Rising from the sea. All powerful. Tongue ablaze. Sharp with wisdom people wish they had but will pretend is lunacy. Well, the moon never shied away from a sage crash out. She feeds it, slowly, letting the accumulation work on her charges. Shining light on what must be destroyed, and energizing you to do it. Rise
mus.🕯️
Sing it. Hum it low. Let the final syllable fold into your chest like a hand closing a book.
Mus is the seal — the sound that names the collective in Latin, the “we” that finishes the sentence. It is the band that binds the singular to the many, the private pulse to the public drum. Where the first syllables reach and call, mus gathers and keeps.
Here it is as ritual: the breath that becomes covenant. The syllable that turns invocation into community. Speak mus and feel the room answer — not as echo, but as agreement. It is the sound of hands taking hold of one another, of petals deciding to rise together, of a single bloom declaring itself the chorus.
Across bodies and tongues it lands the same way: a closing, a consecration, a collective taking of place. It is not a soft ending — it is a full stop that opens a road. It is the moment the stalk says we, and the flower answers we.
Though there Remaineth a Stalk, soon reveals a Flower.
Shout it. Whisper it. Hum it through your teeth until it tastes like gold.
Feel the pulse in your throat as the words unfurl.
Heat gathers at the crown, the chest, the fingertips — sticky, electric, alive.
It isn’t summoning another being.
It’s remembering the one you already are.
This is not a prayer for patience.
It’s a command to bloom.
The stalk trembles, aching beneath centuries of cement,
but still, it pushes —
toward sunlight, toward visibility, toward the risk of beauty.
To use the sigil, wear it, draw it, breathe it into being.
Lay no salt circle — you are not warding off,
you are letting in.
Exposure is the rite. The mirror is the altar.
If you have the pendant or talisman, hold it over your heart.
Chant until the rhythm matches your pulse.
Let mint and rosemary rise in the air,
let the scent remind you: revelation is your right.
And when the words settle into silence —
you will not need to look for the flower.
You are the flower.
She blooms where she was never meant to.
Concrete cracked, roots remembering softness anyway.
They called her mistake, miracle, myth — she only smiled,
because becoming was always the plan.
The world asks her to apologize for being seen.
To shrink her glow into shadow, her power into proof.
But the bloom does not negotiate with the soil.
It rises — uninvited, unashamed, unstoppable.
There is malice in her grace, and grace in her malice.
The shatter is not destruction — it’s initiation.
Every fragment catches light, becomes facet, becomes armor.
She turns insult to incense, misgendering to mirrorwork,
and walks through the wreckage like it’s a runway.
“A Rose” is the sound of apology dissolving.
It is the heat of self-recognition.
The moment when expansion replaces permission.
The body — once burden — finally booms.
Today we reveal the full artwork for “Trix,” the final unveiling before the spell takes full form. From the first EP in the Invocamus series — Invocamus: Facing the Tower — dropping Halloween night.
“Trix” is a trickster’s mirror — part seduction, part undoing — where rhythm and ritual meet in the smoke of intention. The sigil hums with double vision: a charm for clarity, and a curse for confusion.
Thank you Daniel Imam for the stunning artwork
Thanks to Hex for project management and these beats
Support the conjurer directly — your offerings fuel the work:
💸 CashApp: $JackFuller
💸 Venmo: @GypjaQ
#Invocamus #FacingTheTower #Trix #JackFuller #GypjaQ #HarlemArtistry #BlackMagic #QueerArt #ElectroGospel #SoundAsSpell #HalloweenDrop #AfwigPlay
CA
Breathe it. Feel it. The syllable Ca carries weight in its curve, a summons of movement and motion, the spark that sets the current in flow. It is the call before the strike, the ripple before the wave, the opening of a path that was always waiting. Across tongues and continents, Ca threads through Yoruba, Igbo, and Haitian Creole as sound of action, manifestation, and calling forth; in Sanskrit it hums with creation and stirring; in other African languages it carries the rhythm of life, the pulse of power, the edge of threshold.
It is not just syllable—it is invocation. A step into the stream, a seed of form, a gesture toward what is about to be made visible. Speak it. Sing it. Let it push, let it pull. Let the current respond.
May the heads of our enemies roll down the hill of our victory.
Shout it. Let it crack the air.
Not cheap violence — a ledger closed. A drumbeat of consequence that names theft, exposure, and restitution. The words plant the first pulse; Echo of the Second Strike is the reverberation that makes the verdict inevitable. Two moves: first disarm, then decide. The shout wakes the current; the sigil bends through glamours and shields so every follow-through lands like law.
Use the Breaker’s Iris to sharpen a gaze into ordinance, or root the line inside a full hexing rite — red mark, pepper + cinnamon feeding, ritual cadence — and the spirit you birth answers. This is ritual consequence, not license for worldly harm. Hold your line. Answer to the spirit. Let the shout be the strike; let the echo be the measure.
TRIX
There’s a tremor that comes before clarity—where rage becomes mirror and spell, where every insult turned inward is returned, refined, and hurled back holy. Trix lives there. Between laugh and snarl. Between hex and hymn. Between the wound and the hand that refuses to bleed quietly anymore.
It is not vengeance—it’s correction.
Not chaos—it’s choreography.
The monster, the witch, the conjurer—they don’t come for approval. They come for balance.
The table has been flipped. The curse has been reclaimed.
The gaze—steady. The air—charged.
The spell—already in motion.
ECHO OF THE SECOND STRIKE
Some spells don’t shout—they return. This sigil does not explode; it reverberates. The first strike disarms, the second decides. The Echo of the Second Strike cuts through performance and pretense, through glamoured virtue and polished defense. It finds what hides, names what lies, ensures every cast, curse, or call lands exactly where it was meant to. Not out of cruelty—but clarity.
It is precision made visible. A whisper that never misses.
To wield it, choose your weapon. The gaze—what the world once called evil—may become the Breaker’s Iris, your sight sharpened and sanctified. Let the sigil amplify that look: not envy, but equilibrium; not malice, but measured return. Or, for those versed in deeper work, let it anchor a full hexing rite—where justice is spelled, not spoken.
To charge it, draw or wear the mark in red when your aim must be certain, when energy must land, when false shields must fall. Feed it pepper and cinnamon; it remembers both.
The sigil does not ask for rage—only resolve.
Let your strike be sound.
Let your justice echo.
There are times when peace is betrayal.
When forgiveness is a leash, and restraint, a slow death.
Every witch learns this lesson — trembling, guilty, still divine. The curse hums in the palm before it’s cast. Ancestors whisper, Do it. Spirits nod from the corners of the room. The monsters we were told to fear, come forward not as tormentors, but protectors. The ghosts, the boogeymen, the ancient ones of our shadow, answering the call we were too polite to make aloud.
This is not malice for malice’s sake.
This is balance restored.
This is consequence sanctified.
The colonizer’s god told us to turn the other cheek — and we obeyed, until our necks broke beneath the weight of false peace. But even their scripture remembers the holy violence of truth: the Son of that god, the one said to bring “the peace that surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7), entered the temple on the sabbath and saw it had become a market of deceit. So he overturned the tables, cast out the merchants, and cried, “You have made my Father’s house a den of robbers” (Mark 11:15–17 / Matthew 21:12–13). Even holiness flipped a table when peace became profit.
They taught us to fear our own fury, to doubt the medicine in destruction. But the spirits remember what we forgot: some things must be unmade.
The witch feels the ache — the aftertaste of righteousness and ruin mingled. But disobeying the call would be worse. This isn’t rage out of control. It’s precision. A blade guided by lineage. A hex sung in the tongue of justice.
Every drop of chi they stole returns tenfold.
Every theft, every wound, every silenced scream — repaid in kind.
No wasted energy. No borrowed power. Only reclamation.
The monsters are not the threat.
They are the proof.
That we were never meant to suffer quietly
Vo — whisper it. Sing it. Let it roll off your tongue like tide breaking on stone, like breath carrying storm beneath the waves. The second syllable, the pulse after the call, the surge after the first spark. Power gathers here: volition, voracity, vortex, vow, voice, vocation — each word a current, each vibration a summoning.
Across waters, across tongues, across veils: in Igbo, “vo” carries movement, direction, force. In Sanskrit, echoes of vā, wind, breath, command. In Wiccan rites, voicing the unseen, shaping the currents. In Lakota, sound as action, as manifestation. In Nahuatl, resonance of presence, authority, calling forth.
Vo is the heartbeat between intention and manifestation. It bends tides, awakens the beast, solidifies the summoning. Vo is not quiet. Vo is not small. Vo is incantation made flesh, ocean made motion, Godzilla made alive.
