Having pinned down my obsession with Aleister Crowley in something as solid as pen on paper is, by virtue of having brought method to the madness, a great help in maintaining my sanity. At least it is possible now to share it with others and get their opinion on it. Although the seven years without a Tarot deck has given me some breathing space and created some distance between me and my outrageous beliefs, this doesn’t mean that the solid stream of synchronicities wasn’t trying to tell me something. At the Nimbin Festival my role as The Beast, overwhelmed by the love of aunt Milly Boyd, had come to a soft landing in the arms of tribal consciousness. Coming to Australia as a penniless immigrant had put me to work, with the reward of acquiring one of the most beautiful pieces of land on the planet to look after, and by becoming a father it had been necessary to forget about Magick altogether. Magick is way too unpredictable and raising a child is all about keeping it safe. But by 1993 we have separated and after my trip to Sydney’s ‘Hell Fire Club’, Aleister is back with a vengeance. By writing Moonchild’s Odyssey, having represented myself in a way which is accessible to others, is like having created a new identity and in order to illustrate the development of that identity it has become necessary to keep a Magickal Record. Get myself a hardcover notebook and start with recording a very intense dream of the day: The one fundamentalist Christian in our valley sticks a gun in her mouth, ready to pull the trigger. Try to interfere, but someone next to me – a strongly Crowleyan presence, if not the man himself – tells me not to: 

“Let her finish the miserable state she is in.”

We are in a struggle. A man, tall as a giant, but thin and anaemic looking, with a classically ‘decent’ face of your hypocritical brand of Christian, is proclaiming how being ‘saved from sin’ is so good. Experience his fatal attraction to a certain kind of people as terribly evil. Am part of a gang that is trying to stop this kind of shit. Someone attacks the man next to me. Grab the attacker by the shoulder, whereupon he pulls out a gun and shoots six bullets into my guts. Realise that my life is finished. Fall down, aware of the absence of fear, giving in, going over into surrender. The man next to me calls out: 

“Don’t stop fighting.”

With which he means: Don’t stop fighting the ugly attitude of our adversaries.

A few days later on a trip to Lismore, visit ‘Noah’s Ark’ – a most inspiring bookshop – and buy Aleister’s  ‘Little Essays toward Truth’. There is also a new book on him just out, a ‘93 publication: ‘Aleister Crowley and the Practice of the Magical Diary’. 

Having started a diary only a few days ago, the timing of running into this book is pretty awesome. When reading his description of the necessary discipline to drag oneself to one’s diary, as that of a ‘soldier, wounded to death, scrawling in his own blood’, it strikes more than a chord. In light of the dream the other night, it is rather like the blow from a hammer. Firmly reinforcing my resolution to keep track of what is going on in my life.

My ‘coming out’ has only just started. Taking Aleister on in my exploration of the occult and establishing a link with him in the Beyond is one thing but it does come with some other issues, not the least of which is his raging bi-sexuality. Surely this is a major element in the make-up of his ‘wickedness’. Have always felt an appreciation for queer culture and have had plenty of gay friends but to have fallen in love so deeply with a girl at such a young age has firmly conditioned me as strictly hetero. Not good for a Crowley impersonator but the Bay Area is a haven for romantics of all kinds and is all about extending boundaries.

*

Holy Mother Amritananda is in Byron Bay, giving ‘Dharshan’, hers being an actual hug for her devotees. Should be interesting to see an acknowledged Saint in action. Apparently lots of people break out in tears in her presence. It is at ‘The Epicentre’.  A huge podium is set up, covered in flowers and veiled in incense. Everyone gentle – for which Byron Bay is a special breeding ground – is there. In beatific smiles, lining up for a hug from the small Indian woman who takes her visitors in her arms, strokes their backs, and puts a dot on their Ajna. Each and everyone of them with the same unwavering intensity. 

After seeing her hug the first dozen people, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed with emotion. This is genuine. She can keep giving everyone her undivided attention forever.

It touches the holiness in all of us, bringing out the loving human being without fear of smiling at one another. Everyone who has come to see her, sees eye to eye, as if looking through that same ‘third eye’ on their forehead. 

On impulse, drop in on some friends. A couple: ‘Existential artists’ – both dabbling in poetry, he forever at the brink of making it as a musician – priding themselves on their individuality. They are not the devotional kind but she has gone to see the Mother and the dot is blazing on her forehead. Has obviously been touched, having that goofy smile on her face. Hardly recognises herself. Expresses a dramatic drop in her artistic ambitions:  

“Don’t give a hoot anymore.” 

He had stayed home and is a little worried about her sudden change. 

They have got a barbie planned on the beach and invite me to stay. 

By late afternoon, it is raining heavily. It looks like the plan has to be canceled. She rings her friends and discusses the weather: 

“Unless we get some supernatural assistance…”

Our eyes meet and somehow we both know there will be a clear patch for our barbie. 

By the time we set out, the rain is suspended. The odd wink from the sun, even.

She is the first one in the water. Something new is being born between us. 

Me and him get the fire going. He likes to stir things up. We have a ball. 

Depart in the morning, being invited to come up to Brisbane with him one day, where he is trying to get a band together. 

*

A few days in reclining Buddha pose with my newly acquired books. How can one not be impressed with the author of ‘Little Essays toward Truth’. Marriage celebrant extraordinaire of science and occultism. When he touches you, he touches you deep. 

For some it is more than a touch. The editor of ‘Aleister Crowley and the Practice of the Magical Diary’ brings home the basic need for the evolving wizard to keep a diary, with:

“So as not to be so isolated from critical contact with one’s fellow human beings as to fall into the most shamelessly deluded thinking.”

Which he illustrates with the exclamation: 

“How many times have you met Aleister Crowley’s reincarnation?!”

What? A Crowley Pathology?

Not unfathomable, following him on his twelve days on a ‘magick retreat’ as ‘John St. John’. The spiritual vigour with which he sticks to asana, pranajama, mantra, invocation, the keeping of the diary – and abstaining from the brain candy that his lady friends drop in on him for – seems capable of having created a phantom that could well still be hanging around somewhere.

Though on the twelfth day he experiences such sudden enlightenment you’d suspect that he did cave in after all and had a toke on that hashish, just to bring all that vigour together and make it really work. He would have told us though, wouldn’t he? 

What would he have to say about a generation that has been smoking pot for decades, on a daily basis? Though he couldn’t stop snorting that cocaine and the heroin got him in the end, for the hashish and marihuana he had more than a little respect. As expressed in ‘The Herb Dangerous’ and confessed to Leah in one of their more depraved S & M sessions, as recorded in ‘The Magickal Record of The Beast 666′.  

*

Something new in the visual arts has hit the scene: Computer generated images from which – when looked at without focusing, as in the old Castaneda tradition – erupts a three dimensional illusion, hanging in mid-air. It being pure mathematics that creates the vision makes it a perfect metaphor for Crowley’s ‘Scientific Illuminism’. Buy myself a poster, ‘Guardians of the Deep’. Should help me to keep drawing the two-dimensional string of events that is the diary, so that the three-dimensional Hand of Adonai may appear. With the new information technology creating a very Internet, this could easily become a global affair by assembling our personal miracle reports. A day-to-day publick interpretation of metaphysical occurrence. Tuning in to Old Adonai as a joint venture. Synchronicity Diaries Unite!

It has to be something like that to be able to pull Robert Anton Wilson’s ‘Cosmic Trigger’.

Extra-terrestrial meddling in my own life is pretty constant, my cloud piercings have become a regular: The weeds need trimming. Though the sky is heavy with rain, just know that this is the day. Kick on the lawnmower. A few drops land on my face. Refuse to look up and start mowing. An hour later – never another drop – most of the job done, risk looking up. Just overhead is the merest patch of blue. What it took was a belief close enough to certainty that the elements would hold out. At the same time you need the modesty to know that it can’t be your own meagre powers that directs them. But there is a way of making them listen. Sometimes.

In the Seventies the ego needed an explanation for all that ‘power’ and with the similarities in girlfriends, dress, drugs and easy money, Aleister Crowley’s reincarnation was born. 

In the Eighties the emphasis was on the danger of magick and ‘cowering’ uniformity saw us dress down and get a job. Even the earring had to go. 

But something is a-foot. The Nineties have brought a new wave of expressionism: hippy, punk and skinhead embrace as a tribe. A tribe of beasties, fawns, fairies, leprechauns, angels and aliens, trippers and cybernauts. With only one dictum: ‘No guru, no master’. 

A nice and laid back way of saying: ‘Do What thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole Of The Law’. 

There is no outside authority to give us a moral code. We are all our own masters and mistresses. Let’s treat each other that way.

Have someone make me a new earring: An Ourobouros. With Moonchild down in hieroglyphics, feel entitled to be wearing the ‘serpent arriving at its own tail’.                                                                        

*

‘No guru, no master’, but in these delightful days of multi-realities, if you would want one, why not have one anyway? Wherever there is room for improvement, there is someone to show you the way and when the improvement is considerable, you are likely to feel gratitude. Which easily grows into the love for a guru when improvement is strong.  Have the good fortune to meet a Yoga teacher who hooks me in one session. The obvious well-being she leaves me with inspires the trust one has in a good teacher but it is her gravitas that makes me want to be as good a yogi as possible. Being in her presence once a week when she visits the area is enough to have me fully motivated for the rest of the week to get into it by myself.

In the last month of that highly charged ‘93, have my first dream of the supernaturals that are to become a feature: intense, overwhelmingly powerful beings with holographic eyes. My poet rocker is with me. The Being is made of a metal, the eyes a reddish gold. Presses me on a point on my right upper arm, as if to correct me. Wonder what kind of adjustment is meant to be made. Have a strong hunch it is sexual. 

My rocker rocks up one day and has a read of my literary efforts. He finds it clear and appreciates the lack of pressure:  

“It is just a line of events, leaving it up to the reader what to make of it.” 

He can see it combine with his rock act. How sweet.

We decide to party on at his place with the makings of the Margarita. His other half doesn’t mind the odd drink either and we end up full of juice. On dark, the three of us go for a tipsy swim, salting our skins in that mighty ocean. Exhilarating. Roaming the Byronian streets for a bite to eat. We are getting to feel real cozy together.

It turns out she has been attending a witches circle. Gives me her newsletters to read, as well as Starhawke’s ‘Dreaming the Dark’. She looks better and better.

We spend Christmas together. The three of us idyllically on the front seat, intimacy deepening, we drive up into the magical hills behind Mullumbimby for a Pagan feast. 

We come away with her evidently infatuated with the situation.

*

Astronomers have informed us of an extraordinary planet line-up in the beginning of ‘94. An alignment that hasn’t occurred since 1951 BC, the summit of Egyptian Civilisation. Pluto entering the line is interpreted as the need to integrate the Plutonian Dark Forces. The actual date is on my birthday! 

Can do with a bit of Pluto. The desire to express myself in The Beast’s ways is asserting itself. My focus on his spirituality has well and truly shifted to his sexual ‘deviancy’. It is time to get bitchy. The happy hour arrives, so does the local crew of hillbilly droogs who come by to congratulate me. There is plenty of booze, perfect drug for the occasion. Manage to make such a pig of myself that it looks like quite a bit of social space is indeed created for the reconstruction of myself to come out and let some Pluto in.                                                                                                                                         

Have always been intrigued by Aleister performing every other ‘Opus’ with his women friends ‘e.v.n.’ – up her arse – but in my own life have found legitimate use for it only once: When on the gardening job at the Hawkesbury river there was a very exciting woman who was looking after the horses. We got it on. After a delicious few months we were each to go our own way. Had suggested to top it up with a little vacation myself but she was ready to go and got in her car to leave. Instead of waving her out, took out my copy of ‘Magick Without Tears’, sat down and started to read. 

The car wouldn’t start. Open enough not to discard it as mere coincidence, she came back in, sat herself on the book on my lap and loving me for my obvious powers of obstruction, started kissing me passionately. Stood up, her legs around me, walked us over to the kitchen and picked up the olive oil. Helped her step out of her pants, a handful of oil over my cock, a splash between her cheeks and without further niceties the slippery serpent surged gently into her. 

The pure physical sensation was terrific by itself but the sheer power of the act, the purity of its single-mindedness in the pursuit of pleasure had been a most gratifying experience. Not only for me: We had gone on that vacation, after all. There is evidently a place for sodomy.

Recent exploration into Sex Magick has got me deeply into self-love. Since getting off on my own male body is getting more and more exciting, being comfortable with another man’s body and another man’s cock is becoming more and more desirable. But never having had any experience in that direction, no such imprints have been made and have so far not been attracted to another man. The impending affair though, certainly has the potential for a threesome.

*

She writes me a letter to propose an affair. Need my rocker’s approval of course, but that’s been given. In fact he helps her pack the picnic lunch she brings, when she comes up for a love making session. It turns out they have a problem. Though having experienced orgasm by masturbation, she has been unable to abandon herself in the presence of another. Our first session doesn’t get us there but there is obviously plenty of potential. 

As long as we don’t muck up the friendship between the three of us, a life of unbridled lust is just around the corner. Having come this close to understanding same sex love, can see that, as with my heterosexual attractions, an element of love surely helps. The ease with which my poet rocker shares his wife makes it very easy for me to love him. 

The two of us go up to Brisbane one day and have a marvelous time. At night at ‘The Zoo’ in Fortitude Valley we party on so merrily, that the closeness of our friendship enchants the pretty manageress so much, that after closing the joint she keeps playing pool with us until daylight brings us to our senses. 

A clear manifestation of the prospects for our partnership. However, seduction between ourselves doesn’t take place and not much later, suffering more jealousy than he lets on, he disappears to North Queensland to help someone write a book. The irony! 

Am not too pleased with this development but the attention his adulterous wife lavishes upon me makes up for a lot.

*

We have the classical Byron Bay honeymoon: The beach, the beautiful surroundings, a culture with hedonism as its flower, taking it into spiritual realms. The latest episode of the popular ‘Sacred Sex’ video series has just been filmed here. She takes it out for us to watch together. 

What she wants is someone to explore her sexuality with as long as it’s not her husband. Easily succumb to the role of passive sex object. Love to be loved like that. Under her hands my androgyny flourishes so much, as to act out my self love in front of her. Living out Starhawke’s lessons: This certainly is ‘power-from-within’ rather than ‘power-over’.  

Helping herself, excited by my performance, is what finally brings her to orgasm in the presence of another. On her birthday no less. A much appreciated birthday gift.

The orgies with myself get better as my Yoga improves. The blend of Sex and Asana is a formidable turn on. Focused on the breath, spine erect and at ease, aware of nothing outside of itself, the grace of the body is pleasure in itself. Raising Kundalini with manual stimulation slowly up the spine, sending the Chakras buzzing on the way, feels mighty good. Hovering on the brink of orgasm for prolonged periods of time, the odd drop of pearl wells up from the Consecrated Phallus. When scooping it up and licking it off my fingers, the Crowley Acolyte agrees a lot more with it than he anticipated. 

The esteem for my own cock, my own manhood, is greatly enhanced, solidifying my aloneness, sanctifying it. Have ascertained the secret of the ages, the elixir of the sages. 

Find myself spiraling inward, in Narcissistic self absorption. 

*

Another trip to Lismore to acquire an old Apple ll GS. Apart from becoming incompatible with MacIntosh a year later, it has everything a computer ever needed. Ready to continue the writing journey. Drop into ‘Noah’s Ark’ where the Crowley books have been moved to the back and locked behind glass. Apparently they were being nicked at a high rate. The shopkeeper, with a grin: 

“Yep; Do What Thou Wilt.”

He is obviously not the owner. Of course, ‘Do What Thou Wilt’, but not to interfere with other people’s will is equally important. There is real predicament in getting involved with Crowley. Crowleyans range from the sweet hippy to the fascist psychopath and everything in between. In addition he can be so spooky that a lot of his students will sooner or later get rid of his books. 

Obtain his ‘Book of Wisdom or Folly’. Though so dramatically affected by merely picking it up on that fateful morning after my ‘acid test’ two decades ago, have never actually read it. 

Home with my first computer. Having known for years to have to get into it one day, the day has arrived. Am glad it is an Apple, with its embellishment of the rainbow coloured apple with the bite taken out off it as its logo: “Here is knowledge. Take it if you dare.” 

After typing up the first few chapters of my ‘Moonchild’s Odyssey’ a wonderful revelation reveals itself: Without having to look ahead or take out the cards, it is suddenly clear that the Moonchild story will fall into twenty-two chapters, each one firmly relating to a Trump of the Tarot: The reborn A.C. spread-eagled on the Tree of Life, replacing the poor J.C. on the cross. 

And the magickal diary keeps reassuring me of the Metaphysical Interest in my case: Synchronicities between the unfolding chapters and what happens around me in the outside world are continuous, from the trivial to the formidable.

*

My Byron lady has to cope with a certain indifference. Her affair with me had not only been to satisfy a seven year’s itch in her marriage, but also to get herself out from under her husband. He is back from North Queensland and seeing them embroiled in the politics of dividing responsibilities for their daughter, give her somewhat of a cold shoulder. 

Not going so far however as to refuse her my bed when she does come up, dressed to the nines, with some tucker and a bottle of wine. 

Our cosmic connection is not to be dismissed either. Gives me a call one day, letting me know she’ll be in Mullumbimby tomorrow. Though planning to go there myself, don’t let on, thinking: “Let’s see if we can run into each other.”

Driving into a very busy Mullum, am lucky to find the one open spot in main street. While backing in, the car next to me pulls out. In one smooth sweep she is suddenly parked right next to me. What a beauty! Was it fulfillment of my expectation, her personal power, extra terrestrial meddling, or a quantum fusion between the three? She is looking after a house there for a few days and we have another worship of Dionysus & Co. 

Our shared masturbation exploration is a wonderful experience. This loving oneself in front of someone sure is hot. Not a bad friend either. Better a little touch than no touch at all.

*

Put some effort into my ‘Abbey’. It is only a stud frame with a roof so far. With saw, nails, hammer and chisel, disappear in a cloud of sawdust for a while, constructing a frolic deck of the silkiest timber. A visit to the Byron market embellishes it with a brass flower vase and a candleholder in the shape of a dragon standing on the back of a turtle. For on the wall, an Indian batik of a gorgeous Krishna, sitting in a tree, playing his flute, the Gopies bathing in the river below, looking up at Him adoringly. Erotic Devotion. My Sacred Space. 

For on my chest a Tai charm of a monkey climbing his own cock three times the size of him. 

New realms of Yoga practice. In my maroon string pants, colouring perfectly with the purple brown timber, sit longer on my heels tucked firmly under the perineum than ever before. My eyes filling with the same bliss as that in the eyes of the Gopies.

Towards the end of the year, discover the fabulous ‘Esoterica Magazine’. Not only has it several Crowley references, it has an actual address in Brisbane. If my story were to go out into the world, my innate paranoia would make it very hard for me to send it off in the mail to someone. Brisbane is not that far away. They write about the need for a Jesus or a Crowley to rub the Internet!

Have another dream of a holographicly eyed Super Being. A dark Mayan looking man lifts me off the ground and speeds me through the air, me being involved in the act of levitation by making a kind of humming sound. We move through a village scene, him handing out support and gold coins. It is this giving that gives him his power. We are part of a bigger team, looking after things. While clearing up a table, someone reproaches me for slowness and takes over to do it much faster. An obvious hint to go harder.

Have a good read of ‘Wisdom or Folly’. It takes getting used to the style, but isn’t he clever and compassionate, writing as a father to his son: “…so he can free mankind.” 

He elicits in me nothing but the love and gratitude for a father. An extraordinary thing to have run into after coming down from that first and irreversible acid trip. Still wouldn’t know another work with such spot on instructions for the would-be mystic. Who couldn’t agree with his emphasis on liberating sexuality before even thinking to take the rocky road to enlightenment? And a bloody turn on too. His rave about the ‘True Sacrament’ gets me ravenous. A cordial indeed. And definitely ‘true’, as measured by its effect on the body. Surely this is a major key in the freeing of mankind?

The liaison with the ‘man in the mirror’ grows more and more passionate; playing with my growing hair, delighting in my promulgating androgyny, the monkey cock proudly on my chest.

Towards the end of the year, have a spontaneous encounter with a Crowleyan. He and his wife would love to have a Crowley friend. We arrange a dinner date for the Solstice.

*

Their home is out in the sticks, in the middle of nowhere. The mistress of the house puts me very much at ease. Open smile. Dress open between her full breasts, exposing most of their abundance in a way that makes it clear that our gathering is not only to small talk. 

Reclining after dinner, he quotes just about everything Crowley ever wrote on the delights of Sex Magick to get the show on the road. She, sensing my apprehension, plays the comforting role: 

“No rush.”

Enough to want to embrace her immediately but need time to overcome the reservations to share my sexuality with another man. And that, as she indicates, is what pleases the Goddess most and releases most magickal power. 

They are into it for the ritual and want to bring down the gold. A rather trivial goal, but reconcilable with mine, since going publick with my work could have wealth in its wake. We have a wonderful evening of animated talk until deep into the night. 

Though our first occasion remains chaste, we decide to spend New Year’s Eve together and give it a go. Sleep on the sofa with a drive to my hard-on that is just extraordinary. The freedom this adulterous menagerie exudes is thoroughly thrilling. Love and desire for her is fiercely manifest already. It is a matter of finding him, a way to relate our male egos to one another. Who is giving what to whom? 

After picking up the ‘wines that foam’ on the way to our next encounter, get out of my pants and into sarong to arrive as the lusty devil that is my inspiration.

They await me on their verandah, she dressed blatantly enticing in a purple dress that again leaves most of her breasts exposed, which are phenomenal: large, juicy, oozing her exuberant sensuality.

We chat away, drinking wine, smoking up, spouting ideas for love sessions.

She prepares a bath that we all bath in.

She retires to their bedroom to plume herself.

Comes out in her full splendour, only wearing a little shoulder cape of a fiery red velvet, her rich legs teeming in black lace and suspender belt: classical image of Babalon, the Scarlet Woman. Invites us in seductively. 

The lighting, colours and textures of the room have created an intensely erotic boudoir.

On their altar is the ‘Book of the Law’ and a photograph of a woman holding two cocks to her face. 

They murmur their adoration to Nuit while he puts a bundle of bracelets on her arm. She sits back on the edge of the velvet bed and opens her legs. He kneels down, puts his mouth on her. Her salacious face, contorting in pleasure is towards me, looking into my eyes with a lewdness that is exquisite, her mouth open, wanting my cock, beckoning. 

Match her bawdiness by lecherously rubbing my cock in front of her, titillating her before letting her have some. 

Such power in salaciousness. ‘Rapture, and the viguour of rapture’.

She rolls over on her hands and knees; her velvet cape, the velvet of the bed, the velvet of her voluptuous flesh, her skin emanating an etheric glow, her magnificent buttocks luring me, drawing me to her. 

Enter her from behind and get into a nice rhythm. Though totally under the spell of her delicacies, have plenty of endurance. 

He has taken a spectator position. Am quite willing to give him some visuals. Without losing a beat, undo my sarong, tie it around my head and go for it like Jimmy Hendrix played the guitar. 

Have no thoughts and no plans but when the approach of orgasm has passed the point of no return, something strong in me doesn’t want to come inside her. Pull back, veer from the bed, fall on my knees in front of their altar, catch my spunk, hold it up to them, consecrating it to Babalon, and gulp it off my hand. 

She cries out in lust, throws herself back on the bed and he fucks her and fucks her. 

Have sunk my forehead to the floor and lay there blissed out, feeling the just consumed charge infuse my being with the impact of a drug. Slowly coming to, find my head resting on his discarded jeans. When we’ve all come to our senses, crack them up with:

“Have ended up in your pants, after all.” 

He goes and makes us a pot of tea. Me and her sit on the floor, up against the edge of the bed. Arm in arm. It is such an excessively sultry atmosphere, such an impassioned ambiance, that before the old hard-on disappears, a fresh one presents itself. 

Before we finish the tea, we are at it again. This time face to face.

At the moment supreme, despite the forbidding look in her eyes or maybe because of it, find myself pulling out again for a reprise.

There is a slight disappointment on their part. It is the spunk they are after. 

The cause for my withdrawal is more a reluctance to have my vital juices mingle with his, than mingling it with hers. It is clear where there needs to be some work done. 

Am directed to the couch for some sleep.

*

It takes a while before contacting them again. It is her voice on the answering machine. Have no difficulty speaking to it with feeling:

“How nice to hear your voice. Do you recognise mine?”

Next time it’s him who answers the phone:

“Are you still, eh, into magickal things?”

“Of course.”

Animated catching up over wine and pizza. In love with her straight away all over again. The wisdom and strength from her maturity, the blend of compassion and wantonness. Her first toast: 

“To friendship.”

They have tried to get it together with a friend of theirs but have just given up: 

“It is only natural that you are back.”

As natural as the way my eyes can rest in hers and simply stay there.

We make a date to celebrate and pick up where we have left off.

When it is my turn to toast, knowing it is still a leap to surrender myself:

“To dare.”

Part in a merry mood, looking forward to a merry meet.

Have a dream of them beforehand. They are on a sofa, me in front of them. Her dress is a spell-binding suede leather, a split along her leg. The colour is an unworldly magenta, the red more fiery from up close. Touching it is intensely thrilling. He is busy with his cock under his robe. His hand comes out from under the robe with a white cream which he hands to me. Put it on my own cock rubbing it in, getting enormously hard. Am about to explode which wakes me up.

Mingling our essences must be what it’s all about. An alchemy for peace, furthering the evolvement of humanity. Not even John Dee and Edward Kelly could do it.

The day of our get together is a long one. Have quite a few things to attend to in the morning. Have lost my car and the bus to their part of the world doesn’t leave until late afternoon which gets me to have a couple of beers while waiting. When deciding which wine to choose there is a choice between a ‘Chatsfield’ and a ‘Flametree’. No chit-chatting around this time, we’ll have to go for it.

It’s dark when they pick me up at the other end. We have dinner and drink the wine.

They have a picture of Aleister in a little tabernacle on the wall: the one with the shaven head. He certainly has the 1990s look. Isn’t it amazing how this look has completely taken over the world. It’s almost embarrassing to have hair these days. A purple banner is draped across the shrine with the motto of the Returned Servicemen League: ‘Lest we forget’.

We can agree on that – magick is back in a big way and remembering its main instigator is important – but as for our own magickal exercise, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. 

Deep in the night by now:

“Do you want to take a shower?”

It’s too late, am too drained, not up to it. The Flame Tree isn’t doing its job:

“Will have to sleep on your couch.”

Friendly goodnights but in the morning the vibe is icy. They’re acting very busy.

“Gee, you’re busy.”

“Giving a day away means there is catching up to do.”

They’ve got to go to town and:

“We will point you in the direction of your bus.”

Am obviously not much more than a pawn in their game. So much for friendship. So much for ‘without lust for result‘. But then, if you have formulated your Will and one of the players doesn’t play, you’re bound to be pissed off. Can’t get myself to put any effort in trying to repair the damage and to arrange something in the future. Am kind of torn between the feeling of losing a really important relationship and a relief from not having given myself away. Not so much in the sexual sense but as a matter of pride. You are ready to give everything and you are just about thrown out of the car. 

My ego is evidently not fully liberated. Try hard to be beyond care but it hurts. Spend one of my most miserable days ever waiting for the bus. It spews me out at the other end for a long walk home under a moonless sky.

*

When Moonchild’s Odyssea is ready to be handed over to Esoterica Magazine for publication, the newspapers report that Timothy Leary has announced his ‘Final Trip’. With my last few bucks, send off two copies to the infamous ‘New Falcon Publications’: one for them and one to be passed on to their dying author, under the assumption that to hear about another emerging Crowley successor will please him. Probably the most deluded assumption of my career.

In the hipster mag for cybernauts ‘Wired Magazine’ is an article on how Madame Blavatsky would have loved the net. Obviously it is still risky to grab the bull by the horns. Crowley must still be taboo. Surely she is used as a euphemism for old Al? 

Although in another article about ‘Pagans in Cyberspace’, Wired is not too shy to mention the guy who puts the menstrual blood of his lady on his computer to appease Kali. 

The world should be just about ready for a Moonchild appearance. 

My material resources however have completely dried up. Am well and truly broke. Having send off a story that boasts Divine Guidance, it is not surprising to be faced with a new ordeal: How to survive on the bottom of the heap. 

Team up with one of the valley dwellers on the odd landscaping job to keep me from starving. We get our trees from a nursery at Byron Bay’s Epicentre, a wild and fascinating place. Wouldn’t mind to have a studio there. The funk, the beach, electricity for the Apple to speed up the writing adventure.  

One of the owners is a true patron of the arts. Apparently every inch of the walls in his mansion is covered in art. As queer as they come, a bit of a local gay icon.

Have a special self love session just for him. 

Though making love to a man in the flesh still bumps into obstacles, in fantasy land it gets more and more licentious. Never having laid eyes on him makes it easy to imagine him in Godform. Am an absolute slut. My own scarlet woman.

Next day my mate runs into him. Is offered to take on the nursery, studio space and all.

***