The question still looms, why magick? Did Kazemi choose to dominate the occult scene and make such a glamorous splash because it was an untapped, uncharted territory, and so inherently small so that he could feel “huge?" Has he simply given himself over to mysticism because he believes in its transformative abilities? “I want to make magick suburban, accessible, and relatable, like it was in the late 90s,” he muses while showing me his Pinterest mood board littered with palmistry guides, DIY Kool-Aid hair dye ideas, anointing oils, and drip candle starter kits. Kazemi appears to treat his exploration of the dark arts just as he would any other work-related project — an approach which some gnostics have called “spiritually lackadaisical” and “low vibrational behavior.” “He is a self-serving opportunist who is exploiting occultism by re-marketing magick as self-help,” says an anonymous mystic. Kazemi disagrees with the criticism and looks forward to seeing his book sandwiched somewhere between other great works, such as How to Win Friends and Influence People and The Secret. “If you’ve blown out a birthday candle, you’ve participated in magick,” says Kazemi, straightening the silver chain around his neck. “This is a late birthday present from Marilyn Manson,” he says, while motioning to the necklace.

“All my life people have always said that I was too emotional, too intense, too difficult, too sad.” As we browse a shop in the East Village on the corner of 10th and Avenue A, Kazemi reveals to me that he’s always been an outsider, even when he was on the inside. “Being punished for being yourself as a child is kind of like the gateway drug to imaginary worlds.” He asks me if I’ve ever dealt with an eating disorder, but before I can answer he interjects. “I used to starve myself because I needed a sense of control and that’s what it provided for me, control. Did I tell you about how bad my OCD is yet?” If nothing else, Kazemi wants the reader to come away from Pop Magick understanding that they are not a victim of circumstance, and more importantly, that he is not a victim. After spending a lifetime merely existing beneath the umbrella of his trauma, Kazemi realized that he was his own worst oppressor. “I chose my abuse. I chose to experience certain suffering before I came to this world to survive these things. This is what The Kabbalah Centre taught me. I am not a victim. I am responsible for my life — even if I couldn’t control being abused, it is my power to say that I am responsible for it.”

“I’m not sure the Kabbalah is working,” says Kazemi’s sister. “I think maybe he’s weaponizing Kabbalah rather than practicing it because he seems even more selfish and egotistical ever since this book came out. I think that instead of trying to perform the image of being good and angelic, he should actually work on being a normal, nice person.” She reveals that her brother was a sensitive child who was prone to fits of rage, often banging his head against the wall until he passed out or bled (whichever came first). School records reveal that he was removed from classes at the age of 5 because the sensory overload made it impossible for him to concentrate, which ingrained a deep feeling of otherness in him. “In therapy, I discovered that childhood trauma was the foundation to all of my adult behavior,” he says. Matters at home and school worsened after Kazemi became a failed child actor. “Growing up in Vancouver, aka Hollywood North, I used to go to things like Cinnamon Toast Crunch auditions and I tried to be in indie movies. I would practice my lines on the playground. I put so much pressure on myself. I had a real agent and an acting teacher and everything. A good close family friend to me is Hayleau; she was on Riverdale. I wanted to be on Nickelodeon or Disney Channel and have my own show, but that never worked out, so here I am…”

Kazemi thumbs through the shop’s meager book section, picking up Find Your Soulmate Through Astrology, and scanning the back to see if it’s worth buying. “I only know Alex from him coming in here when he visits the city,” says an employee at Aphrodite’s Choice, glancing back to make sure Kazemi is out of earshot before continuing. “A few months ago he told me that he was planning on doing some visualizations and asked me which Aquarius-incense would be best for making sure he was invited to Paris Hilton’s birthday party. I told him that I had no fucking idea what he was talking about and he spent the next hour following me around asking if I was mad at him.” Kazemi thumbs through a book about practical magick for witches and wizards on the go, seemingly oblivious to my conversation with the shop employee, but something tells me that he is oblivious to nothing and that every conversation taking place in his sphere of existence is because he has willed it to action. “What do you think of this piece of obsidian?” he asks, holding it up to the light. “It says here that it blocks psychic attacks, absorbs negative energies from the environment, and draws out mental stress and tension. Maybe this will make Grimes stop hating me?” he says, pulling out his company card.

If magick is the ability to influence events by way of supernatural forces, who better to write a book on it than someone who was somehow a part of early 2010s influencer culture in its infancy despite having zero social media? “Instagram is a graveyard for pictures of your past personalities to haunt you,” says Kazemi. A person who reinvents themselves with the frequency of Kazemi cannot risk being carbon dated by something as permanent and evidentiary as tagged photos or Facebook memories. “No one commits fully to anything but themselves anymore,” Kazemi vents, referencing apps that aid in the cultural obsession of self-identifying. “People say that seeing is believing, but I say, fuck that. Believing is believing. No one became great by screaming into the echo chamber. People think greatness is measured by how many people you've helped,” he says mostly to himself, adjusting his vinyl Fiorucci bucket hat in the reflection of a storefront window, "but what they don't understand is that it's actually measured by how many people you trick…"