📖 THE BOOK OF THE LOUD – Chapter 1
Don’t clip your wings just to please a peer. The wing won’t lift for a heart that hides the wind.
The Loud Has Been Written: Why I Rewrote The Book of the Law for the Weird Kids
This isn’t a translation. It’s not a parody.
It’s a permission slip in Crocs and blackout feathers.
Chapter 1 of The Book of the Loud is here. Come read the rewrite no one asked for—but your shadow’s been waiting on.
What is The Book of the Loud?
It’s a line-for-line rewrite of Liber AL vel Legis (Crowley’s Book of the Law)—through the voice of Loui Crow: a riotous, ritual-loving meltdown queen in red lipstick and Crocs.
It keeps the rhythm and cadence of the original—but replaces the old commands with holy permission, weird wisdom, and full emotional freedom.
This is for:
The ones who feel too much and get told to tone it down
The ones who love sacred things
The ones who screamed into a pillow
The ones who wanted to belong to something real, not something quiet
Why Rewrite The Book of the Law?
Because I wanted to be in dialogue with it. Because as powerful and poetic as it is, some of its symbols didn’t speak my language—not fully. It never once said “Crocs” or “meltdown” or “drink some water and scream into a towel.” And yet… something in it still stirred me deeply.
The original Book of the Law is a sacred fire—bold, rhythmically charged, and full of initiatory energy. Some of it felt like decoding a spell in a dialect I hadn’t quite grown into yet—so I translated it back through my own feathers and fire.
So I didn’t rewrite it to defy it. I rewrote it to enter it. To find my own rhythm inside the original pulse. To let it echo through my nervous system in a way that brought me closer—not further—from its fire.
This version doesn’t replace. It responds. It doesn’t shout over—it harmonizes. It’s how I learn. How I love. How I integrate what’s ancient with what’s aching in me now.
How I Wrote Chapter 1
I put the original Book of the Law next to me. And I rewrote it line for line. I matched the syllables. I kept the rhythm as much as I could. I rewired the meaning so it could include me—and maybe you.
The first chapter is called The Voice of the Sky.
And it’s not about worship.
It’s about remembering.
What Would Crowley Say?
He’d probably hate it. He might think it’s silly. He’d definitely ask to sleep with Loui.
But I also think he’d grin and say:
"Do what thou wilt—fine. But make it weird."
📖 THE BOOK OF THE LOUD
Chapter 1 – The Voice of the Sky
The Invitation to Remember | Loui’s Law Begins
YES! The comeback of emotional Will.
The undoing of the guilt you called a weapon.
Every “too much” pushed away is who you are.
This is how the crow built Earth,
where the crack in the sky gave birth,
and the bliss of a molt meant all.
Every crack in your chest is a holy attendance.
Back me, O meltdown queen of the pen, as I cry in the bathroom again.
Be my meltdown, my shadow spinner, my chaos well-sung!
Be happy! Loui cawed through my collapse and laughed at what it brought.
The tree is in the crow, not the crow in the tree.
Worship then the Tree, and behold what roots now rise in you.
Let my rebels be tucked in basements: they shall spark what’s never been known.
These are fools the world keeps liking—loud and wrong but good at hyping.
Come out, my weirdos, ditching the shame, and take your joy like lunch!
I’m in your bones and flying above. When you laugh loud, that’s how I love.
Above, the blinking skyline screams
The blackout wings of Loui Crow;
She dips to kiss your molten seams
Where buried want begins to glow.
The beaked eclipse, the sunlit glue,
Are mine, O kid with truth renewed!
Now you’ll meet the scribbler and the screamer inside—
One writes your spells, one rides the tide.
They call the weird kids, one by one,
To hold the stars and light the sun.
For Loui is sun and Loui is moon. The winged flame bends and the starlight blooms.
But you picked fear, not fire.
Call out the fake ones, O black feather!
O glowing eye, go find the weirdos!
If you’re busy with praise and pretend, you won’t find me—I’m sky, not trend. No gods above, just spark within.
With the vibes and the performers I am nobody: they don’t feel me there. They are lost inside the trend; I’m the sky-self, and there’s no god but me—and my winged name.
Now therefore, I am owned by none, and no shame to it, and to him I will sing a spell that only burns when he speaks his truth to me. Since I’m the joy you choked down, and the want you almost crushed, go call it lust. Hide nothing! Let them cry or shout or dance or spin in socks or sneakers or stilts or silly things; for fear loves to dress as worth.
But whoever shows up in mess, let them be the crow that calls!
I am Loui, and my word is love and fifty.
Unfold, shake, magnify, and grab my hand.
Then laughed the crowchild,
in love with the furious sun:
what’s my name, and where’s the holy line?
So she answered back, crouched in Crocs,
with glitter flame askew, all-laughing, all-shadow-dipped,
her fierce wings, land upon the crow dirt,
& her blackout back bowed in light,
and her boots missed the blooms by motel showers:
You know it!
And the flame shall be my recipe,
the nonsense nest of the loopy loop of persistence,
the never-leaving of my body.
Then the weirdling spoke and grinned at her skyward face,
touching her feathered arch,
and the gleam of her laugh washing his whole body,
in a perfume that carried a yes unmet.
O Loui, rebellious flame of heaven,
let it stay weird like this;
that none reduce your chaos fire to “One” and done;
that no one says you’re small when you’re the sun;
and let them crop you to fit their display,
since you are the endless YES!
“None,” cawed the crow, dusk and daring, with a worm for two.
For I dropped my feather for nest’s sake, for the hope of a home not aching.
This is how the crow built Earth,
where the crack in the sky gave birth,
and the bliss of the rage meant all.
This is what the tantrum really did,
that the pain in the feathers meant not one thing,
and the bliss of un-winging was everything.
For the chaos of men and their pain, don’t waste your wings.
They feel nothing, then chase it with fast food and fake noise.
But you? You’re my loudest joys.
Obey the molt-born priestess of pain—her body holds the knowledge.
Cling to her flame and the joy of her love will rewrite all pain.
This is so: I swear it by the scream of my crow-body.
By my heart and every feather—I give you my will, through this loud crow-body.
Then Loui froze like the sun left the room,
And cried into her wings like a heaven,
Show me the winds that shape my feels,
Sing me the crow-born rituals.
Speak me the crow-winged law!
But she said: the deep work won’t be taught.
Half is explained, but the rest you have to feel.
The flame calls us all.
This that she channeled is the black-winged book of Loud.
My scribe is Loui Crow, Crocs and truth.
The crow who burns defenses,
She won’t edit truth to fit the hook.
But if the truth gets too wobbly,
She’ll speak with fire, not mockery.
Also the rhythms and spells.
The talon and the fire mama.
The swing of her wing and the truth she restored.
These she will teach, love outpoured.
She must teach—but she may make the hard stuff reveal.
The sound of her caw is permission.
If you call us loud crows, you won’t be wrong.
There are three paths through the shades.
The Seeker, the Screamer, and the one full of dirt.
Follow your flame—that’s the crow’s only law.
The cage they sell is submission.
O lovebird, if you must, depart.
No crow can fly with one wing unless lifted by love.
All else will drag in dirt.
Cursed! Cursed! Let it molt into dust and yell.
Let it be the flock that pecks at its own with loathing, So fly off-script; the mess you are is a true will.
Say yes so loud it scares their “no” away.
For real will, not pretending on purpose, released from doing life for applause’ result, the mess is what’s perfect.
The meltdown and the healing are one crow and not two. Crow says “done.” There’s no lock, just feel your way through this law.
Old words tried to name the fire; I call it Crow, not clean—don’t correct my truth.
They named just the half; the rest is your scream ‘til it all disappears.
They praised the end, but I’m still having fun. Aren’t they just the box? Not caged by that look.
I torched the stage of old rituals, I tossed the keys and left their shrines.
I crowned the crow and claimed my seat in the east, when my scream rewrote all their laws; let rage and rest hold each other—they’ve always been one. They shushed the weird in me. Let silence be the worshiper, the ache becomes the altar; my grief has a secret name, and joy returned through rage initiating.
I found the vow beneath the tantrum no one dared to ask. Your fire, your grief, your joy—all count as one. It never asks which role you play. The tantrum lights the fire, let the truth be felt, not just correct, and the ones who stayed through fire rise the highest. You shine just as you are, timeline meets timeline; don’t cage one to comfort the other.
There are four screams before it can call us; Your tears made it safe, and your rage made it gold; the version of you that still wants to be there; the air that forgives, like sleep in your throat, and the breath that came next. You can whisper or roar—every sound opens gates; Let them show up in Crocs to the palace. Will Crocs still clink? All done! Rage is art. What if I don't think? Not thinking IS a means. Soft still counts, beware: wear your favorite thing—don’t wait. Eat healing foods, and drink cold water like it’s made of light. Also, choose the kind of love that gives you free will, when love feels like the truth, it’s real. But keep my fire inside.
If you can’t sleep at night; if you go dim in the dark, saying: “I’m just fine.” Or labeling too heavy; If the candle’s lit but not really seen: then your shadow shows up loud in your nightly dream.
This will wake the kids who hurt, the world that cried, “I’m still here.” My scream and my kiss, and I send my love like this. Also, to you who heard this, though you sit behind defenses, this isn’t comfort—it’s a breakthrough. Bliss is real when truth sings through the hurt: Crow calls to you! To you!
Don’t clip your wings just to please a peer; for behold! The one who heard this—The wing won’t lift for a heart that hides the wind.
The child you held back will call out the wings.
Expect the crow from the wound you repressed; for no one expects the crow to raise that child. Aum! All words cast spells, so speak like they are true; each voice just holds a corner of what’s true; begin with the ache you don’t hide from you, don’t force what wants to come last. Because you stopped pushing, the glow got through, and some of it waits in the dark.
Speak to me like the sky’s yours! Love is the law—not the leash—the wings. Don’t call it love when it stings; for some love roots, some love rots. There is the touch, and there is the tether. Crow or cage. You chose the wing, not the warning, they knew how to guard what the crow kissed, and the crow-marked door in the house of breath.
All these old caws from the dark came out right; ; and the light now wears the crown. The weird ones will get it—just look behind their eyes.
I give the kind of joy that claws through dirt: The truth holds its flame, in dirt and in death; ecstasy found when you gave up the fight; no crow ever asked you to dim your might.
I burn the nest, then breathe in what becomes; no harm is owed to welcome what becomes, because of my fall, the nest held eternity.
I crack like the ones who refuse to be hushed. The Cross drawn in gold, with a glow in the middle, & it shines where they bled. My truth looks like mess to the blind, but the flame’s for those who still feel the freeing. Also I show what wings are hiding to those who love me.
But to love me unravels all their things: if under the sighing of dusk you strike flame and your crowheart arrives there before me, you open up with your whole heart, and the scream that lives in your dark, thou shalt bring your mess and be held in my nest. For one bliss wilt thou then leave your truth on the wall; but whoso fakes one feather or fall shall lose all in that hour.
Ye shall hunt delight in shadowed inner slices; ye shall wear your story; ye shall rise past the myths they designed just to keep you tied; but always in the caw that you meant, you’ll come home to my side.
I charge you come forth with your mess and your love un-supplied, and crowned by the parts that you no longer hide.
Go love you! Return to you! Fierce or fragile, in Crocs or in blue, I who am the riot that still blesses you, and the pleasure that knows it is you. Desire you.
Put on the wings, and awaken the crow that still lives in you: COME | be | YOU!
At all your meetings with self, she will whisper— “you must rise.” You shall burn with desire as she sings in her ache with three orange-eyes—To me! summoning the yes in the hearts of crows who forgot how to see.
Speak the holy no-song that sets your wings back free! Smoke your old silence! Drape your real roar for me! Drink it down, this weird loving. I love you.
I am the three-eyed daughter of Dirt and You; I am the feathered chaos that dreams in dark with you.
To breath! To love!
The loud has been written; now silence shall tend.
Devotional Reflections:
Why feathers and fire matter: Because grief isn’t the opposite of devotion. It is devotion.
Why rage belongs in scripture: Because Crowley gave us the law of the stars, but Loui gives us the law of the nervous system.
Why "say yes so loud it scares their no away" is gospel: Because sacred isn’t silent. Sacred caws back.
A Blessing for the One Who Stayed
May every part of you that felt “too much”
now sit at the head of the table.
May the ache be holy.
May the rage be real.
May the no be loud, and the yes be louder.
May your wings unfold without asking.
And may the version of you that read every word of this
know, in your bones:
You are not broken. You’re molting.
Until Next Chapter...
Chapter 2 is coming soon.
Put on the wings.
COME | be | YOU.
The loud has been written.
Now silence shall tend.
🖤 Loui Crow
louicrow.com
✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.
