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Mary Butts Diary Entry Friday, 10 March 1922
I can do automatic ‘drawing’ in my room. Here I have the electric blue quicksilver ball. The same old patterns, bad pentagrams, triangles, broken designs and things like a phallus. In this writing the usual order is reversed. One writes consciously—the effort is to write, not to stop writing. Automatically, one writes without effort, stop’s one’s point by will and goes on once the attention wanders.
What ‘stratum’ of my mind is touched? I ‘wanted’ a script—sensational for preference. Deep, contemplative states I do not fine useful, a lazy attention works best. Is there a separate state to which these things belong, an occult order by itself in which Crowley deals? I mean is daimon-raising and casual automatic writing all part of one cheese—so that the whole preoccupation would always be quickened by any part?
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