“I want none of your faint approval, none of your faint dispraise. To hell with Christianity, rationalism, Buddhism – I want blasphemy, murder, rape, revolution. Anything bad or good, but strong…NO YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, MUM!”
– Aleister Crowley. (Mostly)
I am still alive. I’m not sure how some people do it – I’m not sure how I used to do it actually. I used to blog much more regularly but lately I feel as though I have a daily quota of wordspew and if I exceed it I can’t get the things done that I need to.
Also, I had every intention of getting this book finished by February but circumstances haven’t really been ideal. Also, this keyboard is completely terrible. We bought a nice new computer for Christmas but yesterday was probably the first time I’ve typed on it for any great length of time and I am now feeling the twinges, whinges and sundry aches that visit the hands of the ergonomically unsound. And I have no idea where my old keyboard is. Probably in the attic somewhere.
Writing is awful and I hate it. I’ve reached the point where the verb ‘said’ can reduce me to spasms of twitchy hatred, although to be fair to myself some writers seem to exist in this state all the time. It’s the only reasonable explanation for characters booming, expostulating, whimpering and hissing all over the place. (The unreasonable explanation is that they are illiterate cretins who should have their knuckles broken with a steak hammer. I tend towards option B in these moods.)
Worse, I downloaded a book today purely out of horrible curiosity and because it was 99p. It’s possibly one of the most irritating things I’ve ever read – some terrible family of ‘witches’ moves to Fannyfart on the Twee or some other invented English village that will give you diabetes and one of them has a chocolate shop not-like-that-novel-by-Joanne-Harris-or-nothing.
It starts with an infodump and proceeds lumpenly to the heroine explaining that once upon a time she used to read her tarot cards every morning as part of her getting-up routine, but obviously that was silly.
Yes, yes it was.
Then she takes about five pages to explain she doesn’t read tarot cards anymore because now she reads angel cards, which are much more accurate and don’t subject her to any early morning bummers like Death or The Hanged Man.
Ah ha. Hah ha. You see what she did there? You see? Isn’t that just so…you see, she made you think she’d realised the error of her New Age ways but actually she…
KILL ME NOW.
I know the Malleus Malleficarium is possibly one of the most appallingly evil books in human history, but five minutes in this woman’s company and ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ suddenly begins to make a whole lot of fucking sense. Ten minutes and I’d want to drown her. Angel cards. Really.
She’s all pink and fluffy because her grandfather is some kind of Aleister Crowley type or something. Personally, if my grandfather admired Aleister Crowley I would probably leave the country, sinceCrowleyfans tend to be deeply embarrassing creatures with dubious dental hygiene and appalling taste in music. I mean, why would you want to associate with a man so useless that even he spent the end of his life wondering if he’d wasted his short, precious existence nancing about like an overgrown Sixth Former.
I really tried to understand that whole Ordo Templi Ordis whositfuckery but honestly, the dark side of ‘magic’ is just as nonsensical as the sparkly side and almost as annoying. The only upside of Satanism, as I can see, is that you don’t have to pretend to like gaudy fractal artwork featuring dolphins. The downside, of course, is that you might find yourself having to listen to Norweigan Black Metal – and nobody wants that.