Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
Another Berlin morning finds me sitting cross-legged on my patio, surrounded by a ring of incense-filled pizza boxes. My Damir Doma pants have been pressed according to the seven Hermetic principles. My Traktor controller coordinates the correct ritual music (durrty pumping party bass), seriously impressing my neighbors and this fucked up-looking bird who’s perched on the table. If all goes according to plan, and if thee spiritz will it, my COMPLETE-FRASIER torrent will be completed within the minute. If not, I will cry out violence to those on the street below. A distant PING from the bedroom, a cloud of incense smoke taking the shape of David Hyde Pierce sobbing and contemplating a gun. My ceremony is successful: I’ve summoned a really good time.
With the onset of warmer temperatures, I’ve moved back into my more upbeat swing, which also leads to the higher production of things. The gods of WeIrD tWiTtEr have placed signs around me, and they show that this is the year I start a new band and a local basketball team. Not sure which one (me, naked and covered in paint, screaming over danceable powernoise and repurposed R&B samples VERSUS getting my friends to play sports) is the harder sell but I’ve lit a candle in the ossuary for guidance and waved some bullshit, an athame or whatever, over my laptop when it was open to a Tumblr that had a photo of Aleister Crowley. I’m unsure why people amass libraries full of esoteric philosophical theory. This stuff is easy as heck.
The spirits tonight are restless. A ghastly revenant, tattered and ephemeral, repeatedly forms beside me whispering, “Amanda Bynes twitter bra All That,” and showing me pictures of harlequin fetuses. Inquiries regarding the nude Keenan and Kel photos are met with wails of lamentation, which I’ve started saying emphasizing the lame and then repeating in a louder voice when nobody laughs. In desperation I google “Kybalion”, but the only result was a flaming dog appearing and telling me that I wasn’t actually a magickian, but rather a guy in some clothes in a monochrome room. “B…but I’ve got a Psychic TV hat,” I sputter. “I got it from Mishka,” I add helpfully. Now the heels have fallen off my creepers, my internet no longer works, and everything on my Soundcloud is just different-quality versions of Mumford & Sons ringtones. From Life to Prison in one day; that’s astrologically ballin’. A new calling awaits….~