Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
I hope your Christmas was entirely strewn with fabulous gifts!
As for me — while you were feasting and making merry — I was being bitterly reprimanded by a female officer of the Prison Brigade, who physically was precisely a synthesis of Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley and Michelle Rodriguez as Trudy Chacon — and that is EXACTLY what I had asked Santa for!
My New Year, however, was more peaceful (I failed to determine WHICH infraction to commit to ensure that Ellen Chacon aka Trudy Ripley would give me another dressing-down), though particularly epistolary…
For example, I received from an assiduous correspondent (I do not know whether he is a Thelemite or not — and therefore whether I should love him with a burning heart or treat him as a filthy tramp) a rather amusing letter in which he declares, among other things:
“I am one of your many Mark Chapmans, Sir, and I want to know, before assassinating you, very precisely how to follow your Threefold Protocol on a daily basis, so as to be totally you when I am in prison (like you!) for that assassination.”
My friend, it is very simple:
I. Fin’Amor
Spiritually — since we must be Hadit and Hadit calls Nuit “my bride” — the trick is to consider your praxis as though every day were the day of your (sumptuous) marriage to your soul-mate.
Every Ritual must be performed with the same punctuality, the same solemnity, the same sense of the sacred as if you were pronouncing vows to your blushing bride before the Altar, your family, and all your friends.
Every day must be lived as though it were the ultra-jetset Kardashian-esque garden-party of your Big Day.
Every night as though it were your wedding night (following an arduous period of abstinence).
And every mental projection toward the future must envision it only as though it contained nothing but an idyllic and perpetual honeymoon in Saint-Barth.
II. The Cruel Tutelage of Hadit
Problem, you will say: every day is NOT, in objective reality, the day of my wedding: I do not meet only friends rejoicing in my happiness, but plenty of mediocrities and wicked people who hate me for it.
The future does not hold a marvellous honeymoon, but rather bills, old age, and death…
This is where existential doubts intervene: my daily social life was not planned to the millimetre by a wedding planner agency, and I am constantly forced — on the ethical, philosophical, psycho-affective, etc., planes — to make heart-rending choices…
This is why Hadit is the Master.
We start from the principle that all possible questions to the Ruach (the human soul), without exception, have been settled by the Old Serpent in the Second Chapter of The Book of the Law.
You therefore possess an unbeatable vade mecum: at every dilemma, scrutinise this text, find the opinion Hadit gives on the subject that concerns you, and submit to that opinion perinde ac cadaver (as a yogi apprentice submits to his guru, a Hasidic Jew to his rebbe, a Jesuit to his superior, Béatrix Kiddo to her kung-fu master).
Examples:
A. When, after an orgiastic night and a sybaritic lie-in, I drag myself through an atrociously painful hangover that no amount of Paracetamol seems willing to cure, and I am tempted to revolt against the cruelty of my fate, I remember that “existence is pure joy; that all the sorrows are but as shadows; they pass & are done” (AL II:9) — and I take my suffering patiently.
B. When, sprawled on my shrink’s couch, I wonder about the irresistible effect that prison wardresses of the Ellen Ripley type have on my libido, and I cry out to myself: “Why, oh why this rage for the Amazon, when loving big-breasted blonde bimbos involves so much less physical risk?!” — I remember that Hadit describes his Hermits as lovers of “beasts of women with large limbs” (AL II:24) and I feel deliciously flattered in my kinks.
C. When a fit of spleen makes me contemplate a Sardanapalian suicide — a hip, chic, and vogue autolysis — some dazzling farewell party to life to close in orgasmic fashion the furious journey that has been mine on this beautiful and interesting planet — I remember that Hadit said: “Death is forbidden, o man, unto thee” (AL II:73) — declaring suicide clearly illicit — and I renounce my event.
III. Bloodbath in Paradise
Another problem: life is not only made up of ethical and existential doubts — earthly contingencies take precedence, and we are constantly constrained by matter.
We have already seen that, as regards the Temporal, your sole duty is to promulgate the Law of Thelema and always take the side of the Garden of Delights against that of the Old Grey Land of Desolation.
From that moment on, every one of your choices in this domain — whether frivolous questions (which presidential candidate should I support in the elections?) or grave ones (which red Bordeaux should I serve with a tournedos Rossini?) — becomes a vote, a militant act — what am I saying? a military act! — for or against the Æon of Horus.
By systematically opting for the Garden of Delights and against the Albanian kolkhoze, even your shopping becomes Promulgation: that is the meaning of “From gold forge steel” (AL III:32).
You go to bed each evening with the certainty of having made the world a tiny bit more Edenic than you found it in the morning, and you can surrender to your systematic fevered wedding night without fearing that any Abrahamic poison substrate will spoil it with puritan scruples, your uncompromising spiritual Master having prescribed: “lust, enjoy all things of sense and rapture: fear not that any God shall deny thee for this!” (AL II:22).
Meditate upon this, dear friends, and go your gorgeous ways under the protection of that spiritual sphere whose centre is everywhere and circumference nowhere, and which we call GOD.
Warm kisses from the Bahamas.
Love is the law, love under will.
— ☉ in 11° ♑︎ : ☽ in 22° ♊︎ : ♃ : Vxi.
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