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Atu X, Fortune, Thoth Tarot |
"Sir Shumule is a being like few others one encounters, whether on the web or in life, of that breed of strange, indefinable fellows, great nobles endowed with dazzling superiority: culture, perfidy, excess, power, destructive humor—in a word, genius." — Alain Gobla
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
It is the 12th day of the Thelemic Holy Season, during which we traditionally meditate on the Qabalistic Mystery of the Path of Kaph, that is, the Xth Tarot card, attributed to the planet Jupiter and called “Fortune.”
For a seasoned poker man like your old Sir, this Arcana, which heralds Luck, the good trend, the rush, the towering stacks of chips in a perpetually growing phase, is to be regarded only with a respect tinged with superstitious awe—and just as I gave the Atu XVIII (“The Moon”) the elegant nickname of Blue Allure, I usually designate the Atu X with one even more Gaga-esque: Poker Face.
On this subject, Soror Neferusobek recently asked me on what occasion the idea of Thelema Hold’em (or Zug Hold’em)—the most exhilarating and utterly ruinous poker variant ever invented, and one that’s all the rage in our Sect—came to us.
It was, dear friends, in 2009 e.v., during a Poker Marathon we completed in Divonne-les-Bains.
I was so unserious back then…
In my Diary from that time, I sketched with a frivolous pen a detailed account of that stay—I share it with you tonight in confidence: even if you’re not particularly keen on poker, this read should be, for you, a relatively painless way to learn a thing or two about the Ups and Downs of life.
À Outrance: The Seven Days of Divonne
Among all the spa towns where no one ever goes for a cure, I have a marked fondness for Divonne-les-Bains, a pleasant French enclave in Switzerland, essentially dedicated to gambling and tax evasion.
I just spent seven days of pure delight there, reveling, in the rare moments when I oxygenated myself, in the countless benefits of its alpine air—I feel brand new :)
A week, then, entirely devoted to Texas Hold’em—€500 table—Net profit: €19,906—If I were married, I’d be in trouble…
My love for this hamlet of rentiers, where the square meter is the most expensive in France, doesn’t just come from the fact that you rarely encounter poor people there—it stems from a youthful romance, my passion for a sublime Divonnaise girl, a student at Ferney-Voltaire, whom I’d meet every weekend, and with whom, over a few months, I exhausted all the possibilities human eroticism offers in terms of locations, innovations, positions, aids, and perversions.
I’m pretty sure we hold several world records.
At any rate, to my knowledge, there’s nothing we didn’t do: the most seasoned tantrics look like Amish husbands by comparison, and every Marc Dorcel film like a sweet little romance.
Then, one fine morning, my partner informed me that, having explored with me all that lust had to offer, she was happy to proceed, without regret, to the Catholic marriage she’d longed for with a boy she met at World Youth Day—and that I could take my leave; I was left sheepish, with the not-so-flattering feeling of having been, for six months, a living dildo.
Those were the good old days :)
Sunday. First night: table as usual—a mix: a few naive youngsters who think they’re Matt Damon because they know the odds, weathered fifty-somethings almost instantly on tilt, and, of course, poor suckers whose game mostly consists of poses copied from Gus Hansen.
I clean them out. Absolutely everything. To the point that, when I go to cash out, the pit boss, despite himself, has his face askew and his hips twisted.
I glide through the night. Making love to an Englishwoman is just masturbation.
Monday. Second night: a beautiful slowplay with A-A. The runt I bust out stares at me like I’m raping his grandmother.
I suppose it’s the first poker hand he’s ever witnessed, the democratization of the game having established, in all-public circles, a kind of tacit convention to play nothing but randomly, which, in its vagueness, allows one to accuse the other of insolent luck when they win through skill, and to boast of extraordinary psychological subtlety when winning on pure chance…
These people deserve to be fleeced.
Tuesday. Sloth, sloth, sloth…
Fix tells me he met Jennifer Lopez in a Paris club and exchanged two words with her, under the gaze of a bodyguard with an extraordinarily hostile, furrowed face.
— “I wouldn’t like that…”
— “Eh… He’s just doing his gorilla job…”
— “No. I wouldn’t like to meet JLo.”
— “???”
— “You know that weird feeling when you run into someone intimidating with whom, the night before, you dreamed you were making love?... It’s strange, it inhibits you… Everyone’s had that experience at least once, like being questioned by the English teacher you were taking doggy-style in a dream a few hours earlier…”
— “Very true, it’s inhibiting…”
—“So imagine what it must be like to make small talk in 2009 with the person you’ve been jerking off to since 1999!!! No, it’s a lost cause…”
Third night: after hours of dead calm, a fine bit of acting on my part. I’ve got K-K. I limp in. A slimy, shifty fatso with the sly, servile grin of a weasel raises me.
Everyone folds. I call.
Flop: K-K-10.
Ouch. I’m first to act. How do I force this sneaky filth, named Jean-Luc, to hand over the stacks of chips behind which, thanks to his scoliosis, he’s barely visible?
I check. He does too.
Turn: J.
I check again, hoping he’s chasing the straight.
Bingo, he bets huge.
I pretend to deliberate endlessly. Then call with all the timidity I can muster.
River: a worthless 7.
Terrible moment… I can’t risk checking in ambush and wasting my four kings…
So I go all-in: after once again seeming to wrestle with dreadful dilemmas for an abnormally long time, I fake a tilt, shouting, “Oh, screw it! All-in!”—and I shove my box forward with bitterness, stand up, start buttoning my jacket, gathering my things…
Slowly… slowly… the ersatz makes up his mind and pushes his stack in with muffled care…
LOL :) Stu Ungar, the greatest poker player of all time, said there’s nothing more thrilling than the look on a mediocre player who thinks he’s an expert when he realizes he’s been had. I confirm! :)
Jean-Luc, seeing my hand, instantly morphed into an extra from an Elie Wiesel film and physically shrank by a good three centimeters. Maybe five.
After re-buying, it took him another solid hour to regain a human appearance and say to me, with veiled threats in his voice: “I’ll remember this, sir… I’ll remember this…”
Wednesday. Fourth night: Blackout. I play tight while sipping.
Thursday. Charlot has me try a rum-based cocktail that completely blows me away.
A few neurons short and a few chromosomes extra, I mock the rolls of an American tourist’s wife a bit too loudly; her husband, utterly elephantine, demands an explanation, and I pretend not to understand his gibberish while continuing my lousy jabs.
I’d learn the next day that I owe my physical integrity to the cool-headedness of my companions, who dragged me out of the bar while the staff held the line.
Fifth night: Not in any state to play.
Plus, Charlot’s found himself a girl with one of the finest asses I’ve ever seen in my life.
When I compliment him on it, adding, quite accurately, that she “really gives me a raging hard-on” (sic), he darkens and tells me it’s not a girlfriend but his little sister. I go to bed.
Personal note: If, by some miracle, these lines fall under the eyes of the very beautiful auburn-haired young lady, clearly from an excellent family, to whom, last Friday, the tiny Malagasy waiter at the Baccara brasserie in Divonne-les-Bains held the door as she left, saying “Thank you, miss!”—and who replied to this humble employee, “Thank you for what, monkey?”—may she kindly leave me a message, and consider that the tall gentleman having breakfast seated at the back left already has the honor of asking for her hand.
We spend the afternoon playing Thelema Hold’em, the chicest game of the moment: get yourself a deck of the Tarot painted by Lady Frieda Harris under Aleister Crowley’s direction; keep only the Minor Arcana and Honors; then play, as if it were a regular deck, an alternation of Pineapple and 2-7 Lowball, in No Limit.
You’ll tell me how it goes :)
Sixth night: my toughest session.
Not technically, since the hands I played posed no strategic issues, but because of a smug, fat idiot, dumb as a tenor, who had total luck that night.
At the penultimate hand, I found myself heads-up with this boor, who’d been utterly invincible for six hours and chip leader beyond belief.
I had suited A-Q, and the board showed Q-10-8-9 rainbow—giving me top pair with the best kicker possible but leaving me losing, whatever the river, if, as I suspected, this flabby moron had come in with a jack.
He raises hard.
I hesitate and choose (I must have been tilting!!!) to call.
Then comes an Irish Coffee, ordered by the fatso at my suggestion.
“Oumphhhh!!! It’s super-good!!!!” he exclaims.
“Isn’t it?” I smile, eyes glued to the dealer’s hands.
River: 3 of spades. He shoves all-in.
I think, then laugh and say:
“Good hand or not?”
He replies, “Super-good!” (his word of the night :)), with tons of conviction.
But you don’t fool old Shumule: the tone he used for the Irish Coffee (sincere) had nothing to do with the one he used for his hand.
The downside of a limited vocabulary: I knew instantly he was bluffing.
— “Call.”
And the ex-chip leader pales, showing a pitiful A-K—a famous hand but, in this case, crushed by my pair of queens.
Saturday. Colossal ruckus at the restaurant.
Face-to-face with an ex, stunningly beautiful but who, at the time of our breakup, had loudly proclaimed everywhere her firm intent to gut me.
She makes a visible (oh, so visible) grimace when she sees me roll in.
Me, old-school boxer style, I rise to the challenge—I sit next to her and launch into my grand charm offensive. The ice melts fast.
Soon we’re best buddies, giggling like two old party pals—Alas! with the wine’s help, she moves to personal digs, then reprimands, and, despite the pleas of all the guests, to a full-blown scene.
Soon, she’s all you can hear, berating me in this poor restaurant…
The waiter steps in… She tells him to buzz off… He insists… She elbows him!!!... Here we go!... “Get lost, jackass!!!” LOL…
He tries again: “Call me the manager!!!” she screams…
The poor waiter turns green—but what choice does he have? The whole place heard, manager included, who rushes over, all honey:
“I’m sorry, miss, I’ll send another waiter…”
She calms down a bit. We have dessert and coffee in relative peace.
Sadly, as we’re leaving, the waiter who’d so annoyed my friend dares to reappear between her and the coatroom, asking her to intervene with the manager on his behalf… “He fired me because of you, miss…”
“Oh, you!!! You’re starting to piss me off!!!” she starts yelling again.
The manager rushes back, offers us a digestif, says to his ex-waiter, “You’re still here?” and smooths things over…
Fifteen minutes later, in the cool alleys, my friend walks in silence, lost in thought.
Then, snapping out of her reverie, she says: “Well, in the end, that waiter took the fall for you… He got sacked, and it serves you right!”
Seventh night: poker being life in miniature, the cards you’re dealt are just a matter of luck or, if you will, karma.
The difference between winning and losing, as everyone knows, lies in reading the opponent. But even then, there’s always someone more perceptive than you.
The real secret is magical thinking.
Take this Saturday night, for example: in the ultimate heads-up, I’m second in chips, just barely, and the chip leader, an excellent player, has just re-raised me for my entire stack.
I’ve got J-J, and the board shows K-10-A-A-5.
It’s obvious I should fold.
But I’m so invested in the hand that I waver.
My opponent gives nothing away.
I’m about to fold when I notice, around his neck, a pendant with the Chinese ideogram for the lunar sign of the Pig.
And the answer dawns on me, clear as day: “I’m a lunar Rat (yes… I know… it’s been much remarked upon…), the one that follows the Pig in the cycle of years and thus supplants it… It’s an omen: I have to win…”
Stupid, you say?
Yet I shove my stack in, and the showdown reveals he had only suited Q-10…
So there you have the gist of my stay in Divonne, which isn’t quite over yet, since I’m writing these lines from my room at the Grand Hôtel-Domaine de Divonne.
Vacations are like poker games, and like life itself: we’ve had ups and downs… we’ve had to put up with fools, mediocrities, and villains… but, all in all, we had a blast, and we’re sorry when it ends.
— Sir Shumule, August 2009 e.v.
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 10° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 8° ♉︎ : ☽︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰ.