On Smashing Legacies of Hatred

How can the future breathe, with the past’s garotte so tight around its throat?

These questions & more I ponder, on a hot & rainy night, crouched in the shadows outside a particularly disreputable tavern. Over my endless æons, I accrued many duties, some more delightful than others. One, which involves dirty work yet brings clean joys, entails clearing poison detritus to make way for new growth. Tonight, I hope to cure one such toxin, after a century of trying: Aleister Crowley. So long as the ex-Thelemite inside this pauper’s pub tells me the whereabouts of Crowley’s final soul-stone, that is…

“How I long to extirpate this bean-brained Brit & his marble-mouthed melange of faux-mystical farces! Crowley, a wealthy racist, spawned a horrible brand of egomaniacal magick, leaving multiple cults in his wake. He wrote screeds against Jewish people, wove his various bigotries into his ‘sacred texts,’ & even found time to volunteer his services in maintaining the British Empire—”

Before I can finish my extensive, prepared rant, the ex-Thelemite falls to tears.

“Please,” he begs, “I get it, you—I’m on your side, dude.”

“Well…may I at least tell ye of how he inspired other egomaniacs, like L. Ron Hubbard, father of Scientology? & Gerald Gardner, father of Gardnerian Wicca? Their philosophies also resound with hatred, & have inflicted untold harm—”

“THE SOUL-STONE IS IN THE RUINED TEMPLE PAST THE PETROL STATION, PLEASE, NO MORE INFORMATION!,” he whimpers, Thelematically.

I set him down, brush off his coat, & melt back into the shadows. I have what I need; no sense in berating the poor fool further.

Later, past the petrol station, I see the pitiful little temple. Crowley’s soul-stone sits, exposed, in a cheap garden urn. In it shimmers an image of him as he preferred to see himself: the best he can conjure, this self-appointed arch-mage, is he in a silly suit with home-made medallions? He lacked even the imagination to add a second head, or wings? Why do this dweeb’s ideas resonate through the ages?

How do any evil ideas resonate? Why is this duty never-ending? Crowley’s bigotries, though over a century old, spit forth freshly from the lips of right-wing occultists around the world. They also worm into the minds & hearts of practitioners who mean well, unaware that their very thoughts remain trapped in Crowley’s putrid framing. Not only Crowley, but all the horrible mortals past: Mussolini, Mehmed Talaat, Ook the Caveman Who Invent Murder, George Lincoln Rockwell, Xul-Thexas the First Racist, “Chief Justice” Taney—it feels, atimes, that the present is stuck in the boxes of every bastard who came before. Racism, sexism, hatred of the vulnerable & the “different,” it is all, so very old…how will the future survive, when the past keeps trying to kill it?

When I see students rising up, yet again, in the name of peace, I am reminded of all the times they have risen before, of the long legacy of the powerless realizing their potency. Reminded of how tired the arguments of the hatemongers sound, how rote the chants of the warmongers. These dead ideas squat atop the thrones of the world; we must smash these legacies of hate, before we run out of history!

I will shatter foul Crowley’s soul-stone, but this will not end his ideas. It will dim their spread; rob his frothy worshipers of one place to gather. But unless we pry the fingers of the foul forerunners from the throats of the now, the Will-Be will Never-Be. When ye find monuments to the monsters of yore, throw them down! When ye see someone slipping poison books into the hands of the young, give them an antidote! & when ye feel thine own thinking bump up against the brittle frames of ancient fears, when ye feel caged by old worlds too small to hold what thy soul contains, smash through! The decrepit rituals of yesteryear only live on if we conduct them. The future shall only die if we let it. ‘Tis in all our hands, if we seize it.

As I surge lightning through Crowley’s soul-stone, I know ‘tis only a small step along an endless highway. But if we journey together, mortals, the trip into Tomorrow shall be glad indeed.

Just, be careful not to step in the Crowley-juice.

Thank ye for reading, mortals! I hope this was inspiring, or at least entertaining. I am in the middle of moving my tower to new environs, & wanted to tell of an old adventure that reflects on Past & Future. If ye enjoyed my tale, or the art, I hope ye shall consider sending this to a friend who has not joined our coven yet!

I appreciate all who read these missives, who share them with friends, & those who are kindly able to support our work for $5 monthly. I am particularly grateful to where I have been, & looking forward to where I shall be next. Expect another delivery from me come Wednesday, with news of this week’s show, & the monthly forecast for May! Stay safe, be well, & think of an outdated idea ye’d like to smash this week…

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Writer, Wizard, Wistful