Celebration

A feast every day in your hearts in the joy of my rapture!

A feast every night unto Nu, and the pleasure of uttermost delight!

--The Book of the Law

 

   Cawcaught. Coocaged.

And Dub did glow that night. In Fingal of victories. Cann-
matha and Cathlin sang together. And the three shouters of
glory. Yelling halfviewed their harps. Surly Tuhal smiled upon
drear Darthoola: and Roscranna's bolgaboyo begirlified the
daughter of Cormac. The soul of everyelsesbody rolled into its
olesoleself. A doublemonth's licence, lease on mirth, while hooney-
moon and her flame went huneysuckling. Holyryssia, what boom
of bells! What battle of bragues on Sandgate where met the bobby
mobbed his bibby mabbing through the ryce. Even Tombs left
doss and dunnage down in Demidoff's tomb and drew on the
dournailed clogs that Morty Manning left him and legged in by
Ghoststown Gate, like Pompei up to date, with a sprig of White-
boys heather on his late Luke Elcock's heirloom. And some say
they seen old dummydeaf with a leaf of bronze on his cloak
so grey, trooping his colour a pace to the reire. And as owfally
posh with his halfcrown jool as if he was the Granjook Meckl or
Paster de Grace on the Route de l'Epèe. It was joobileejeu that
All Sorts' Jour. Freestouters and publicranks, hafts on glaives.
You could hear them swearing threaties on the Cymylaya
Mountains, man. And giving it out to the Ould Fathach and louth-
mouthing after the Healy Mealy with an enfysis to bring down
the rain of Tarar. Nevertoletta! Evertomind! The grandest
bethehailey seen or heard on earth's conspectrum since Scape   the Goat, that gafr, ate the Suenders bible. Hadn't we heaven's lamps to hide us? Yet every lane had its lively spark and every spark had its several spurtles and each spitfire spurtle had some trick of her trade, a tease for Ned, nook's nestle for Fred and a peep at me mow for Peer Pol. So that Father Matt Hughes looked taytotally threbled. But Danno the Dane grimmed. Dune. 'Twere yeg will elsecare doatty lanv meet they dewscent hyemn to cannons' roar and rifles' peal vill shantey soloweys sang! For there were no more Tyrrhanees and for Laxembraghs was pass- thecupper to Our Lader's. And it was dim upon the floods only and there was day on all the ground. […] He goat a berth. And she cot a manege. And wohl's gorse mundom ganna wedst. --Finnegans Wake   Never fear, gentle readers. “Thelema and Skepticism” will be returning later this summer. Until then, celebrate a feast in your hearts every day and night.