the first two chapters of
a katabasic nekyia
Before Hitler was, I am.
Weishaupt was stoned.... He imagined
the shoggoth was a rabbit and said,

"du hexen Hase,"
which has been
preserved as an in-joke by Illuminati
agents in Hollywood. It runs through
the Bugs Bunny cartoons: "You wascal
--Robert Shea and Robert Anton
The Illuminatus Trilogy

Her firstborn son...was remarkable
from the moment of his arrival. He
bore on his body the three most
important distinguishing marks of a
Buddha. He was tongue-tied, and on
the second day of his incarnation a
surgeon cut the
fraenum linguae. He
had also the characteristic membrane,
which necessitated an operation for
phimosis some three lustres later.
Lastly, he had upon the centre of his
heart four hairs curling from left to right in the exact form of a Swastika.
--Aleister Crowley, Autohagiography

Beings entirely in Avichi are born and reborn without interruption.
--Mahatma Koot Hoomi, Letter to A. P. Sinnett

i .
It's been just two years and some months since my magickal child shot himself in
the Berlin bunker. He enjoyed quite a romp through Poland and so forth after
queefing out of my psychic vagina at an unguarded moment. I was but a lad,
distracted by my father's death of tongue cancer, when Der future Fuhrer flopped
from my left auditory meatus like a menstrual clot with incipient toothbrush

Or else he hasn't gone and assassinated himself at all. Maybe my pugnacious brain
baby seeped into the bunker's floor drain, along with the hairy dregs of the
whipped cream that constituted his sole earthly vice (apart from the syringes of
methamphetamine). That's right: a U-boat was docked and waiting deep in the
rapid transit tunnel (this is the real reason the subways were flooded), to whisk
him away to the north pole, where he now gets to lounge around and behave like
Vishnu's tenth avatar or a bodhisattva or something. Or is it the south pole?

I should ask the Chileans. They're the ones busily cooking up this dish of
doctrines. Under better circumstances, idle curiosity might compel me to drop by
Santiago and have a chat. I suppose it's too late in the geopolitical day to apply for a
discreet travel allowance from MI-5. And I don't reckon remuneration would be
forthcoming from the Office of Strategic Services in exchange for any intelligence
gleaned among the gauchos.

When Esoteric Hitlerism got boring, I could take a run at the astounding Andes on
the outskirts of town. Volcanoes and such. But today I'm far from taking runs at
much of anything intransigent as a mountain. This particular body's no longer
young. My sole consolation (apart from the syringes of heroin) is that it won't be
getting any older.

No more time for transoceanic jaunts. I must navigate an even less solid element

ii .
So, let's sort this out, shall we?

My expiring eyeballs see no sevenfold Gnostic heavens corkscrewing upward. No
series of Tibetan liminalities relieve this darkness with light, clear or
smoke-colored. Something else materializes and looms up, rather more
architectural. It appears the Egyptians came closer than anyone to getting it right.

The hierophants of the latter civilization had a way to deal with any wide-eyed
Greeklings who might wander by. They took the quaint islanders to places of
worship and wowed them with limestone monumentality. For my part, I was not
reared in the popish confession (far from it), but I'm wise to hierophantic ways. At
the big vicarage in Rome, practitioners of priestcraft point out hash marks on the
floor that indicate where monotheism's other pretentious buildings would come to
rest if Jehovah were to reach down and rattle them like dice inside the Basilica of
Basilicas. Well, I can now report the existence of a hall that could warehouse
several thousand shipping containers chock-full of charm bracelets from which
Saint Peter's townhouse might dangle.

Here we have your pillars lathed from sentient opal, studded with your high-grade
star stuff, rising to a vaulted ceiling twelve times higher than Orion's ithyphallus.
Between the throbbing pillars we have your Everest-dwarfing judgement seats, row
upon row, extending to a vanishing point in the deep reaches of this better than
average example of the bricklayer's art. And on those thrones we see the Divine
Kings. They're helmed in the expected flame, a dragon crest on one, another
plumed with coruscating peacock eyes. Others boast beastie heads on their
shoulders and animal suits on their bodies. They sit tight as Lincoln in his
Memorial on that other Mall--if you'll forgive the intrusion of
Amurrkan imagery.
(Not sure why that particular inferno just popped into my head.)

I wonder how dead communists are supposed to react to this splendiferousness.
What sort of arrangements are made for defunct commissars and apparatchiks and
proles and so forth when they're shunted here in their turn, as I assume everyone
eventually is? Do they find it too terribly off-putting to consider the brimming
Atlantics of blood and the swollen Pacifics of sweat that must have been wrung
from gangs of demon-slaves in completing this construction project? Here is
revealed the deeper truth beneath those famous words from the whiskery one
himself: the soul of soulless conditions.

No doubt, Bolsheviks and their sort really are born congenitally deficient of the
astral monad, just as they theorize, and they do return to the soil, to be reduced to
their constituent minerals and duly recycled into socially useful tractor parts. Or
maybe they get rammed as rivets into the I-beams of a Workers' Palace, complete
with memorial to the war dead, Schumann's
Traumerei weeping paradoxically on
the public address system. In any case, they're spared from running this errand of
mine, because my itinerary as outlined in the hieroglyphics of the funerary text is a
mere figment of a slave state's leisured decadence.
Well, guess who's just made his grand
entrance into this figment. None other
than the most gargantuan magus of
post-Renaissance times, and the most
magickal Gargantua. After a lifetime of
work (
several lifetimes, in fact), it's not
self-flattery to declare my Body of Light,
my solar organism, rarefied and
self-incandescent. I illumine my own path,
I auto-spotlight and brim and glow with
justified expectations of being hailed by
my immortal kin.

Having just disembarked from the
ultimate of his many life boats, The
Master Therion returns from his
pilgrimage, no longer a god in exile, but
now an initiate whose coat of skin has
been doffed for the final time. So, here I
am, boys. This is your cue. You tall golden
masters of Heaven's guild will now leap up
from your comfy chairs, hands uplifted to
be shaken in greeting.

Any time this timeless place.