Aleister Crowley was a magician, occultist, self-proclaimed Great Beast 666, and a man the British press famously dubbed “The Wickedest Man in the World”. But behind the scandalous reputation was a philosophy built around a surprisingly compelling idea: that every individual possesses a True Will, a purpose that belongs to them rather than their parents, religion or society. Crowley spent much of his life challenging those who claimed authority over him. The peculiar irony is that he eventually became precisely the sort of spiritual authority he’d spent his life rejecting.

In this episode of The Observing I, we explore Crowley’s extraordinary life, the philosophy of Thelema, and the troubling contradictions between personal freedom and the desire for control. From his religious upbringing and supposed divine revelation in Cairo to the ill-fated Abbey of Thelema in Sicily, we examine what happens when the pursuit of liberation becomes entangled with power, dependence and self-deception. And perhaps most importantly, we ask a rather uncomfortable question: how can we be certain we’ve discovered our true purpose, rather than simply becoming exceptionally good at justifying whatever we happen to want?

Much love, David x

Most horror stories try to convince us that the monster is out in the woods or lurking behind a cellar door. It’s a comforting setup, because it means you can turn the porch light on, bolt the deadbolts, and pretend the house is safe. But what if our deepest dread isn't something waiting in the dark, but the three pounds of wet tissue sitting behind our own eyes?

To kick off our October series, we look at the radical pessimism of American writer Thomas Ligotti and Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe, who argued that human consciousness was never an evolutionary triumph; it was a biological blunder. A pair of twelve-foot antlers we have to drag through the trees, saddling an over-tooled ape with an awareness of decay, silence, and mortality it was never built to carry.

From the clinical collapse in Ligotti’s "The Frolic" to the acoustic sanctuary that crumbles in "The Bungalow House", we pick apart Zapffe’s four walls of sanity—isolation, anchoring, distraction, and sublimation—and why ordinary life feels like a mutual conspiracy of silence. We look at depressive realism, examine why art cannot save the organism from the abattoir, and ask the most uncomfortable question of all: what if the observing self isn't an enlightened witness, but a conscious marionette waking up to its own strings?

Much love, David x

On the last Tuesday of the month, I do a live session with whomever wants to drop in. There’s a short essay to start, and then a casual Q&A. It’s more of a hang out with the listeners than anything serious. If you’re interested in joining the next one, it’ll be on Tuesday 27th October. You don’t have to be a subscriber to join. They are hosted on Substack (theobservingi.com), and everyone is welcome.

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Every time I schedule one of these monthly subscriber calls, I convince myself I’m going to run a tidy, disciplined session. I’ll read through a short essay, answer three sensible questions about the text, and be in bed by one thirty. AM. That plan never survives past the ten-minute mark.

We started off on the unexamined axiom. That greasy, low-level panic that hums behind your ribs on a quiet Sunday night when the rent is paid, nobody is knocking on your door, and your nervous system decides you’ve forgotten something that will inevitably ruin your life. It’s an ancient bit of survival kit that simply outlived the emergency. You learned the rule when you were twelve so an unpredictable parent wouldn't shout at you, and now you’re forty, pacing the kitchen floor in full plate armour while your tea goes cold.

Once the essay was done, the wheels came off in the best possible way. I had an empty pipe in my hand to look vaguely sophisticated/ The chat took us all over the place. We argued over whether people are inherently decent or entirely broken, which dragged in George Carlin’s line about an individual being great until three of them form a group. From there we drifted into Kurt Vonnegut’s story shapes, Philip K. Dick convincing himself he was trapped in ancient Rome while hopped up on speed, the Roman cult of Mithras sitting under an office block in London, and a bizarre historical tangent about whether Victorian Britain actually burnt millions of cats to use as fertiliser (which, as it turns out, is true). At nearly two in the morning, for me at least, that all made total sense.

It all circled back to the same awkward theme: why we make ourselves so miserable. Having just recorded the episode on René Girard, we spent a fair bit of time on why big tech feels completely devoid of guilt, how people use Marcus Aurelius or The Art of War as corporate manuals to feel like suburban princes, and why trying to manipulate your peers is just cowardice masquerading as strategy. Even Machiavelli entered the picture at some point.

The full recording is above. Have a listen if you want to watch me lose my thread, talk through London jazz spots, and threaten to dress up as Rasputin for the Halloween call. And if you have an unexamined rule running your weekends, drop it in the comments. We might as well audit the ghosts together.

Much love, David x