What Rough Beast

Foaming Wines: Day One 

Today is the First Feast of the Writing of the Book of the Law. A blessed day. I finished rereading Ubik, today- I've been reading a lot of PKD lately, as it seems he ended up being one of the most accurate prophets. I do wish their were fuckable robots though- and it strikes me as appropriate to come face to face with the Sophia in that way, in this age. Finishing a book about a maybe-false-God in a tenuous world while I'm in a tenuous world where a maybe-false-God sounds pretty good right now celebrating an ephemeral-God which probably doesn't exist outside the imagination and all that shit...

I've got to do something to honor these days and since I have left my fields fallow, I shall seed them. Tonight, I'll give you "Ethics for Aliens," an exercise in autobiographical excess. Mike was absolutely correct- there was no way this could have been published. I'm honestly interested in its reception now- after I've tried to tailor the way I communicate in the years intervening. This is a bizarre piece written from the Id/heart. All unto thee, Nuit. 

"Satan's Treasures" Jean Delville (via Coulthart)

Pure Folly: or, Ethics for Aliens 

Crowley has always reminded me of the philosopher de Selby, author of the dense and occasionally gnomic Golden Hours, Country Album and the sweeping Codex, amongst other works. If we read the foremost authority on de Selby, O’Nolan, we quickly learn that de Selby is perhaps best understood under the refractory lenses of his many commentators; reliable, acerbic Le Fournier, Hatchjaw, Bassett, Du Garbandier who might have been the shadowy Kraus, Le Clerque. This collection of minds swirling and sniping in an attempt to probe the infamous opponent of sleep and darkness helps us to better understand the man himself, as we might better understand our appearance when we look into, instead of a single mirror, many different mirrors placed at different angles. So it is with Crowley, who managed to get talked about a lot during his lifetime and achieved the not-insubstantial feat of being talked about long after his Greater Feast. (Of course, de Selby holds that death itself is another of mankind’s hallucinations.) 

Much of the above could indeed be said of any thinker. And yet I think de Selby and Crowley, with their sinister reputations and their surprising earnestness, compare quite nicely, not to mention their ability to glaringly and incisively reveal truths about those who speak of them in their attempts to reconcile the men with their ideas. Wilson found both men fascinating, but, perhaps tellingly, he only handled de Selby in a few of his works while drawing and commenting upon Crowley’s ideas, beliefs and practices consistently throughout his writing career. For this, we should be grateful; when there are many guides to a subject, some are going to be more knowledgeable than others. This isn’t to say that some are more right than others, as we all know we should probably avoid that word while dealing with the commentator at hand, but the best see things that the others do not. Perhaps it is that some commentators are simply more right for a particular reader, or their angle reveals aspects of the person studied that the reader has not considered up until this point.  I personally have gathered more from the Hatchjaw-Bassett school of de Selby studies than from the conservative frustration of Le Fournier. I have also gained more from the sometimes credulous, sometimes purposefully misleading, commentary of Wilson upon Crowley than from that of any of his other commentators. If you will allow me a personal aside, I will try to explain why the book you are holding in your hands is a treasure trove- one that, without the safe bonds of time, I would happily steal from your hands. 

When I read Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End as a young adolescent, I misinterpreted the text. I didn’t realize that it was supposed to be a sad, or at least ambiguous, book; to me it read like the best possible outcome. (For the uninitiated, the very oversimplified plot of Childhood’s End is that aliens arrive, forcibly make humanity humane and eventually reveal themselves to resemble literal devils. These aliens, the “Overlords,” are known to be benevolent by the time they are seen in the flesh, so they are allowed amongst mankind to study our psychic/occult fascinations. Eventually, it is revealed that they have altered mankind so that the next generation are telepathic homo superiors with a hivemind whose destiny is to merge with an Overmind while the Earth will be destroyed in some sort of atomic congress.) There are two reasons for reminiscing about a mid-century sci-fi novel as a commentary on Wilson’s writings on Crowley: first, because this was the book that had changed me the most when I began studying magic or shortly beforehand, and second, because I was wrong. (Also in Childhood’s End, it turns out our psychic powers were real and a clear and present danger: “it was our metaphysics, not our physics,”  which is an amusing leitmotif in mid-century science fiction. There seemed to be semi-serious convictions in imaginative and perspicacious writers that developing ESP was right around the corner. Do not think that Robert Anton Wilson, or even Dr. Leary, were unique in their conjectures when you read what lies before you.)

Magic was a ship-of-hierodules I boarded upon being exposed, through pure curiosity, to four minds who came to unknowingly raise me: Alan Moore, Robert Anton Wilson, Aleister Crowley and William Blake. Later, Alan’s mentor Steve Moore would prove to be a huge influence as well. Not a very diverse crowd, a very specific one in fact- giants whose hairy thighs this yokel would climb up to try to exit the hell of boredom this world provides. At least that’s how I saw it- I was also a fan of Baudelaire. At the same time I was swinging a sword about in a cowfield while reciting the preface to Milton under a full moon in my corner of the world, on the coast of California one of my four great teachers breathed his last. Out of Wilson’s death came Moore’s “Eulogy”, a major text in my life that shaped many an experience and changed the mundane into magic. Lightning in the gutters, that old Promethean promise. 

There is no reason to believe anything, let alone the idea that Wilson could know what Moore said about him while he made his tentative first steps beyond the veil. But to me, it was a dialogue that I could join in earnestly, as silent to my Moore as Moore was to Wilson. This is what we have from Wilson on Crowley already, enchanted dialogue between two kindred souls over time and space. In your hands you have a definitive document of the most pertinent side of the living party’s conversation. Back in the aftermath of my alien-salvation delusions caused by Childhood’s End, relatively longish before hearing Moore’s “Eulogy” and during Wilson’s days spent as an old man on a balcony over Monterey Bay, I was once driven to my knees after listening to Bowie’s “Oh! You Pretty Things” while thinking very deeply, or aping at thinking very deeply, about Crowley’s 0=2 equation and efficient cause. That was when the first veil broke and as I walked outside I saw a tree of lighting extending down from the sky. Bear with me. 

One idea that you’ll stumble across herein is that Wilson seemed to believe that there’s something to the idea of a connection between aliens and magic. I would venture that magic is composed of imaginary entities, similar to the aliens of our collective imagination, that we can only speak to one-sidedly and only personally intuit their replies. Communication is essential to magic, even when it is impossible.  Maybe it was just Dr. Leary’s influence and the SMI2LE formula but- oh, Wilson! You most gifted of Utopians! You who gave me the Crowley that I needed: a tireless champion of humanity who so loved the light that he was willing to shun it- you were another figure who did not simply oppose tyranny, nor seek the above-it-all attitude of the premature adept, but were a steadfast foe of hypocrisy. You also gave me the idea that humanity wasn’t enough. That we had been far too short-sighted and that we might need to extend beyond our terrestrial sphere to continue our individual and collective quests. Lion of Light, the proposed title of Wilson’s Crowley biography, was a ridiculous name (it should be noted that the manuscripts in this esteemable volume do not constitute Wilson’s planned Lion of Light) but it was also appropriate. The most recently published books I’ve read on Crowley have been predictably wary and sullenly contentious, drear affairs occasionally saved by the authors’ elan and charm, not to mention Crowley’s own inherent charms, but insufficient and shallow. Perhaps the scholarship is better sourced--although one makes an especially heinous and ill-intentioned accusation at Crowley--but Wilson-on-Crowley is a deeper and more nourishing wellspring to draw from. 

Can first contact happen over time as well as space? Some of us are lucky enough to remember when we first looked into the eyes of someone who would change us forever, or remember their peripheral shape as they turned the oncoming corner- for most of us, it’s ten o’clock and we don’t know where our kids are. There’s a need in Wilson to understand Crowley, a spirit of loneliness and exuberance that has longed for a clear mirror but has walked through a funhouse. Wilson drew on many sources and, while scrupulously not a hero-worshiper, spent a lot of his time heroically reiterating and interpreting the words of many people he looked up to. Yet I believe from my subjective interpretation that more than anyone, perhaps aside from Leary, he loved Crowley best of all. Regardie, whose biography remains at least the most interesting of Crowley, pales in comparison to Wilson. And unlike Wilson, he knew the man in the flesh. 

Four or five years after my encounter with Childhood’s End, after I was done genuflecting to a lightning tree that was probably a hallucination caused by some sort of nervous breakdown, I would read another hand wielding the pen of my fourfold teacher observe soberly that while the Universe is by no means infinite, it is very big and therefore the possibility of communication with life on another world was quite slim. It was Moore, Alan not Steve, who first cracked the starry lenses across my eyes. What I believe he meant, between his infinitely clever two-states, was that if we wanted another world, we would have to make it happen here. I immediately began mourning the aliens while rearranging the fundament of fairyland. Wilson, by contrast, held much more optimistic views. I don’t think I’ve ever believed in different intelligences, peers on our scale, as much as when I was reading Cosmic Trigger the first time, and throughout this collection, you will find tantalizing hints of fantastical races beyond our ken and the fields we know. You’ll find Wilson making all sorts of promises out of the sides of his mouth; I briefly believed this was a flaw, a sign of credulous naivety, but now I believe it was Wilson beginning to choose his reality. Wilson draws on a lot of his own experiences, and his bias is predicated on Crowley’s experiences and because Kenneth Grant’s masterful work, The Magical Revival, deals with a lot of extraterrestrial/alien sophistry. Crowley is said to have said many things alluding to extraterrestrial life if you trust Kenneth Grant, which you shouldn’t. 

Trusting the younger Wilson, whose hand shaped most of the texts before you, is also an occasionally dubious prospect because of my linear prejudices. The conventional wisdom is that Wilson towards the end of his life had more of the proverbial big picture, but I’m not sure that Wilson would necessarily agree. Pay attention to the beginning of the pieces where Wilson adopts his best barker-for-The-Magic-Theater voice and heralds Crowley’s many guises. Here, in his ambidextrous handling of the bizarrely faceted Great Beast, we can see a stage in the development of model agnosticism. Wilson obviously has a deep affection for Crowley and presents him as a prize within the curio cabinet of ideas and personalities he can introduce to you. For all that Wilson wrote and spoke about Buckminster Fuller, Korzybski, Burroughs, Reich, Lilly or a myriad of physicists and mathematicians, he loved best his totally irrational, totally reasonable Prophet of the New Aeon. (To expand upon an earlier thought, to my mind the only other repeated figures in his writings and words that command as much affection are Arlen, Leary and Joyce.) 

Occasionally, Wilson will delight you with examples of Crowley’s bawdy and ineffably witty sense of humor. At other points, the younger Wilson astounds with his grasp of what might be deemed magical theory. For example, I believe that Wilson presages Lionel Snell’s four categories of thought when he talks about Crowey’s “logical-emotional-magickal-yogic” approach to discerning reality. That’s one of the best qualities of Do What Thou Wilt; while this manuscript is dated and inaccurate in some ways, this is more than compensated by its simultaneous timelessness and reliability. I concede that the same could be said about everything else I’ve discussed herein. One thing that is also apparent is that Wilson obviously spent a lot of time considering Crowley, and he loves Crowley for his truths almost as much as he loves him for his lies. He loved Crowley while he wielded his pen-wand to inscribe the words before you now; it is not a rational agnostic many-personalitied observer who wrote: “The Great Beast is the end product of the evolution, the mind that knows itself to stand midway between animal and divinity ready to leap from Earth to the stars.” There is a hungry lust in those words, something beyond fascination. Indeed, one thing that Wilson and Crowley have convinced me of is that we all need to stop lying to ourselves and tell better lies to each other. 

Back to Childhood’s End and the magic of my youth. As I was saying, my personal and ego-deluded interpretation of Clarke’s novel turned out to be dead wrong. Or that’s what I was getting to after the reminiscence about my psychotic break from reading too much sci-fi, Aquinas and Crowley while listening to too much David Bowie. (Please don’t judge me, I am already ashamed I wasted so much time reading Aquinas.) I sincerely wanted to believe in an outside solution, something that Wilson and Crowley castigate in all their speculations about “Sephiroth and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes” (and aliens). To me, the problem was that life on Earth is awfully boring and occasionally dismaying and beset by Voltaire’s apocryphal conception of infinity. I had believed that we needed the intervention of outside influences to elevate us. But I have learned since that there is nothing productive about waiting around for phantasms and little green men to fix our problems. I still want aliens, but we’re going to have to become the aliens first. To survive our post-relativistic brave new aeon, we’re going to have to pull ourselves up by our metaphysical bootstraps, put our queer shoulders to the wheel and take off beyond the von Karman line of possibility. Like Ray Bradbury’s brilliant yarnspinner, The Time Traveller of “The Toynbee Convector,” or the eighteenth century lothario-spy Giacomo Casanova, we’re going to have to lie, and lie well, while serving a higher truth. 

At times, magic has been a source of seemingly infinite frustration. Crowley’s hunchbacks extended as far as the third eye could see, the soldiers so fleeting that I wondered if I had simply hallucinated all my epiphanies and dime-store satoris. The tricky, Peter-robbing-Paul nature of magic was disheartening when I took it too seriously. Goddamnit, it was frustrating the first time I tried Enochian magic after painstakingly recreating Dee and Kelly’s equipment only for nothing to occur. Seeing as I had based my experiments off of Lon Milo Duquette’s luridly titled Enochian Sex Magick, I began to self-deprecatingly call what I did “Enochian Failure Magic.” That despair lasted until I finally picked up Prometheus Rising, revisited Eight Lectures on Yoga, Magick Without Tears and The Book of Lies and remembered the infinite contradictions of reality, let alone an attempt at a magical reality. No one ever said it was easy to lie well, but they did admit that it was partially built on a purposeful suspension of disbelief, albeit one that was supposed to be guarded strenuously from self-delusion and psychotic tendencies. It is arguable if I succeeded in doing that or took Wilson’s reappropriation of the Jazz maxim “fake it ‘till you make it” a little too far. But I think at some point, thanks to Crowley, Wilson and the Moores’ put-ons as much as their sincerities, I realized the problem was that I was taking this too seriously in the wrong manner. If I ever wanted to experience real magic, I just had to make magic real for myself first.

The Johns Clute and Grant refer to Crowley as “the most flamboyant proponent of LIFESTYLE FANTASY” in The Encyclopedia of Fantasy, which made me smile when I first read it, despite what could be interpreted as dismissiveness. In today’s world, I think we can point to too many examples of lifestyle fantasy being something for fetishists and ill-adjusted softies, but then in Wilson’s interpretations of Crowley’s Law of Thelema, if it is someone’s will to live out an aspect of their life that seems bizarre or ill to another, perhaps it is best if the observer focuses on cultivating their own garden. This is the gentler interpretation that Wilson darkly hints could be mistaken for the various misinterpretations of Nietzchean anti-morality or Hobbes’ ever-present spectre of the bellum omnium contra omnes. Instead, Wilson transforms it into a safe-guard against the proclivities of our rapidly changing reality. To concern ourselves with Ourselves, to aim for the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel, these are better than all other things. Wilson’s commentaries upon Crowley helped me understand that most frustrating piece of pseudo-scripture in Liber AL: “for pure will, unassuaged of purpose, delivered from the lust of result, is in every way perfect.” 

If we are to doubt Crowley, we must consider the interlocution of Wilson who said: “But grok in its fullness this fact: he really did it. You or I might conceive such a jest, but he carried it out.” I don’t expect to achieve my dreams, but I do intend to have fun and eventually die (or not- while I doubt that pet project of Wilson’s will come to fruition during my time, it is a worthy goal and I really wouldn’t mind) trying. As in that tightly woven escape kit “Serpent Power,” in Do What Thou Wilt Wilson quotes Malaclypse the Younger saying: “the only way out, is up.” It is best we pay attention to the very distressing realities around us; we mustn't shove our heads into the sand or the clouds, but rather dedicate our hearts to the stars and continue fighting against that good night. Furthermore, we should endeavor to make it beautiful and humorous, and have a charming conversation for the duration. 

I needed, and I believe many of you who hold this book do as well, Wilson to interpret Crowley. His fugue upon the infamous magician reveals a Crowley who appears in a blaze of occasionally-futile brilliance as a champion of the humanity that could be. While Wilson faithfully documents the hierophantic Leary’s flirtations with Crowley-as-a-past-life, we must understand that our author deeply identifies with the British magus as well. After all, I imagine that to Wilson in retrospect, it was odd that his life overlapped with Crowley’s- one emerged as a shoot while the other waned. While Crowley was extant, Wilson was ignorant of him- this figure who would change his world, in some ways completely. So it is with Wilson and myself; I read him before he keeled, but I didn’t realize who he was. So I do hope it is possible to make contact over time as well as space. Crowley deserved to know that Wilson, so admirable and so like the adepts of Liber Tzaddi, would have looked back on him with admiration. I needed Wilson-Crowley to guide me and change me long after it was possible for us to converse in a manner that makes rational sense. As Alan Moore says in Angel Passage, while referring to William Blake: “it is not enough to study or revere him, only to be him.” Like Thoth-Hermes was/were casually joined at the chimerical hip, I do not think it is too off-target to connect Crowley-Wilson. At least for my purposes herein.

 
Keeping with our unwieldy theme of communication, I’d like to examine the conversation between Crowley and Wilson yet again, from a slightly differing angle. In Unearthing, a poetic memoir by Alan Moore considering Steve Moore, Alan writes about  their night of fire in which at one point it seemed as if there were a “zone like a room of dazzling white, full of dead magi muttering outside of time and taller figures at the back, much taller, with the heads of animals. The bookshelves there behind him are a hexagram, with six unbroken lines: Ch’ien: The Creative- a doorway where the brilliance bleeds through from a next room that’s not there, a warren of such rooms stretching away, above, below, on every side, a hyper-London; an eternal fourfold town of lights. This is It. This is Real. The lampglow that’s inside the world like torchlight within a choir boy's cheeks. The mystical experience as Gilbert Chesterton’s ‘absurd good news,’ and it goes for hours, it goes on Forever.” Perhaps, if you are willing to look upon these would-be time travelers, our little race of aliens, with affection- there is something to this damnably confusing conversation. But that’s a much wider and more fantastic margin of error than we need here: I trust you understand that Wilson talking to Crowley is an important matter, at this point. 

“Fake it ‘till you make it” on one hand; “keep ‘em guessing” held tightly in a fist thrust inside a pocket on the other. I do believe we can have a better world, fervently. I trust that Crowley, Wilson and my other idols had the best chance of realizing my part in a better world. I wouldn’t have joined our silly little sophistries otherwise; as Wilson repeatedly points out, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” is not an extremist position in our reality. Properly apprehended, it is the plainest of common sense. So are such nebulous conceits as “truth and humor” and the idea that those who seek are dupes before the masks of god. Reader, it is a shame Hilaritas Press doesn’t have the copyright for a lot of Wilson’s fiction but you must seek out, or reread, either way: The Sex Magicians, Illuminatus!, Masks of the Illuminati, Schrödinger's Cat, and The Historical Illuminatus! Trilogy to even try to fully comprehend Wilson’s vision and interpretations of Crowley. There is always more to learn, but what you hold now is something powerful and glowing, a true achievement. I’m jealous, although when I read these words again, I shall be holding it as well. Here is the volta, or a chance for one. 

As many of you already know, de Selby is a bit of finely crafted fiction. He was an invention of Brian O’Nolan (Ó Nualláin), who is better known as Flann O’Brien- de Selby’s best material wasn’t even available until after O’Nolan/Ó Nualláin/O’Brien had shuffled off this godforsaken mortal-coil. So don’t trust any of that material at the beginning of this introduction. Really, you shouldn’t trust anything about Aleister Crowley, who was a fictional creation of Edward Alexander Crowley, a rather peculiar result of his time and space who chose to persist in his folly, with egregious self-reference, until the end. If you want to understand just how misdirected and befuddled this young man was, read Wilson’s repeated litanies of his many identities. Robert Anton Wilson, for that matter, was actually Robert Edward Wilson and a known drug user. Alan Moore is a pompous know-it-all who just likes to write fancy stuff that makes us all feel dumb and so was Steve who was probably, like Blake, an unfortunate lunatic.. Chesterton’s “absurd glad news” is from The Man Who Was Thursday, a conspiratorial novel that prefigured The Illuminatus! Trilogy in its aggressive sense of unknowability and a beyond-sense of esoteric knowledge. Thursday appealed mainly to agnostics and mystics who ignored the author’s subtitle “A Nightmare.”

Moorcock, the legendary science fiction writer who maddeningly never seemed to have met Wilson, met Borges who he described as “an old man who likes Chesterton.” Borges also talked about “playing games with time and space”, which is what magicians are doing when they lie and/or utter truth. Hubristically, fumbling after my idols, I’d like to think that these meager lines stand for themselves. But trust me now, because I’d never lie. Or do anything ridiculous like project my personal, ego-deluded interpretations onto anything, certainly not something as important as a rediscovered Wilson manuscript on Crowley. That would be in bad form. For what it’s worth, Crowley did love the I Ching, as Wilson makes sure to note a couple times herein, and Steve Moore was one of the world’s foremost experts on that mutable book. Maybe there is something to all this. 

Either way, magic is full of indignities, it is a parade of hunchbacks and soldiers, the crew that never rest. Sometimes, it is heartwarming in its absurdity. I went so far into my lifestyle fantasy that, at one point, between hauling in the cardboard boxes of Crowley, Wilson, Moore, Blake and sundry, I complained to my father that the second bedroom of my new apartment was too small. Knowing of my proclivity at the time to keep my second bedroom as a ritual space, he responded: “guess you’ll have to sacrifice smaller cats.”  Do what thou wilt. 

Wilson’s magic is both undeniable and predicated on having a fondness for the man and his work and believing what he said, even if he said he didn’t necessarily want you to just believe him. He adopted this model from Aleister Crowley, who didn’t ask much of people aside from devotion, unwavering patience, money and occasional/often liberties. They even encouraged you to do what they had done without prejudice after reading what had happened after they had done those things; you might even find your experiences would be comparable. And I did and I did; I haven’t (outright) regretted those decisions (in the last hour). As Alan Moore said while barking at one iteration of Wilson’s Greater Feast: “it’s not in magic's nature to let anybody go.”

Something to do with time not being what it seems…magic is a series of disappointments, if you choose to look at it that way, or a series of successes, if you really are insane.  Consider adolescent me kneeling before a lightning tree, confusing myself about the possibilities of life on another world. A series of moments of clarity followed by a morass of confusion. Bobbing along like someone trying to keep their head above water- every once in a while there is a hand struck out over time, over space that reaches backwards and forwards to lay upon your shoulder or to haul at your wrist. Consider Wilson infinitely oversimplifying and clarifying Crowley’s “The Soldier and the Hunchback;” a dizzying prospect, to be sure. Consider the practice of god-forms, astral projection, ritual and stubborn persistence. None of this might be a cure, but it is a chance to live up to words like “magic.” Or “reality.” Or “aliens.” If there’s any possibility of altering our reality for the better, to make it more colorful, with a better and further aim, do we have any right to say nay? Perhaps that’s what our authors guarantee in their obstinate refusal to guarantee anything while promising everything; a mad dash at something better. 

Is there a purpose when something as trivial as a birth or publication occurs, and as we reach, do we ever grasp something else? 

Do you feel his eyes on your neck, the younger me who would have killed for a few pages of what lies before or behind you? This Nag-Hammadi collation of Wilson on Crowley- this veritable grimoire of the golden ones would have been a sign that we were winning, back when I first realized I was wrong and that the world was infinitely more promising and complex than I could easily imagine. In The Sex Magicians, which would have presumably taken form at the same time as Do What Thou Wilt, Wilson repeatedly references Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot.” There’s a line that has to be walked here- one that Crowley-Wilson can teach us to trace.  The savagery that leads man to seek and eke out the forbidden is the same that excuses travesties…Saturn 5 took off at T-minus 10 seconds from a foundation of loamy, subterranean slaves to the cold regolith of human accomplishment. How do we make a better world out of cold facts? History marches on- or so we’re told. We can do better. Wilson-Crowley presents us with another option…a plethora of options…we don’t have to choose what’s ahead of us. Perhaps we don’t even have to die. Mayhaps we can get out of taxes. Redemption is as close as the next morning. There could be a multitude of choices out there, proliferating, fading, extinct, and yet-to-be like the stars of the New Aeon. I promise you, and if you can’t believe me, who can you trust? Remember, no matter what anyone else might say: if there’s a chance that the aliens have somewhat mastered space, then they might have bridled time. “How many extraterrestrials are in this room?”

“As many as there want to be.” 

The Earth is a bitch, we’ve finished our news. Homo sapiens has outgrown their use…

Hark, the glad sound!

In other news, I'll post what I have about the next two chapters of The Sex Magicians over the next two days of the Feast(s).

More Importantly

Jechidah will be hosting a readingg group for Douglas Rushkoff and Liam Sharp's Testament comic series led by Bobby Campbell! This is rare chance to learn from artists and futurists about the world of tomorrow!