Friday, 20 June 2014

The Serpent Chiropodarium

Aleister Crowley once wrote that the anathema of perception is mortality's most rueful vice, and so it is with Rory Williams, the most delightful character companion from Doctor Who, the metatextual alchemic serial gifted to a grateful humanity by the benevolence of Mr. Stephen Moffat esquire, that wonderful, infuriating man. Rory, perspicaciously portrayed by that most eminent thespial gentleman Mr. Arthur Darville, was first introduced as the hermeneutic partner of Amelia Pond in The Terrifying Eye of 2007, and all of our lives were changed irrevocably forever hereafter as he first quietly intoned those immortal words.

'Er Doctor, this er... well...'

Quantum uncertainty in a nutshell, my dear Watson! Quantum uncertainty woven into a philosophic magikal whole with the Thelemic current of the aeon in this, our age of Horus, and exactly as Crowley predicted! Indeed, if we turn to the works of Austin Osman Spare - whom you possibly will not have heard of, but I have - we see in his Liber Aegis Zos a representation of this Arthurian theme, the great defender, arisen as plastic, as an holistic avatar of the modern age if you will, returned to hold the sword aloft for the land of his birthing, both ovarian and gnostic, manifest as the delightful Rory; or should that be Roary? The one who roars as unto the death knell of unregenerate longing blown out from the trumpet of Ezekiel himself, blown sevenfold as described in the Book of Revelation of Saint John. Darville has seven letters, but of course that is mere coincidence, nothing more than Ananke playing with us for her sport. Add the letters of Arthur and Darville and we arrive at eleven, the accursed number found upon the reverse of the Hermetic Qliphoth.

In the biblical era, of course the trumpet through which Rory the Roman didst roar would have been of ram's horn.

Yes - Ram's horn. Please feel free to keep telling yourself it's all a coincidence if it makes you feel any better, perhaps a little more in control of your own destiny - like in Destiny of the Daleks, Terry Nation's own Ulysses if I might make so bold.

So where would this leave one such as myself, a humble seeker after truth? How can I take rest when the Moffatian motif of Rory's trousers falling down at inopportune moments over and over forever transcribes a transdimensional zen mandala upon the inadequate plane of my consciousness, leaving so little gold which may be woven into the precious metatextual lead of the mighty work I intend to unleash upon the world, and which will be a bit like Dinosaurs on the Spaceship but with more of a gnostic subtext. I'll probably do that as a Kickstarter or something, by the way.

Dear oh dear - how delightfully rakish of me! What larks!

As ever, the answer lies with my dear Austin, delivered as unto precious bon mots, philosophic Ferrero Rocher with which the ambassador of proto-noumenal cognition spoils us:

Quietism, Buddhism, and other religions, everything which denies the flesh—is the great inferiority to God in ourselves, an escapism seeking sanctuary through fear of life and inability to accept this reality. They were hurt? Or was the odalisque unsatisfactory or too expensive? They expected too much for too little, or were too mean to pay—therefore: All is illusion. But the Stoic smilingly awaits the next shower of shit from heaven. Stoics are not Saviours, Saints or Heroes and are often confused and weary, yet they prefer to find their own way and to accept life as they find it. The schizophrenics, the melancholics and psychotics—they at least are secretive and inflict no religions on others. They prove the possibilities and utilities of as if when totally accepted.

So as one door to perception opens, another closes [Arthur + Darville = 11], but alas and alack I must away. Further golden keys will most surely be revealed within Machen's divine The Chronicle of Clemendy of 1888, but as for which doors they shalt unlock must form the subject of another essay for another time once I have digested the aforementioned treasure; but my reading gets away with me, and the bedside tower of literature doth reach for the heavens in the manner of that other well known tower. Presently I shall dedicate my attentions to Doctor Who and the Giant Robot as set down by the most loquacious Mr. Terrance Dicks.

What ho, peasants!

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