To Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator
To Jingū Kōgō
To Helen of Troy
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
To Jingū Kōgō
To Helen of Troy
Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
This day’s Holy Reading includes the following Verse:
“Thou shalt dwell among the people as a precious diamond among cloudy diamonds, and crystals, and pieces of glass. Only the eye of the just merchant shall behold thee, and plunging in his hand shall single thee out and glorify thee before men.” (Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente, 5:20)
— Which, obviously, by a highly subjective association of ideas, sends me back to my present situation and to the considerations that follow:
I am being reproached these days for systematically beginning my posts with an inventory of the letters I receive.
This apparently gives the blog the tone of a “letters to the editor column” (sic), which clashes with the high spiritual standard that the Serious Thelemite has come to expect in these parts.
That’s quite fair…
But, dear friends, it cannot have escaped your notice that I am currently in PRISON: here, the distribution of mail is the most thrilling, the most hard-core, the most charged with breathless suspense of the entire twenty-four hours of the day!
Boredom is the tutelary deity of Houses of Detention — it is diametrically opposed to my religion and, as one can imagine, particularly trying in my personal case…
As everyone knows, I’ve led the life of a dandy adventurer, involving a multitude of stamps in my passport, fleeting liaisons, bloody brawls, and sobering-up cells.
You’d need three lifetimes to even approach the number of rumors about me.
I have also witnessed a heap of strange things in nearly every circle where the arts of mysticism and magick are practiced — things at the sight of which a bourgeois, a skeptic, or a materialist would instantly take refuge in the certainty that they were suffering from mental alienation.
Me, a simple idling nobleman, it never occurred to me to doubt my senses — the result: I’ve been able to build myself up while marveling.
A pure product of Old France, that is, a well-groomed young man who learned early that children don’t speak at the table, I’ve rubbed shoulders with more thieves and murderers than if I had been born a social case, and shared the bed of more women than if I had become a porn star — a vocation that my family’s prudishness thwarted at the last moment.
I’ve traveled a lot. Religious, philosophical, or political convictions are worthless unless validated by direct experience — not to mention that, when it comes to women, I love to deliver abroad. (See Confessions of a Hermit of Hadit)
Well then! Prison is as boring as Romania and as sophisticated as the Congo — I can speak of both: I HAVE been to Romania (a rather unexciting country where I was researching Vlad Tepes — I visited an Orthodox Christian monastery there: the superior brother had eyes that would fuck you from twenty paces) — and I HAVE been to the Congo (where I devoted my stay to putting the main voodoo psychotropics through their paces: Belangwa, Bombambo, Kongolamba, Misosoli, Yombela Nkasa, etc. I’ll tell you about that another day…)
It remains for me to explore my past lives — in order to try to understand the origin of the absurd karmic glitch that has landed me here, bored out of my mind…
The most plausible hypothesis, in my opinion, is that I was King Sardanapalus — hence the invariable hatred that eunuchs and slaves bear me in this present life: they were doubtless sacrificed during my suicide back then…
But that is pure speculation: apart from that, the Visions procured by my attempts at karmic recollection always look far too much like they were produced by Marc Dorcel, scripted by Eli Cross, and directed by Michael Ninn to be considered entirely reliable — not to mention that they invariably end in the arms of Helen of Troy, the Empress Himiko (Jingū Kōgō), or Cleopatra herself, and that it all borders on a running gag.
Anyway! I have equaled Beau Brummell in the art of throwing feasts in prison — and all in all, I’ve had it easy: Brummell, at least, didn’t have drones!
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 29° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 3° ♊︎ : ☉︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰⅰ.
𓄿𓎛𓂧 𓇋𓈖𓏌
