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| Aleister Crowley in 1912 |
There is a lesson in Aleister Crowley’s life that deserves to be read with calm, with care, and without either idolization or contempt. It is the lesson of someone who, for a brief moment, truly touched the current of the Goddess — and then slowly built a temple around himself instead of letting Her wind keep blowing.
I remember when I first met them — the Thelemites. I was curious, maybe even enchanted. They spoke in strange phrases. Their eyes were lit with something — not performance, but a glimmer that suggested they had brushed against something real. They said things I didn’t understand, but I felt the echo. There was incense. Symbols. Phrases like A∴A∴ and Ipsissimus and 93/93. It was like stepping into an ancient play whose script was only half visible. And yet, somewhere beneath the robes and sigils and gazes, there was a pulse — a current that felt like Her.
And so I began to dig. Gently. Carefully. Like a child who has seen the shadow of something shimmering and wants to know: what is it made of?
What I found was this:
The language was dense, hermetic (in every sense of the word), packed with phrases and sigils only insiders could understand. A quiet hierarchy pulsed beneath the surface. There was an unspoken code: "Only those with the key will truly understand."
And visually, the same pattern. The look becomes standardized: black robes, kohl-lined eyes, distant "deep" gazes in curated photographs. It isn’t spontaneous. It is a moodboard. A persona. A stylized mysticism.
The people begin to play characters in a spiritual theatre. Not saints dissolving in the current, but mystics performing mysticism.
And yet — the current was real.
In 1904, when Crowley received Liber AL vel Legis, something undeniably broke through. Many verses carry the tone of genuine āveśa — that rare descent of Divine Power that does not ask for permission and does not explain itself. It has the same quality one might find in a sudden line from a song, a whisper from a forest, or a dream too bright to be forgotten. It has the mood of Kāmākhyā: fierce, erotic, sovereign, and utterly free.
That was Crowley's greatest gift: that for one brief, unrepeatable moment, he became a crack in the armor of rational materialism. The current of Shakti spoke through him, and The Book of the Law remains, in part, as evidence.
If we look at Liber AL as a case of initial āveśa (genuine possession or descent of Shakti), the pattern that follows is one we’ve seen in other mystics who slip into the “chosen prophet” role:
The first flash is wild and clean.
In 1904 Cairo, what came through had the unmistakable rawness of a true current. Parts of Liber AL have the same unpolished directness we find in unpremeditated Devi speech — concise, paradoxical, charged. This is before his ego had the time to fully structure it into a permanent identity.
Then comes the crystallization.
Instead of letting the current dissolve him, Crowley built himself into the prophet of Thelema — “the Beast 666,” “chosen priest,” etc. The momentary role was turned into a fixed self-concept, which is exactly what Kaula practice warns against after an āveśa — because once you “own” the voice, you unconsciously start speaking as yourself again.
The voice changes.
Later writings, rituals, and “revelations” tend to be much heavier with Crowley’s personal philosophy, Qabalistic structures, and magician-theatrics. There are still sparks of inspiration, but the tone is often more architected than possessed — more Crowley speaking about the divine than Devi speaking through Crowley.
Why the insights thin out.
In Kaula terms: after identifying as the channel, the ego becomes a semi-permanent filter. Shakti still moves, but now it’s forced through a shaped pipe instead of pouring freely. Without ongoing surrender and dissolution of the “prophet” identity, the original level of insight rarely returns.
This is exactly why, in Kaula lineages, a guru who receives a genuine descent will often go silent for years — to burn away any trace of “I am the messenger” before teaching publicly. Otherwise, you get exactly what happened to Crowley: a magnificent seed slowly overgrown by the self-image of the sower.
Crowley’s “trap” wasn’t the āveśa — that was pure blessing — it was freezing the moment into an identity:
“I am the prophet.”
“This book is the only truth.”
“The current belongs to me.”
In Kaula, the antidote is simple — and humbling:
Never claim exclusivity. If She can speak through you, She can speak through a pop singer, a stranger on the street, or even your enemy.
Let each utterance die after it’s given. Don’t clutch at it as a banner to wave — offer it back to Her.
Stay a sadhaka, not a scribe of finality. The more you keep learning and questioning, the less the ego can sit on the throne.
Accept that She can contradict you tomorrow. That way, you never confuse the transient form with the eternal current.
From a Kaula Tantra perspective, this is a classic fall. The Goddess can speak through anyone — and She often does. But the moment the vessel says, “She speaks only through me,” the current begins to slip away.
Saints don’t pose. They dissolve.
Crowley posed.
This is not said with hatred, but with a kind of reverence — because it’s a lesson many seekers face. To be touched by Shakti is no small thing. But the fire is not a crown. It is a purification. A destruction. A kiss that burns.
To receive Her once is grace. To remain empty enough for Her to return again and again requires deep surrender, not titles. Not temples. Not robes.
The lesson Crowley offers is twofold:
The fire was real. Never forget that. Even an imperfect vessel can become a window.
The claim to be Her exclusive mouth is where the crack becomes a cage.
Let that be our reminder.
May we let Her come. May we never try to keep Her.
May we stay soft. Stay open.
And when the words come — may we write them in the sand, and bow.
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