Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Last night — thanks to a fleeting little nod-off — I had the following Splendid Nightmare:
I dreamed I was in my beloved Bernstein Suite at the Hôtel de Crillon, sipping an ice-cold Dom Pérignon (wine that foams, of course — but authentically from Reims; that’s one of the advantages of being a French Thelemite), waiting for Anne-Aubépine de V., the youngest daughter of my dear old Taz.
Without his knowledge, she and I had planned to have an enormous amount of sex — barely legal, by the way, since Anne-Au’ is 19…
She is the archetypal ultra-BCBG blonde from Divonne — really very beautiful, very fresh, very much the kind of girl I used to date when I was a boarder in Switzerland: big Colgate smile, the whole package.
Suddenly, furious shouts came from the corridor! — I rushed to check, flung open the door of my suite, and found Anne-Aubépine on the threshold, tearing into a hair-pulling fight with the prison wardress who gave me that memorable dressing-down on 18 December last (so memorable that I took it as a Christmas present — but I already told you that story).
The wardress (I have since learned her first name is Laura, which etymologically bodes well) informed me that she had to search my suite immediately!
Anne-Aubépine protested: “And our date?! What are we supposed to do now?!” — But, too overwhelmed by Laura’s aggressiveness, I slammed the door in my young friend’s face after letting the uniformed woman in.
I sensed an opportunity — and I was not wrong.
We threw ourselves at each other and began frantically making love on the corner sofa to the right (the Pillar of Justice).
While Laura was on top of me, vigorously shifting my spine with the power of her hip thrusts, Anne-Au’ appeared behind the terrace window, nose pressed to the glass, hands cupped around her eyes like binoculars, peering inside.
And Laura, without slowing her imperious gallop, raised her left hand (the Pillar of Mercy) and gave the poor rejected girl a majestic middle finger.
The rest of the dream was essentially athletic — I was unleashed! — I really gave it to my pretty jailer so hard that, from a strictly experimental point of view, I would be curious to know whether, in this reality, the wardress from Moulins-Yzeure Prison was physically able to sit down today.
Upon waking, still steeped in the afterglow of the dream, I decided to explore its meaning through bibliomancy.
I drew the following verse from the Holy Books (Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente, 2:35):
Where is now the Master? cry the little crazy boys — He is dead! He is shamed! He is wedded! and their mockery shall ring round the world.And after several hefty spliffs of Isla OG, I roughly concluded the following:
I. Heathens Only Believe in Magick When They’re Dying, Dumped, or Horny
It is true that the Heathen only manage a little Magical Thinking in these three cases…
The proximity of death makes them stammer vague prayers; public humiliation makes them badmouth Friday the 13th, black cats, or ladders; falling in love makes them eagerly consult their horoscope…
But, strangely, they immediately stop believing in the divine mandate of a Master as soon as he betrays his merely mortal nature, as soon as he is publicly pilloried by the media, or as soon as it turns out he has a taste for women…
This does not trouble me: I am an Anti-Tartuffe of Rasputin calibre, faithful to the motto of Saint Friedrich Nietzsche (may his merits protect us): “I would rather be a clown than a saint.”
II. Death Is a Pink Floyd Wall, Love Is Colombian Coffee (And Shakira Conquered the World)
In fact, to the Totem Test question “What does a wall blocking your path evoke for you?” (supposed to make the subject unconsciously reveal their vision of Death), I had answered: “Pink Floyd, because The Wall.”
Does this mean I see my demise as a great psychedelic happening and the Afterlife as a hardcore acid trip?…
Or that I have a rose-coloured-glasses reading of the Work of the Great Psychopomp Tahuti (assuming the flamingo is related to the ibis…?)
As for shame, my forehead no longer knows how to blush — I do not even hide my most burning embarrassments (cf. The Altar of Babalon) and I am rather in the style of the Marquis de Sade, whose reaction upon learning the verdict that condemned him to Public Dishonour is well known…
That said, Libertinism is a pixie — Love alone is a god — and to the Totem Test question “What does coffee evoke for you?” (supposed to reveal the subject’s vision of Love), I answered: “Like women and cocaine: fabulous when it comes from Colombia.”
Remember: Alexander and Napoleon had to deploy prodigies of energy and resort to monstrous carnage to make even a small impact on their corner of the planet — but one single hip movement from Shakira, and the whole world burns.
III. ZMN: Dead, Shamed, Wedded – The Threefold Samurai Protocol of Timing
If we were to transpose this tarologically, we would assign “wedded” to Atu VI (for obvious reasons), “shamed” to Atu XII (idem), and “dead” to Atu XIII (idem).
This gives the sequence Zain, Mem, Nun, which forms the word ZMN, “appointed time.”
Jez pointed out that ZMN contains the Threefold Protocol: on the spiritual plane, “Nuit is my bride” (Zain); on the ethico-philosophical plane, obedience to Hadit perinde ac cadaver (Mem); on the practical plane, serving Ra-Hoor-Khuit “like a samurai serves his daimyo” — for, as Jocho says, “the Way of the samurai is death” (Nun).
In the Threefold Protocol, everything is a question of timing: the right hour for the Rituals, decision-making under pressure for the use of free will, putting the temporal at the service of the Promulgation.
In other words, we return to our fundamentals: it is when your enemy is upon you that you must decide whether you curl up in the fetal position or explode him — neither before nor after (that is the meaning of “trodden serpent” — AL III, 42).
IV. Treat Death Like Your Favourite Pornstar – The Ultimate Thelemic Crush
Hadit teaches that the optimal attitude toward death is to desire it — and to desire it intensely (AL II, 74).
Now, the verb he uses is the same one Ra-Hoor-Khuit uses in AL III, 14 (‘Scarlet Concubine of his desire’)— From this we deduce that the most perfectly Thelemic perspective on death is to consider it as one’s crush.
Try, then, to stop a man who sees Death as his official escort, his favourite pornstar, the side-chick/mad mistress who obsesses him, the celebrity crush who haunts his fantasies!
People consider the man who ruins himself for a gold-digger to be mad, and try to shame him — but he is a madman whom nothing could prevent from living as he pleases. He who has the same relationship with Death will receive the same comments — but nothing will prevent him from accomplishing his True Will.
As for “wedded,” given that “Be thou Hadit” is the first commandment of the Law (AL I, 6) and that Hadit calls Nuit “my bride,” I do not believe that a (male or female) celibate can be called a “conscious Thelemite.” — “GOD is Conjugal Harmony,” according to our formula (cf. Passionate Peace), which implies that conjugality must exist in the first place…
So what does this have to do with my dream?
I don’t see it.
My shrink could probably tell me, of course, but she intimidates me — Does anyone know a good orthodox-Freudian AI?
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 25° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 21° ♓︎ : ♂︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰⅰ.
𓄿𓎛𓂧 𓇋𓈖𓏌
