Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
If You See Al Crowley in a Dream, Is It Really Him?
Naked Mass
I'm standing there at mass, butt-naked.
I've been to Gnostic Masses before, but never in quite this state of vulnerability. Stealthily, I look around me; no one else seems to care, or even notice.
“Oh well,” I think in the dream. Hey, I've been to my share of skyclad rituals before. Do what thou wilt, right?
“First Mass?” asks the avuncular-looking old guy standing next to me. I'm sure I've never met him before, but there's something familiar about him nonetheless.
“Not quite,” I say.
The Mass continues. He follows along the text of the canon in a beautifully-printed missal.
“We turn to the East here,” he says, and shows me the page. Above the prayer, in red, the rubric says: “Facing East.”
I dutifully turn to the East, with my back to my guide. When I feel his hands cup and part my buttocks, I suddenly realize who he is.
The Old Man, AC himself.
“Uh oh,” I think, as I awake.
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