"Speaking." the painter spoke, our narrator abruptly shifting to different perspective, into his newfangled portiphone. He was grateful that he only replied and did not initiate the call. The rotary dial was a feasible device when the telephone was firmly planted at home base, but to carry one along with him wherever he went made him feel like communication required him to be the resident Phalanges Wrestling Champion of the World and, as if a testament to his pretentiousness, he was only able to muster the brutality for the state semi-finals (his pretentiousness, though a clear disability on the battlefield, still allowed some degree of tactical advantage over his enemies; it is perhaps for the best we not mention these worthy opponents, these dials of which turned the gears that triggered some sort of proto-thelemic wi-fi, thus allowing his portiphone to communicate, were far less than sentient). His commissioner, however, disliked such rambles and asked only a single question that, little did he know, had a million answers.
"Finished? A better question would be: is this portrait an exquisite, definitive portrayal of the true essence of paradise? After this painting, will we even need other forms of expression?" The painter asked his employer these questions not out of egotism (though, surely, there was no short supply), but out of genuine belief.
The portiphone's gears ticked, tocked, and with rapidly increasing ambition even clicked one or two clacks. Minutes dwindled, and the employer asked but a simple question.
"I do not enlist hack pamphlet jockeys to give me masterworks, pulpist." The employer told the painter. "I employee you to forgo your savage doctors for but a moment and simply give me something to adorn my dining hall. I do not want you to unravel the universe. The essence of thought will not pollute my Michaelmas turkey." Art for art's sake was a disgusting proposition this close to the holidays; for a lowly pulpist turned painter to give you HIS idea of paradise instead of yours!
The pulpist smiled. "Then I'm sorry sir."
He looked, once more, at his master work. The essence of paradise he's painted, years of honing his craft in the funny papers and given one chance to put his heart to picture.
"I didn't ask for art."
"I'm not giving you art." said the artist. "I'm giving you Xanadu."
----
WE FADE IN on the old chess halls in the ABBEY OF THELEMA, as an aging ALEISTER CROWLEY sighs and ponders his purposes among gears that turn with precision and power the giant DOOMSDAY CLOCK in the back of the room. He's playing a game with nobody in particular, but throws the chess board to the side.
In the chair across from him forms a strange being, the fanciful INDALECIO.
CROWLEY
Are you my Holy Guardian Angel?
INDALECIO
Don't you prefer the company of devils?
CROWLEY
I am no wicked man.
INDALECIO
No, I don't quite think you are. Neither wicked nor the wickedest, just one who dabbles in the anachronistic philosophies of tye-dye druids.
CROWLEY
I resent your retroactivity and will prefer to substitute it with my retrospection.
INDALECIO
Yours is the retrospection of a poor failure. Such wickedness and not even a single ounce of genocide. Your worst offense is, of course, blasphemy. A poor man's crime befitting the thugs of cosmos.
CROWLEY
It is my not acts that are a waste, but my knowledge.
INDALECIO
Oh?
CROWLEY
I am not the wickedest, but I say with no need for modesty that I am the cleverest. And so will live on as all great men do, yet I only live on as means to pass the words of Aiwass.
INDALECIO
And if I may, as one cosmic being referring to another, Aiwass is a massive tool.
CROWLEY
I have been cursed to be born on this Earth to pass the words and magicks of my Holy Guardian onto the planet, in hopes that it will sink into Gaia's consciousness and perhaps do some good or ill of its own.
Tick tock.
CROWLEY
But Crowley, the man, is a pointless vessel. Only one who exists to be told the mysteries of the universe to tell others the mysteries of the universe and for many to eventually be skeptical of the mysteries of the universe. And such a simple solution to these mysteries do I present. Such is the punishment to preach in Galilee.
Tick tock.
INDALECIO
And what is the simple thing you wish your magicks could impart? Not as Crowley the avatar of Aiwass, but as Crowley the man?
CROWLEY
Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.
Crowley picks a small piece of paper and tosses it to Indalecio, who looks at it.
INDALECIO
A portrait?
CROWLEY
Of paradise. A portrait of the true meaning of life. In its time, considered a simple hack drawing by a unremarkable inkist for hire. Now, of course, Aiwass's knowledge lets me recognize it as the key to the universe.
INDALECIO
And what would you call this painting?
The Doomsday Clock strikes midnight and Crowley collapses, a single word escaping his lips so he does not die meaninglessly.
CROWLEY
Xanadu.
-----
I leave this to you because I love you.
I'd rather you not cry, but I'm not exactly there to enforce that. I just don't really like the idea of you crying, even if I wouldn't be able to perceive it when it happens. You were all I really had, Makinzie, after all was said and done. I didn't have children of my own, nor a wife to tell her I loved her. But I did have you, which is something I was never able to repay my sister for. I assume even my death was a hassle. Sorry about that.
I want you to have something, though. I was never much of an uncle when I was alive, so maybe this gift will show I at least cared and loved you when I wasn't able to show it. It's an old thing I'd think you'd appreciate. I got it from an old kook at the flea market years ago, who was very quick to stress how the picture possessed mystic powers and even might be holding the incomprehensible, ontological baggage of famous historical figures. He mumbled on and on about it holding the musk of "prestigious body thetans", but you know how I feel about the mystic mumbo jumbo. The fact he had it confirmed by a "soothsayer" didn't help matters.
Here's what I DO know: it was made a long time before the Reformatting and was by this guy who did pulp magazines or whatever. He used the commission to paint out his ideal version of paradise, which the guy paying for it apparently didn't take too well, so he pawned it. And it's just been going from hand to hand. I don't really know what paradise is, though, to be honest.
That's kinda why I'm giving you this picture. I know that this is hard for you. It's hard for me as I write this, because I don't think I have much time left and for all I know this is the last thing I'll ever say to you. And I'd rather this not be the last thing. I'd rather make poop noises in your ear one more time, but I understand that just won't happen. But if you have this, maybe you can imagine I'm in a better place and it'll hurt less knowing that I'm gone.
So here's to you. Maybe the only one who will cry. I don't want you to, but I appreciate that you will. I love you. And I hope that the picture I'm leaving with this note will fill your heart with ease that, Aiwass willing (never thought I'd say that), I managed to make it to paradise and someday we'll be able to be there together. You're my paradise, Mak. But for now, I just have to say goodbye and leave you with Xanadu:
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