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.

To Summer (and excerpts from Milton: a Poem)

To Summer, by William Blake

 

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on

Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

Happy Bloomsday, 2013

Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn.

Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.

Horrid! And gold flushed more.

A husky fifenote blew.

Blew. Blue bloom is on the.

Goldpinnacled hair.

A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile.

Trilling, trilling: Idolores.

Peep! Who's in the ... peepofgold?

Tink cried to bronze in pity.

And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.

Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping answer.

O rose! Castile. The morn is breaking.

Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.

Coin rang. Clock clacked.

Avowal. SONNEZ. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. LA CLOCHE! Thigh smack.

Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!

Jingle. Bloo.

Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.

A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.

Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.

Horn. Hawhorn.

When first he saw. Alas!

Full tup. Full throb.

Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.

Martha! Come!

Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.

Goodgod henev erheard inall.

Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.

A moonlit nightcall: far, far.

I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.

Listen!

The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each, and for other, plash and silent roar.

Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.

You don't?

Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra.

Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.

Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.

But wait!

Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.

Naminedamine. Preacher is he:

All gone. All fallen.

Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.

Amen! He gnashed in fury.

Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.

Bronzelydia by Minagold.

By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.

One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock.

Pray for him! Pray, good people!

His gouty fingers nakkering.

Big Benaben. Big Benben.

Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone.

Pwee! Little wind piped wee.

True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your tschink with tschunk.

Fff! Oo!

Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?

Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.

Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.

Done.

Begin!

--Ulysses, "Sirens"

The Four Elements: Air

The element of air represents the mind and thought. The rationale behind this attribution is that thought shares with air the quality of rapid movement and transience. Just as air flitters about, ever changing, so too does thought move through the mind.

The sword is the magical weapon attributed to air, and in a chapter on that tool in Book 4, part 2, Crowley writes, “the Magick Sword is the Reason, ‘the Son,’ the six Sephiroth of the Ruach […] The Magick Sword is the analytical faculty.”

This article will closely read Crowley’s essay on the sword, exploring his explication of this weapon, the element it signifies, and – most important – the idea signified by that element.

The Four Elements

Announcing a new series of articles that will be written and posted very slowly over the next year or so as time and inclination make possible: “The Four Elements,” essays that closely read Crowley’s chapters on the four main magical weapons (Sword, Wand, Cup, Disk) in Book 4 Part 2, with special attention to discussing, in practical terms, what is represented by these weapons and the element with which each is associated.

It is hoped that both beginners and advanced students will find value in these essays and that they may eventually serve as a kind of “study guide” for people who want to read Crowley but find him inaccessible and obscure.