Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2020

Pantocracy.                                                                   Aun   
Bimutualism.                                                                 Do
Interchangeability.                                                        Tri
Naturality.                                                                     Car
Superfetation.                                                               Cush
Stabimobilism.                                                              Shay
Periodicity.                                                                    Shockt
Consummation.                                                            Ockt
Interpenetrativeness.                                                    Ni
Predicament.                                                                Geg
Balance of the factual                                                   
by the theoric 
Boox and Coox, Amallagamated.

                                                                                      Their feed begins.


--Finnegans Wake

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Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2020

"Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in grasp and ivoroiled overalls which he habitacularly fondseed, like Haroun Childeric Eggeberth he would caligulate by multiplicables the alltitude and malltitude until he seesaw by neatlight of the liquor wheretwin ’twas born, his roundhead staple of other days to rise in undress maisonry upstanded (joygrantit!), a waalworth of a skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with larrons o’toolers clittering up and tombles a’buckets clottering down."

--Finnegans Wake

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2020

"He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur. Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part
inher."

--Finnegans Wake

Happy New Year, 2020

“With our best youlldied greedings to Pep
and Memmy and the old folkers below and
beyant, wishing them all very merry Incar-
nations in this land of the livvey and plenty
of preprosperousness through their coming
new yonks.”

—Finnegans Wake

Happy Bloomsday, 2019

—There must be a new moon out, she said. He’s always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.

—What? Mr Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

—Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.

Indiges.

—Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.

—The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

—Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

—What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U. P.?

—U. p: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It’s a great shame for them whoever he is.

—Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.

—And now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s office. He’s going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.

--Ulysses

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2019 (Better Late than Never!)

Loud, graciously hear us!
Now have thy children entered into their habitations. And
nationglad, camp meeting over, to shin it, Gov be thanked! Thou
hast closed the portals of the habitations of thy children and thou
hast set thy guards thereby, even Garda Didymus and Garda
Domas, that thy children may read in the book of the opening of
the mind to light and err not in the darkness which is the after-
thought of thy nomatter by the guardiance of those guards which
are thy bodemen, the cheeryboyum chirryboth with the kerry-
bommers in their krubeems, Pray-your-Prayers Timothy and
Back-to-Bunk Tom.     Till tree from tree, tree among trees, tree over tree become stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever.     O Loud, hear the wee beseech of thees of each of these thy un- litten ones! Grant sleep in hour's time, O Loud!     That they take no chill. That they do ming no merder. That they shall not gomeet madhowiatrees.     Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laugh- ters low!     Ha he hi ho hu.     Mummum. --Finnegans Wake

Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2019

[Post Coming Soon]

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2019

[Post coming soon]

Happy Bloomsday, 2018

An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air made richer.

And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.

—Ulysses

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2018

The Ondt, that true and perfect host, a spiter aspinne, was  

making the greatest spass a body could with his queens lace-

swinging for he was spizzing all over him like thingsumanything

in formicolation, boundlessly blissfilled in an allallahbath of

houris. He was ameising himself hugely at crabround and mary-

pose, chasing Floh out of charity and tickling Luse, I hope too, 

and tackling Bienie, faith, as well, and jucking Vespatilla jukely

by the chimiche. Never did Dorsan from Dunshanagan dance it 

with more devilry! The veripatetic imago of the impossible

Gracehoper on his odderkop in the myre, after his thrice ephe- 

meral journeeys, sans mantis ne shooshooe, featherweighed 

animule, actually and presumptuably sinctifying chronic's de-

spair, was sufficiently and probably coocoo much for his chorous

of gravitates. Let him be Artalone the Weeps with his parisites

peeling off him I'll be Highfee the Crackasider. Flunkey Footle

furloughed foul, writing off his phoney, but Conte Carme makes

the melody that mints the money. Ad majorem l.s.d.! Divi gloriam.

A darkener of the threshold. Haru? Orimis, capsizer of his ant-

boat, sekketh rede from Evil-it-is, lord of loaves in Amongded.

Be it! So be it! Thou-who-thou-art, the fleet-as-spindhrift,

impfang thee of mine wideheight. Haru!

--Finnegans Wake

Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2018

…who could see at one

blick a saumon taken with a lance, hunters pursuing a doe, a

swallowship in full sail, a whyterobe lifting a host; faced flappery

like old King Cnut and turned his back like Cincinnatus; is a

farfar and morefar and a hoar father Nakedbucker in villas old as

new; squats aquart and cracks aquaint when it's flaggin in town

and on haven; blows whiskery around his summit but stehts

stout upon his footles; stutters fore he falls and goes mad entirely 

when he's waked; is Timb to the pearly mom and Tomb to the

mourning night; and an he had the best bunbaked bricks in bould 

Babylon for his pitching plays he'd be lost for the want of his 

wan wubblin wall?

    Answer: Finn MacCool! 

--Finnegans Wake

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2018

    Poor Isa sits a glooming so gleaming in the gloaming; the tin- 

celles a touch tarnished wind no lovelinoise awound her swan's.

Hey, lass! Woefear gleam she so glooming, this pooripathete I

solde? Her beauman's gone of a cool. Be good enough to symper-

ise. If he's at anywhere she's therefor to join him. If it's to no-

where she's going to too. Buf if he'll go to be a son to France's

she'll stay daughter of Clare. Bring tansy, throw myrtle, strew

rue, rue, rue. She is fading out like Journee's clothes so you can't

see her now. Still we know how Day the Dyer works, in dims

and deeps and dusks and darks. And among the shades that Eve's

now wearing she'll meet anew fiancy, tryst and trow. Mammy

was, Mimmy is, Minuscoline's to be. In the Dee dips a dame and

the dame desires a demselle but the demselle dresses dolly and

the dolly does a dulcydamble. The same renew. For though

she's unmerried she'll after truss up and help that hussyband how

to hop. Hip it and trip it and chirrub and sing. Lord Chuffy's sky  

sheraph and Glugg's got to swing.

    So and so, toe by toe, to and fro they go round, for they are the   

ingelles, scattering nods as girls who may, for they are an angel's  

garland.

--Finnegans Wake

Gems from the Forums: Crowley's "Hymn to Lucifer"

A few years ago, I made a post on Lashtal.com about Crowley's excellent poem "Hymn to Lucifer":

Hymn to Lucifer

 (by Aleister Crowley)

Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its climax, death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a bloody-ruby radiant

With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden’s imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.
 __________________________________

My discussion of this poem appears after the jump.

Read on for more.

Happy Bloomsday, 2016

Now, to be on anew and basking again in the panaroma of
all flores of speech, if a human being duly fatigued by his dayety
in the sooty, having plenxty off time on his gouty hands and va-
cants of space at his sleepish feet and as hapless behind the dreams
of accuracy as any camelot prince of dinmurk, were at this auc-
tual futule preteriting unstant, in the states of suspensive exani-
mation, accorded, throughout the eye of a noodle, with an ear-
sighted view of old hopeinhaven with all the ingredient and
egregiunt whights and ways to which in the curse of his persis-
tence the course of his tory will had been having recourses, the
reverberration of knotcracking awes, the reconjungation of
nodebinding ayes, the redissolusingness of mindmouldered ease
and the thereby hang of the Hoel of it, could such a none, whiles
even led comesilencers to comeliewithhers and till intempes-
tuous Nox should catch the gallicry and spot lucan's dawn, by-
hold at ones what is main and why tis twain, how one once
meet melts in tother wants poignings, the sap rising, the foles
falling, the nimb now nihilant round the girlyhead so becoming,
the wrestless in the womb, all the rivals to allsea, shakeagain, O
disaster! shakealose, Ah how starring! but Heng's got a bit
of Horsa's nose and Jeff's got the signs of Ham round his
mouth and the beau that spun beautiful pales as it palls, what
roserude and oragious grows gelb and greem, blue out the ind of
it! Violet's dyed! then what would that fargazer seem to seemself
to seem seeming of, dimm it all?
Answer: A collideorscape! --Finnegans Wake

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2016 (Better Late Than Never!)

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flitter-
ing bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome?
What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffey-
ing waters of. Ho, talk save us ! My foos won't moos. I feel as old
as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-
sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night! --Finnegans Wake

Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2016

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia,
trinkettoes! And sure he was the quare old buntz too, Dear Dirty
Dumpling, foostherfather of fingalls and dotthergills. Gammer
and gaffer we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive
him? And every dam had her seven crutches. And every crutch
had its seven hues. And each hue had a differing cry. Sudds for
me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Befor!
Bifur! He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, like any
Etrurian Catholic Heathen, in their pinky limony creamy birnies
and their turkiss indienne mauves. But at milkidmass who was
the spouse? Then all that was was fair. Tys Elvenland ! Teems of
times and happy returns. The seim anew. Ordovico or viricordo.
Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made
southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in per-
son? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into
oure eryan! Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on
him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord ! Twins of his bosom. Lord
save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daugh-
ters of. Whawk? -- Finnegans Wake

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2016

O
tell me all about
Anna Livia! I want to hear all about Anna Livia. Well, you know Anna Livia? Yes, of course,   we all know Anna Livia. Tell me all. Tell me now. You'll die   when you hear. Well, you know, when the old cheb went futt   and did what you know. Yes, I know, go on. Wash quit and   don't be dabbling. Tuck up your sleeves and loosen your talk-   tapes. And don't butt me       hike!       when you bend. Or what-   ever it was they threed to make out he thried to two in the Fiendish park. He's an awful old reppe. Look at the shirt of him ! Look at the dirt of it! He has all my water black on me. And it steeping and stuping since this time last wik. How many goes is it I wonder I washed it? I know by heart the places he likes to saale, duddurty devil! Scorching my hand and starving my fa- mine to make his private linen public. Wallop it well with your battle and clean it. My wrists are wrusty rubbing the mouldaw stains. And the dneepers of wet and the gangres of sin in it! What was it he did a tail at all on Animal Sendai? And how long was he under loch and neagh? It was put in the newses what he did, nicies and priers, the King fierceas Humphrey, with illysus dis- tilling, exploits and all. But toms will till. I know he well. Temp untamed will hist for no man. As you spring so shall you neap. O, the roughty old rappe! Minxing marrage and making loof. [...]                                                                                      Was her banns never loosened in Adam and Eve's or were him and her but captain spliced? For mine ether duck I thee drake. And by my wildgaze I thee gander. Flowey and Mount on the brink of time makes wishes and fears for a happy isthmass. She can show all her lines, with love, license to play. And if they don't remarry that hook and eye may ! O, passmore that and oxus another! --Finnegans Wake

Video and Book of the Day: Sam Harris on Death and the Present Moment

I’ve just finished Sam Harris’ book Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality without Religion. I highly recommend it, as it contains important insights both for materialists who would normally dismiss meditation/contemplation and for supernaturalists who mistakenly think that their inner experiences furnish evidence for metaphysical truths.

As Harris concisely and eloquently argues, attention to the details of our inner lives is of supreme importance to human beings. Learning to pay attention to consciousness gives us insights into the fact that consciousness by its nature lacks a self: that is to say, our felt sense that we are “separate” from our experiences is not true and isn’t even an illusion – because if one looks closely and carefully enough, that sense is not there to be found.

Harris points out that such attention loosens the shackles that our emotions place upon us (he points out, for instance, how it is impossible to remain angry for more than a few seconds if one is actually paying attention to the experience of the present moment, instead of continually manufacturing anger by rehearsing a mental story about grievances). He further argues that experiences of self-transcendence have ethical implications – and while Harris is not a Thelemite and does not use the jargon of Thelema (“True Will”), his observations that attention to the present moment naturally settles the clutter of one’s mental life can easily be appropriated in a Thelemic context. With a mind thus settled, an aspirant will find it easier, practically by definition, to perceive his or her authentic inclinations (i.e. “True Will”).

Harris also points out the logical flaws in using such inner experiences to justify metaphysical claims, exploring the evidence that indicates that minds arise from brains and investigating how physical changes to brains – including during near-death experiences and drug trips – can cause experiences that resemble trances that meditation can induce more gradually and safely. He also discusses how unscrupulous gurus can take advantage of people and justify this behavior with some of the insights generated by meditation.

Some of the ideas covered in this book – and a short guided meditation – are presented in a very interesting talk Harris gave about “Death and the Present Moment,” which you can view here.

I highly recommend both the video and the book.

Gems from the Forums: Nuit and Hadit

Today’s “Gems” entry comes from a thread in which the original poster was confused about the symbol called “Hadit” in Thelema.

The poster’s question revolves around the fact that Hadit is in some senses “unmoved” and in other senses ever “going.” As the poster puts it: “Hadit is the ‘secret center’, the Hidden One, the distinctive ‘point of view.’ In buddhist and yogic practice, this is often referred to as ‘the witness,’ which is unbounded and unmodified by what it witnesses, and absolutely unmoved. Yet in Thelemic discussions, Hadit goes.”

In response to this interesting question, the poster got mostly unhelpful replies, including the ludicrous suggestion that Hadit is an “idea that transcends 4D space-time” and that we cannot “address Hadit adequately with such a logic that “relies on those finite definitions” of space and time.

Read on for my thoughts on this subject and my description of Nuit and Hadit.

On Liber V vel Reguli

Liber V vel Reguli – the “Book of the Princes” or “The Ritual of the Mark of the Beast” – is, in Crowley’s words, “an incantation proper to invoke the Energies of the Aeon of Horus, adapted for the daily use of the Magician of whatever grade."

On first glance, the ritual looks something like a “Thelemicized” version of the Supreme (aka Greater) Invoking Ritual of the Pentagram. On deeper inspection, this ritual is an enactment of Thelemic cosmology that functions by dramatizing the LAShTAL formula. It thus expands and deepens the Supreme Invoking Ritual of the Pentagram as the Star Ruby does the LBRP.

The ritual is a symbolic means of saturating one’s consciousness in a “Thelemic” view of the world, as summarized in the word LAShTAL. It thus indeed “invoke[s] the Energies of the Aeon of Horus” in the truest sense of those words. No supernatural energies are stirred by this ritual: as in the LBRP and Star Ruby, the mechanism and effects are purely psychological. As Crowley put it in Magick in Theory and Practice, “The sincere student will discover, behind the symbolic technicalities of this book [i.e. behind the symbols of ritual magick], a practical method of making himself a Magician. The processes described will enable him to discriminate between what he actually is, and what he has fondly imagined himself to be.”

In what follows I examine the performance and function of Liber V by reading it against the essay Crowley appended to it.

You should consider reading my articles on the LBRP and the Star Ruby as preliminaries to this article.

If you intend to perform Liber V, I recommend a solid grounding in the standard pentagram rituals first and some significant experience with invoking.

Read on for more.