The following is a blend of passages from Answer to Lucifer (2007) and my journal from the time (2002); as such, it does not represent my current point of view.
Accompanying podcast, “Lucifer’s Ladder.”
“As the blood turns after the virus, so does the World succumb to my irresistible Will.” (Book of the Adversary)
My arrival in England was completely unannounced, just the way I liked it. For all anyone knew until the moment I appeared, I was still in Guatemala. For the first few weeks, while I sorted out what I was going to do, I stayed with my sister and her daughter, who was about to turn five. I slept on the couch in the living room, then later in my niece’s room.
During the two weeks I had spent in Bogota, and the preceding weeks in Panama, I had, no doubt as a consequence of all that intense shamanic activity, been undergoing nocturnal visions. I had also, while in ordinary waking consciousness, been receiving certain “messages.” Whether these messages came from an external source or from my own unconscious makes little difference, in the end, only that the messages themselves, the reader will not be surprised to hear, were profoundly apocalyptic in nature. Naturally, I had been writing these messages down, and had found them wholly consistent with my own weltanschauung, developed over the past several years, regarding the nature of God, reality, and everything in between.
These messages were not experienced unequivocally by me as such, however. I was not, like Philip K. Dick, being zapped by a pink laser beam or having signals beamed down into my brain from some intergalactic control center outside the Earth’s orbit (or if I was, I didn’t know it). No, what I was experiencing was considerably subtler in its manifestation. I was simply being seized by trains of thought that appeared to come out of nowhere and to run along very precise, previously laid tracks, leading in a specific direction and to a preordained destination or conclusion. They were like small but complete packets of information that, although not alien to my consciousness, seemed to come from somewhere outside of it, as if from a more fully informed part of myself. The effect was that one small “package”—when inserted whole into my consciousness—would throw everything I knew until then into a new perspective.
It was similar to the kind of Ah-ha! feeling that psychedelics generally provide—all-too briefly—but instead of being a visceral, intuitive kind of thing, it was more a rational process, like things were suddenly clicking into place in my brain, without my even thinking about them. Another way to put this would be to say that, unlike the non-rational, visionary Ah-ha! of psychedelics, these experiences were wholly dependent on thoughts, on words. In other words, I was being given (or tapping into) information expressly in order to write it down. In fact, only by writing could I fully access the information, for until I began to put it into phrases and sentences, it remained abstract, condensed. Once I began to write, it was like decoding a stream of essentially non-verbal information that was suddenly, and for no apparent reason, coming through me. So naturally, I wrote. I was on the verge of something, some kind of personal “apotheosis” of knowledge, a purer understanding of things that had until then eluded me. In consequence, I began to attempt a more conscious, active participation in the process.
On arriving in England, my dream life continued and, if anything, became even more vivid and startling. Just a few days after arriving (late August 2002), while sleeping on my sister’s couch, I had the following dream. It began with Mitch, who had been out of touch with me for a long time (he didn’t really do email) and who also owed me money, or so I viewed it at the time. I was in another place in a state of hypnogogic trance; as I silenced my thoughts I realized I could hear Mitch’s voice in my head, distant, like a radio band which I was slowly tuning in. I listened for a long time (Mitch loved to talk) and only after a while did I fully realize what was happening. I thought something like, “Wow, telepathy!” Mitch made a sardonic but happy sound, “Yeaaaah.” I then encountered Mitch visually, face to face, and I berated him for cutting off communications with me when he owed me money. He conscientiously explained his situation and it was exactly as I had imagined it to be. There was someone else with us, a third person, but I didn’t know who. I had never experienced anything quite like that. It was almost like a telephone conversation, but not quite; it took place in darkness and silence, like two lines or psyches overlapping.
This dream then led into a terrifying and fantastic period during which I was lying in a strange bed with my eyes closed, both seeing and feeling brilliant colors and energies and realizing something profound. The realization led to terror; it was a terror that related to consciousness itself and not to any external threat. Yet there was also some presence, as of my “allies.” I was lying on my front with head down, aware of presences around me, suddenly remembering Carlos’ description of the ally tapping him endlessly on the back of his neck while he was curled up (as I was also) on the ground in terror. As soon as I had the thought, my body (I was definitely in a body, but not my normal one) started to shake and shudder violently, as if in some sort of fit. The effect was a bit like being pounded repeatedly on the back. As I emerged from this weird state, I found myself in another world, a lot like this one but not the same. I was in a double bed, in a largish room, and everything was very brightly colored. There was something wrong with my feet. I felt awe and terror in equal proportions; I knew that it was not a dream. It was way beyond lucidity, in which one knows one is dreaming and acts accordingly. I was conscious but never for a second did I take it for a dream: I was somewhere else, and what was even more shocking, I seemed to be someone else, too. I was not a totally different person, however, but rather a different aspect of my “self.”
My legs were up in the air and I was naked from the waist down. My toes were all tangled up and the pain was extremely unpleasant. I untangled my toes and noticed that the wall of the room was made of glass and that people were passing by outside, looking in, laughing at me. I saw a woman with child. I got up and shouted at the people outside to go away and stop nosing into my world. Suddenly the room was full of them. They were real people, I knew that. They were horribly persistent, relentless, like zombies. Their skin was an odd shade of gray. Some of them were old, others children (I recall a naked hag outside the window, reflecting my own nakedness).
These people (I realize only later) are dead people, ghosts, and they are all flocking around me, clinging, demanding something, but indirectly; ostensibly they are hounding me, almost mocking me, trying to impede or thwart me, which leads to my fiercely disciplining them, and this seems to be what they really want. I confront them verbally, physically pushing them out of the room, furious with them. I even wind up hitting some of the children as it seems a necessary means to discipline them.
As I am pushing the last ones out of the room, one of them tells me, with great urgency, “Your family is in danger!”
“I know,” is all I say, and push him out quickly before he can say anything else. I do not want to know any more, it is imperative, in fact, that I do not, since I already know enough to act upon.
About then was when I “woke,” only it was nothing of the kind. It was like returning through some kind of bright tunnel, and for a while this tunnel was open and I could remember everything that had just happened, a whole other life, another self. It was like a doorway or opening in the Soul, a tube through which a vast, seemingly infinite flow of information/memory came pouring. Two sides of the brain were being fused into a single organ. I cannot describe it, but the truth was viscerally, palpably there with me: I am not one but two! And the hidden side of my life—the doors of which had finally swung open—was immeasurably stranger, deeper, vaster, and brighter than anything I had ever seen before.
I was nearing the centering of the spheres, the full engagement of the Other, the overlapping of right and left hemispheres of the brain: body of matter, meet body of light. The two Selves exist in separate, hermetically sealed universes: once the seal is broken it is like the chrysalis that opens, or the egg that cracks, that the True Self be born.
The next time I dreamed a similar dream, I was again fully aware of being in two places at once. I was able to open my eyes and register the ordinary reality (my niece’s bedroom) in which the physical body was, while simultaneously existing in a different sphere, another “dream” bed, in the other “body,” the other self. I could feel the electrons of this other body spinning with accelerating intensity. It was ecstasy verging on agony without ceasing to be ecstasy. Each passing second seemed like a year of my future unfolding. I could “see” the process of my life as it hurtled onward to Infinity. Apotheosis. And it was possible, unavoidable, to bring this ecstatic awareness (I was aware of everything, it seemed) to the physical body. At that point, I began to attempt levitating in the bed, but so far as I know, I did not succeed.
These experiences, of which I have described but the barest rudiments, took me into a state of gnosis that was new to me. It was a state that cannot be said to pertain to the ordinary parameters of “human.” It was “superhuman,” if I may be forgiven the term. I was not afraid or confused, however. It seemed to be my natural state of being.
Some nights later I entered into a similar state in which I was not merely human, but rather some superhuman force or entity. The humans that surrounded me in this vision, not dead ones but ordinary humans, were all babbling ceaselessly, and their senseless chatter was driving me insane. I flew upward into the sky, but somehow they followed me. I went higher, where at least the multiple human voices would merge into a single, incoherent babble. But even though I could no longer understand any of the words, the relentless pressure of human babble continued to fill my head and to oppress me. I realized that I would never be free this way, and so I changed direction, flying downward, into the Earth.
I entered a chasm and began hurtling directly down, sheer black walls of stone on either side of me. As I descended, the babble of humans faded and I heard instead a deep, resonating OM sound. Somehow I knew that the rock walls were alive, that they were taking me into their care, and that when I reached the bottom, I would be with the Old Gods. I wondered if I would have to stay there, at the Earth center, like Prometheus? It didn’t matter. I felt a sense of relief, peace, of homecoming laced with excitement. Down, down, down I went, until finally, I reached the bottom. There I remained for an indefinite time.
In October, 2001, I moved into my own apartment in Hampstead, thanks to rent subsidization by the government. I embarked on a brief and doomed love affair while becoming irrationally infatuated with the movie star Helena Bonham-Carter, whom I met briefly on the Heath, while she was filming Heart of Me. I took up Wing Chung in Gospel Oak and began reading poetry at The Poetry Cafe in the West End and other venues (Poetry Unplugged, hosted by one Carl Dhiman, pronounced . . . aw, you guessed it!].
“Good evening my fellow humans,” I began, “Do not adjust your set. Can you guess who I am?” There was a lack of attention/concentration from the audience, however, so I went spontaneously into the Namasté (I honor the place in you where the entire universe resides. I honor the place in you of truth, love, and light. I honor the place in you where if you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, there is but one of us. . . ) It was the perfect opening, and after that I had their attention. We were aligned. I asked if there were any virgins in the audience. “No? Guess I’m all alone up here.” I had my button: “Born Again Virgin,” and this was how I introduced myself. “Here are your instructions,” I began. “Express your flesh!” At that point my mind went blank and I said, “That’s all.” There was laughter, and I was off and running. My cigarette kept going out. I was totally relaxed on stage. (I think I will become an on-stage-only smoker.) When I got to The Message, in the middle of it, two gals started whispering, so I stopped, hissed at them and said, “Hey! Don’t you want to know the secret of salvation?” It gave it the perfect emphasis, and me someone to address, directly (and sexually): “Sex will save the world!” I said, and winked at her. The room cheered, or at least parts of it. Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison.
After the sexual address was done, I asked Jell to go into Muddy Waters’ “Hoochy Coochy Man,” and sung a couple of verses of Elvis’ “Trouble,” with my own variation: “I was raised by the devil and that’s a fact!” Hip shaking and all. I wound it up and everyone clapped and catcalled, and Peggy came up and said, “Have you EVER seen anything like that before?” There was only one voice of dissent, and I reckon it was Jason’s (and there be the Wangus!): “Yes,” he grumbled. [Another poet, named Jason King, see below.]
In January 2002, I began walking my neighbors’ dogs for some extra pocket money, and took up acting classes at CityLit. This is from a journal entry from that time:
It is through dreaming that [apotheosis] is accomplished, but not only through dreaming. Since this life we think we know and which we call reality is also a dream within the greater Dream, there is a parallel task, one which Juan Matus termed “stalking”; since I have not yet come up with a better term I will stick with this one for now. Stalking is essentially similar to the task of the lucid dreamer, only applied to so-called waking life: instead of controlling one’s dreams, one controls reality. Control is perhaps an even less felicitous term than stalking, however, so let us say SHAPE, instead. As with dreaming, this shaping begins with one’s own actions. If one can control and direct one’s actions to a fine point, one can in turn shape one’s surroundings. This is the meaning of stalking: to get the utmost out of any given situation. The term stalking is used because what one is doing effectively is tracking energy, starting with one’s own thoughts and feelings, fears, doubts, desires, and so forth, nabbing each one of them, either in order to throw it in the fire, devour it, train it, ride it, or whatever, all according to its nature (one destroys parasitical entities, for example, while harnessing merely unruly ones; a mosquito is to be swatted, a jackal is to be tamed). What all this comes down to is hunting and gathering at an energetic level. In dreams one seeks and creates situations and environments that afford the maximum degree of intensity, knowledge, power. Ditto in life, albeit with a different M.O., since unlike in dreaming one is restricted by known laws, such as time and space (there are laws in the Dreaming, but they are as yet unknown to us; they are Laws of God rather than of Nature).
Yesterday I went to my second improv acting class and had an exhilarating time. I have become quickly known as a Man of Mystery there, simply for being myself and not being shy to speak up (I suppose introducing myself as Jake the Snake, “from my father’s scrotum,” may have helped). Last week we did Anger; this week we did Fear. I did my piece with a girl named Tara (name of British Earth Goddess). I suggested we do a plane crash; she didn’t fancy being on the plane (I think she feared it would be too hard to act such terror), so I suggested she be at home and I (her husband) would call her on my cell phone and tell her the bad news. That was how we did it; I gave her the name Stacy, after a girl I was in love with, she gave me the name Tom, after her brother. The skit affected people quite deeply. I got sufficiently into it that I felt myself almost at the point of tears for a moment; it was very hard to focus on Tara/Stacy, I was so wrapped up in my death scenario. I had planned to whimper and moan, but I realized that I had to be brave for her, to die with some dignity. Tara was brilliant, and it wasn’t until I had ended the skit by throwing my arms out and making the sound of an explosion, everyone had applauded, and Tara was still weeping, that I realized she was genuinely upset. I think others in the audience were likewise affected; of all the skits, though ours wasn’t necessarily the best or the best-acted, it was the only one that really got to people. I even felt slightly guilty about putting Tara through it; but she’s a tough cookie and doubtless it was good therapy. This is stalking.
A stalker, or magician, uses any given set of circumstances in order to manifest the Wangus, to put on a show for Spirit. And at a certain point, if he’s good enough, as last night, the Wangus or Spirit takes over, and he becomes a witness to it as much as a participant (it’s like dislodging a rock on a mountain and standing back and watching the avalanche: you have to know exactly which rock to move and where to direct it, but after that it’s out of your hands).
Afterwards, we went to the pub and I played the snake, flirting with the girls and so forth. The group looks upon me with fascination but also affection; I have struck up the right balance and in turn feel at home with them. Before the improv began the teacher asked us about fears and stuff and brought up a Hammer Dracula movie with Christopher Lee he’d seen at 14 and which had given him nightmares (possibly Prince of Darkness). He said of course that vampires were all nonsense, and so forth, and wondered aloud why we were scared by such things. I begged to differ. For a moment, it was as if he had handed over the teacher’s baton to me, and I was presiding over the group. I explained that vampire myths were thousands of years old and that, regardless of whether they were actually real, our fears made them real. I added that it is useless to tell a child who is afraid of monsters that there are no such things as monsters, since the child’s fear has created the monsters; as such, they indeed exist for him. (It is not monsters that create fear but fear that creates monsters.) I mention all this because it is relevant to the second phase of my night, the dreaming phase.
That night, I dreamed of a virus that was transforming the world. This virus first emerged, over a hundred years ago, via the acts of Jack the Ripper. During that time, at every location where a woman was murdered, there was found a flower growing, incongruously, in the concrete. This flower, rather than “the Ripper” (a fictional entity, finally), was the real culprit of the crimes. A viral intelligence manifested, or traveled, through these flowers, as spores travel, unbound by ordinary limitations of space or time. The flower possessed individuals and caused them to commit hideous crimes. “Jack the Ripper” did not exist, as such, and never had. Only this viral entity exists, using a growing number of different hosts.
I was told that the virus was a natural and necessary agent of global transformation, and we could make its work easy, or we could make its work hard. In the latter case, the route we have in fact chosen, the virus causes grisly scenarios of murder and mutilation as a means to propagate itself and gradually take control of human consciousness. Being taken over by the viral hive mind was NOT the desired end of this sinister process, however. This was the dark side of the agenda, and to be avoided at any cost. I experienced this “possession” in the course of the vision, and can recall palpably the sensation of being swallowed up by the organic green energy (green as in moss or algae rather than like an ordinary plant: a sort of parasitic green) of the strange alien spore.
In the dream, I explained what I learned from the experience to a group of teenagers, gothic types. My realization concerned the “Last Vampire” (the title of a Whitley Strieber book, not at that time released). Dracula, Nosferatu, the Immortal, I explained, was basically the same Force as Lucifer-Satan. This force, entity, call it what you will, was here on a final mission, hence the “last of his kind.” The mission involved global transformation. I explained the scenario as I saw it to the kids. It was very precise; the Jack the Ripper thing was a subplot within a subplot within a subplot, the lowest level of a huge and complex global drama that seemed to partake of another Reality altogether. Though it made perfect sense at the time, it did not translate coherently into ordinary awareness when I awoke. It was as if this Universe was not big enough to accommodate such a scenario, at least not as “reality.” In fact, as someone in the dream remarked, the whole scenario was a lot like something out of a recent Anne Rice vampire book.
“Indeed,” I reply. “The Fallen Angel has taken refuge in works of fiction. These fantasies and fictions are real to the collective unconscious, and Lucifer continues to exist through them. In fact,” I add with a smile, “since ideas last longer than physical forms, they might be seen as more real than mere facts.”
I added on afterthought that Hollywood was busy with its dark, imitative agenda, and that this was a distortion of the true archetypes, to be avoided at all costs. “The unhallowed holograms of Hollywood,” I quipped.
We were walking down a street, myself and these gothic teens, and the kids were eager to learn more from me. They wanted me to visit them and teach them, but they also offered to answer any questions I might have, since they were more up on the fantasy angle than I am. I told them forcefully that we had to work together, and fast, that WE may be able to live forever but that the Earth had only got fifteen years—and I raised my hand three times, 5,5,5—before it came to pass . But what is “it”? Whatever “it” is, it involves Lucifer-Nosferatu in the central role.
I took to the sky, and called down to them, to the girls particularly. They were just mortals, and I was Nosferatu, but I knew they could join me if they wanted to. Nobody did, and then I was alone. I was over a large town, seeing it clearly, low buildings, like a Labyrinth, genteel and clean, lots of trees, parks, and small, low houses, all similar and all very nicely built. I called to the crows, my allies, to come. I was halfway between dreaming and reality, between right and left spheres, between the self and the Other.
On the one hand, this was a dream and I could do anything at all, I was God of my World, all I had to do was will the crows to manifest; on the other hand, it was all real, and I was embodying Lucifer, which was to say, only a demi-god; and though I could do many marvels, there were definite limits. In this capacity I was not simply manifesting the crows but calling them, and it was a question not merely of will but also of faith: I could only do my bit to summon them, and God would do the rest (and the crows, of course).
Little by little, the sky filled with crows, until they were everywhere. The sky was black with them and the town was literally covered. I knew I had seen or done this before; it was a tradition, almost, to herald His coming. Everyone would now know, beyond any doubt, that I was here, and Who I am. It was a scary feeling; the “Who” wiped out the “I.” “I” became entirely subservient to a vast and awesome agenda of which I knew little: only and exactly what I needed to know, in order to play my role.
In February, 2002, I dreamed of a painting of a red-haired goat jumping off a sandy colored cliff into the abyss. I worked very carefully on the goat, which was pinkish red and took up large part of the picture, lunging downward headfirst so that its features are hidden, only the side of the face and horns are visible. I was trying very hard to get the proportions and the angle right to make it clear what it was. It morphed as I looked at it: sometimes it looked like a goat, sometime it didn’t, depending on how you looked at it. As the goat (that proverbial scapegoat) plunged headlong into the abyss, various human forms followed after, as if dragged by the goat’s momentum, its “orbit.”
There was a large space still in the painting that I needed to fill; I knew that whatever I did should be green.
I then had a vision of a small child being killed, by means unknown or unseen (or forgotten). The child was male, perhaps three or four years old, with light brown hair. I went and picked up the child and saw that he was bleeding, and that his blood was green.
The child was a sacrifice of God. The pain and sorrow I felt for the death of the child was immense, indescribable. It was as if the whole world had died. I knew then that to God there was no difference; the death of one child was the death of all life. Especially a child, of course (and perhaps specifically a male child?). The sorrow I felt was like a surge of energy-emotion, like a tidal wave pouring into the world, a tide of green/love, somehow transforming it, redeeming it. It was as if the death of the child and the corresponding sorrow caused a rent or tear in the fabric of existence, through which God’s love could enter. I saw that the “tear” and the tear of God were basically the same: the means by which God’s love flooded the world.
The goat, being red, was Satan; the child with the green blood was Christ. The one must be cast into the pit and take all His “followers” with Him; the other must be sacrificed in an alternate fashion, as a man-child, to awaken God consciousness within us. The vision was clear as crystal, and almost by the book.
Such were the kind of dreams and visions that I was experiencing on a regular basis and which seemed to be nudging me ever further away from an ordinary, “rational” perception of both myself and the world. Something was trying to get through to me, or out of me, and there seemed little doubt that sooner or later, it would have its way. Finally, without ever actually “deciding” upon this course of action (but rather gradually acquiescing to it), I resolved to try an experiment.
My birthday was coming up, and thence also the three-day anniversary of the writing of The Book of the Law. If I was opening up to transmissions from the Beyond, be they Intergalactic or Divine, Collective Unconscious or my own “Higher Self”—what better time, then, to put this to the test? I decided to make an appointment with those obscure Forces of the Unconscious, to see what, if anything, They had to say to me. Thus I would prepare myself, in an appropriate fashion over the days preceding my birthday, as a “channel,” and see what came through. Since I had already established what I firmly believed to be a psychic connection to Crowley—and to whatever Intelligence had selected him as Its spokesperson—I would proceed along the precise same tracks left in space-time by that bygone operation. At noon exactly on the 8th, 9th, and 10th of April, I would sit on my glassed terrace with a view of the Sun and sky, a pencil in my hand and a pad in front of me, and write down whatever came to me over the next hour. This was how The Book of the Adversary came about.
[Editor 2018: This is a good example of how legend supplants fact, in this case in my own mind. Having listened to audios from that time, I now know that BOA actually began as a poem, written in early March, which the above-mentioned Jason King accepted for a Poets’ mag. This then became the first chapter of BOA, written March 7. Part 2 (the Christ-transmission) was written a couple of weeks later; Part 3, the Astarius/Abraxas chapter, on those three days, perhaps as described above. I then proceeded to forget about the more organic nature of its creation, and came up with the above version.]
I cannot claim (without lying) that, like Crowley, I heard a voice in my ear dictating words to me. What I wrote down over the next three hours and three days was, to all appearances, my own thought processes. And yet. The words as I wrote them—and later transcribed them, and whenever I have read them since—struck me as having the nature of a revelation, that is, they come as news to me. For the most part, the things that I wrote down were not things that I had previously thought or been aware of, except dimly. Wisdom or folly, the words were not entirely mine, and like Crowley, though it was my hand and pen that wrote, I neither wished nor felt able to take credit or claim authorship for them. This is not to say that I believe they came from anywhere but my own unconscious, or that they weren’t passed through my conscious mind and so stamped with my personality in the process. I was not in trance when I wrote the words down, and was fully aware of what I was writing. Yet I was also conscious of attempting to convey a communication, a message that was coming from somewhere besides my own conscious mind, and of the need to do justice to that, whatever it was. The message that is conveyed by The Book of the Adversary—though anything but intact or pure—is still, I believe, one that exists independently of its “author.” In other words, it is a message from Beyond.
Whatever the case—and in the end the only “proof” is in the pudding—there could be no doubt that I was becoming gradually more involved, intertwined at a conscious level, with those Powers that I had become fully cognizant of a full ten years previously. And in response, these Powers were taking a more active role in the events and circumstances of my life. I had been preparing myself—sometimes consciously but mostly not—for this my whole life. Now the Intelligence that I had so faithfully and fondly courted, in my innocence and desire—Lucifer or whatever It was—was moving closer. I felt a mix of fear and excitement at the thought. I was like the blushing virgin bride, whose unwitting yet provocative smiles, her playful glances and flirtatious motions, had finally, inexorably, brought the inevitable moment of truth upon her. And there I lay, enveloped by sweetest anticipation of love and desire mixed with profoundest terror and dread for this dark and mysterious presence, both bestial and godly, that was descending—both lovingly and lasciviously—upon me. But it was too late for doubts or fears (or coyness) now. The marriage had been consecrated, the consummation was at hand. What could I do but open wide and embrace Him?