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In spite of the, well, spite of much of Crowley's account of himself, and in spite of the quite obvious fraud and delusion surrounding the whole set--might they not have been a little bit right?

The phrase "Astral Plane" has since been tainted by idiots, but leaving the nomenclature aside, it does often feel as if there were layers of reality other than this one, and as though things "accomplished" there might bleed through and affect ordinary life. In a more deliberate way, that is, than the common one of imagining (must one call it "visualizing"?) something and then having it come true (much more easily, it always seems, than it would have done without the imagining).

Must play around with this idea some more.
mommynomicon: (Default)
Am reading Do What Thou Wilt, a biography of Aleister Crowley. Toddler keeps trying to snatch it out of my hands, which is dead adorable, though does suggest odd things about my son's infant tastes.

Poor bloody Crowley: torn alternately between urges to cuddle him and to shake some sense into him. Cuddling perhaps ill-advised, as he was a ferocious enough momma's boy as it was, without somebody else's mother getting into the mix.

Still, all that hoo-haw, with Mathers and the Golden Dawn, and the clearly imaginary Secret Chiefs, and that ghastly Madame Horos claiming to have absorbed the spirit of Madame Blavatsky--it reminds one of nothing so much as internet squabbles, full of sockpuppets and fury, signifying a lot of people with too much time on their hands.


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What shall we raise today?

June 2011

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