My paranoia became amplified to a mystical level. I saw everything as a sign connoting a grand conspiracy. I was sure that the evil forces of the universe were now after me in a very intimate and personal way. I had to try to evade them at every turn. I was living in a comic book, but I had no special powers.
I took a walk down Hollywood Boulevard the next day to assess and integrate my experiences into a life that was rapidly getting away from me. I was looking at the stars in the sidewalk, trying to find a place for their shape and meaning in my elaborate and always unfolding mythos. I cut down the side street where my car was parked. I walked by a small storefront mission church that was half filled with derelicts being preached to by a manic little man with a microphone. Two doors down from the church there was a magic store. Not the kind of magic store with fake doo-doo and coin tricks. It was the kind with candles and amulets. I hadn’t really investigated or practiced Black magic in any organized fashion, so I thought that maybe it was time. I went in to browse. I needed tools.
There was a counter at the back of the store, facing the door. Behind the counter were shelves filled with jars of herbs. In the display part of the counter there were crystals, trinkets, and the ceremonial hardware of ritual. The smell of incense permeated the air. I was the only person in the place besides the two trolls that were perched behind the counter on separate stools. They had shaggy long hair and blank expressions on their faces.
There were shelves of books throughout the store. I had never seen those books or heard of the authors before. I pulled Aleister Crowley’s
The Book of Lies
off the shelf and randomly popped it open to a poem numbered 23 in some kind of series. It was called “Skidoo.” I read aloud to myself.
What man is at ease in his Inn?
Get out.
Wide is the world and cold.
Get out.
Thou has become an in-itiate.
Get out.
But thou canst not get out by the way thou camest in. The Way out is THE WAY.
Get out.
For OUT is Love and Wisdom and Power.
Get OUT.
If thou hast T already, first get UT
Then get O.
And so at last get OUT.
I had no idea what it meant in the context of the book, but there are no coincidences. I felt like I was in the eye of a storm and deliverance was upon me. The store was swirling with the momentum of my thoughts. Then, almost as if I had conjured it, the door blew open and a man lurched into the store. He was a very tall person. He had flaming red hair and a frenetically baffled energy about him. His gangling arms were folded tightly over his chest, as if he were trying to stop himself from exploding. His voiced wavered in volume when he spoke. “Hey, wow, this is a really great store. I had no idea it was here. How long has it been here?”
The trolls behind the counter remained expressionless.
It felt like that moment when a film sticks in the projector—that split second before the image burns up from the middle.
A folded American flag slipped out from under the man’s shirt. He grabbed it, retucked it away, and pressed it to himself with his arms.
One of the trolls eased forward on his stool and said, “Why do you have an American flag folded up under your shirt?”
The man, tripping over his words in discomfort said, “It, uh, m-m-m-makes me f-f-f-feel, uh, safe.”
The troll pulled his hair back over his ears, widened his eyes, and focused a gaze on the man that could radiate through walls.
“You’re acting too weird,” he said. “Please leave now.”
“Ah, we-we-well, okay.” The man seemed to melt into himself and crackle upon hearing this, and he sheepishly lurched back out the door, holding himself tightly.
The film regrooved itself. I walked up to the counter and looked in the display case. The speaking troll was eyeing me passively.
“Hey, let’s be honest here,” I said halfheartedly. “What’s the validity of all this magic
I took a walk down Hollywood Boulevard the next day to assess and integrate my experiences into a life that was rapidly getting away from me. I was looking at the stars in the sidewalk, trying to find a place for their shape and meaning in my elaborate and always unfolding mythos. I cut down the side street where my car was parked. I walked by a small storefront mission church that was half filled with derelicts being preached to by a manic little man with a microphone. Two doors down from the church there was a magic store. Not the kind of magic store with fake doo-doo and coin tricks. It was the kind with candles and amulets. I hadn’t really investigated or practiced Black magic in any organized fashion, so I thought that maybe it was time. I went in to browse. I needed tools.
There was a counter at the back of the store, facing the door. Behind the counter were shelves filled with jars of herbs. In the display part of the counter there were crystals, trinkets, and the ceremonial hardware of ritual. The smell of incense permeated the air. I was the only person in the place besides the two trolls that were perched behind the counter on separate stools. They had shaggy long hair and blank expressions on their faces.
There were shelves of books throughout the store. I had never seen those books or heard of the authors before. I pulled Aleister Crowley’s
The Book of Lies
off the shelf and randomly popped it open to a poem numbered 23 in some kind of series. It was called “Skidoo.” I read aloud to myself.
What man is at ease in his Inn?
Get out.
Wide is the world and cold.
Get out.
Thou has become an in-itiate.
Get out.
But thou canst not get out by the way thou camest in. The Way out is THE WAY.
Get out.
For OUT is Love and Wisdom and Power.
Get OUT.
If thou hast T already, first get UT
Then get O.
And so at last get OUT.
I had no idea what it meant in the context of the book, but there are no coincidences. I felt like I was in the eye of a storm and deliverance was upon me. The store was swirling with the momentum of my thoughts. Then, almost as if I had conjured it, the door blew open and a man lurched into the store. He was a very tall person. He had flaming red hair and a frenetically baffled energy about him. His gangling arms were folded tightly over his chest, as if he were trying to stop himself from exploding. His voiced wavered in volume when he spoke. “Hey, wow, this is a really great store. I had no idea it was here. How long has it been here?”
The trolls behind the counter remained expressionless.
It felt like that moment when a film sticks in the projector—that split second before the image burns up from the middle.
A folded American flag slipped out from under the man’s shirt. He grabbed it, retucked it away, and pressed it to himself with his arms.
One of the trolls eased forward on his stool and said, “Why do you have an American flag folded up under your shirt?”
The man, tripping over his words in discomfort said, “It, uh, m-m-m-makes me f-f-f-feel, uh, safe.”
The troll pulled his hair back over his ears, widened his eyes, and focused a gaze on the man that could radiate through walls.
“You’re acting too weird,” he said. “Please leave now.”
“Ah, we-we-well, okay.” The man seemed to melt into himself and crackle upon hearing this, and he sheepishly lurched back out the door, holding himself tightly.
The film regrooved itself. I walked up to the counter and looked in the display case. The speaking troll was eyeing me passively.
“Hey, let’s be honest here,” I said halfheartedly. “What’s the validity of all this magic
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