Epectasy

Atu XIII, Death, Thoth Tarot

Sardanapalus, son of Anakyndaraxes, built Anchialus and Tarsus in a single day; stranger, eat, drink, and make love, for all else is vanity. — Epitaph of King Sardanapalus  

Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

Today is the 9th day of the Thelemic Holy Season, during which we traditionally meditate on the Qabalistic Mystery of the Path of Nun—that is, the 13th Tarot card, attributed to the zodiacal sign of Scorpio and called "Death." 

Now that’s a catchy topic! 

My dear friend Prudence—who looks like a customized absinthe leaf when she’s in shrew mode—my dear friend Prudence, I say, queen of the "Proust Questionnaire," tells me that no matter how witty the people she subjects to this Questionnaire are, they always show signs of unease when faced with the question: "How would you like to die?" 

 

"Generally," she says, "the subject escapes with a nervous laugh, a quip, or a platitude, all while squirming… Funny…" 

Don’t you find it odd that meditating on death is so disagreeable to us, even though our final passing is the only absolute certainty we have down here? (Which is why I never turn down an adventure, no matter how risky… I’m not afraid it’ll end badly since, either way, we all end badly…) 

I can’t take "the Grim Reaper" seriously… To me, she has nothing of the Thirteenth Tarot Card: she’s not eerie—nor swamp-like—nor a badly dressed skeleton lugging around farming tools—In our religion, death is a party (AL 2, 41), and trust me, my funeral will be a hip, chic, and vogue affair. 

The only thing that fascinates me about famous deaths is their "last words." 

I suspect some of them wrote their final words in advance… so I set out to craft my own—but to no avail: I’m so unmorbid that inspiration has abandoned me… I considered the cheesy pun "I’m just passing through," but I was told it’s already taken… not to mention that a "last word" requires a bourgeois, cozy death… It’s harder to grab your entourage’s attention during a plane crash… at best, I might whisper to the flight attendant as the plane plummets: "You must really regret not giving in to my advances earlier…" 

Camus said that, of all philosophical questions, suicide was the only one that held any interest—and it’s quite irritating to think that Camus, from his final resting place, might find what I write uninteresting, even though, in this case, it’s also what I think of his work—Anyway, it’s Scorpio Day: let’s talk suicide. 

It won’t be easy. I might be the least funereal person alive—but still, life is mortal, and I don’t want to run into Camus in the afterlife without being able to say: "So, Albert?... With your chauffeur’s name… Huh?... And now?... Not calmed down?..."

The scorpion is the only animal that kills itself when surrounded by flames—a rather beautiful lesson, which essentially says: suicide is always admirable because it means remaining, against all odds, the master of one’s fate. 

Personally, I find life far too marvelous to consider ending it—but I claim I’d rather be crushed by a Rolls than a thirty-eight-ton truck, and I have no objections to the dandyism of certain suicides—Perhaps, in the end, those Hollywood actresses who killed themselves to never age achieved the highest form of voluntary death… Either way, in our religion, life is a party too, and the thing about parties is they don’t last—reason enough not to rush the exit. 

The last time someone asked me, "How would you like to die?" I replied: I want to die of epectasy (as we call in France a sudden heart attack at the moment of orgasm)—Or die of old age at 120, tenderly cared for by my loved ones—Or die of epectasy at 120 because one of my loved ones cared for me a bit too tenderly.  

Broadly speaking, understand qabalistically where the conflict lies: 

When facing a serial killer eager to add you to his tally, your Nephesh (the animal part of your soul) cries, "Mercy, no, don’t kill me just yet!" while your Ruach (the psycho-affective part of your soul) says, "Go ahead, old man, this farce of an existence has dragged on too long…" But all the while, your Neshamah (the divine part of your soul) keeps repeating: "Life is a river of ambrosia that one sails down in a nacre boat." (cf. Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente 1, 39). 

That’s the whole tragedy—funky, punchy, sexy, but a tragedy nonetheless—of the human condition. 

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 7° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 23° ♓︎ : ♀︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰ.