Although
he
has
claimed
to
be
an
heir
to
an
immortal
space
dynasty
who
stays


cheerful
by
imagining
that
aliens
“will
probably
be
turning
up
to
rescue
him
any
day

now,”
Grant
Morrison
was
in
fact
born
in
1960
to
a
pair
of
liberal
activist
Earthlings.

Growing
up
in
the
slums
of
Glasgow,
Scotland,
where
he
was
brought
up
by
his

mother
while
being
“barely
educated”
in
public
schools,
Morrison
developed
an

early
enthusiasm
for
all
things
pop
and
fantastic:
rock
n
roll
music,
science
fiction

and
fantasy
literature,
mythology
and
the
occult,
punks,
mods,
beatniks
and,
of

course,
foxes
and
cats.



But
the
early
love
that
would
bear
the
most
fruit
was
for
comic
books,
which
he

began
writing
and
drawing
as
an
adolescent.
Foregoing
higher
education
and
living

on
his
own
in
a
Glasgow
ghetto
from
age
19,
Morrison
gradually
built
a
career
as
a

comics
writer
of
prodigious
imagination,
armed
with
a
sense
of
humor:
the
title
of

his
first
published
story
was
“Time
Is
a
Four‐Lettered
Word.”



After
years
of
toil
writing
in
the
British
sci‐fi
comics
world
while
making
psychedelic

mod‐pop
with
his
Glaswegian
band
The
Makers,
Morrison
landed
work
at
American

publisher
DC
Comics,
where
his
deeply
unsettling
Batman
graphic
novel
Arkham

Asylum,
illustrated
by
Sandman
cover
artist
Dave
McKean,
was
published
in
1989.
It

remains
Morrison’s
bestselling
work
but
in
the
wake
of
his
work
since
then—his

two‐year
run
on
Animal
Man,
in
which
the
lead
character,
refashioned
as
a

superpowered
animal‐rights
activist,
gradually
becomes
aware
that
he
is
a
character

in
a
comic
book;
four
years
of
Doom
Patrol,
a
deeply
Surrealist
four‐color
romp

starring
a
superhero
team
of
mental
patients;
shorter
works
like
the
multi‐meta‐
superhero
comic
Flex
Mentallo
and
the
controversial‐for‐obvious‐reasons
Kill
Your

Boyfriend;
The
Invisibles,
an
epic
for
would‐be
technoccult
anarchists;
and
The

Filth,
a
seriously
dark
and
bizarre
13‐issue
series,
discussed
at
length
in
this

interview—it
seems
relatively
minor.



“You
don’t
get
much
time
on
Earth
to
do
stuff,
so
I
like
to
keep
busy,”
Morrison
told

one
interviewer
last
year,
and
so
he
has:
in
addition
to
the
aforementioned
work,

Morrison
recently
completed
a
40‐issue
run
on
New
X‐Men
and
Seaguy,
a

picaresque
three‐issue
series
drawn
by
this
Arthur’s
cover
artist
Cameron
Stewart;

an
original
screenplay
for
Dreamworks;
and
scripts
for
two
more
three‐issue
series

debuting
in
the
next
few
months,
We3
and
Vimanarama.



Recently
returned
from
a
wedding
honeymoon
that
included
a
week’s
stay
in
Dubai

(where
“they’re
building
the
21st
century
out
of
sand,”
he
says),
Morrison
spoke
at

length
by
phone
from
his
Glasgow
home
about
the
whys
and
wherefores
of
his
work,

his
life
and
the
Present
Situation
in
Our
World.



Arthur:
Did
you
see
the
news
about
the
super­strong
German
toddler?
I
was
reminded

where
you
were
saying
your
run
on
X­Men
was
a
set
of
fables
for
the
coming
mutant,

which
you
thought
might
already
exist
or
be
on
their
way.



Grant
Morrison:
I
figured
even
within
50
years
we’ll
probably
have
quite
a
few

superhumans
on
the
planet.
There’s
something
about
the
superman
idea
that’s

pushing
itself
closer
and
closer
to
reality,
to
the
real‐life
material
workaday
world

that
we
can
touch.
The
supercharacters
began
in
the
pulps
and
then
worked
their

way
through
comics,
and
they
keep
moving
to
more
and
more
extensive
mass

media.
Now
it’s
everywhere,
and
it’s
become
the
common
currency
of
culture.
I
said,

way
back,
almost
joking,
that
I
thought
the
super‐people
were
really
trying
very

hard
to
make
their
way
off
the
skin
of
the
second
dimension
to
get
in
here.
They

want
to
be
in
here
with
us.
They’re
colonizing
people’s
minds,
and
they’re
now

colonizing
movies,
so
the
next
stage
is
to
clamber
off
the
screen
into
the
street.
I

think
what
you’re
starting
to
see,
with
things
like
this
weird
kid,
and
also
the

experiments
that
are
going
on
with
animals,
the
cyborg
experiments
and
genetic

manipulation
that
is
now
possible,
is
that
pretty
soon
there’s
gonna
be
super‐people.

You’ll
be
able
to
select
for
superpeople:
“I
want
my
kid
to
have
electric
powers.”

That
kind
of
thing.



And
when
supermen
do
come
along,
what
are
they
gonna
want
to
find?
A
role

model.
Like
everyone
else
on
the
planet.
We
all
want
to
find
people
who’ve
trod
our

path
before,
who
can
suggest
some
ways
to
help
us
feel
significant.
So
the
idea

behind
a
lot
of
what
I
was
doing
in
X‐Men
and
really
all
of
my
comics
is
to
give
these

future
supermen
a
template,
to
say
“Okay
you’re
a
superhuman,
and
maybe
it
feels
a

little
like
this.
I’ve
tried
really
hard
as
one
of
the
last
of
the
human
beings
to
think

what
it
might
be
like
in
your
world.”
Rather
than
bring
them
to
us,
which
is
what
a

lot
of
superhero
fiction
in
the
past
has
tried
to
do,
I’ve
tried
to
go
into
their
world

and
to
understand
what’s
going
on
in
the
space
of
the
comics,
and
to
try
and
find
a

way
to
make
that
into
a
morality,
almost,
or
a
creed,
or
an
aesthetic,
that
might
make

sense
to
someone
who
has
yet
to
be
born
with
powers
beyond
those
of
mortal
man.

I
think
we
have
to
give
them
images
of
rescue
and
ambition
and
cosmic
potency,

rather
than
images
of
control
and
fascist
perfection.



Arthur:
Can
a
cartoon
code
of
ethics
really
deal
with
real­world
subtleties?



In
a
sense
it
is
a
cartoon
code
of
ethics,
but
these
will
be
cartoon
people,
having
to

live
in
a
real
world.
And
I
think
the
cartoon
code
of
ethics
stands
up
as
well
as

anything
Jesus
came
up
with.
Don’t
kill.
Don’t
let
bullies
have
their
way.
Use
your

powers
in
the
service
of
good.
I
think
we
should
be
focusing
towards
that,
rather

than
providing
images
of
destruction
or
of
despair.



Purely
on
a
conceptual
level,
the
Justice
League
were
created
to
solve
every
possible

problem,
right?
[chuckles]
That’s
what
they’re
there
for.
They
never
fail.
These
are

things
that
the
human
imagination
has
created
and
put
on
paper
and
they
exist
–

they
have
a
more
than
40
years’
lifespan.
Still
existing,
still
clinging
to
life,
these

images.
So
I
think
if
we’ve
created
something
in
our
heads
that’s
so
beautiful
and
so

strong
and
so
moral
that
it
can
solve
all
our
problems
with
justice,
intelligence
and

discrimination,
then
why
don’t
we
use
it?
Tap
into
it
a
little
more
and
understand

what
these
images
mean
and
what
they
can
do
for
us
beyond
the
obvious.
Why
was

Superman
created?
That’s
the
really
important
thing.
What
kind
of
imaginative
need

was
being
served
by
that?
And
to
access
that
again,
to
make
it
vital
again,
to

empower
the
fiction
again,
I
think,
would
help
our
culture
deal
with
some
of
the

implications
of
its
own
future.



We
have
to
hang
onto
the
immense
power
of
that
imaginative
world.
Every
creed,

every
weapon,
every
invention
or
symphony
began
as
an
idea
in
someone’s
head.

We’re
very
good
at
making
insubstantial
ideas
into
physical
artifacts
or
systems
of

conduct—which
is
magic,
of
course,
humanity’s
greatest
skill.



Yeah,
you
can
imagine
that
the
first
Aryan
superman
will
probably
crawl
out
of
his

test
tube
and
want
to
subjugate
us
all
with
the
hammers
of
his
fists,
but
by
using
the

power
of
imagination
right
now
maybe
we
can
provide
his
mighty
brain
with

something
better
than
conquest
to
think
about.



America
is
a
young
country
on
the
planet.
It
has
the
strength
and
insolence
of
youth,

and
no
one
to
play
with.
It’s
a
bully—it’s
a
superman,
amongst
nations,
a
hyperpower.

What
can
we
do
about
it?



What
I
think
has
happened
is,
America
has
hit
adolescence.
And
it’s
got
all
these

difficult
feelings.
It’s
gone
a
bit
Goth
and
sullen
and
withdrawn.
We
have
what

Crowley
called
the
Horus
current
rolling
over
us
at
the
moment,
which
is
that
very

powerful
energy
of
adolescent
rebellion
which
seems
to
have
entered
the
world,

overcoming
traditional
systems,
disordering
the
past
in
order
to
create
something

new…
The
whole
global
organism
seems
to
go
through
these
periodic

developmental
spasms
or
phases
which
are
quite
clear
and
obvious
when
you
look

at
how
they
manifest
through
history.
This
seems
to
be
another
spasm.
Again,
like
I

say,
it
brings
with
it
a
restless,
adolescent
and
even
infantilizing
zeitgeist…I
don’t

know
how
far
we’re
gonna
push
it.
Japan’s
reaction
to
immense
post‐War
trauma

was
to
dress
itself
up
as
a
shrieking
16‐year‐old
schoolgirl
and
make
sure

everything
was
pink
and
flashing!
Consumers
in
the
formerly
adult
Western

capitalist
democracies
are
retreating
into
the
same
familiar
child‐glamour
of
DVD

extras,
cartoon
shows,
superhero
movies
and
toys.
But
all
these
things
that
we’re

seeing
seem
to
tie
into
that
complex
of
ideas,
which
is
Horus,
the
ferocious
fiery

adolescent
who’s
throwing
down
all
the
bricks
in
order
to
build
something
else

up…as
Crowley
predicted
a
hundred
years
ago
in
The
Book
of
the
Law.
He
was

talking
about
this
current
coming
into
history
and
disordering
things
and
re‐making

things
and
redrawing
the
maps,
realigning
old
certainties.
For
my
part,
I
honestly

see
people
like
Bush
and
Blair
as
having
been
caught
up
in
and
being
forced
to
carry

currents
of
historical
energy,
or
whatever
you
want
to
call
this
thing,
these
growing

pains
that
occur.
They
can’t
help
it.
They’ve
been
put
there.
George
Bush
got
us

through
this
ghastly
time
as
the
boatman
of
the
Abyss.
Look
at
him!
Who
but
this

gimlet‐eyed,
alpha
casualty
of
history
would
you
trust
to
boat
us
through
the
Abyss?

Nixon’s
the
only
other
one
I’d
trust.
These
are
darkside
figures
for
darkside
times.

Caligulas.
And
I
think
they
play
their
part
perfectly
until
they’re
replaced
by
other

people
who
come
in
and
play
the
parts
written
for
new
times
which
have
a
different

tenor
and
different
atmospheres.
So
I
think
Bush
was
in
place
for
a
time
that
suited

that
kind
of
deranged
human
being.
[chuckles]
And
it’s
quite
clear
that
his
time
is

over.



That
all
begs
the
question,
if
this
was
predicted
by
Crowley,
what
did
he
say
would

happen
next?



Well,
Crowley
said
we
could
have
500
years
of
a
dark
age!
[laughs]
I
hope
he’s

wrong.
But
there’s
no
reason
why
not.
We
had
500
years
of
dark
age
a
thousand

years
ago,
before
the
Renaissance.
People
can
be
stupid
sometimes.
Crowley

obviously
thought
the
larger‐scale
process
were
working
themselves
out
just
fine

and
if
we
have
to
have
500
years
of
dark
age
in
order
to
learn
something
important

for
our
development,
then
too
bad
and
so
be
it.
Easy
for
him
to
say.



If
you’re
aware
of
this
process
going
on,
how
do
you
deal
with
at
a
personal
level?



It’s
kind
of
strange.
Once
you’ve
realize
things
are
kind
of
different
from
what
we

were
taught
in
school,
what
do
you
do
with
that?
I
spent
25
years
doing
magic

because
I
didn’t
believe
Aleister
Crowley
when
he
said
a
demon
would
appear
if
I

performed
certain
operations.
And
so
I
did
the
operations
to
prove
him
wrong,
and
a

fucking
demon
appeared!
[laughs]
So,
from
the
age
of
19
I’ve
had
to
deal
with
the

fact
that
the
demon
had
actually
appeared,
and
that
Crowley
was
saying
something

that
now
made
sense
experientially.



Which
demon
was
it?



I
dunno,
it
had
a
flaming
lion’s
head,
and
it
said
“I
am
neither
North
nor
South”
and
I

shat
myself.
I
read
up
on
it
since
but
I
can’t
remember
the
name
offhand.
I
think
it

was
more
of
an
angel,
to
be
honest.
But
the
bottom
line
is
at
age
19,
being
quite

skeptical,
I
discovered
it
worked.
And
I
had
to
deal
with
that,
to
accommodate
that

view
of
the
world.
Which
was
really
good,
because
I
was
glad
that
the
world
could

contain
such
things,
because
before
I
hadn’t
been
quite
convinced
by
people
telling

me
it
did.
But
nevertheless,
it’s
a
kind
of
deranging
thing
because
the
minute
you’ve

crossed
the
threshhold
into
that
room,
all
you
can
do
is
go
back
and
say
to
people,

“Look,
if
you
do
this,
demons
appear.
I
don’t
know
what
demons
are,
but
I’ve
got

some
ideas
now
that
I’ve
seen
one.
I
think
it
may
be
this.”
And
at
that
point,
it

doesn’t
matter
what
you
say
next,
because
unless
people
are
willing
to
have
the

experience,
they’ll
either
think
you’re
insane
or
lying
for
some
personal
gain
or

whatever
else
they’ll
think.
Some
might
even
believe
you.
It’s
a
kind
of
deranging

place
to
be.
I
just
want
to
talk
about
it
with
people
who
know
what
I
mean.
All
I’ve

got
to
offer
is
my
experience
as
a
human
being
in
the
world.
I’m
not
a
guru.
I
don’t

fucking
know!
[laughs]
The
further
I
go
with
it,
the
more
I
do
magical
things,
the

more
I
summon
entities,
or
the
more
I
pursue
these
procedures,
the
less
I
seem
to

know!
I
hate
to
be
gnomic
about
this
and
it’s
very
easy.
There’s
so
much
obfuscation

in
this
area.
There’s
so
many
metaphors
colliding
and
blinding
people
to
the

actuality
and
radical
immensity
of
what’s
right
there
in
front
of
them,
which
is
what

magic
is:
the
dawning
understanding
of
how
things
all
fit
together.
And
how
it

works,
and
how
frightening
and
intricate
and
gigantic
it
all
is
and
yet
how
bloody

simple,
based
on
a
simple
binary
iteration
of
ones
and
zeroes.
But
in
between
the

Bleeding
Obvious
and
people’s
understanding
comes
thousands
of
years
of

metaphor.
Words.
Spells.
Obscuring
the
truth
in
an
attempt
to
unveil
it.



Seeing
significance,
seeing
meanings…
this
is
how
we
find
life
interesting
or
worth

living.



Humans
are
significance
providers.
We
give
things
names,
‘personalities,’
meanings

so
that
we
can
relate
to
them
in
a
way
that
feels
enriching.
And
if
we
don’t
add
the

seasoning
of
significance
to
our
experience,
we
feel
bad.
If
we
do
sprinkle
on

significance,
we
feel
good.
It’s
really
that
simple.
Even
the
so‐called
‘bad’
feelings
or

negative
states
we
experience
are
rich
storehouses
of
meaning.
This
last
year
after

my
dad
died
and
my
cats
died,
I
felt
so
bad
and
so
hopeless
but
I
had
to
acknowledge

that
I
still
felt.
These
feelings
are
not
actually
the
negative
kinds
of
states
that
they

try
to
convince
you
they
are.
They’re
feelings,
and
they’re
all
quite
sharp
and
they’re

all
quite
bright
and
alive.
The
meaning
is
that
life
HURTS
in
many
instances,

generally
because
it
implicates
us
in
something
desperately
precious
and
fragile
and

temporary.
It
tells
us
we
have
immanent,
time‐transcending
aspects
of

consciousness
which
find
it
difficult
yet
fascinating
to
observe
the
corrosive
action

of
Time
on
form.
That’s
a
good
a
meaning
as
any.



Don’t
you
feel
that
we’re
kind
of
getting
forced
to
look
at
shit
here?
That’s
what
it’s

all
about:
being
forced
to
come
here
and
look
at
this
monstrous,
apocalyptic

splintering
and
re‐combining
of
matter
and
form
through
Time.
Even
the
hurt
is
part

of
the
fun,
it’s
got
meaning,
it’s
got
sweet
sensation,
it’s
very
powerful—it’s
not
a

numb
feeling,
it’s
an
alive
feeling.
It’s
just
that
the
older
we
get,
the
more

understanding
we
have
of
mortality,
the
more
we
become
alive,
and
the
more
alive

you
are,
the
more
everything
hurts.
The
tree’s
gonna
get
cut
down,
the
cat’s
gonna

die,
Mom’s
gonna
die.
We’re
being
forced
to
accept
that
in
here,
everything
changes

all
the
time.
To
be
alive
is
to
be
in
constant
metamorphosis:
I
was
once
two
years
old

and
I
was
tiny,
now
I’m
this
old
and
eventually
I’ll
be
old
and
I’ll
be
bent
and
then
I’ll

be
dying
in
a
bed
somewhere.
It’s
a
constant
metamorphosis
of
form.
If
you
watched

it
from
an
outside
perspective,
you’d
just
see
us
as
whirling
matter
catapulted

through
the
thorny
mess
of
Time,
and
see
the
friction
of
it,
the
relentless
wearing

down
of
skin
from
our
youth.
It
seems
painful
and
insane
but
that
must
be
the
point:

we’re
here
to
feel
things.



You’ve
talked
about
purposefully
putting
yourself
into
these
places
while
you
were

working
on
The
Filth.
Why
did
you
do
that?



My
view
of
magic
is
it’s
a
kind
of
participation
with
everything
around
you,
and
you

kind
of
enter
into
a
dance,
and
the
dance
can
be
quite
scary—sometimes
it’s
like
a

very
rapid
flamenco
with
a
demanding
partner,
and
sometimes
it’s
a
nice
strutting

tango
and
sometimes
it’s
the
last
dance
of
the
evening.
But
I
do
feel
that
it’s
a

participation,
I
feel
as
if
my
atoms
and
the
atoms
of
everything
else
kind
of
mingle

and
get
invigorated.



What
happened
was,
I’d
started
writing
The
Invisibles
as
a
little
rebel,
as
a
left‐
winger
from
a
very
poor,
radical
Bohemian
background;
I
hated
the
government
and

I
hated
the
police
and
I
was
a
rebel
against
all
forms
of
authority.
By
the
time
I’d
got

to
the
end
of
it,
I
had
destroyed
all
my
own
certainties
by
picking
them
apart.

Because
that
was
part
of
what
it
was
all
about,
y’know,
I
wanted
to
critique
the

things
that
I’d
been
brought
up
to
believe
as
we’ll
as
all
the
things
I
was
already

against.
I
was
after
total
rebellion
and
that
included
trashing
even
very
cherished

beliefs
about
what
we
are
and
what
we
do
and
why
it
happens.



So
by
the
end
of
The
Invisibles
I
was
kind
of
forced
into
a
position
where
the

dualistic
simplicity
of
what
I’d
believed
in
before
wasn’t
holding
up
to
actual

scrutiny
and
to
the
reality
of
the
life
I
was
living.
I
found
myself
in
a
place
where
I

felt
I
had
to
confront
all
the
negative
aspects
of
a
lot
of
stuff
I
believed.
I
realized
that

as
much
as
I
believed
in
freedom,
in
saving
the
world
from
tyranny,
something
in
me

was
also
against
that
drive.
A
death
impulse.
The
dark
impulse.
I’m
a
‘nice
guy’
but
I

can
and
have
done
plenty
of
hurtful
things
to
other
people.
As
an
imaginative

person,
I
can
think
detailed
thoughts
that
are
so
appalling
and
perverse,
it
makes
me

squirm
in
my
pants
to
have
such
things
lying
around
in
my
head.
I
had
to
own
up
to

my
own
potential
for
badness,
and
I
assumed
it
was
pretty
much
the
same
for

everybody
else
because
I’m
not
that
unique.



So,
writing
Invisibles
cracked
open
the
shell
of
my
lofty
personal
creed,
exposing
it

as
more
self‐interest,
after
which
I
was
forced
to
confront
other
things
about
duality

and
who’s
‘good’
or
who’s
‘bad’.
Previously,
I’d
believed
there
were
good
people
and

there
were
bad
people,
that
it
was
freedom
versus
repression…that,
in
fact,
even
the

bad
people
weren’t
really
bad
once
you
get
to
know
them
and
found
out
their
sense

of
humour.
I
was
quite
wrong
about
that
and
much
more
naïve
and
optimistic
about

life
than
I
realized.
The
problem
of
Evil
had
to
be
considered.



So
I
began
to
see
things
more
and
more
as
a
system,
a
single
growing
organism
three

and
a
half
billion
years
old,
in
which
we
played
roles
very
much
like
those
of
cells,

because
I
was
trying
to
look
at
it
objectively
and
honestly
and
see
things
for
what

they
were
and
not
what
I
wanted
them
to
be,
which
is
hurtful.
Because
you’d
rather

they
were
what
you
wanted
them
to
be.
You’d
rather
not
have
the
truth
ruin
your

perfectly
constructed
model
but
I
couldn’t
lie
to
myself
and
get
any
further
so…



The
Invisibles
comes
to
the
conclusion
that
the
bad
guys
are
us.
And
as
I
say
in
The

Invisibles,
are
there
any
years
when
there
are
no
policemen
born?
I
began
to

question
everything
about
the
counterculture
I
belonged
to,
why
they
kicked
police

horses
in
the
streets,
and
why
they
smashed
buildings,
and
what
they
were
actually

achieving?
Or
were
they
just
part
of
a
bigger
system
that
used
these
checks
and

balances
in
order
to
propel
itself
forward
through
the
stages
of
its
mega‐
develoment?
And
once
I’d
really
grasped
everything
as
a
vast,
intricate
and
singular

process
that’s
operating
perfectly,
I
couldn’t
hate
the
cops
anymore.
I
couldn’t
hate

George
Bush
any
more
than
a
Helper
T‐cell
hates
a
Hunter/Killer.
I
saw
him

inextricably
bound
in
a
web
of
circumstance
that
forced
him
to
be
whom
and
where

he
was,
exactly
like
me,
and
exactly
like
you,
and
exactly
like
Naomi
Campbell.
We
all

do
our
bit.



I
realized
if
it
wasn’t
me
thinking
and
saying
this,
it
would
be
someone
else.
In
fact,

there
often
is
someone
else
who
is
not
me
who
is
interested
in
exactly
the
same
stuff

and
talks
about
the
same
things.
Because
really
the
ideas
are
what
count,
and
the

ideas
are
undying
and
express
themselves
through
us.
Before
me,
there
was
William

Burroughs,
or
Jack
Kerouac
or
Percy
Shelley,
or
anyone
else
who
was
driven
to

rebellion
against
consensus
thought.
I
saw
myself
suddenly
as
a
fleeting
component

in
the
system,
and
that
I
could
and
would
be
replaced.
In
20
years’
time,
or
60
years’

time,
there
will
be
another
person
EXACTLY
like
me,
doing
similar
things,
talking

about
the
same
things,
and
trying
to
goad
everyone
along
some
imagined
path
of

evolution.
There
was
a
kind
of
relief
in
realizing
that
I
had
a
simple
purposeand
a

place
like
that.
And
that,
yeah,
all
through
time,
my
family
has
included
storytellers,

as
far
as
we
can
remember.
The
living
immortal
DNA
does
the
storytelling,
not
“me.”

There
were
Irish
seanochaidhs
all
the
way
back,
my
granddad
told
my
mother

science
fiction
stories
about
Larry
O’Keefe
and
the
All‐Seeing
Eye,
and
now
I
do
the

same
thing
on
a
different
scale!
DNA.
It’s
so
bloody
obvious:
I’m
just
this
tiny
little

shard
of
flying
self‐awareness
that
will
be
gone
shortly
but
while
its
here
it’s
been

perfectly‐designed
to
perform
certain
functions
necessary
to
the
health
of
the
Biota

(as
the
totality
of
all
life
ever
on
Earth
is
known)
organism—in
my
case,
writing

about
how
it
feels
to
be
alive
so
that
other
people
can
feel
less
alone
when
they
read

it.
As
I
say,
I
suddenly
felt
like
a
white
blood
cell,
just
one
of
many,
many,
many.
That

liberated
me
but
it
also
was
a
scary
thought.



So
you
had
this
shattering
realization.



It
was
awful
at
first
because
it
negated
the
drive
towards
heroic
‘Individuality’

which
I’d
been
told
was
so
important
in
my
culture.
And
I
read
Howard
Bloom’s

Lucifer
Principle
at
the
same
time,
and
it
confirmed
a
lot
of
the
things
I
was
coming

to
understand
intuitively.
So
it
was
an
apocalypse
for
me.
[laughs]
Everything
I’d

ever
believed
was
hurled
into
negative.
And
The
Filth
came
out
of
that,
trying
to

understand
that
every
cherished
thought
and
belief
had
an
equally
valid

counterpoint.
Once
I
realized
I
had
to
think
about
this
stuff
and
I
had
to
deal
with
it,
I

decided
to
treat
it
as
an
Abyss
experience,
based
on
the
ideas
of
kabbalistic
magic.

Because
that
at
least
gave
me
a
context
to
deal
with
the
experience.
According
to

Kabbalah,
or
to
Enochian
magic,
the
Abyss
is
a
kind
of
Ring‐Pass‐Not
for

consciousness,
which
means
that
beyond
that,
the
typical
self‐aware
11‐bit

consciousness
you
use
to
get
through
the
day,
doesn’t
operate.
The
kabbalistic
idea

of
the
Abyss
is
manifold.
There’s
a
kind
of
crack
in
Being
and
the
crack
is
the

moment
of
the
Breath
before
the
Big
Bang.
It’s
also
the
crack
of
dead
time
where
we

do
nothing
when
we’d
like
to
do
something,
the
crack
between
the
thought
of
doing

and
actually
doing.
That
gulf
can
become
immense
and
daunting.
We
might
decide
to

be
President
and
do
nothing,
leading
to
a
life
of
reproach
and
regret.
[chuckle]
Then

you’re
in
the
Abyss.
So
I
felt
this
confrontation
with
difficult
material
coming,
and
I

chose
to
frame
it
as
a
trip
into
the
Abyss,
I
took
the
Oath
of
the
Abyss,
from
the

Thelemic
version
of
Kabbalah,
the
Aleister
Crowley
version,
and…again
all
this
stuff

really
is
to
me
ways
of
contextualizing
states
of
consciousness.
Crowley
also
talks

about
the
demon
Choronzon
who’s
the
guardian
of
the
Abyss,
and
Choronzon
is
a

demon
who
takes
any
thought
and
amplifies
until
it
becomes
a
completely

disorienting
storm
of
disconnected
gibberish.



I
think
we’ve
all
‘experienced’
that
guy.



Exactly.
It’s
that
kind
of
meaningless
babble
that
drowns
our
coherent
thought
when

you’re
sick
or
speeding
or
anxious.
The
mind
constantly
saying
“Why’d
you
do
that?

Because
I
did
that.
But
why’d
you
do
that?
Because
you
asked
me
why
I
did
that,”

endlessly
demanding
justification
for
every
aspect
of
being.
Human
consciousness
at

the
last
gasp.
Desperately
circling,
like
a
plane,
waiting
for
permission
to
land.

Trying
to
re‐affirm
itself
all
the
time
by
constant
self‐interrogation.
But
beyond
that,

beyond
that
Choronzonic
state
of
cannibal
cognition,
lies
the
Abyss,
which
is
this

absolute
negation
of
every
concept!
George
Bush
is
a
bad
guy,
you
think
smugly.

Well,
no,
he’s
not,
his
mum
probably
thinks
he’s
lovely!
[laughs]
And
you
have
to

think,
well
okay
I
might
learn
something
if
I
imagine
what
it’s
like
to
be
George

Bush’s
mom—she
looks
at
him
and
remembers
him
as
a
little
soft
bundle
clinging
to

her
breast,
and
maybe
thinks
he’s
doing
okay,
a
bit
of
a
mess,
but
y’know
it’s
good
ol’

George
and
we
can
always
clear
up
after.
The
main
thing
is
he’s
keeping
the
name
in

the
history
books,
like
Caesar.
The
next
member
of
the
Bush
Dynasty
might
be
even

worse!
Nero
Bush!
And
her
heart
softens
at
the
sight
of
his
little
confused,
pinched

face
as
he
deals
with
stuff
he
was
never
made
to
contemplate.



In
the
Abyss,
everything
cancels
out
everything
else.
I
could
even
find
a
perfectly

valid
reason
for
the
Holocaust!
You
know,
it
was
horrific.
The
idea
that
everything
I

ever
thought,
everything
I
ever
believed,
had
its
negative,
and
the
negative
could

just
as
easily
be
justified
by
all
the
right
words.
It’s
a
destructive,
corrosive
state
of

consciousness.
If
I’d
gone
through
it,
if
I’d
experienced
it
without
magic,
I

wouldn’t’ve
had
a
name
to
give
it
and
may
have
become
completely
overwhelmed

and
crazed.
Fortunately
magic
provides
roadmaps
and
names
for
these
types
of

experiences.
So
even
at
the
worst,
lowest
ebb
I
knew
I
was
in
a
place
that
lots
of

people
had
already
visited
and
charted
for
me.
I
knew
how
things
would
likely

develop
and
what
state
of
consciousness
it
was
necessary
to
attain
in
order
to

silence
the
yammering
voices
of
Existential
terror.
Lo
and
behold,
my
‘Abyss’

crossing
developed
and
concluded
exactly
as
I’d
been
told
it
would,
which
is
no

surprise
because
all
these
people
have
done
this
before.



You’re
involved
in
magic,
but
you
aren’t
part
of
a
tribe
or
a
tradition.
You
haven’t

apprenticed
like
a
shaman
in
training,
you
haven’t
been
initiated
into
an
order.
You

aren’t
a
part
of
that.



I
think
if
I
was
younger,
maybe…the
idea
of
galloping
around
in
groups
forming

hierarchies
to
impress
people
and
get
off
with
girls
seems
cool
if
you’re
twenty.
I

dunno,
back
then,
I
would’ve
done
it
if
I’d
ever
thought
there
was
some
place
I
could

go
where
I’d
find
naked
girls
jumping
over
a
cauldron
but
there
was
never
anything

like
that
‘round
our
way.
I
just
had
to
do
it
for
myself
or
wait
forever
for
a
‘master’.
It

wasn’t
for
want
of
trying.
I’ve
always
wanted
to
be
a
part
of
something
but
I
never

quite
managed
it.
I
feel
pretty
self‐contained
–
if
I
want
something
to
read,
I
write
it.

If
I
want
something
to
look,
at
I
draw
it.
If
I
want
music
to
listen
to,
I
create
it.
I
don’t

know
if
I
could
be
bothered
with
the
soap‐opera
tensions
of
lots
of
people
having

intense
emotions
in
a
room
together.
I’ve
played
in
bands
and
yes,
you
can
create

really
interesting
effects
with
mass
psychosis
[laughs]
but
it
can
be
done
on
your

own
as
well.
Initiation
can
happen
if
you
want
it
to.
Initiation
is
simply
a
change
of

consciousness,
an
upgrade
that
gives
you
a
wider
and
more
inclusive
viewpoint.



When
you
went
to
Kathmandu
some
kind
of
initiation
was
very
much
your
intention,

right?



I’d
been
doing
magic
since
I
was
19
and
by
the
time
I
went
to
Kathmandu
I
was
34,

I’d
been
at
it
for
a
long
long
time.
In
1992,
I
started
taking
drugs,
to
see
what
would

happen
if
I
did
magic
while
tripping.
I
found
that
when
you
performed
rituals
on

drugs,
you
actually
saw
all
the
monsters!
[laughs]
They
were
actually
there
in
front

of
you.
The
drugs
allowed
you
to
see
things:
you
actually
did
experience
clear
and

stable
manifestations
of
Hermes
or
Ganesh
or
any
of
these
entities,
so
it
was
like

discovering
the
microscope
for
me.
Before
that,
I’d
done
all
this
stuff
totally
straight‐
edge
which
was
good
in
a
way
because
I
actually
don’t
have
that
lack
of
conviction

that
maybe
it’s
just
the
drugs,
you
know?
My
first
12
years
of
magical
experiments

were
always
begun
at
baseline
normal
consciousness.
I
was
still
creating
in
myself

the
bizarre
consciousness
changes
magicians
are
familiar
with—they
just
weren’t
as

flamboyant,
as
visual
or
as
persistent
as
the
drug‐enhanced
version.



By
1994,
it
was
becoming
quite
intense,
I
was
doing
nothing
but
magic
every
day.

Because
I
was
living
on
my
own,
the
house
had
become
this
site
of
magical
madness.

So
Kathmandu
was
this
idea…
My
friend
Ulric
and
I
had
seen
this
program
on
TV

where
some
guy
promised
that
if
you
went
up
the
365
steps
of
the
Shwayambunath

temple
in
Kathmandu
without
drawing
a
breath,
you’d
achieve
enlightenment
in
this

life.
So
we
turned
up
demanding
enlightenment
now!
If
it’s
that
simple,
let’s
do
it!

And
we
ran
up
the
steps
to
the
temple
on
a
single
breath,
it
was
really
easy.

Enlightenment
in
this
life
is
really
easy,
it
turns
out—it’s
as
simple
as
working
a
few

muscles.



But
I
wanted
something
to
happen.
I
wanted
the
Buddha
to
descend
on
me,
I
wanted

some
kind
of
visionary
experience.
And
on
the
last
day
in
Kathmandu,
I
got
the

visionary
experience
like
nothing
I’d
ever
known
before
or
since.
I
was
taken
out
of

Four‐D
reality,
shown
the
entire
universe
as
a
single
object,
shown
the
world
as
it
is

from
outside,
the
viewpoint
of
the
Supercontext
as
I
called
it
in
“The
Invisibles,”
and

it
was
profound.
It
was
a
shattering
experience.
It
completely
changed
everything

about
how
I
viewed
the
world,
life,
death,
time.
[laughs]
Whether
it
was
real
or
not…

You
know,
a
lot
of
people
say
“Oh
you
were
stoned
weren’t
ya?”
and
yeah,
I
took
two

little
pieces
of
hash
but…I’ve
tried
plenty
of
drugs
before
and
since
then
and
never

been
able
to
re‐create
the
experience:
not
even
with
DMT,
not
even
Salvia,
any
of

these
alien
contact
drugs.
They’re
nothing
like
this.
It
didn’t
come
with
the
hash,
it

was
something
else.
It
was
something
I’d
been
waiting
for,
what
Crowley
would
call

the
conversation
with
the
Holy
Guardian
Angel.
It
feels
like
a
contact
with
a
future

self,
or
with
a
self
that
exists
outside
time
and
space,
in
what
Australian
aborigines

would
call
Aljira,
the
Dreamtime.
Platonic
reality.
Which
again
is
our
translation
of
a

word
that
is
much
more
complex
than
“Dreamtime.”
I
was
taken
to
a
place
that
was

outside
space
and
time,
and
shown
space
and
time
for
what
it
is,
a
kind
of
nursery
in

which
the
larval
forms
of
5‐D
godlike
intelligences
are
grown
to
adulthood.
They

said,
“Space
and
time
is
place
where
you
grow
children,
because
only
in
Time
do

things
grow.”



So,
the
experience
was
immense
and
completely
transformative,
and
in
that
sense,

it’s
utterly
real,
whether
or
not
you
believe
in
aliens
or
in
fifth
dimensional
beings
or

unfolded
future
selves.
It
doesn’t
matter.
What
this
‘contact
experience’
does
is
re‐
create
your
entire
relationship
with
everything
around
you.
So
in
that
sense,
it’s

utterly
real.
There
is
something
else
going
on
beyond
11‐bit
consciousness—
everyone
who
explores
‘magical’
consciousness
reports
the
same
experiences.
Philip

K.
Dick
obviously
had
the
same
kind
of
experience
in
1974.
Alan
Moore’s
obviously

had
the
same
experience,
judging
from
his
recent
work.
Robert
Anton
Wilson’s

obviously
had
the
same
experience.
Buddha.
Christ.
Carlos
Castaneda.
David
Icke!
All

these
people
offer
corroboration
and
their
own
metaphors
for
framing
the
same

experience.
If
Philip
K.
Dick
says
it’s
contact
with
a
Vast
And
Living
Intelligence

System,
if
Alan
Moore
calls
it
Ideaspace,
if
Robert
Anton
Wilson
says
it’s
Cosmic

Tricksters
from
Sirius,
maybe
we
should
just
start
accepting
that
certain
types
of

thinking
lead
to
a
shift
in
consciousness
which
offers
human
minds
a
more
inclusive

view
of
Time,
Space
and
Mind,
and
try
to
find
ways
to
generate
that
kind
of
thinking

in
children
at
school.



When
you
were
finishing
The
Invisibles,
you
were
feeling
shattered.
Why
did
you
not

have
another
conversation
with
your
holy
guardian
angel?



The
Holy
Guardian
Angel
abandons
the
magician
on
the
Threshold
of
the
Abyss,

those
are
the
time‐honored
rules.
We
cross
the
desert
unaccompanied.
After

completing
The
Invisibles,
I’d
opened
up
areas
of
knowledge
that
really
had
to
be

dealt
with.
Things
that
I
hadn’t
considered
seriously
enough,
things
about
time
and

death
and
the
microscopic
world
and
the
macroscopic
world,
the
inflexible
rules

which
really
make
us
what
we
are,
the
anti‐concepts
in
the
spaces
between
things…

we’re
encouraged
to
avoid
this
type
of
‘morbid’
thinking.
But
when
you
do
think

about
it,
it’s
quite
sobering
and
quite
real
and
‘mortifying’
in
that
sense.
So
I
felt
as
if

I
had
to
deal
with
what
was
being
presented
to
me,
I
couldn’t
NOT
think
about
it.

These
were
types
of
new
consciousness
that
seemed
to
be
broken
open
by
the

experiences
I’d
been
having.
I
don’t
think
there
are
literal
aliens
or
guardian
angels,
I

think
that
that’s
how
a
certain
state
of
consciousness
manifests
itself,
and
we

interpret
the
opening
up
of
those
cognitive
centers
as
contact
with
the
Other.
We

use
a
gloss
to
make
sense
of
this
feeling
of
contact
and
so,
depending
on
who
we
are,

we
see
benevolent
aliens
or
perhaps
they’re
demons
or
mind‐controlling
space

Lizards
or
it’s
Satan
or
Jehovah.
If
you
suddenly
see
time
and
space
as
one
dynamic

living,
conscious
object
and
all
of
human
life
as
one
demonstrably
single
organism,

it’s
easy
to
just
shit
yourself
cold
like
H.P.
Lovecraft
did.
If
you
hear
a
voice
that

doesn’t
sound
entirely
like
your
own
in
your
head,
it
can
be
spooky.
It
can
be
quite

frightening
to
realize
that
you’re
intimately
connected
with
a
bacterium
somewhere

in
the
pre‐Cambrian.



So
I
think
it’s
a
simple
state
of
consciousness.
And
what
is
called
magic
or
sorcery
or

whatever
is
a
way
of
triggering
this
and
other
interesting
states
of
consciousness

which
put
you
in
a
different
relationship
with
time
and
space
and
being
and
life.

When
a
developing
child
first
hears
the
voice
of
her
own
egoic
self‐awareness
in
her

head,
she
may
separate
the
voice
off
and
call
it
an
imaginary
friend
until
it
becomes

familiar
to
her
as
her
own
Self
or
Ego.
The
Guardian
Angel
is
a
much
more
organized

and
coherent
form
of
consciousness
but
there’s
that
same
separation
when
it
first

manifests.
We
conceptualize
these
splendid
new
inner
voices
as
future‐selves
or
as

angels,
I
assume,
because
the
message
really
feels
like
it’s
coming
from
some

magnificent
elsewhere,
some
Other.
When
it
manifests
it’s
like
a
voice
in
your
head

and
you
talk
to
it
and
it
tells
you
things
you’ve
never
thought
of,
as
if
it
knows
more

than
you
do.
So
I
have
to
assume
that,
in
the
same
way
that
children
at
four
can’t
see

perspective
and
children
at
five
can,
what
we’re
really
seeing
here
is
a
standard

upgrading
of
the
cognitive
apparatus,
which
allows
us
to
view
the
world
in
a
more

holistic
integrated
way
but
it
comes
on
like
an
alien
abduction,
it
comes
in
like
an

invasion
from
beyond:
that
feeling
of
suddenly
seeing
the
world
and
everything
as

one
thing.
People
have
been
talking
about
it
for
thousands
of
years,
they
crucified

poor
Jesus
for
developing
this
vision
at
the
wrong
time
in
the
wrong
place,
so
we

have
to
assume
it’s
a
normal
human
potential.



How
did
you
find
about
chaos
magic
in
the
first
place?



I
was
19
and
I
was
kinda
feeling
like
nothing’s
ever
gonna
happen
in
my
life.
[laughs]

I
thought
I
was
great
and
I
didn’t
understand
why
nobody
else
thought
I
was
great.
I

didn’t
understand
why
I
was
so
alone.
The
usual.
So
I
went
in
to
a
shop
and
I
picked

up
“Prediction”
magazine,
a
pop
occult
magazine,
mostly
about
astrological
stuff

with
some
vague
nods
in
the
direction
of
magic.
And
in
the
back
of
it
there
were

adverts
for
a
small
press
zine
called
“The
Lamp
of
Thoth”—of
all
the
adverts
I

figured
this
was
the
most
interesting
one,
so
I
sent
away
for
it.
So
basically
that’s

where
Phil
Hine
started
to
do
a
lot
of
articles,
Pete
Carroll
and
Ray
Sherman
and
all

the
early
chaos
magic
people,
and
Chris
Bray,
who
was
running
his
occult
shop
in

Leeds.
So
I
got
kind
of
involved
with
that
magical
underground
and
I
was
getting

chaos
magic
as
it
was
happening.



To
me,
it
was
punk
magic,
because
it
was
stripping
away
all
the
stuff
about
magic

that
wasn’t
making
any
sense
to
me.
I’d
sat
there
with
Crowley’s
books
and
even

Robert
Anton
Wilson
kind
of
said
you
have
to
spend
a
lot
of
time
understanding
the

kabbalistic
sephiroth
or
the
enochian
aethyrs
and
I
was
reading
that
stuff
and
it

wasn’t
getting
through
to
me,
it
didn’t
really
connect,
it
didn’t
mean
anything
to
me,

cuz
these
seemed
like
the
symbols
of
another
age
and—apart
from
the
Egyptian
cat

goddess
Bast,
and
the
amusing
complex
of
Scribe
gods
comprising
Thoth.

Odin/Ganesh
and
Hermes—they
lacked
any
real
emotional
connection
for
me.
So

when
Chaos
Magic
came
along
to
say
that
instead
of
summoning
up
Hermes,
you

could
just
as
easily
summon
up
DC
comics
super‐speedster
The
Flash
and
The
Flash

would
appear,
visibly,
I
was
naturally
excited.
[laughs]
So
I’m
going,
Bullshit,
and
I

summoned
Metron
from
the
“New
Gods”
comics…and
I
got
Metron!
Or
I
should
say

what
I
got
was
the
distilled,
descending
power
and
magic
of
language,
speed
and

information
which
was
wearing
Metron
drag
in
order
to
talk
to
me.



So
Chaos
taught
me
to
look
past
the
gods
at
what
was
actually
happening
around
me

and
inside
me
when
I
was
‘doing’
magic
–
the
changes
to
my
breathing,
hear
rate,

perspiration.
Climactic
changes.
Pressure
drops
or
rises.
And
what
was
actually

happening
were
changes
of
consciousness
in
response
to
focused
activity.
A
kind
of

drama.
I’ve
come
to
believe
over
the
years
that
there
are
seven
default
states
of
the

human
organism,
which
allow
us
to
assume
different
roles
under
different

circumstances—in
some
groups
we
find
ourselves
playing
the
clown,
with
others

the
lover
or
the
leader,
or
the
bully.
Each
of
us
is
capable
of
assuming
the
role
of
king

or
of
criminal
if
the
situation
demands
it.
These
defaults
were
represented
in
the

past
by
the
planets
of
the
classical
solar
system,
the
sephiroth
of
the
Kabbalah,
and

the
pantheons
of
all
early
cultures.
There
are
seven
personality
defaults
on
the

Kabblistic
Tree
of
Life
and
there’s
a
mother
and
father
pole,
there’s
a
transcendent

pole,
there’s
a
mundane
pole.
That’s
the
basic
human
soul
and
I
think
the
Kabbalistic

Tree
of
Life
is
a
knitting
pattern
for
the
human
soul.
If
you’re
an
Australian

aborigine,
you
don’t
know
anything
about
the
Kabbalistic
Tree
of
Life,
however,
but

you
still
have
to
have
a
human
soul
and
you
still
have
to
have
a
way
of

conceptualizing
the
mother
and
the
father
and
the
mundane
and
the
transcendent

and
the
different
personality
settings.
So
you
have
a
different
gloss,
a
different
set
of

metaphors
for
the
same
set
of
human
experiences.
After
long
study
of
all
the
various

‘systems’
or
glosses,
I
got
more
interested
in
the
underlying
experiences
and
less
in

the
metaphors,
the
lists
of
gods
and
attributes
and
holy
numbers…



So
Chaos
Magic
was
a
kind
of
postmodernism
for
me,
it
taught
me
to
look
at
what

was
actually
going
on,
and
to
see
it
shorn
of
its
symbolic
content,
and
then
to
apply

new
metaphors
of
my
own.
So
rather
than
deal
with
an
Enochian
spirit
that
Crowley

had
conjured,
I
would
go
directly
to
my
imaginary
friend
from
when
I
was
age
6
and

ask
him
to
help,
because
Foxy
has
so
immense
potency
for
me,
so
much
more
power

in
my
imagination
and
so
much
more
strength
as
an
idea
than
does.
Chaos
Magic
is
a

kind
of
stripping
away,
taking
magic
back
to
the
shamanic
core
of
personal

experience.



So
I
became
a
kind
of
pop
shaman
around
town:
I
used
to
find
people’s
lost
guitars

and
heal
pets
and
basically
do
clever‐man
stuff,
but
it
was
almost
arising
from

circumstances.
I’d
be
in
a
pub
and
some
girl
would
say
I’ve
just
broken
up
with
my

boyfriend,
will
you
read
my
Tarot
cards.
And
I
had
no
idea
how
you
read
Tarot

cards,
I
would
just
say
Yes
and
then
read
them
and
it
would
work.
The
metaphors

for
all
that
were
actually
just
getting
in
the
way
of
what
we
were
doing,
which
was
a

kind
of
communication
and
participation
with
the
workings
of
the
universe.



Are
you
still
working
on
the
Pop
Magic
book?



Yeah.
It’s
already
150
pages
done.
I’m
just
presenting
stuff
that
I’ve
discovered
over

the
years
of
practise.
All
of
my
experiments
in
Enochian
magic,
voodoo,
Aztec

sorcery,
Buddhism,
Satanism,
kabbalah,
spiral
dynamics,
wicca,
Gnosticism
are
there

along
with
the
outline
of
my
personal
system
and
practical
nuts‐and‐bolts
advice
for

budding
sorcerors.
All
I
can
do
is
offer
my
nervous
system’s
passage
through
time

and
what
it’s
recorded.
Hopefully
it
will
resonate
with
other
people’s
experiences,

cuz
as
I
say,
I
don’t
think
I’m
that
different
from
other
people,
except
I’ve
chosen
to

use
myself
as
a
laboratory.
“Pop
magic”
is
the
name
of
this
stripped‐back
customized

system
that
I’ve
developed.
What
I
think
it’s
got
in
its
favor,
is
that
its
an
attempt
to

dump
the
symbolic
content
of
the
various
magic
‘schools’
and
it
tries
to
reposition

magic
in
a
place
where
it’s
about
actual
physical
events
and
about
what
happens
and

how
it
feels
to
conjure
or
to
invoke
spirits
or
divine
the
future.
It’s
talking
in
the

vernacular.
What
a
16th‐century
scholar
meant
by
‘aethyr’
is
no
longer
what
21st

century
science
means
by
ether,
and
to
use
that
word
is
to
kind
of
get
lost
in
the

gloss.



I
think
magic
is
a
very
practical
skill
and
has
to
be
understood
in
terms
of
how
we

live
our
lives,
NOT
in
this
kind
of
pantomime
sense.
A
lot
of
people
approach
magic

in
the
way
that
kids
approach
being
a
Mod
or
a
skatekid:
it
becomes
a
code,
a
set
of

dresscodes,
self‐defining
opinions,
and
it’s
a
fashion
statement
more
than
anything

else.
I’m
trying
to
get
away
from
that,
to
say
that
if
you
actually
just
sit
in
the
park

for
six
hours
and
just
watch
everything,
you’ll
start
to
understand
magic.
If
you

watch
things,
especially
yourself,
if
you
really
slow
down
and
look
at
the
way
things

work
and
look
at
the
way
you
work
within
it
and
look
at
how
you
fit
into
ecology,

into
the
movement
of
atoms
and
molecules
and
microbes,
you
start
to
get
an

understanding
of
how
it
works
and
you
start
to
be
able
to
talk
to
it
and
manipulate
it

and
it
seems
like
magic
to
people
who
haven’t
looked
so
hard.
But
it
really
is
just

heightened
participation—it’s
just
making
friends
with
things
as
they
are.
[laughs]

Which
is
hard
to
describe.
“Blank
magic”
is
what
I’m
calling
my
approach
now
as
I

move
forward
into
the
post‐Pop
Magic
phase.



I
get
more
and
more
embarrassed
as
time
goes
by
to
say
I’m
into
magic
or
that
I
do

magic.
People
always
say,
Well
show
us
a
trick.
[laughs]
and
all
I
can
do
is
wave
my

hand
around
at
clouds
and
trees.
I’m
starting
to
think
all
that
sleight‐of‐hand
stuff
is

actually
the
best
magic
in
the
world.
Because
you
can
really
convince
people
that

unusual
things
are
occurring
and
make
them
aware
of
the
little
gaps
in
perception

where
the
unusual
is
always
occurring.
So
I’m
going
to
learn
that
next,
I
think.
Any

magician
should
be
be
able
to
produce
a
rabbit
from
a
hat,
otherwise,
forget
it,

you’re
just
talking
bullshit.
A
fox,
a
rabbit
or
a
hermit
crab.



The
role
of
animals
in
your
work
is
huge,
from
Animal
Man,
obviously,
to
the
dope­
smoking
Russian
chimp
assassin
in
The
Filth
to
the
talking
tuna
fish
in
Seaguy
to
the

characters
in
the
We3
series.
Why
do
animals
appear
so
often
in
your
work?



Because
I
love
animals!
[laughs]
I
dunno…
Animals
always
appear
in
fables
and

faerie
stories—they
can
confront
us
with
issues
that
we
may
not
want
to
look
at.
If

you
look
at
human
foibles
from
the
animal
point
of
view,
you
see
the
world
slightly

differently.

But
also,
this
is
solidarity
with
me.
I’m
all
for
them,
I
love
animals,
I
love
having
their

hair
up
my
nose.
A
lot
of
what’s
going
on
in
the
world
today
is
a
way
of
denying
that

connection,
and
the
shit,
and
the
smell
and
[chuckles]
the
assholes
of
animals.
But

I’m
all
for
it.
I
really
do
like
the
slime
and
the
grit.



Talk
about
what
you’re
up
to
with
“We3″…



We3
is
pretty
simple,
this
is
like
your
classic
Disney
film
but
with
A
Clockwork

Orange‐style
ultraviolence.
It’s
based
on
some
experiments
I
read
about,
where
the

military
announced
they
were
using
rats
as
kind
of
remote
controlled
bombs.
So
I

applied
the
notion
to
higher
lifeforms.
The
story
is
about
a
dog
and
a
cat
and
a
rabbit

who
have
been
kidnapped
from
their
homes
long
ago,
wired
into
robotics
and
are

now
a
group
of
cyborg
assassins
who
go
out
and
mop
up
military
dictators
in
the

name
of
Uncle
Sam.
Halfway
through
the
first
issue,
the
woman
who’s
been
teaching

the
animals
to
speak
in
a
weird
text
language
is
told
that
they’re
about
to
be

decommissioned
and
destroyed.
So
she
lets
them
loose
and
the
whole
story
is
a
kind

of
Incredible
Journey
or
Watership
Down
thing
with
three
animals
on
the
run,
trying

to
get
home
to
this
place
they
remember
dimly
in
their
brains,
with
the
entire
US

military
chasing
them!
[laughs]
It
really
is
pretty
simple
but
it
makes
its
points.
It’s
a

faerie
story
for
the
21st
century.
And
Frank
Quitely’s
artwork
is
beyond
belief.
It’s

basically
reinvented
comic
book
storytelling,
I
think.



This
winter,
you
have
another
3­issue
series,
“Vinamarama”…



It’s
not
trying
hard
to
be
much
more
than
what
it
is.
It’s
a
nice
Arabian
Nights

update,
and
I
guess
it
does
make
its
little
comments
about
the
situation
in
the

Middle
East.
It
uses
the
old
mythology
of
Pakistan
and
India,
the
Ramayana,
talks

about
the
mighty
Rama
empire,
which
fought
the
Atlanteans
using
these
flying

machines
or
vimanas.
It’s
quite
ridiculous
and
quite
timely.



You’ve
also
done
an
original
screenplay
called
“Sleepless
Knights.”
What’s
happened

with
that?



I’ve
done
two
drafts
and
it’s
been
handed
onto
someone
else.
That
was
fun,
it
was

interesting
doing,
but
I
don’t
think
I
like
writing
movies,
I
really
don’t.
It’s
more
like

a
construction
job,
it’s
not
a
creative
job
at
all,
except
at
the
very
beginning.
The

three‐act
structure
that
Hollywood’s
developed
over
the
last
hundred
years
is
quite

artificial.
But
it
works.
And
it’s
designed
to
appeal
to
the
largest
possible

demographic.
But
it’s
not
necessarily
artistic
or
experimental
in
any
way.
I
find

myself
drawn
back
to
Joyce
and
to
Burroughs
and
Artaud
and
that
type
of
writing.

Right
now,
I
need
a
break
from
the
formulaic
nature
of
Hollywood
and
the
way
it

works
and
the
experience
it
delivers,
which
is
quite
repetitive.



You’re
at
working
on
a
cycle
of
superhero
comics
called
“Seven
Soldiers”…



That’s
going
fine.
But
I’m
hoping
the
prose
stuff
will
be
the
next
continuation
of

where
I
want
to
go.
The
comics
audience
is
becoming
more
and
more
compressed

and
unpleasant.
It’s
really
sad.
After
I
did
Seaguy
and
so
many
people
said
they

didn’t
get
it,
I
felt
completely
exasperated.
Seaguy
is
based
on
medieval
quest

literature
which
always
has
the
young
hero
setting
out
and
he
has
his
companion

who
gets
killed,
the
questing
beast,
but
many
of
my
readers
seem
to
now
be

unaware
of
storytelling
structures
beyond
the
Hollywood
three‐act,
and
the

literalism
is
so
rife
that
nobody
seems
to
be
able
to
deal
with
symbolic
content

anymore.
It’s
strange.
One
of
the
symptoms
of
schizophrenia
is
the
schizophrenic

can’t
process
metaphor.
If
you
say
to
a
schizophrenic
“a
rolling
stone
gathers
no

moss”
he
takes
it
utterly
literally!
He
doesn’t
see
it
as
having
any
kind
of
secondary

meaning.
My
thesis
is
that
everybody’s
gone
kind
of
schizophrenic,
which
also

explains
the
rise
of
reality
TV.
Because
people
cannot
deal
with
a
symbolic
approach

anymore—they
have
to
see
the
“real
deal.”
And
the
real
deal
is
incoherent
and
it

lacks
catharsis
or
dramatic
structure.



People
seem
to
be
obsessed
by
the
private
lives
of
celebrities
and
all
these
dirty
low‐
down
things
they’ve
done.
There’s
a
real
need
to
uncover
the
reality
behind
the

simulation
of
celebrity,
whereas
before
we
were
happy
to
enjoy
fantasy,
recognizing

it
for
what
it
was.
Something
generally
is
going
on
which
is
about
denying
the

symbolic
content
of
the
glamor
or
the
illusion,
and
[chuckles]
demanding
a
kind
of

reality
which
has
no
shape.



At
the
same
time
there’s
fantastic
stuff
like
the
Lord
of
the
Rings,
Harry
Potter,
the

Darkness,
Outkast,
the
White
Stripes,
and
the
Hives
going
on
in
the
mainstream.
And

there’s
this
folk
pastoral
current,
which
you
saw
coming—



Yeah,
I
saw
it
coming
years
ago.
A
thousand
years
ago.
It’s
taken
this
long
to
arrive.

That
means
I
have
to
wait
for
a
few
more
years
for
the
really
good
shit
to
turn
up!

[laughs]
I’m
hoping
for
great
things
from
the
generation
who
are
now
14
years
old

and
they’re
buying
manga
and
they’re
watching
stuff
with
magic
in
it
and
they’re

growing
up
in
a
world
of
Salvia
Divinorum
and
simulation
and
reality
taken
to
the

limit.
I
wrote
“The
Invisibles”
for
them
to
read
when
they
get
to
20,
and
it’s
the
end

of
the
world,
it’s
the
year
2012.



And
they’re
growing
up
playing
video
games.
But
the
video
games
have
a
very

mundane,
reality­show
look—”Grand
Theft
Auto”
duplicates
the
real
world.



They
don’t
seem
to
make
many
worlds
that
look
like
anything
but
the
real
world.

They
have
the
potential
to
actually
recreate
dream
landscapes
on
screen
and

[laughs]
I
don’t
know
why
they’re
not
doing
it.
Why
aren’t
they
making
that
city

where
you
stumble
into
a
weird
old
shop
and
someone
hands
you
a
book
that

teaches
you
the
secrets
of
the
universe?
Or
you
walk
into
the
subway
station
and

you’re
given
the
power
of
the
gods?
There’s
nothing
like
that.
The
potential
is
there

to
be
able
to
create
that
but
they
still
cling
to
this
idea
of…crime.
They’re
all
about

crime
and
running
away.
They’re
constantly
running
in
these
games,
and
the
police

are
always
after
you,
like
in
a
mad
anxiety
dream.
There
must
be
another
way
to

make
a
video
game.
Why
create
Miami
when
you
could
create
an
entirely
new

world?
Build
a
new
city,
and
use
all
the
architecture
no
one
ever
used?
Frank
Lloyd

Wright
designed
an
entire
city!
Or,
Francis
Bacon
creates
New
York.
They
could
do

all
this
stuff,
but…



There’s
a
really
weird
Edwardian
thing
going
on
just
now,
everybody
seems
frozen

in
this
kind
of
hiatus
and
scared
to
breathe.



Remember
the
excitement
leading
up
to
the
millennium,
the
real
fucking
excitement

that
was
like
a
party?
And
then
past
that
threshold,
it
all
became
really
scary
and

depressing
and
the
whole
world
closed
in
like
a
fist.
But
the
larger
scale
process

does
seem
to
be
working
out.
It
seems
to
be
okay.
Daniel
Pinchbeck’s
first
book
had

that
fiery,
reformist’s
alarmism
–
the
world
is
being
eaten
alive,
we’re
burning
up

the
the
fossil
fuels,
oh
Christ!
[laughs]
The
cosmic
serpent
is
shitting
itself!
But
when

I
spoke
to
Daniel,
I
said
‘What
do
you
actually
feel,
when
you’re
real
deep‐down
in

the
root
of
that
primal
aboriginal
feeling,
the
cosmic
core?
It’s
that
everything’s

okay.
The
voice
keeps
saying
that
“everything’s
okay.”
So
why
do
we
feel
so
bad?
If

the
world
is
so
perfect
why
do
I
feel
so
bad?
But
everyone
who
gets
a
real
hardcore

trip
or
a
real
hardcore
spiritual
experience
winds
up
thinking
everything
is

desperate
but…okay.



There
seems
to
be
a
new
“head”
culture
developing.
But
we
went
through
that
before

in
the
‘60s,
didn’t
we?



The
problem
with
the
‘60s
was
that
they
just
fragmented…there
wasn’t
magic
in
a

coherent
enough
form
for
people
to
properly
contextualize
their
experiences
at
that

time.
So
what
you
got
was
a
lot
of
people
taking
massive
doses
of
acid
and
other

psychedelics
and
having
these
intense
transpersonal
or
transcendent
experiences

without
an
awful
lot
of
context
to
place
them
in.
They
were
dealing
with
a
lot
of

darkness
in
the
form
of
Vietnam
and
the
fall‐out
from
World
War
II
and
having
self‐
imaged
themselves
as
peace‐loving,
sweetly‐smiling
Aquarians,
they
couldn’t
really

integrate
that
darkness
very
well
and
it
seemed
to
explode
all
over
everyone.
So

they
became
prey
to
the
unacknowledged,
demonic,
qlippothic
aspects
of
their

rebellion,
and
what
you
got
was
heroin,
speed
and
that
type
of
death
culture.
What

magic
does
is
provide
a
framework
for
these
unusual
or
extranormal
experiences.
I

think
that’s
what
we
need.
We
really
need
military
discipline
in
these
areas.
I
think

the
heads
in
the
‘60s
lacked
military
discipline,
and
god
bless
them,
they
did
a
lot
of

cool
stuff,
but
they
fucked
it
up
in
the
end.
They
cracked
up
and
they
went
bad
and

they
turned
to
the
dark
side
of
the
Force.
We
can’t
let
that
happen
again.
We
can’t
be

scared
of
our
own
violence,
our
own
fear,
our
own
culpability.
We
have
to
recognize

these
demons
when
they
arise
and
utilize
the
formulas
to
dispatch
them,
which
is

what
magic
does.
Magic
has
a
time‐honored,
thousands‐of‐years
old
methods
for

dealing
with
the
type
of
demonic
energies
that
arose
at
Altamont,
for
instance.
A

bunch
of
highly‐trained
warrior
magicians
at
Altamont
would
have
defused
the

situation;
unfortunately
they
weren’t
there.
And
there
is
the
failure
of
the
‘60s

written
right
in
front
of
us.



So
I
think
what
we
need
is
a
much
more
disciplined
approach,
which
means
using

the
methods
of
the
perceived
‘enemy’.
It’s
kind
of
the
opposite
of
the
‘60s.
The

hippie
was
conceived
as
a
kind
of
wilting
anti‐matter
negative
of
the
traditional

image
of
the
soldier.
What
we
need
now
is
a
Don
Juan
role
model,
a
shamanic
soldier

priest
who
can
cope
with
what’s
going
on,
to
deal
with
the
type
of
energies
we’re
up

against
in
the
jungles
of
our
democractic
cultures,
where
the
new
word
for
demon
is

‘corporation’,
where
mind‐devouring
glamors
are
used
in
advertising,
where
sigils

become
logos
and
warlocks
are
called
spin
doctors.
Because
you
can’t
go
into
this

like
a
little
child,
like
Syd
Barrett
on
mushrooms,
dancing
with
the
faeries.
The

faeries
here
are
dangerous.



Everyone
hates
discipline
but
I
think
the
fact
that
we
hate
it
means
it’s
something

we
need.
[laughs]
Steal
your
enemy’s
stuff.
Wear
his
shoes
and
get
a
feel
for
his

thinking.
Stop
freaking
out.
Stop
fucking
up.
Stop
becoming
depressive
or
conflicted.

That’s
the
nature
of
the
way
‘outsider’
types
tend
to
think
so
we
better
just
get
used

to
it
and
call
‘depression’
something
else.
You
have
to
steal
the
spirit
of
the
culture,

the
fire,
which
is
what
colonial
powers
did
to
indigenous
populations
in
Australia

and
America
and
Africa.
They
stole
the
gods,
replaced
them
with
the
Christian
gloss

and
its
morality
through
fear.
They
bulldozed
the
sacred
dreaming
places
and
made

them
dream
new
dreams.
Destroy
the
mythology
and
you
destroy
people’s
spiritual

underpinnings.
It’s
really
clever.



So
to
fight
back
against
that,
if
you
feel
you
must,
you
have
to
study
your
prey.

Imitate
Mickey
Mouse
and
Coca‐Cola,
co‐opt
them
and
their
colors
and
their

methodology.
Anyone
who’s
using
the
techniques
of
the
imagined
opposition
has
got

my
vote,
y’know?
Be
beautiful
and
seductive
so
that
culture
wants
to
eat
you
up.
Be

like
a
prion,
an
unstoppable
replicating
germ
in
the
guts
of
the
body
politic.
Be
the

little
pill
that
culture
swallows,
the
drug
that
changes
everything
and
forces
new

vision.
Be
the
infection
that
brings
shamanic
crisis.
Be
the
loving
poison
that
Things

As
They
Are
cannot
recover
from.
Be
the
Holy
Guardian
Angel.