Προφητεία (1)

Don’t you know there are as many gods as there are stars in the heavens—? And beyond those, the mystery—it’s called Abraxas, the one who plays an eternal game against himself. He’s not good or evil—he’s both and nothing. There’s no problem of evil for him—he’s not the Christian god who is all-loving; he contains good and evil, he discovers himself through a process (and when it’s over he splits again to seek himself again); if there’s no evil, there’s no movement—it is the salt in the stew. The Christian god is just one star among many—and there’s only a problem of evil for Christians, because the godhead is beyond good and evil.

This phase is automatic—and we’re not sure we like it. I agree, I don’t like it either but what I write is what I write. <<The dog is at the door and it wants attention>> The women make noise and seek attention. In other words, it’s a domestic scene—it has been seen many times before. He claws at the door and I must let him in—the black and white dog. He is on the bed and he is fed up. He is a galaxy, he is a cosmos—he is not a dog. That’s just an illusion I have about him. He pulls the snow field up with his paws, he will make a nest with it—and when he is finished he will sigh. It’s not a sigh that indicates satisfaction—he’s had enough, it’s hard to be a cosmos (it’s hard to be a dog).

I can remember a time when I held the complete Woody Allen in my hands—it seemed so clever and funny then but today I’d say it’s nothing, the world seems too hard for that; and, really, there’s more at stake than the works of Mr. Allen.

A woman has been born—she is about twenty now. She has eyes like a crystal paperweight. She has black hair. Her eyes are blue—A10 blue, perfect blue. Her hair is black, Irish black. She is from the tuatha. She is modest now because she is not awake. Yet her birth signals that soon we shall awake—awake from the blood mixed in a single dish. For now, she is innocent as regards these matters (all women are, in their way—they have no religion). For me, her birth signals that we approach the end—those eyes, eyes like a blind owl, cannot be believed. She must show you her picture as an infant on her phone; nothing less is believable.

There are many signs like that. People are too busy with their phones, of course—and their plots, their plots within plots. A girl looks into my eyes and says, “You smirk all the time,” and I say, “I don’t,” but it is true; it has always been so <<there you did it again>>—perhaps it was because I was born as a knower (though it took me a while to remember). T— just knows, a girl wrote on a website—to review me. Oh, you think I’m conceited? You think I’m a know-it-all? You think I’m smug? You think I’m silly?—that’s what a smirk is, by definition.

I am conceited. I am a know-it-all. I am smug. I am silly—oh, I am exceptionally silly. It means—to lack common sense, to be absurd and foolish. I think there should be more smirks in the world—a dirty smirk. Isn’t it fun to be in on the joke? What? That nothing exists. I met a Jew and said, “I’m writing a book about assassination,” and he believed me and gave me a book about assassinations—for research.

Truly, he did not read the signs—I am here to write a book about assassinations (ass-in-nations or assignations, those two). A book about and for assassins—an assassin’s creed. A book for those who know that nothing is true and everything is permitted—for men who like Persian rugs like the one on my landing, and hashish, and opium, and dancing girls (none of these things refer to what they are—you have a dirty mind, so everything I do seems dirty to you; but it’s all love—even the blood I drink every night is love).

That’s how we come to be misunderstood—we Dracools, we assassins, we lovers of Lucibel-Apollo. The Rolling Stones didn’t get it—they talked about troubadours whose ship was sunk before it reached Bombay. I like to eat at The Troubadour (look it up)—but I would never eat a troubadour. The Stones didn’t get it—the troubadour is beyond good and evil, he doesn’t get murdered by Lucifer (he is unified with Lucibel-Apollo). The Stones would never get it—the mystery of the Grail, of the troubadours, of Mount Secure. They’re your common or garden moralists—a song about bad Lucifer which everyone thought was about how they thought Lucifer was good. Both wrong. And still—no real sympathy for the devil

Yet how could you see without my light? And did you ever noticed how the people who are most damned in this world, damned through envy and laziness and greed, are also the ones who are the best—the most excellent? <<Smirk>> The more he is abominated, the more he is loved—the better he is. Only the corrupt are loved—what is called “love” here, but is only hate.

Loved like the Stones—easy sympathy. Yet nothing worthwhile is easy. So I sit here on my tail and I contemplate the light—my light, the light that is within and without me at the same time. It is very steady—it is a perfect white sphere. One day you will see it in the Scottish mountains, but you will not understand it. I will sing to you to explain it—and the song will break the world apart, like an egg.