Larry

This student should not be in my science class. Half the students who *should* be there, who lose credit by skipping, are twenty feet away in the day room, playing cards. It is not my job to rouse and pull them into the room only to note they are not present and to teach the students who want to learn and pass.

The interloper, who has a GED, asks me to explain why he is not in college. I decide that this question is reason enough to let him stay, though I shoo out most graduated students, as they only want to take computers away from my students. Who can doubt the seductive appeal of generic Frogger or silent science videos (the prison computers do not have speakers, though they do have headphone jacks)?

I tell the presumptive college student he has to formally apply to the program and write an application essay to the community college for whom I am technically an adjunct, and all that is above my pay grade. I then turn to work with a student on some tedious paperwork I have assigned so he can pass the Regents.

"Do you know who Aleister Crowley was?" the interloper asks.

I turn, squinting at him, scanning to see if he thinks I might not know this. Is he challenging me in some way? Does he think he is edgy?

These are not his intention, though I cannot find the antecedent to his question. I am far too boring looking for the kids to expect I am a font of occult and paranormal knowledge.

My eyes light up. He could find no better person in this facility to ask, though I do not know I am the first to whom he has put this. I suspect I might be the best person in the county to answer him.

Without saying more than that, I know Crowley brought his new wife Rose to a pyramid for their honeymoon in 1903, whereupon she channeled an intelligence and thereafter found the subject as catalog number 666 at the museum, I established my bona fides. I will not ascribe it to religion, especially mine (I'm not a Thelemite, thanks). I am only a humble historian of the weird, but not so much that I can get him books or would deal with the fallout of providing such material. The idea has a dark luster to the boy, and I admire his research.

He abandons all pretense and reservations that I might need the remedial course.

I mentioned one of my novels is built on the backbone of Jack Whiteside Parsons' explorations in the Parsonage, bringing in the theory that Crowley, Parsons, and nuclear testing broke a hole in reality, which allowed aliens through.

"*Hypothetically*," I add. "I'm not implying I ascribe to any of this."

It is an occasional question among the residents what my religion might be. When they ask me specifically, I answer, "Not that." They only know Christianity, Islam, and Judaism and exhaust options rapidly. When I cannot cop to being "of the book," they get frustrated and give up, as I wish. I'm not interested in debating theology with kids who see no contradiction between religious devotion and literally murdering other children. Not eating pork in exchange for getting a cool hat and rug doesn't counteract how keenly they would stab each other if given the chance--though they still eat pork. Is it hypocrisy if you don't have the slightest interest in the basic strictures of your religion if your master is the gang on your block and not a god in the sky? One is more tangible and has answered prayer in exchange for blood sacrifices.

This kid says, "I'm really interested in Pagan religions. Thelema. You know it?"

I do, indeed.

The state pays a reverend and imam to cosset my students' dirty souls--which the residents insist they perfunctorily do when they bother with more than a handshake and "Hey, you doin' good, young blood." I suspect these religious conduits will not provide this young man the witchcraft books he wishes to read--particularly if he doesn't request a change of religion in the computer system that dictates these things, and he won't. I suspect the number of residents in the system who have requested an alternative religion is zero. I would be shocked if it is not a drop-down field with no way of adding a religion. If you are not one of the more popular Christian sects, Muslim (no differentiation permitted), Jewish (no differentiation permitted), Buddhist (no differentiation permitted), Hindu (no differentiation permitted), or atheist, you are "Don't know." (That's not a joke. "Don't know" is an option for religion, gender, and sexuality, from what I have seen in updating students' records. "Don't know" might be synonymous with "Didn't ask" or "Too complicated.")

As a science teacher--not his--and English adjunct--not his yet--I lack the power or interest to help his religious development, nor would I. I will not sneak contraband occultism--and he is clear he is an occultist and not some reverent Wiccan--to an adjudicated minor. If he were one of my college kids and chose to do a research project on the place of Crowley in the Western magickal tradition, I would be within my rights to load one of the flimsy computers with bickering scholarship and pirated ebooks of Crowley's philosophy. As it stands, no, and he cannot get into my English 101 course for the year--nor can he take 102 without the prerequisite. Crowley does not have a place in English 101; more concerned with trying to get the kids to understand how to write a basic personal and fact-based essay than writing a research paper, acts that are borderline impossible for some of my students.

This boy, not incidentally, cannot attend my college class because he gets into fights with staff and fellow residents so often that this is the first time I have seen him in a month; he is usually on the seclusion wing for his misbehavior, and that wing is not under my educational aegis. Crowley would not approve of someone being so out of control that they do not pursue their occult studies--and this is a man who considered morphine and orgies essential magickal acts. If the boy is serious about Thelema--and let's be honest with ourselves that he is not--he would focus his will on not being on the seclusion wing so often that he is a stranger to me.

The wrongly convicted Damien Echols (he of the West Memphis Three, accused of a horrific triple murder of three children whose actual killer went free once the local weird kids were locked away) found the occult to be his savior when he was confined to solitary confinement on Death Row for years. He focused on meditation and study until his cell became a monastic one rather than one of the penal system while he waited for execution. It was religion or insanity. It is a sort of discipline utterly alien to my students. To be fair, unless it is to my writing, I am devoted to nothing as much as Echols, freed because of an Alfred Plea, is his practice.

The day after I speak to this boy (whom I will not see again for weeks because he assaults a staff member an hour after our conversation), Amber and I go to Cheryl's for a potluck and fire. These used to be monthly events before Cheryl took ill and they moved. Tonight is not a ritual, though I asked Amber before leaving. I would not have minded. Through their friendship, I have grown more comfortable practicing with other people. Also, you can't beat a potluck.

I wonder what my student would have thought, seeing nine witches gathered around the fire, only for it to be telling stories about awkward festivals and an accidental overdose of pot brownies that sent people to the hospital. He surely thinks the world of witchcraft is exciting and dangerous, but a not insignificant part is telling Cheryl how nicely organized her crystals are.

At this boy's age, I was surrounded by enough elder Pagans (who are younger than I am now) that I didn't harbor many illusions about how sedate witchcraft often ends up. It is mostly coziness and community. Rarely--especially in the panopticon of the 21st century--is it demonic orgies ala Crowley. I imagine the potlucks are worse at those events.

last watched: Futurama
reading: Absolution