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| Atu VII, The Chariot, Thoth Tarot |
Met David N. today. Found a man who dances with chaos and kisses like sin—his fire twists the universe into a symphony I can’t escape. He’s the spark that burns my soul alive. Bow to the king of wicked glory, my loved ones. — Cynthia S., April 3, 2022 e.v.
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
It is the 15th day of the Thelemic Holy Season, during which we traditionally meditate on the Qabalistic Mystery of the Path of Cheth, that is, the VIIth Tarot Trump, attributed to the zodiac sign of Cancer and called “The Chariot.”
This card sums up—as those who are aware that a knight of the Ancient Code could not ride a chariot without instantly forfeiting his knightly dignity know, and that therefore being hoisted onto the Chariot of Ultimate Triumph foreshadowed, for him, an incessant public disgrace—this card sums up, I say, the entire Formula of the Summer Solstice, the diametrical Anti-Christmas, and the entry, to his misfortune, of the Sun into the aptly named sign of Cancer.
One Litha night, I set out to explore the Path of Cheth through oneiromancy and dreamed that Selena Gomez and Ariana Grande offered me a threesome, but it was a trap to lure me into the tentacles of a particularly terrifying and slimy kraken.
They were, for that matter, going to unnecessary lengths: I’d pay for Ariana Grande or Selena Gomez to run me over with her car—This is what the soon-to-be-former Knight of Atu VII tells us: What does the pain of disgrace and shame matter to one who has, for a moment, approached the Grail amid the delirious cheers of a crowd of frenzied stans?
Yea! Even if I’m merely rehashing the obvious, the orgasmic peak heralds post-coital dysphoria, bright light brings dazzlement, drunkenness brings a hangover, and the Abbey of Thelema brings the Moulins-Yzeure Detention Center.
Speaking of morning-afters, I recall that one morning in 2009 e.v., I managed, live and with what little strength I had, a sort of very brief Diary of My Hangover—I was so frivolous back then!—of which here is the faithful English translation:
Xylostome Orchidoclaste
What a night, gods and goddesses!... What a night!...
How abominable the mornings-after are... I know full well you’re supposed to take Paracetamol before sleeping... but you’d need a free hand for that...
Today: nothing!... Above all, nothing... Give me 500,000 megaliters of coffee, and let me die...
The doorbell rings. The mailman. A registered letter. We have a bearded mailman. Bearded mailmen are always, all mail being equal, nicer than the others.
Still, he must have made quite a face, in his beard, when Jill opened the door wearing nothing but her sky-high heels and one of my shirts that doubles as a bathrobe for her! :)
Jill is tiny. A pin. On the other hand, she’s always radiant upon waking, which is priceless on a day like today...
In the hallway, flustered, the mailman bumps into Caroline on autopilot... Did she even notice the humble worker?... That’s the trick to surviving overpredation: panoramic vision... Caroline succumbed to the sirens of pure arabica... Luckily, the mailman isn’t an overpredator... She looks like a penguin too... A bimbo-penguin in my bathrobe...
I must make an appearance.
— Brjfx...
— Whoa! You don’t sound good...
— Xylostome orchidoclaste*...
He looks at me and suspects this phrase, which I invented long ago to justify my tardiness on Rue Saint-Guillaume, refers to some horrific ailment, akin to Ebola. He’s uneasy.
I sign... A package... I’ll tell you another day what’s inside—it’s full of private jokes, but it’ll make you laugh...
The last thing our mailman hears as he crosses the string of rooms back to the exit is a mischievous: “So! Do I have to blow you to get a coffee?” from Caroline... His trip wasn’t in vain...
Back in the veranda, lying down with a view of autumn...
Why must marvelous parties and torrid nights always be followed by mornings like this?... Is there a deeper meaning to it?... As if sleeping with Miss France meant waking up with Geneviève de Fontenay...
Thank the gods, Jill and Caroline remain bombshells in the light of day!... But what an infernal cycle... Party, hangover, party, hangover... Good grief! Thelemites conceive of life as a celebration, and the afterlife as a “Greater Feast”... so, for all we know, it might never end!...
I feel incapable of resorting to the “crutch”**... So I lie here... I’m tending toward a vegetative state... What am I saying? Mineral!... And I watch my favorite music video of all time on loop... usually, it perks me up...
*In kitchen Latin: ball-breaking hangover.
** The “crutch”—I say this for those of my readers who haven’t indulged in debauchery and don’t live a life of a libertine—consists of forcing yourself, upon waking, to drink a glass of whatever you overindulged in the night before. Without vomiting. All the unpleasant “morning-after” effects are canceled out—except, of course, if you mixed drinks.
— Sir Shumule, October 20, 2009 e.v.
Moral of the story: When it comes to integral happiness across all imaginable planes of existence, it’s better to have had it for half a century than not at all: it makes for memories.
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 13° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 22° ♊︎ : ♃︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰ.
