I started reading Thee Psychick Bible this morning. …

I started reading Thee Psychick Bible this morning. It is a strange beast.

The book gathers the writings of Genesis Breyer P-Orridge and Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth, the experimental network known as TOPY. It moves between occult manual, countercultural manifesto, memoir and the paper trail left by a community trying to find out whether a human being can take conscious command of their own construction.

Underneath the sigils, cut-ups, ritual language and deliberate provocation, I keep hearing two questions. How much of what I call “me” was handed to me by parents, school, class, religion, advertising, language, sexuality, work and habit? And if identity has been constructed, can I take part in reconstructing it?

P-Orridge writes that instead of allowing others to build our identity, “we can build our own, and own it.” The self becomes raw material: something to dismantle, rearrange and try again. Magick, in this frame, is a practical technology for interrupting the automatic programme. Ritual, meditation, altered states, music, performance and sigilisation all make the familiar strange enough to be seen.

The sigil work interests me because the ritual’s outward result isn’t the whole point. You name a desire, give it a form, involve the body, and pay attention to what the process does to you. By the time you reach the thing you thought you wanted, the wanting may have changed because you have changed.

TOPY had a slogan for this: THEE PROCESS IS THEE PRODUCT.

That line brought me back to The Dice Man and the six-sided die I once carried as a small instrument of disruption. The roll never contained any wisdom. Its value was that it interrupted the little boss behind my eyes who already knew what I would do next. Chance exposed the groove. TOPY seems to be working the same seam with a far more volatile set of tools: disturb the pattern, watch what resists, and discover how much of a stable personality is repetition and habit.

I’m only at the beginning of the book, and I don’t know yet how much of its occult machinery I will want to use or believe. But the proposition has already lodged itself in me: identity may be less like a hidden object waiting to be found and more like a practice repeated until it feels inevitable.

The book is still open beside me. So is the question of what, exactly, I keep rehearsing when I say “this is just who I am.”