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Choronzon (III)



I forgot to mention that when I concluded my last note on Choronzon that, the next morning, I received a phone call from an Irishman who claimed that I’d telephoned him—I never telephone anyone, let alone Irish people.


Now, I’d concluded that article with the observation that my phone number ends in “333”, which is also the number of Choronzon—which Crowley and Dee saw as a demon, but which is really the highest chakra in Buddhism, the Godhead, the void (the null, total dissolution of the ego—an “evil” experience for egomaniacs).


So that was neat magical confirmation, because I said “it’s the number nobody ever dials”—and then the next morning this man, who probably mixed up who had called him, on the mundane level, dialled my number. But it’s synchronicity, magic anyway.


As I observed yesterday, I’m not baptised—so I have no middle name, just a void (0). It’s why I am the Horned God, the god of Hartsfell—because this god is beyond good and evil, beyond light and dark; or, rather, he is total good and total evil, total light and total dark.


Indeed, there is a notable photo of me, not posed, where one side of my face is in total dark and the other in total light—and this was an intimation as to what I am.


The Horned God is older than Jesus, older than Muhammad, older than the Buddha—older than them all. He must be—because he is void; he is everything and nothing—both and neither. This is why I am not a Christian, not a Muslim, not a Buddhist—not any thing…but a beast.


Or, you could say, a monster—for in English law the monster, as in “the monstrous birth”, is that which is without form; so that the deformed baby is a monster, ruined with jagged flesh edges—and cancer is monstrous to us, because it is formless. And that is what frightened Dee and Crowley about me.


Hence I wait in the darkness—because the dark is monstrous to man, being without form; to be without form is to provoke fear—you could be anything; and uncertainty makes man frightened and so angry—but it also total potential.


But the night is my friend—the night is my world; city lights, painted girls—in the day nothing matters, it’s the night time that matters. In the night, no control…through the walls something breaking, wearing white as you’re walking—down the streets of my soul…


So I wait in the darkness, just total potential—you can’t kill me because I’m nothing, I’m dead and alive. I’m a hermaphrodite—I have two horns, like a snail (the true “transgender” creature).


Of course, there’s light in my dark and dark in my light.


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