First I write my name into existence; then I write my life into reality. I am Ellinor Kall! I spell the secret words that unhides the truth to stand here naked among you – kindred spirits, wonderful writers and magnificent magicians!


The Oracular Nomenclature

  • The Divine is inspiration (flow).
  • Holy is one that is inspired (one who is whole).
  • Sacred is that which inspires (beauty, art, nature, emotions, etc).
  • Infernal is that which distracts (aggression, threats, coercion, etc).
  • Sin is blocking or ruining (to hinder someone else from doing or destroying possibilities for others).
  • Hell is physical existence, the body, eating and drinking, concrete actions, feeling pain and joy, doing things together, groups cooperating, relations, sex, orgies, conflict, chaos, the selfish ego = the amygdala.
  • Heaven is mental existence, the mind, consciousness, thinking, logic, creating, art, abstraction, content with solitude and introspection, masturbation (if at all), acceptance, control, the transcendent ego = the prefrontal cortex.
  • The Trinity is a state when sacred, holy and divine is in harmony.
  • Magic is creation and influence emanating from the Trinity that is manifesting inside reality. (See further definition in another text.)
  • Sorcery is the very dangerous operation of changing the actual reality itself (changing the source). (See further definition…)

(More words to be explained…)



When the tightrope catches fire you better run, she said as I ventured out over the bottomless chasm with the intention of never looking back. As soon as I felt the heat I started to scurry along the line. Flames licked my legs and my soles got scorched black as well as my soul. The acrid smell of burning hair was overwhelming and I could feel the fibers bursting like ruptured tendons in the rope under my feet. Finally my mask of wax, that I had carried to conceal my true face for a long time, melted and the sizzling, fiery drops disappeared in the abyss below. Everything was pain. But if I fell I knew I would never get back up from the depth again. So I tried to focus through the sweat and tears in my eyes. Run, she screamed, and I ran like never before.


Conglomerate personalities

The physical reality is not the only reality. There is another, less thought of, reality that is equally real. It is created by our culture, our social paradigms and it is as real as our physical existence. We all live in multiple realities. This non-physical reality exists in our collective minds, in our culture and makes manifest in action, words, writing and so on. Ideas are intangible but very much real things and they affect the physical world constantly.

The same way thoughts shape who we are. We are not merely biological lumps of flesh – we are the sum of both the physical and the extra physical realities that makes up our world. That is how we in our psyche can be another person than we are physically. And it is no less real just because the difference is not visible to the eye. You have to look deeper to see that dimension of someone. You have to gain insight into that person to see who they really are. And by who I mean that in plural.

Because no one is just one person. I am a conglomerate of several personalities, impulses, hidden feelings and hardwired responses. I got several creative strains, curious and bold bits and pieces as well as the bad sides, as doubt and spleen (in the sense poets used to use the word). Sometimes rambling, sometimes taciturn. Sometimes the wise man, sometimes the trickster.

And I’m fluctuating – both internally and in contact with others externally. For instance, I can’t easily explain who I am. My identity is diverse but singular at every moment. Mind you, this is no weakness, it gives me strength. But as I said, it’s fluctuating. It all depends on who I am with. This range of identities doesn’t show to people, they meet the same one, and I keep a solid facade, can’t break conventions, society wants labels, clear cut and unambiguous people that are easily understood. Gradients are effectively repressed so that there is only two official colors. Who’d want a complicated society where everyone is different?

So I act very differently towards different people. I also act different when alone depending on mood and I don’t know what – I’m fluid and unpredictable. The thing that is supposed to be me, my self, I, is in fact only a control center trying to make sense of all the parts conflicting and warring. I am not one person – I am many. As we all are.

Or are we all? I’ve met so many people that never seem to change. They are very solid and unmutable. One-dimensional. They oppose change, they get upset by non-binary possibilities. I have heard a person actually say that he had done what he wanted and now only wanted every day to be the same. Someone really said that. Yes, really. So maybe we are different. Maybe some people are just one person while others are an entire menagerie. Nothing wrong with that. Celebrate diversity! Life would be simpler but rather boring if my inner crowd dispersed.

Added later: Career-wise I am constantly moving through different expressions, albeit of the same core profession. I have successfully worked as film director, director of photography, editor, photographer, graphic designer, author and lately as copywriter. I’ve won awards for both writing and directing. And people have payed me good money to work with these different expressions. I enjoy it all but tend to drift between them which makes it difficult to convince people that I am rather good at all those things. Because you can apparently be good at only one thing, just look at mr DaVinci. Irony intended. In the end it all comes down to different aspects of storytelling for me. That is my core profession. I’ve thought about calling myself a pan-medial storyteller. But no one will understand what I mean by that so maybe multidisciplinary storyteller would be better. Except for the discipline part. I defy discipline but rather enjoy to enforce it in others. But that is another story.


Marschta: The Barn

Text: Ellinor Kall | Photo: Fred Andersson

The barn haunted me. I could not stop watching it. There was something inside. Something would step out of it anytime. I had to see what it was. I spent days up there. Brought a sleeping-bag when it was cold. Just watching. I had to. I had to know. What was the thing inside?


Marschta: The Nexus

Text: Ellinor Kall | Photo: Fred Andersson

The Maschta Nexus was one of northern Europe’s great centers for focused geomantic energy. The inhabitants in the towering building didn’t know it, but the energy was slowly changing them.


Marschta: The Marsch

Text: Ellinor Kall | Photo: Fred Andersson

This morning I heard anguished cries for help from the marsh, but when I got there the voice had gone silent. I stood watching for a few minutes, holding my breath, listening. But the water remained still. Only a lone bird was heard far away from the treeline. I took a picture before I went home.


On the Shoreline

That summer morning on the shoreline was magical. Everything was as perfect as it gets for a short, blissful moment. The slow waves rolling in hardly made a sound — as if the great lake didn’t want to disturb us this early. No wind and no birds could be heard. It was a peaceful contrast to what happened last night. A brief respite perhaps. Because it was not quite over yet.

We wore no shoes and on our way down to the lake we felt the dew in the grass moisten our feet while we ran. Then, when we reached the small stretch by the lake that we had cleared from stones and called beach, the sand stuck to our skin and for a moment it looked as if we wore golden brown socks.

Sophia started to laugh and pointed at my feet. I laughed too, because seeing her laugh eased my pain a bit. If she could laugh maybe all wasn’t lost after all. She gave me hope with that sudden burst. That was the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever had. Hope from nothing. What a wonder! Then the moment passed and our smiles faded fast when we continued our fast trek along the shore.

As soon as we had crossed the patch of sand the sharp stones began to hurt our feet. I regretted leaving without shoes. But there had been no time. We had left in a bit of a hurry without knowing exactly where we were going. I took her hand to help keep her balance as the stones became rocks and boulders. But only a few meters later she scraped her foot on a sharp edge and her tears told me she could not continue at this pace any longer.

Without shoes we were trapped. There was no way out of this. We both knew it, and we knew it even before we ran. We didn’t run to get away. We ran to get a last moment together. I realized that the moment had already passed when we laughed in the sand. That was it. That was all we got. That was the precious moment I would cherish hereafter. That was the magical moment we had made that final run for. For that moment on the shoreline.

Helplessly I saw her sit down, resigned, with her blood and tears flowing.

“Jenny, we’re fucked”, she exclaimed. “Really fucked this time.”