Aleister Crowley is an old friend. Maybe an old enemy, I’m not sure from moment to moment. How can someone born October 12th ,1875 and gone since December 1st, 1947 be the friend or foe of someone born in 1950? How is that possible? It is karmic "consistency from beginning to end." In other words, if you go down the rabbit hole far enough, you meet all the versions of "you."
If magickal memory serves me right, Golden Dawn adept, Allan Bennett, took a twenty-something prodigy under his robe and turned him into the foremost cosmic enigma of the twentieth century. I know Allan Bennett and I know Aleister Crowley as I know my own reflection and my late brother. I understand perfectly if the terminology I am about to render is not in your realm of knowledge, but there exists a sphere of understanding that has endured throughout the millennia in various forms, always obscure and essentially secret until now. Here's what I was up against with him as my student. I never treated him as his telling poem shows us how he regarded his own pupils.
From Aleister's "The Book of Lies"
"[185]
88
{Kappa-Epsilon-Phi-Alpha-Lambda-Eta Pi-Eta}
GOLD BRICKS
Teach us Your secret, Master! yap my Yahoos.
Then for the hardness of their hearts, and for the
softness of their heads, I taught them Magick.
But...alas!
Teach us Your real secret, Master! how to become
invisible, how to acquire love, and oh! beyond all,
how to make gold.
But how much gold will you give me for the Secret
of Infinite Riches?
Then said the foremost and most foolish; Master, it
is nothing; but here is an hundred thousand
pounds.
This did I deign to accept, and whispered in his ear
this secret:
A SUCKER IS BORN EVERY MINUTE.
[186]
COMMENTARY ({Pi-Eta})
The term "gold bricks" is borrowed from American
finance.
The chapter is a setting of an old story.
A man advertises that he could tell anyone how to
make four hundred a year certain, and would do so
on receipt of a shilling. To every sender he dispatched
a post-card with these words: "Do as I do."
The word "sucker" is borrowed from American
finance.
The moral of the chapter is, that it is no good trying
to teach people who need to be taught."
I don't know where I went wrong. Aleister Crowley was perverse and deliberate. He was a neophyte whose persona could barely fit inside the consecrated circle. He literally became the eye in the triangle. His ambitions were boundless, with an ego more massive than K-2. No wonder he conquered the order grades as he did the Himalayas. I introduced him to altered states, plying him with opium, cocaine, chloroform, hashish, and morning glory seeds - serving as his navigator. Soon, he was a pilot no less skilled than Magellin. My asthma necessitated the wholesale consumption of the aforementioned drugs. Medicine was much different at the turn of the century - at times backwards. What passed as therapeutic, all seems so ridiculus now. But I think my asthma was brought on by my many conjurations of elemental forces and my frequent travels through the astral plane. Drugs were the difference between breathing and dying for me, while their effect facilitated my magickal work. He enjoyed "my drugs" far too much, so he quickly found a compounding pharmacist that could prepare his own, personalized concoctions. By the end of his life, drugs had him by the balls.
Aleister’s initiatory name was Perdurabo, or the motto, “I will endure, and mine was Iehi Aour, or “Let there be light.” I had my hands full to hold back this acolyte who wanted too much too soon. Perhaps I made an error in becoming his friend, the older brother he never had, rather then his detatched, strict teacher. When Aleister rebelled against my defacto, authoritarian, controlling stepfather, Golden Dawn order founder and head, S.L. McGregor Mathers, I was torn, but for only a moment. Mathers would have killed me that fateful day when I, myself, also reached the point of rebellion over his egomanical ruination of our wonderful Golden Dawn. I assumed the lotus posture, stared into the emptiness and chanted “Shiva, Shiva, Shiva,” for the destruction of any world that was ruled by Mathers. He did not shoot me, but he did conjure up a vampire to kill Aleister. By tracing the pentagram and focusing his will, the future Master Therion, caused a beautiful seductress to necrotically wither into its true ugly form, then disintegrate back into the swirling madness of Choronzon’s lair.
Aleister moved into my run down flat. My asthma made my career in chemistry all but impossible. I had barely enough energy to compile the order teachings, let alone to endure the banal formalities of academia. With my consecrated “crystal luster,” that wand of all wands, I taught my precocious young protégé the finer points of occult theory and practice, as well as ritual, alchemy, the proper construction of magickal implements, and various forms of relevent divination. Expanding consciousness was of great interest to him, and the easier the path to satori, the better. I tried to teach him the longer, more pragmatic methods and means to center the mind, quell the clamor, and traverse the ethers. I had been employing pranayama and asana to invoke dhyana states, insisting he master the rudiments of the time honored means of meditation. I taught him all the proper yoga postures and a host of mudras. When he learned that the Yoni Mudra was a tantric means to intensify orgasam, he left for a few days and upon his return, he embarassed me with his debased tale of sexual conquest and the unrivaled success of his mudra experiment. From a practical standpoint, once he put his Will or spirit to the task, any associated task, in short order, he could rival senior monks in practice or discipline. I finally gave up on teaching him from an authoritative standpoint and assumed the role of friend and guide. He could not be taught, he was relearning what he already knew. It was his affluence and generosity that enabled me to keep my flat and I repaid that debt with sharing with him everything I knew. Beyond that sharing, we ventured together as co-explorers into realms that ordinary men dare not enter, and if they did, might never return, and if they did so, would remerge mad.
Perdurabo rose through the grades like an eagle upon the swift updraft of an Alpine peak. Mathers was at first impressed, then alarmed, later mortified, and finally, broken. Real power is not given, but taken. Moreover, Aleister extracted the very life from the order and from that vibrant cutting, transplanted his own tree of life in the orchard of knowledge of good and evil. Restoring the DAATH of conception that separated ordinary men from their higher self, Aleister soon outgrew me and my occult acumen. He had worlds to conquer, in the world of men, and more so, in the dimensions of mind.
His career, so well documented and utterly reviled, remains the modern day deadly touchstone for those constructing the magickal body of light. Alesiter had a natural proclivity and uncanny aptitude for practical occultism that no one of the order had ever encountered. No human is born with paranormal or occult gifts that automatically enable them to be adept at magick without proper instruction - these powers require education, repititon, correction, informed instruction, and testing. Not until the fundamentals are thoroughly mastered and subjected to the most rigorous of evaluation can an aspirant be moved through the grades or acquire the secrets incumbent to that grade. Even Aleister had to prove his worth before promotion and his powers only ripened after years of intense discipline. Thus, the insipid myths of witches and wizards being born with supernatural powers with the ability to perform magick without years, perhaps decades of proper education and training, must be uprooted from belief, like rotted trees in a strong gale. Magicians are not born, they are trained, tested, and graduated like an apprentice for the trades. But as a final note on the subject of occult acumen, more than a few have come to learn, know, and live what might be called a meaningful, masterful Pagan lifestyle. They are solitary with books and life as their master, carefully observing the world, charting their own course, faithful explorers at one with nature and the elements. The primary difference between the self-learned Pagan and the formally trained magician is in the humbug of hermetic ritual. The planes are the same, the gateways universal, and the archetypes don't give a damn about your pedigree or sense of self-importance. A mature, solitary witch is every bit as capable and worthy as a Golden Dawn adept. This has become my understanding over a long period of time. While magicians tend to be a more highly educated, many of the adepts I knew, were egomanical and reckless. In modern parlance, Pagans, have way more street smarts.
Somehow, at some point, perhaps after his humbling encounter with the mighty devil, Choronzon, Aleister lost his way and whatever good he might have done for humanity with his unparalled potential, he became lost in a public battle against evil, that he ultimately lost. He spent the remainder of his life indulging his whims, gripped by base carnality and highbrow disdain for the masses. He never stopped caring for me, but I could never forgive or forget his random murder of animals for sport on that river in Burma. He had little regard for life beyond the preservation of his own. I loved him like a brother and taught him to rise through the planes with the ease of a starling, but he was more hungry hawk, interested in descending through the planes from on high to snatch titles and honrarium, then the salvation of souls. He would rather raise an army of adepts to conquer the world then save the wretched masses beneath his class. I could not change him. No one could change him. He became a master that knew no master, a sage of all religions and despiser of them all, save his own. In the end, I did not know the man I once roomed with. We were young men, full of hope and grand dreams. I walked the path of the dharma, while he blazed his own path as Master of the Temple, and oracle of The Secret Chiefs. They used him and spit out his flabby carcus on the dung heap of happless humanoid attainment, leaving nothing but a cursed shadow where the Tathagata's ten foot aura should have been. Instead of saint, I turned out a wild beast whose subsequent incarnations would shake the world in horrific ways. For Aleister, the dharma was an opium pipe. I failed him when I turned away from the dharma out of disgust over the monastic apathy and corruption that I came to know. I pray he never forgets that I was once his teacher, his friend. Perhaps I can turn him away from evil. Perhaps it's too late for him and us.
My own story ended long ago in Brittan in my mid-fifties, succumbing to the horrific complications of asthma, after being turned away from a self-imposed exile to San Diego, USA, so as to restore my health in that perfectly warm, dry air and to maybe bring the dharma to America. My spirit was mortally wounded and my faith, if I ever had any, was crushed when I was denied passage because of my health. I had no more strength and most of my desires had been abolished in samadhi a decade earlier. Having mastered magick, establishing the first Buddhist order in the West as Bhikku Ananda Metteya, amd then, for the most part, abandoning the sweet dharma for my hermetic roots once again, I died alone, without a shilling to my name, in a strange, melancholy place, with an aching in my heart that only death would embrace. The order couldn't save me, and the dharma became a mirage, elusive and utterly defiled by the conduct of the monks that raised me. They were a utterly wretched, self-serving lot, more concerned with alms and self-indulgence then spreading the dharma as The Master clearly instructed. It made me ill in body and spirit. I had a droll laugh when Alesiter once told me the reputation of the monks where I was tonsured. He said, "The monks of Ceylon are not born, they are made." It was the perfect indictment of a dispicable class.
Needless to say, as this writing attests, I was soon reborn and able continue The Great Work. My next incarnation proved to be short and bitter-sweet, as an obedient, yet conflicted Japanese soldier, who dreamed of being a Nichiren priest, but instead was marooned and died a slow, lonely death from malaria on some desolate beach on that sweltering, nameless Philippine island, near what I assumed was the end of the War. I knew we would not win as we were so cruel and evil. I vowed to fight to the death for the Emperor and was happy to die, not for the honor of the Emperor or my country or even my family, but because I had passively participated in great cruelty and did not deserve to live. Passive participation in evil is still evil. Since I uttered the daimoku with my last shivering breath, salvation was mine. I was subsequently born in a fortuitous time, in a favorable family, destined to spread the Lotus Sutra both far and wide. My contribution as Allan Bennett to the world was birthing The Great Beast 666 – may Lord Buddha forgive me. If Mara had offspring, Aleister would be of that bloodline, although he could have gone in the direction of good or changed his path at any time. My current incarnation is well known to all of you as Charles, Gakkoren Mokuren, jinyo bosatsu, and once the initiate, Frater Da Via Sola Solis. I patiently await my old friend to greet me with an embrace or his dagger. Either one will suffice.
I will write more as my memory allows.
A rather fascinating incident occurred last week. In many ways it was proof positive of the power of the pen, and a sign of the post 9-11 era in which we now live. Let me explain.
In May of this year, I was required to visit Springfield, the state capital of Illinois, to represent my company at a hearing before the Illinois Liquor Commission. Anyone whose dealt with state agencies and those damned revenuers can appreciate why our state governments are going bankrupt. It was proof positive as to why State workers and bureaucrats find little sympathy with the citizenry beyond their desire of seeing them at a hard labor camp, little ones out of big ones. In Illinois, bureaucratic hard time is as common as freckles.
Below is a letter to the editor that I wrote that described my utter disgust with the way our state conducts business as Illinois citizens stand on the precipe of a huge tax increase that will harm people and business. I thought that I was doing a public service. A few days after the letter was published in the Champaign News-Gazette, there was a knock on my door by a badge carrying agent of the Illinois Department of Revenue, requesting a face-to-face meeting with the Chief of Internal Investigations for that taxing body. Big brother was watching.
Not long ago, I had the opportunity to observe how our tax dollars are being spent on a trip to the Illinois Department of Revenue in Springfield. I would like to share with you that experience as we approach another huge tax increase that our leaders have left us and our children.
Before we cut vital services, I suggest people pay a visit to the Illinois Department of Revenue, or some other State agency there. I arrived in mid-afternoon at that multi-million dollar facility to see a security guard sitting in a chair with his feet on the counter. For two hours, I saw little or no work from anyone. What I did see were dozens of State employees with their badges, roaming the halls engaged in small talk, like they were touring a museum.
I got up and did a little snooping. I looked in various offices and could hardly find a single person at their desk doing any actual work. As I waited and waited for some action on my own business there, I was told by a State employee to wait longer. Small herds of State workers roamed the halls like grazing bison without a thought of actual work. In the private sector, they would all be fired.
If you want to trim the budget and maintain vital services, start with eliminating the unnecessary jobs for these overpaid, underworked State employees. Before you raise our taxes, clean up your own house first.
I was rather excited to arouse the attention of the state’s super-honchos and thought that our meeting would address the overt apathy of state workers. Wrong.
The meeting was more about about homeland security. I must confess that for a moment, I was never more proud to be a citizen of Illinois. The proactive energy to protect our citizens was mighty impressive. The Chief of Internal Investigations could not have been more gracious. I never, really, felt like a suspect, but I was questioned in detail about my own background like a suspect. Being Buddhist, a tax paying, law abiding citizen, author, and all around fun guy, I was quickly able to convince them that I was merely a concerned citizen and not a mantra murmuring terrorist hell bent on giving their atrium greenery a golden shower.
Before I left for the meeting, I called the newspaper to inform them that some freedom of speech issues might be tested, and I contacted one of my good personal friends, a man I speak with virtually every night, our U.S. Congressman, to inform him that I might be under siege. All that precaution was unnecesasary, as the actual meeting itself proved to be little more than a forced reach-around by authorities that feigned respect for me, but were clearly not my pals. What did come out of this event though, was just how very powerful old Chuckie’s pen can be. "I'll stick my pen right down your throat, and it hurts, baby."
My longtime friend, a third term U.S. congressmen (R), reacted with these words, "That's gestapo tactics!" Furious that his friend and constituant (moi)), had been profiled, tracked down like a fugative, and interviewed over a simple letter to the editor, my congressman promised to take appropriate action against the responsible parties. What action his offices will take, I do not know, nor do I particularly care, but if there's any political mileage to be booked, he will rack up quite a fare. I never felt threatened by any of the events at any time and sort of got off on the fact that I made the state squirm for just cause. Call it the great American rascal in me to poke the soft underbelly of the rabid beast. I must have been imprisoned, exiled, tortured, and even put to death numerous times in previous lives for such a perverse, adversarial nature. In some countries I would end up in a gulag or buried in a mass grave along with other dissidents. There was a part of me that thought it was an honor to get to them that way. I've been known to scare the hell out of my daughter being the way that I am. To me, to let the staus quo go quietly about their dirty business is the true treason of trust. In the face of dishonor or persecution, I prefer death to complicity.
There might have been a time when I would have declared this event to be persecution by one of the Three Powerful Enemies. Now, I consider it to be a sign of the times as to how paranoid our government has become, perhaps out of necessity. The pen is truly mightier than the sword. And paranoia is mightier than the pen. I would rather stand up to tyranny and take my lumps than live in an artifical peace while the bastards have their way. It's the way I was drawn.
UPDATE:
My friend and U.S. Congressman was profoundly disturbed by what happened to me. He voiced his opinion, rendered specific advice, and began to take immediate action, of which I am not yet fully informed.
His opinion was this and I paraphrase here: "Chuck, this is Gestapo tactics! This is like Naxi Germany. I've been in politics for forty years and I've never seen anything like this. You may have a civil suit here."
He went on to say that I had done nothing wrong and that his office would coordinate an appropriate response with the State and in the media. He said that if I wasn't afraid to stand up and face the authorities, I would strike a powerful blow for free speech - against those entrenched and emerging elements that would oppress and persecute free speech.
He lectured me on how my case was of immense importantce both locally and nationally, and after he brought it to public attention, it would be headline news here and may get national coverage, because it was so important. Oridinarily, I would be satisfied with a written apology and maybe a cash settlement that was NOT hush money - I won't do that. His idea was that if I had the guts to face down my enemies and followed his lead, he would use his powers and influence to defend free speech for everyone. He said it was a win-win situation for me and everyone else that spoke out against the government.
Knowing him, a man who has never lost an election in 40 years, I asked him how much political milage he would get out of this and he suggested that it would be enough mileage to make the wheels on his car to fall off. Honest anwser, supreb cause, committed legislator, jinyo-bosatsu resolve. I formally then agreed to accept his challenge for myself as well as for everyone else who wants to express themselves or take on the authorities or corporations. This morning, I made this determination, "Bring it, bitch."
I'll keep you all posted as these things can take time.
The exclusive Unicycle Sun interview with New Age guru, Oliver Libra, author of such bestsellers as, Bee Hear Noun, Tantra Interruptus, Sirius Buddhism, and his latest social commentary on quantum metaphysics and capitalism gone awry, Rectangular Crop Circles in Time Square. The Unicycle Sun found our reclusive author at his Colorado mountain top retreat on the eve of his latest, maybe final book tour.
US: You’ve been a counterculture icon since your teaching days at Berkley, when you were expelled for allegedly dosing Henry Kissinger with some Owsley acid. Next, you meditated naked atop of the Empire State Building Tower to draw attention to the Vietnam War. You followed that event with your first bestseller on modern magick and mysticism, Mister and Mythology. You’ve been stirring up the world for more than forty years, what’s this new book all about? Based on my reading, you take on Wall Street.
OL: It’s a book about liars, cheats, and well dressed demons. It’s more than a book on Wall Street greed, it’s about the greed that has gripped the human mind.
US: How so?
OL: We are surrounded by liars, cheats, and capitalistic henchmen who think no more of robbing grandma of her life savings or ruining your grandkids college education, just so they can live the high life now.
US: Let’s backtrack a little, in Bee Hear Noun, you challenge conventional science with the notion that all things are inter-connected; an idea in Buddhism, but unknown in modern science at the time.
In Tantra Interruptus, you challenge our conventional ideas of sex. In Sirius Buddhism, you assert that the universe is inhabited by races of living beings that practice teachings akin to what we call Buddhism.
But in your new book, Rectangular Crop Circles in Times Square, you take aim at capitalism, the very system that has enriched you.
OL: Capitalism has some very ugly aspects to it that no makeup can conceal. Becoming wealthy or not, I would still write, even if there was no other reward except personal satisfaction. At heart, I’m no different than any other struggling writer who seeks publication. We write for the love of writing, even when no one’s reading.
US: Lot’s of people are reading.
OL: Maybe they won’t when they realize that I’m writing about them. It’s not just the big shots who rake in millions, I’m taking to task the people who sell defective merchandise, say a used car, knowing it’s defective, just to make a buck.
I’m “outing” the suburban couple who put their nest egg in investments that yield far more than the reasonable return on investment, because they’re greedy, but then lose their nest egg and cry on TV.
I’m taking aim on the credit card companies pushing their high interest rate cards on college kids with no appreciable income, and I’m giving a nasty shout out to the millions of people in America who live on their credit cards, piling up enormous debt on frivolity. Our standard of living here is a house of cards and the wind is starting to blow.
US: Well, lot’s of people need to live on those cards in order to survive.
OL: Nonsense. People ignore the value and importance of a home cooked meal. People don’t really need the latest gizmo or newest car. I go in to great detail on how we got into this mess and why we need to get a grip in order to get out of it.
US: Although I agree, I don’t see that happening.
OL: And you won’t until the system stops working.
US: Can we stop this before it’s too late?
Part two to be continued…