Confessions of Aleister Crowley

489 the utmost vehemence that the Middle West was independent of the east. They refused to admit for a moment that their prosperity as producers could be imperilled by the calamities of their transport agents and customers. On the coast, this hard, cold-blooded selfishness was tempered by the climate. I met much superficial sympathy with both sides. But there was a universal agreement to refuse to judge the rights and wrongs of the war. It was Europe's business and nobody else's. It would be a crime, a blunder and stark treason to the constitution for America to take a hand. Since my last visit San Francisco had been rebuilt. The old charm had vanished completely. It had become a regular fellow. The earthquake had swallowed up romance, and the fire burnt up the soul of the city to ashes. The phoenix had perished and from the cinders had arisen a turkey buzzard. I hurried south, stopping off at Santa Cruz, to see the famous big trees. I snatched a meal in the town and walked out in the gloaming. My sweetheart was waiting for me in the dusk just beyond the town limits. "How glad I am you have come," she whispered. "Let us walk together to the grove. You shall sleep on my bosom all night, beneath the shadow of the giant sentinel whose spear points salute the stars." My sweetheart wove herself {770} about me, an intoxicating ambience. Drunk with delight I strode through the silence. It must have been sheer luck that I found the grove, for one cannot see it from a distance, at least on a dark night. But I walked straight to the clump and threw myself down dog-tired and happy beyond all whooping. I gazed awhile through the tangle of branches up to the stars. They closed. I slept. At dawn, I woke refreshed, had breakfast in a cabin hard by and wandered back to the railway. I had had a perfect holiday from the Spirit of America! The fresh morning air became articulate and whispered a sound in my ear. Hear it is: AT BIG TREES, SANTA CRUZ Night fell. I travelled through the cloven chasm ....To where the redwood's cloistered giant grove ....Sprung gothic and priapic; wonder wove God's glory, gathered in the Titan spasm Nature's parturient anguish. Murk pantasm ....Moving I seemed! I found the treasurer trove ....Of fire, and consecrated all to love, Smiting my soul within the protoplasm. Within that temple of the midnight sun I cried all night upon Hilarion! ....All night I willed, I loved, I wrought the spell That Merlin muttered low in Broceliaunde, Till over Santa Cruz the day star dawned. ....God should have heard me, had I cried from Hell! I wandered on to Los Angeles, and, having been warned against the cinema crowd of cocaine- crazed, sexual lunatics, and the swarming maggots of near-occultists, I came through undamaged. I found a range of hills north of the city and had a marvellous day speeding from crest to crest. I was so exhilarated that walking would not serve my turn. I had to run! As I ran, this sonnet shaped itself in my spirit? I ran upon the ridges of the hill ....That from the North-guard watch Los Angeles. ....Now I life up my priestly hands to bless The Sun, from whose emblazoned cup God spills