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| Atu V, The Hierophant, Thoth Tarot |
I find that Shumule's verbal flow increasingly evokes the violent and incoherent thoughts of a dying person, at the moment when synapses wildly unleash and memories frantically flood in chaotically, without regard for context, logic, or mental health. — Genderqueer en phase de déni.
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
It is the 17th day of the Thelemic Holy Season, during which we traditionally meditate on the Qabalistic Mystery of the Path of Vau, that is, the Vth Tarot Trump, attributed to the zodiac sign of Taurus and called “The Hierophant.”
So, I’ve titled this post Sticky Bliss for two reasons, which I ask the reader’s permission to lay out before them:
1. There’s nothing in what follows that one could, in perfect confidence of conscience, describe as “sticky.”
2. The notion—so important in Thelema—of Bliss, considered a state of supreme felicity, isn’t even touched upon here.
Anyway:
Soror Jezebel—who is more butch lesbian than Michelle Rodriguez’s jawline, and a fourth-wave feminist like an entire season of Buffy—claims that Atu V should outright “push cynicism to the point of calling itself ‘Triumphant Patriarchy.’”
That’s wildly exaggerated.
Besides, all this talk of patriarchy is absolutely ridiculous.
Any pretty girl—even a moderately pretty one—has known since the 5th grade that she rules the world.
My personal tragedy is that I’ve always been more drawn to roller derby girls than to career-plan BCBGs. (Have I ever told you about the night at the Hôtel de Crillon when, after the Ball, I leapt into bed with a stunning debutante, a diplomat’s daughter, in her Ungaro dress, and only managed to stay motivated by picturing Joan Jett changing a tire?)
On another note, someone wrote to me saying I practice the hermeneutics of Thelema’s Holy Books like one might commentate a roller derby match, and I’m not sure if it’s hate mail.
I have so many haters!
I estimate that 50% of the internet users who read me do so out of fascinated animosity.
It’s like with a heel wrestler or those classic Walt Disney films where the villain is cool—nowhere else will you find someone with my height, my nose, my alien skull, and my Chinese mandarin fingers!
It’s the spice, the kink, the reason people drink Red Bull.
You don’t drink Red Bull for the taurine or the taste of sugary soda mixed with Grey Goose vodka.
You drink it for the unpronounceable ingredient—unnameable, I should say, it’s so chemical—the excipient with a name like a K-pop group that would have been named after a barcode—the abominably synthetic stuff you don’t know why it’s there, only to later learn the industry also uses it to make hubcaps and pornstar breasts—I don’t know what it is, but I want some in my vaccine!
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 15° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 19° ♋︎ : ♄︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰ.
