Dear friends, beautiful and happy people,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Jez has just sent me, from our HQ in Ramatuelle, my Magical Journal from July–August 2009 e.v., accompanied by a charming letter that contains this funny note:
« It’s a good thing you don’t like blondes (see the entry of August 12th). You are, as we know, so narcissistic that if you were going out with Margot Robbie, while you were making love, you’d close your eyes and imagine you were jerking off. Frankly, it would be a waste. »What a JOY to reconnect with those Days of Great Light!
I have the blood of Des Esseintes and Sardanapalus running through my veins, and the splendour of this book with its precious violet leather binding, embossed with the Mark of the Beast in pure gold, bears ample witness to the fact.
The unheard-of refinement of the object, the perfumed Japanese washi paper, the scarlet silk bookmarks, all exude an aura of unbridled luxury to which I am particularly sensitive.
But what a terrifying aging effect this re-reading of the Diary has just dealt me!
There is not a single entry in the entire Journal that a person under fifty could possibly understand!
I read:
Yesterday, an absolutely delightful day, beneath the feudal towers of the family castle.
From Paris I brought back, along with a slight weariness of multiculturalism, an old friend, Charles-André W (a.k.a. Charlot), — an extraordinary Thelemite, — and we spent the whole afternoon as if projected into a painting by Gustave Moreau — reclining on deckchairs, contemplating from the terrace the deities playing in the splendour of the park.
We gorged ourselves on idleness, Singapore Slings, and silence.It must be said that the fresh morning, devoted to shooting practice, had on the contrary been extremely active, dry, and thunderous.Behind the outbuildings we have an old orchard that resembles a secret Venetian courtyard, and whose door I suspect to be inter-dimensional: a shot from a .44 AMP Automag pistol, which the twenty-six hectares of park would normally echo for fifty kilometres around, is mysteriously muffled there, and reaches the ears of the local peasants (who honour me with their esteem, and whom I would not wish to spoil their leisure for anything in the world) like the plik of an air rifle, or those of the nearby flabby, pink Dutch invaders (whose existence I would be delighted to ruin enough to make them return — that heap of lobster-coloured lard — to mope in their Low Countries, but who have the annoying habit of bothering our gendarmes at the slightest noise coming from the château). It is therefore there, quite naturally, that I have set up my shooting range.
By the immortal gods! Who still uses a .44 AMP Automag pistol?!
And this too:
I have my habits in a certain internet café…
For some time now, the manageress has been irritating me prodigiously with her pinched way of trying to act “Parisian”, and especially with her excessive displays of prudery: when she catches sight, over a customer’s shoulder, of a daring image or a somewhat spicy clip, she makes a point of showing her disapproval, and the slightest swaying choreography earns you a prudish little look, bordering on hostile…
I hate the neo-Puritanism of this post-9/11 era with all the force of my soul.
Who still remembers what internet cafés were?!
I continue:
What characterises Old Grey Land is the proscription of eroticism and its confinement to dark, shameful corners…
The Christian vermin (to the lions!) have made a “sin” of the impulse that gives us life; the communists hunted “lustful vipers”…
Today man must choose his destiny: it is Saint Alexander VI or Savonarola… There is no other option…
Personally, I have chosen… And it is not Savonarola…
Beauty, joy, freedom — which are the necessary adjuvants to eroticism — are contrary to Abrahamism itself: the only true rampart against Old Grey Land is la Voile Rouge…
Who still remembers (weep, my eyes!) what la Voile Rouge was?!?
And this again:
A little while ago, at the Internet Café, I was wandering on YouTube…
I stumble upon Kylie Minogue… Can’t Get You Out of My Head. This video gives me an immediate, maximal, painful erection…
What to do?…
Impossible to walk to the exit, or else at goose-step pace, and even then: people will think I’m trying to steal an umbrella or something… Yet I keep getting harder, and I feel on the verge of tissue necrosis…
Only one solution: a quick stroke of the wrist, unseen and unknown, in my pocket — and, as they say, everything for the dry-cleaner…
Right. I replay the clip and begin the operation with the discretion required in an overcrowded cybercafé…
Only, here’s the thing: the rising orgasm announces itself as enormous… devastating… un-be-liev-able… In short, I am preparing, still impassive, to take the ride of my life… all while dreading that the violence of the thing might punch a hole through my trousers… then sweep the entire clientele of the café away like a giant Kärcher pressure washer… then knock down the pylons and bus shelters in the street…
The “annunciatory apnoea” kicks in… the pressure rises… rises… prodigious… and, at the precise instant of the orgasmic peak — I insist: at the precise instant I touch bliss — the clip ends, the playlist continues, and Moby suddenly appears on my screen. :/
And I have NEVER liked Moby!
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 27° ♈︎ : ☽︎ in 4° ♉︎ : ♀︎ : Ⅴⅹⅰⅰ.
𓄿𓎛𓂧 𓇋𓈖𓏌
