradition you have to buy into, no authority you have to defer to. You bring your own cosmology, add it to the exercises, and see what happens. The manual is the engine. You supply the fuel.
What hooked me, on page four, was this.
Level One is called BELIEF IS A TOOL. It opens with the following:
Any damned fool can operate any of the following tech provided they believe that they can. Belief is not only the first tool you’ll master on your journey but also the most powerful. Faith moves mountains and shit. Call it imposition of the will. Call it the placebo effect. Call it the descent into madness. Regardless, magic works.
This is precisely the point at which most esoteric writing flinches. The author will acknowledge that belief is important, then spend the next three paragraphs hedging the claim, gesturing at neuroscience or synchronicity theory or the morphic field, trying to make the supernatural respectable. Bluefluke does none of this. He states the operating principle, acknowledges that you can call it whatever you want, and moves on. The name is irrelevant. The mechanism is not.
What he’s describing is something that runs through everything I work with. In NLP it is the presupposition that the internal map determines the external territory. In Vaihinger’s Philosophy of As If it is the concept of the useful fiction — the idea that you can hold a belief provisionally, as a tool, without requiring it to be objectively true, and still gain the full functional benefit of holding it. In chaos magic it is the principle that Peter Carroll articulated in Liber Null: that the specific content of a magical paradigm matters far less than the intensity and clarity of the belief itself. And in Bluefluke’s visual shorthand it is two characters standing next to each other — one saying, ‘See! Nothing is happening!’ I knew magic was bullshit,” while the other says, “Holy shit. This is awesome! I knew it would work!” — demonstrating, in one panel, the entire phenomenology.
He goes further than the cartoon, though. Ceremonial magicians in robes doing the Enochian hokey pokey — his words — look ridiculous from the outside. But the theatre of the thing is load-bearing. “Shit happens not because they think it will but because they know it will. Whether they attribute the outcome to inner mastery or sketchy metaphysical hippie shit is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter what you believe. Just believe.”
The bishop at Maes Garmon understood this. He wasn’t doing theology. He was doing belief engineering. Get the collective into a single focused state, and the outcome follows. The alleluia rolled off the hills, and the army that heard it ran.
This is what has always drawn me to chaos magic over any system that requires doctrinal commitment. The other frameworks I work with — Jungian depth psychology, narrative therapy, and the archetypal tradition — they all make truth claims or at least make it tempting to treat their maps as the territory. Chaos magic refuses. It hands you the map, reminds you it’s a map, and suggests you throw it away once you’ve reached the destination. Belief is a technology, not a confession of faith.
From there the manual builds in clean, numbered levels.
Level Two is Gnosis, which Bluefluke defines with unusual precision: “Your goal here is not to find inner peace or become ‘one with everything’. Rather, it’s to shut down all auxiliary thought in order to focus most of your brain’s processing power on a singular point of action.” This is not the yoga retreat definition of meditation. It’s an operational state. You are developing the ability to hold complete attention on a single point, which will be the substrate for everything that follows — sigil work, visualisation, projection. Without this capacity the rest of the manual doesn’t function. He knows this and says so. Practise for at least ten minutes a day. He doesn’t ask whether you feel like it.
Level Three opens the third eye. Not as a mystical organ but as a visualisation training system. Step by step, increasingly demanding exercises to develop the ability to project stable imagery with what he calls vivid closed-eye clarity. The point he makes here stays with me: “The third eye + pineal gland theory is 100% required tech for future exercises, and the more you practise it, the more vivid your visualisations will become.” He’s not interested in whether the third eye is literally a gland. He’s interested in whether the training produces the result. It does. That’s the argument.
Level Four — Right Hand of Eris — introduces sigil construction using a tarot deck as a decryption key. It’s one of the most grounded and practical treatments of sigil magic I’ve read. The tarot isn’t invoked here for its traditional meanings or its esoteric associations. It’s used as an image generator: you pull cards, write down the figures, scratch out the vowels and repeating letters, and simplify the result into a geometric shape, and the sigil emerges from the process. Practical, demystified, immediately repeatable.
Then comes what Bluefluke calls the First Big Secret. This is where the manual earns its depth.
The mind, he writes, is not a single entity. It is a multi-organism. He maps it as three interlocking operating systems: the subconscious, which he calls the reptile brain — “the realist, the survivalist, the hungry man”; the superconscious, the higher self — “the artist, the moralist, the idea man”; and the self-conscious, the soul — the software layer created by the interaction of the other two in early childhood, built from perceived needs and the given environment. “Consciousness is less like a dictatorship in which you are supreme leader and more like a yin/yang democracy wherein you are the only voter.”
The goal of the magical practice, as Bluefluke frames it, is to get all three to operate in alignment toward a chosen outcome. When they disagree — when the reptile brain wants safety and the higher self wants transformation and the software layer is running old code about whether you deserve either — the working fails. Getting them on the same page is the actual work. The sigils and the gnosis and the third eye training are all infrastructure for that one conversation.
This is where chaos magic converges, fully, with narrative therapy, NLP, and depth psychology. Different maps, same territory. The three operating systems are the id and ego and superego in new clothes, or the subpersonalities of Internal Family Systems, or the representational systems of NLP, or the complexes of Jungian analysis. The content differs. The structure of the problem — a divided mind working at cross-purposes to itself — is universal.
If you’re a visual learner, you’ll love this format as an introductory text to chaos magic and beyond.
There is a lot of chaos magic material in the text. Dense, reference-heavy, arcane in the original sense — hidden, deliberately obscured, written for an in-group. The Psychonaut Field Manual is drawn. The ideas wear costumes. The characters argue in speech bubbles. The instruction steps are numbered in chunky headers. The warnings come in CAPITALS with illustrated faces making alarmed expressions. There is a character called a servitor — an artificial spirit created to carry out specific tasks — depicted as a small floating creature with its own personality, and the instruction on how to delete it when its job is done (“It is vital that once your servitor has completed its task that you delete it. If you fail to do so it will grow, become resentful and possibly turn on you”) is illustrated with an increasingly agitated small demon. This is not an accident of format. The visual language is the clarity. The ideas are strange enough without being packaged in language that performs its own strangeness.
Bluefluke uses rough language. He uses profanity as punctuation, which either puts you off immediately or signals immediately that there is no mystification going on here. The book is not trying to sound important. It’s trying to be understood.
That matters for a field where obscurity has often functioned as a barrier to entry — and a power mechanism for those on the inside of it.
Bluefluke has been sharing this manual since 2014. It’s now in its fourth edition. He has continued to update it, improve it, extend it — while keeping it free. The Internet Archive currently hosts at least three separate versions. His DeviantArt page has over a million views. None of this happened through marketing. It happened because the thing is good and he let it go.
That’s the sigil firing. The thing released is the thing that works.
I read the whole manual over the weekend, put it down, picked it up again on Sunday morning, and sat with it for a while. The hills rolled south toward the Clwyd Valley. Somewhere under the fields a few miles away, a Bronze Age figure waited three and a half thousand years to be found wearing a gold cape in the Hill of the Goblins.
The Alleluia rolled off the hills and the army fled.
Someone, three hundred years after that, built a castle and named it for his own high place.
Every layer of this landscape is somebody’s working. Somebody’s charged intention, buried or built or shouted into the acoustics of a particular valley at a particular moment. Not all of it survives. But the land does, and the names do, and the gold does, and something about the atmosphere of the place stays alive long past anyone who could explain it.
The Psychonaut Field Manual is free. If you’ve ever been curious about chaos magic and bounced off the available material because it assumed too much, was mystified too much, or positioned itself too far inside a tradition you didn’t share, start here.