Jimmy Page, Kenneth Anger, and Enki Bilal are the three greatest Thelemites produced by the Boomer Generation; Sir Shumule is the greatest Thelemite since Rabelais, across all generations. — Frater Sicariōn, Letter to Soror Jezebel, May 19, 2025 e.v.
If you find yourself in the belly of the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio, stand up through its blowhole as if it were the sunroof of a limousine, raise your arms, and shout: "Wahoooouuuuuuuuuuhhh!!!!" — Sir Shumule
Hadit lies coiled, nestled in all things, even the most subaqueous, the most abyssal, and there is a star hidden in every man and every woman, including Cancer natives or bailiffs. Okay, maybe not bailiffs, but this principle is the first axiom stated in the Book of the Law (AL 1, 3). — Sir Shumule
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
A weekend in prison is no fun in any era or latitude, and if you add the fine drizzle of a meteorologically disastrous May, it can even become downright grim.
By the Holy Stèle! Why so many gray clouds this morning?! They should only entrust the controls of the HAARP system to aesthetes — If I am the ultra-Narcissus you claim, life is a stage for me — and if life is a stage, I demand better lighting!
Yes, your old Shumule — Shumule the Playful! Shumule the Radiant! Shumule, king of viscounts! — whose unwavering youthful motto ("you can have fun anywhere") had, until now, never been disproven, has finally found captivity tiresome, and these days, he’s been feeling as spleenful as a homesick decadent-neoclassical poet from the early twentieth century...
I mean to say: I am a Thelemite despot in exile, Prometheanly chained in the mists of the Old Grey Land — All that’s missing is a soundtrack of plaintive gypsy violins to complete the scene, and it’s not like there’s a shortage of Gypsies in this prison! — Truth be told, I’m monstrously bored — Incarceration is torture by boredom, and I think I’d prefer waterboarding, I who never drink water!
Indeed, all you meet here are abyssal creatures painted by Hieronymus Bosch on psilocybin! I’m bored, which is rare in front of a Bosch canvas — Nearly two and a half years pacing the corridors of this prison, and I still haven’t found the bar! — Don’t forget, the press describes me as a "mystic debauchee": if I can no longer debauch, all that’s left is the mystic! And a sober mystic! A teetotaling mystic! Almost a Taliban!— Or worse: a Mormon!
That’s cruel and unusual treatment! Imagine, they even go so far as to forbid me from wearing, in my cell, my Chopard Ice Cube watch, kept hermetically locked in the prison’s locker room safe!
Yet, the object I cherish most in this world is that watch, given to me by the greatest love of my life.
In normal times, I tend to the care and security of this treasure with maniacal devotion!!!
Please do me the honor of believing that, since the end of my romance with the one who gifted it to me, I’ve indulged in every dialect!... I’ve bedded pearl-adorned socialites from great Western families, under the lecherous gaze of candaulist husbands!... I’ve whipped penitents!... I’ve uncorked Lolitas, ravished coke-fueled night owls, Slavic escorts, and fierce tomboys!...
But nothing has managed to diminish the intensity of the downright religious fervor I devote to this watch and what it represents…
So I was lamenting last Friday, on the verge of giving in to despair, when a guard, a young, sporty, badass chick type, indescribably hot — provided, of course, you have a taste for young, sporty badass chicks — a taste I personally have to the point of obsession, burst into my cell (which I’ve arranged into a sort of cozy symbolist boudoir).
I exclaimed upon seeing her: “Why didn’t I marry a prison guard?!” — which wasn’t exactly a display of sharp intellect or penetrating psychology on my part…
I have NO psychology…
Yet psychology is a simple thing, resting on two fundamental principles:
1. When you’re about to spend the night at a club, don’t tell your parents, “See ya, don’t wait up for dinner!” but say: “I’m attending a prayer vigil for Rwanda; it might run late into the night.”
2. When Anne-Aubépine de Choiseul-Harcourt introduces you to her family on rue de la Pompe, you must tell your future mother-in-law: “I am a member of the Académie Française,” not: “I have a thirty-centimeter dick” — When it’s Nassima Djebbar, a tough-as-nails girl from the northern neighborhoods of Marseille, introducing you to her cousins, it’s the opposite — Woe to you if you get it wrong — In one case, you’ll cast a chill; in the other, they’ll make you eat your bicorne.
“Why didn’t I marry a prison guard?!”
Perhaps, indeed, I made the gravest mistake of my life by not marrying a prison guard… But how could I have known?… Can you imagine me announcing, back then, to Maman and Bonne-Maman, who were cousins to Beistegui, that my fiancée is a prison guard?!
It’s truly regrettable — I imagine the naughty games at home in the evening when she comes back from her shift:
[Her:] “David, I found the bed unmade again with the breakfast tray on it, cocktail glasses all over the living room, and you snorting coke with your school buddies by the pool instead of studying for your exams… I’ve already given you two warnings: this time, I have to write you up…”
[Me:] “Oh no, please, Officer! Not a report! It would ruin all my hopes of parole!”
[Her:] “Sorry. I can’t do anything for you.”
[Me:] “I beg you! I’ll do anything you want!”
[Her:] “Really anything?…” etc.
By the immortal gods! Back then, I would’ve made love to my pretty jailer twelve times in a row after a scene like that (with her keeping her uniform on, naturally)!!!
Young, party-loving dandies from fine families, don’t make the same mistake I did: marry a prison guard while there’s still time; it’ll be wildly unexpected in your entry in the Bottin Mondain! :)
But I digress.
Last Friday, an ultra-hot guard (therefore) abruptly brought me, in my cell, a delightful letter from my dear old friend Fix.
To give you a sense of Fix — a fundamental Zuger* and Thelemite after my own heart — I think the simplest thing is to republish here, as an interlude, the very first article (you’re too young to remember this…) where I mentioned this dear comrade — It’ll give you an idea — It dates back to 2009 e.v.:
Dazed and Confused in Neuilly sur Seine
Chronicle of My Sunday
To Mildred R.
Among other very personal characteristics, I happen to have as an old schoolmate the clumsiest person in Paris.
Louis-Marie S., an otherwise perfectly well-bred young man, not only has the laugh of a hysterical parakeet: he seems to be at odds with the most ordinary objects — I mean, a pair of sugar tongs becomes, in his hands, a weapon of mass destruction; every staircase is a trial for him, and usually, the occasion for serious trauma — Furthermore, he has a very particular way of pronouncing the “oi” sound: in his mouth, “quoi,” “toi,” and “joie” sound like “queuâh,” “teuâh,” and “jeuâh,” which makes his conversation extraordinarily tiresome.
It was thus with mixed feelings that I agreed, last night at eleven, to go with my buddy Fix to spend the night at his place, in preparation for this afternoon’s brunch. “You’ll see, Louis-Marie is going to ruin our weekend out of friendship…”
François-Xavier, known as Fix, is one of my best mates, ever since the night when, drunk on champagne, I tried to climb the parental villa of a young lady in Royan, and the police caught us while he was giving me a boost.
I can still see the furious look on the father of my sweetheart, who had forbidden me from approaching his daughter, and hear Fix’s screams as he struggled in the arms of a massive policeman: “Let me go!!! I’ll have you all sacked!!! My father is a consul!!!!” — Later, he admitted that being thrown into a sobering-up cell like a sack of nails by people he was used to seeing stand at attention before his father was a painful reevaluation of reality for him — I know it still bothers him — But anyway, for the night at Louis-Marie’s in Neuilly, he’s game.
That night, I dream: a radiant young girl, all freshness and graceful charms, skips down a street in my 16th arrondissement; little by little, lecherous satyrs begin to follow her; frightened, she starts running, now pursued by a horde of these satyrs, and she takes refuge in a tree. Unfortunately for her, the tree is full of satyrs.
I’d love to know what happens next, but Louis-Marie bursts into my room at seven, trips over my Churches, nearly emasculates himself on the corner of a dresser, drags me out of bed to force me to go golfing with him, and does roughly the same to Fix in the next room.
When I meet Fix, as dazed and confused as I am, in the hallway, I mutter to him: “Wait till you see breakfast, and the coffee spilled on us…” — Wrong! Louis-Marie has already knocked over the coffee pot when we reach the dining room — I grab three croissants before he does something to them — but it’s impossible to enjoy them: Louis-Marie’s obsession this morning is talking about his wooden models — in beuâh — a subject his pronunciation makes unbearable — Fix and I try to stifle our laughter with fake coughing fits, taking care not to meet each other’s eyes — alas! Louis-Marie wraps up his tirade by telling us about a famous model-maker he knows in Bleuâh (Blois), and we lose it — thank the gods, his young wife arrives at that precise moment and distracts our host: he gets up to kiss her, trips over something, maybe his own feet, sprawls on the rug, gets up nearly poking Fix’s eye out with an elbow, lets out his insane laugh, and says he hurt himself really bad.
At the golf course this morning: wind — Furious wind, not only sending balls off course by about 180° but probably tearing older golfers from their shoes — yet, I have the luck and pull off an albatross!!! The matter seems settled, until Louis-Marie’s cousin joins us, whose demeanor, determined chin, and huntress gaze — Amazonian, warrior-virgin — sporty, dignified, energetic, very serious, very kind, very sincere, but impervious to all humor — in short, exactly matching my ideal erotic archetype, throws me completely off: from that moment, I only hit divots and become the laughingstock of the course.
Aperitif: Fix tells me to go easy on the Bloody Marys, reminding me of the time when, completely plastered, I called a genuine princess (by marriage, actually the daughter of an Italian industrialist) “Josiane” all through dinner because I found her horribly vulgar — unnecessary precaution: the waiter who mixed my cocktail seems to have swapped the proportions of tomato juice and Tabasco — I run to stuff myself with bread crumbs while letting out a long primal scream.
As I chew, a pretty woman approaches me, saying, “I have something to ask you…” — a bit tipsy, I reply, “Anything you want, my heart’s an open book…” — a friend passes by at that moment and laughs, saying, “Be careful, with him, the heart drops fast…”
Lunch: sweltering heat. I have Louis-Marie’s Amazonian cousin to my right, who talks about her volunteering with the mountain infantry (!!!) — I didn’t know that unit accepted women, and, as you can imagine, this conversation drives me wild — I hope to get her tipsy to take advantage of her inebriation, but when I try to pour her wine, she declares she never touches alcohol. Of course.
Meanwhile, I make desperate efforts not to respond to my vis-à-vis, a ridiculous Polish woman (or perhaps a praying mantis in a suit), who overcompensates with such snobbery that she calls nearly everything “plebeian”: at the 6,587th time, I crack, stare at her nose pointedly, and say with a smile, “Not everyone can be plebeian…” which earns me a basilisk glare.
Since we have a member of the Nègre family (of the famous Universal Music France president) and a charming young lady named Fromageot at the table, the conversation turns to difficult surnames. I hope this will annoy my vis-à-vis, who missed the start of the topic, but no: she claps her hands and exclaims, “Well, I once knew someone with a name so bad it was suicidal: Fromageot!”
A legion of angels hovers over the table.
Never has the phrase “moment of solitude” been better illustrated than by the look on that fool’s face when she realizes her gaffe.
After lunch, Fix tells me about his misadventure: dripping with sweat, he tried to wipe his brow with his pocket square — But, due to his clumsiness, the square fell right onto his left neighbor’s crotch — Fix was trying to figure out how to extricate himself when, to his horror, he saw his neighbor hurriedly stuff the pocket square into his open fly: the guest had forgotten to zip up and mistook Fix’s square for a shirt tail :)
Then, Louis-Marie invites everyone for a walk in the beuâh of the park, but I’ve had enough after the morning’s course. I stay behind to raid the bar. Louis’ two young sisters, fourteen and seventeen, beautiful as the day, offer to play billiards with me. I admit I don’t know how to play. They offer to teach me. We play a few games, and, frankly, I don’t feel bad between these two ravishing creatures — until, classic gag, the lady of the house walks in just as the younger sister says to me, “You’re holding your cue wrong. It needs to stay straight.” — The anecdote, endlessly repeated, commented on, and distorted, amuses everyone until evening…
7:20 p.m.: Back home, slightly dazed. I settle in front of my PC. I’m not crazy about Sundays, actually.
— Sir Shumule, July 5, 2009 e.v.
Those were the good times!…
So! The indomitable, valiant, imperishable Fix has just sent me a letter from Switzerland, the essential content of which I now share with you:
[…]The Egyptians, our masters in all things, had a marvelous way of exalting the quality of words. Tahuti, the Wisest of the Wise, said: “He who speaks well is beautiful and good.” That’s why I quote you systematically. Sorry if I’ve dulled their sharpness, but I’ve found nothing more impeccable than your phrases. […]
When asked who the goddess Nuit is, I reply: “Sir Shumule, the Hierophant of our Sect, sees her somewhat as the Black woman in the ad for Jean-Paul Gaultier’s Divine perfume… He says, in particular: ‘all my actions are for our august lady, the beauteous goddess Nuit—and my personal religion boils down to this: once I understood that life is a courtly love affair between me and a Cleopatra raised to the power of a thousand, everything became clear—I feel far more akin to a Beyoncé, Britney Spears, or Selena Gomez fan in their devotion to their “queen” than to 99.9999% of the global occult community—When Misfortune strikes me, it’s because Nuit is in Gal Gadot-as-the-Evil-Queen mode, the Hunter has upset her, and I’m the one taking the fall for it—When Happiness comes my way, it’s because she’s in Nefertiti mode, pleased with my service, and has ordered me to be showered with gold—In both cases, it’s super sexy!’
When asked who the god Hadit is, I reply: ‘Sir Shumule, the Hierophant of our Sect, says: if we base ourselves solely on the Discourse of this god, recorded in the Second Chapter of the Book—outside of any doctrinal or ideological framework—then the nāḥāš Hadit, our Master, is a perverse seducer who loves athletic women, ostentatious luxury, and sadistic violence.’
When asked who the god Ra-Hoor-Khuit is, I reply: ‘Sir Shumule, the Hierophant of our Sect, calls RHK “a paranoid and vengeful god” and describes him as “a totalitarian egomaniac, ambitious, bloodthirsty, and inhuman.”’
[On that note], I don’t understand Seth. Why does RHK have as his token gay friend a petty, eunuch Cancer native with the head of an aardvark resembling a bull terrier?
Why does he tolerate him on the solar barque and not toss him overboard? I know we can’t systematically kill all Cancer natives, but couldn’t we hang one or two as an example?…
These are good questions.
In fact, Seth, as a servant of Choronzon (Restriction be upon him) — the < Blind Creature of the Slime > (Liber Tzaddi, 37), the < fulminant figure of Evil, the Horror of emptiness, with his ghastly eyes like poisonous well > (Liber Cordis 4, 34), — as, I say, a servant of Choronzon (Restriction be upon him) infiltrated into the divine community, Seth constitutes, so to speak, the “Shadow,” in the Jungian sense, of Horus (RHK) — which makes him painfully indispensable to the Lord of the gods.
I addressed this Mystery in 2019 e.v. thus:
Me and Choronzon Blues
You are a seductive mystery promised to a sublime destiny who, like each of us, has a dark side.
A part of your psyche growls, drools, and bares its teeth: it is unconscious — it is irrational — it feeds exclusively on ill will, perverse passions, and instinctive fears.
It’s the piece of the world’s sickness that happens to have fallen onto your plate.
Choronzon is the name given to this sludge of repressed desires, ego wounds, and naive self-delusions, which you deliberately ignore because it is unflattering and differs, in painful proportions, from what you’d like to believe you are.
Carl Gustav Jung calls it “the Shadow”; Christians call it the Devil; Jews call it the Yetzer Hara; Hindus call it Apasmārapuruṣa; Buddhists call it Māra; the Ancient Egyptians called it Seth: you can call it your evil twin, your Mephisto, your inner Cancer native.
Thus, Choronzon is also what the Alchemists transform into gold: not something intrinsically “evil,” but a subordinate that — like all stalkers, all insufferable daddy-issue cases, and all sacked lackeys — becomes, because it is ignored, hysterical in overcompensation: thus, man compulsively, caricaturally turns low-grade to stop suffering.
If you don’t trample your Iznogoud, your Iznogoud will bite your calf. It will systematically sabotage your efforts unless you strive to aggressively identify and alchemically transmute it: < Refuse none but thou shalt know & destroy the traitors >(AL 3, 42): isn’t it well-known that complaining about others’ failings is to betray your own shortcomings?...
If you disown an aspect of your character, it will suddenly materialize, at the edge of the woods, in more or less human form, when you least expect it…
Like Sauron’s Ring, it wants to be found: hence the Freudian slips, the pseudo-accidents, the foolish inhibitions — the dangerously unhinged kinks,
Me and Choronzon were walking side by side,
I’m gonna beat my woman until I get satisfied.
… the “terrible adventures”, Nietzsche tells us, make us suspect that the one to whom they happen is himself someone terrible.
See! The dwarf who refuses to admit he’s a dwarf will be thrown (or rather, launched, since it’s a dwarf) onto a basketball court in front of millions of viewers: whoever denies what they dislike about themselves will have their nose rubbed in it.
So be an Alchemist rather than a YouTuber! Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem: “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate,” says Carl Jung again — or, in my tireless formula: what you flee is your salvation.
— Sir Shumule, August 27, 2019 e.v.
All this to say: keep an eye on my morale, send me wildly flattering letters too! And, of course, loads of money — enough, at least, to stock up on cases of Dom Pérignon and Panamanian prostitutes: this prison, in the evenings, is terribly dull!
Meditating on this, go forth, dear friends, under the protection of that spiritual sphere whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere, which we call GOD.
Warm kisses from the Bahamas.
Love is the law, love under will.
— ☉︎ in 4° ♊︎ : ☽︎ in 18° ♉︎ : ☉︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰ.
* We usually nickname our Sect “Zuger”, to distinguish it from the rest of the global Thelemite community, because our first attempt at an Abbey of Thelema was located in Zug (Switzerland).
