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| Pantaloon - Doug Nox |
Oh blood and bone and clocks and
trains
My coat will keep you from the
rain
Alas our love is all in vain
The briar and the rose
I will not wait, I cannot thread
The tenor of the things you've
said
My love is true and we must wed
The briar and the rose
I don't know how, I don't know
why
I never meant to make you cry
My love is blind and so I chose
The briar and the rose
- the Briar and the Rose
Occasionally, if you want to call
yourself a sorcerer and not a ‘student of magic’ you have to let it all hang
out there. And I don’t mean endless
cascades of words you found in books and your opinions on them, though that
certainly isn’t the worst thing you could do.
I mean you have to give up the safety of convention and see how far your
juju can carry you. You have to test the
model of the world you have unconsciously constructed in that meat machine
against the chaos of the world as it is.
I miss the heady days of dangerous magic and dangerous magicians. Crowley with his drug use and experimental
sex. Parsons with his polyamoury and
crazy science. Burroughs with his
renegade philosophy and blatant homosexuality.
When the mad cabalist Charlie Jones returned to Canada after his falling
out with Crowley he stripped naked and ran around the airport until he was
arrested for indecent exposure, all to get the ‘UK out his system’. Spare, even P. B. Randolph all have possessed
what can only be described as idea’s which were a clear and present danger to
the status quo. They were fucking rock stars.
If some aspect of your sorcerous
model exists solely to validate that false construct then it will break against
the world as it is. I call this ‘finding
the handle’. After many years of
mercenarial work I can safely say that I have been burned a lot, certainly more than the average student of magic, devout
Wiccan or pious neophyte. As my old
friend Mr. VI told me when I complained about it in the early years, “you can’t
spend all day wandering around a battlefield and then complain when you get shot.” The sheer volume of burns and nails flying
about porn valley at any given moment is pretty ridiculous. I think that has to be one of the most
heavily ensorcelled pieces of real estate in the world and perhaps history. A great many of those nixes just roll right
off because they are really meant for me at all, they are meant for someone’s idea of me. A burn meant to punish me for being the devil
incarnate will not be terribly effective because I am not actually the devil
incarnate (a devil perhaps but
certainly not the devil). Much more problematic are burns getting slung
without any personal malice (the ‘it’s just business’ burn) or my own work
getting efficiently cycled back to me (I call this ‘going Frankenstein’).
Besides an enthusiastic and regimented
cleansing and clearing routine the best way I learned to keep the fallout from
becoming unbearable was to become largely indestructible. Also known as, learning some esoteric
Buddhism. I am not talking shallow
appropriation here either; I would like to emphasize here how little good a
stature of Buddha will do on your altar.
If there is a deity (wrong word for a Buddha but if you are thinking a
statue on your altar is the way to go, it’s how you are thinking about it) that
cares less about the fact that you are getting burned I don’t know what it
would be. I mean the spiritual mechanics
at work under the hood. Especially, the
ideas of ‘attachment’ and the ‘poisons’.
Namely, that as conscious beings we place an undue amount of
significance and emotional validity on particular by-products of our sensory
organs. The notion that time and space
are inherently illusory, insofar as we perceive them with our eye’s and ear’s
and hand’s and what-not is obviously logical, western philosophers have been
riding that meal ticket for centuries but it breaks down on the rocks of
personal experience. We get attached, to
pleasure, to fear, to love and through these attachments we accrue karma
because we are invested in an illusion.
Karma is the scrunched up newspaper to the bonfire of any magical
working. So being ‘indestructible’ in a
magical sense is to be without attachment.
Without the accumulation of karma the burn can’t ‘find a handle’.
The key here however, is
realizing that being impervious to the fallout does not equate to feeling no
pain. It is embracing the pain, the
sense of loss, inhabiting it and allowing it to pass through you. In this way the karma is cleansed and a more
meaningful perspective is achieved.
Sometimes of the ways you yourself have contributed to your problems,
sometimes that the thing which you feared was not the end of the world,
sometimes that the catharsis of grief and loss is the way to beauty. The black Buddha-sage Dharmaraja is a refuge
in times of turmoil like that, during the Ordeals and Pilgrimages of our sort,
wandering peregrine about the hellscapes gathering his devotee’s from among the
devils and fox spirits. I count myself
among that number, no less a child of the nail because of it, perhaps in a
sense more truly a child always a child because of it. In this sense, an effective burn is a gift of
the Buddha’s that reveals to us some hitherto secret accumulation of karma.
Crowley and Burroughs and the
others I mentioned at the outset, they didn’t just come into this world capable
of seeing through the veil of social convention and morality. For most of them in fact, it was quite the
opposite. They obtained to a perspective
beyond the social norm because of a willingness to examine the fallout of the
illusions that hold those conventions in place and evaluate their true value in
their own lives. Among the figures of
the Burlesque, normative social mores are embodied by Pantaloon or as we have
come to call him, ‘the Idiot’. In the
old plays he embodies the limitations of the status quo, of class and income
disparity, of honor and obligation, of sexual roles and dynamics. He always represents the obstacle which must
be surmounted by the lovers to achieve union but he is not so easily
defeated. He is always both sides of the
coin of conventional morality. The old
Pastor demanding pious chastity while lecherously lusting after Columbine, the
old Father demanding familial piety while he defies the wishes of his son or
daughter. Regardless of the story, it is
his presence that necessitates the involvement of the devil Harlequin, only a
trickster can negotiate the self-validating dualisms of the cultural norm
because as a liminal figure he can observe them from beyond their borders as a
complete thing which can be objectified and manipulated.
Honoring the Idiot is a tricksy
business because he/she is always both ends of a dualism. Every honorific is simultaneously an insult,
every gift he might bestow simultaneously a curse. At the most basic and profound levels the
spirit which fills this mask is akin to Azathoth, mad beyond reason. It cannot be contained in a narrative arc
because it defies grammar and syntax, remakes them over and over into endless
cascades of meaning. I had contemplated
writing this entire piece without any grammatical structure whatsoever but
decided in the end that would be a bit too hipster douche bag of me. There is a real value in this figure and it
serves nothing to cloud it with clever misdirection. That is a bag of tricks best left to
Harlequin. The Idiot is best honored in
the absence of pomp and circumstance, in the acceptance of the good with the
bad, the sad with the happy, the gain with the loss, his presence is automatic
in action in which we challenge the comfort of our cultural norms or the safety
of the status quo. The spirit that fills
that mask is the spirit of the world and he can only embrace it by giving
ourselves over to it. To be manhandled
and molested and challenged in our preconceived notions. To love bravely, most importantly that, to
love bravely in the face of loss and grief knowing that one’s heart cannot
break before it has been filled to bursting.
