A Study on the Great I AM

The Flame flickers forward, the sweet almost impatient sound of the First Breath ‘iiii’.  Then it flickers back, an exhalation echoing the urgency of Creation ‘hhhhhh’.  Pulsing Darkness wraps around the amber fluid quicksilver light that Is Existence, it is here that every living being commences their journey, with the ignition of individual consciousness and the birth of personal life in the Kingdom of Light. 

 

The Darkness is the vacuum of the Abyss.  No amount of Knowledge, Wisdom or Understanding could ever surrender its complete apprehension, tis the place where even immortals dare to tread.  

 

An Infinite amount of Nothing, NO-THING eternally disgorging Information as Light, translating, transubstantiating, transcribing through the cosmic void, zigzagging backwards and forwards through the stars, erupting through black holes, white holes, dark stars, surfing magellanic gas.

 

Falling, tumbling, raining, cascading down upon us, like chrism it engulfs us, rippling over our sleeping minds, the white noise tapestry upon which time and space is woven.  The Great ‘I Am’ forever ‘I Aming’, a psychedelic self-manifest tesseract ricocheting, boomeranging, recoiling within itself, strumming the chords of Galactic Birth.

Cosmic Waves of Creation lap and tug at my feet as I wait upon the shores of The Shire, watching as helpless newborn infants rot in unattended incubators, whilst Zionist led murderers commit atrocities that have no name.  

 

‘Iiiii, Hiiii, Iiiii, Hiiii’ Softly, rhythmically, life and death dance cheek to cheek to the cadence of humanity’s impossible evolution; my mind wonders and blossoms with the potential every moment brings.

 

Then anger wells up inside me modulating the horrors that I glean.  

 

‘This too will pass’ whispers The Aether. ‘The Voyage has just began, your rage at the maleficence of innocence has no home in the Kingdom of the Blind.  Watch.  Wait.  Breathe.’

 

My thoughts stumble as the images of close to a million displaced people litter my screen. I stand aghast as I watch children as young as three pull at their hair having being driven mad by the insanity and brutality of war.  I bare witness to the complete annihilation of everything that makes us human and worthy of the gift of life.

 

Women, men, children, young and old, nothing is sacred everything is butchered and consumed in the relentless pyres of our insanity and rage.  Human beings have managed to conquer life and light with the sounds of steel and murder.

 

I must not hold my exhalation, ‘Hhhhhhh’, this too shall pass.

 

As a species we are coding our own evolution with our actions and thoughts, and the price of our asininities will be the consolidation of the vibrations at which we function.  At this point our fall from Eden is guaranteed, although an alternative route to the Citadel of Stars may not be out of our reach.

 

Our Patriarchy will never permit us to escape our Base Chakras because, let’s face it, this is where the money is. But we CAN open our eyes to the Truth of our Nature, and perhaps learn how to Breathe again.

 

 

‘Iiiiiii…..’

 

The sound of waves crashing on a beach, water caressing gravel and shells, the frothy ocean pushing up up up towards the shore.

 

 

Little more than twinkle in an obsidian tapestry, we momentarily imprint the testimony of our history in the fabric of the never-ending inundation of Atman’s Breath, all we really are is simply Cosmic Dust being blown around by Divine Indifference.

 

Our wars and struggles, our history and achievements, our darkness and our light will determine the Paths of Tomorrow and the Destinations that await us. At the end of it all all we will ever encounter are the shadows and reflections of our failings and  shortcomings; we will all bare the cost of our inadequacies, each and every one of us.

 

I close my eyes and meditate on Brahman strumming the harmony of Creation. He plucks at the chords of Destiny and Fate, Atman’s Heartbeat Oscillates, a maximal torus rooted in eight-dimensional Euclidean space; the Shimmering Void echoes in the collision of deep space Ultra Massive Black Holes

 

‘Hhhhh….’

 

I surrender to the Interminable Ocean of Life and give myself to the immeasurable and unbounded waters of the Trimurti.  Creation, Preservation, Destruction, three faces of Brahman’s Wisdom.  Drifting untethered amongst nebulas of inconceivable voids my mind is free and at peace, two Flames at the heart of my existence. I. H. I. H over and over again and NO-THING more. 

 

The Waters splash and moil, I AM, here and there. Shiva beckons for a dance and I emerge from the Galactic Ebullition as Kali Unbound.

 

 

21 days later

As we speak there are nearly 2 million people moving from the North to the South of Gaza.  Most of them are children under the age of 12.

 

There is no electricity and no running water, medics are performing amputations on the streets of Gaza without anaesthetic or sanitation whilst Israelis are dropping bombs and missiles from the sky, enacting some sort of biblical requite to the October 7 massacres. 

 

Images are flooding our screens of butchered babies, avenues of bodies enveloped in dusty burial shrouds, hospitals filled with the very vulnerable turned into craters.  This shit is getting heavy.

 

We are at another cross roads, so it seems.  A gilded age that has witnessed the birth of multiple fast billionaires at the cost of pricing a human life as low as eighty cents a day.

 

Child-mined cobalt from the Congo that powers most of our technology in the west, can be traced directly from the toxic deadly pits to the consumer producing tech giants.  The very same aforementioned billionaires that have somehow managed to transubstantiate unspeakable suffering into profit.  A dollar bag of heterogenite, the price of the life of a Congolese Child

 

Every single time something similar has happened int the past, the very same events repeat themselves.  ‘History may not repeat itself, but it often rhymes’ remarked Mark Twain.

 

In The Ukraine we are at day 611 of the invasion as the war machine grinds bones to dirt and dust. Families are torn apart whilst Putin parades his nuclear bombs along with his ego.

 

Utter and complete madness is unfurling, unwinding people’s hearts and minds, we have become immune to the suffering of our sisters and brothers and accustomed to images of extreme atrocities.  Real life is now more horrific than any horror narrative we might ever imagine.  I can feel our collective hearts skipping beats to the tune of the carpet bombs in the Gaza Strip as neighborhoods and the memories they nurtured are annihilated in the furnace of revenge.

 

From the tower of my thoughts I am witnessing the army of plagues and afflictions that resides within each of us breaking the conventions our conscious and logic selves once created in the aftermath of events such as these. Its not a good sight I tell you, my heart trembles with the knowledge of what we are capable.

 

And from this point in space and time I extend my deliberations out into the cosmos with hope that someone, something, some celestial provenance might attend to our plight and to the woes and travails that are humanity’s growing pains.

 

The echo of my thoughts returns to me, assuring me that all is well, all is as it should be.  Such a cliché if you ask me, but there is absolutely nothing else to do other than surrender to coils of Fate and Chance.

 

 

The Black Shabbat

It’s been a week since Hamas broke through the borders that separate Israel and Gaza.

 

They bulldozed through parts of the wall, and over others terrorists paraglided two at a time complete with machine guns, bombs, grenades and knives, intent on destroying not only the Jewish people themselves, but life and love and everything that is good and sacred in and about humans.

 

In the early hours of dawn they reached outpost Kibbutz, places that were created as the last bastions and beacons of hope and freedom. These collectives had dedicated their lives to serve peace and humanity, throwing their arms open to those across the Wall, welcoming them as co-workers and brothers. Their intent was to create a beautiful paradisial garden in the middle of the dessert, watered with communal and shared effort and love.

 

The Kibbutznicks dissuaded their children from joining the Israeli military when their time for service came, they denounced any form of division between people.  Many often went into Gaza with medicines, food, supplies and volunteers, others had protested vociferously against the unjust treatment of the Palestinians people, spokespeople for a two-state solution.

 

Most of these unique and beautiful individuals are now dead.  Killed, gun down, massacred in the most bestial way imaginable.

 

On the Sabbath that Hamas targeted the Kibbutz the SuperNova Music Festival was also well underway.  More than three and a half thousand young revelers, many barely over twenty, were gathered to celebrate life, friendship and infinite freedom, the festival itself sandwiched a couple of miles between the targeted Kibbutz.  It was a slaughter.  

 

The terrorists seized the roads that the youth were using to escape with their cars, and by the hundreds they proceeded to gun them down with submachine guns on both sides as they fled. The guiltless didn't stand a chance

 

These are the headlines we have been reading for over a week.  Accounts of the slaughter that are now emerging telling of atrocities too extreme to even contemplate.  Severed heads dismembered, scattered burnt, women, girls, boys, grandmothers, torn apart, violated, daughters raped atop of the bodies of their families, their friends, their loved ones.

 

To make things worse these beasts took hundreds of hostages from the Kibbutz and from the Festival.  Children as young as 4-5 months old, babies, girls, grandmothers, anyone they could get their hands on.  They took these people into Gaza strip, hiding them well in concealed tunnels that run for miles and from where they will most certainly never emerge. I dare not contemplate nor imagine what atrocities these incident lambs will witness. 

 

What have we become that we are worse than the nightmares we thought to create in books and movies? Who are we really when we dare not face the truth of our ugliness?

 

Today there is a mass exodus of over 1.1 million innocent Palestinian people.  Where are these people meant to go?   Israel has issued an ultimatum that Norther Gaza be evacuated, with hundreds of thousands of troops ready to march in at any moment.

 

The world holds its breath once again.  If we continue like this we will surely suffocate.

 

The curser on my screen continues to flicker on an off, a digital heart-beat as I watch words unravel from under my fingertips.

 

A deep dark sinking feeling is growing from inside my belly, a bloated distended sense of something imminent.  I pull a card and The Tower stares at me from my lap.  Death follows suit along with the Chariot Reverse.  The dank feeling creeps towards my mouth, a soundless groan. 

 

‘This is what they want’ my groan morphs into words.

 

‘This is exactly what these failed men with massive god complexes want.   The end of the World, or at least the World as we know it now. They want to tear it all down, reflecting what they feel about life themselves.’

 

And it occurs to me that when I had lost all conviction in life the one thing that gave me faith and hope, that brought me so much solace and comfort and led me through the darkness of my life, my choices and my deeds, is now the whole and solely one reason we are in this mess.  Its all God’s fault.

 

In His name we cut down our neighbors fields, in His name we burn babies in theirs beds as parents watch.   In His name the horrors that echo in the silence of the aftermath of the unspeakable madness that occurred that Sabbath morn.

 

I flicker through the internet, stopping here and there to collect more accounts of insanity.  A dogs head blown off, a young girls body being paraded through Gaza with a bullet to her head.  A now crimson container that held over 30 young bodies, still wearing their dancing clothes, all huddled in fear as grenades showered them, shredding limbs and heads from beautiful life filled bodies.

 

In one clip a young girl and a young boy hide huddled together under a tree.  She is still very much in a psychedelic state, her eyes are gorgeous and her pupils so wide they could fit the Milky way.  She is only 16, she could be my daughter.   Both remain quiet and look up at the blue sky that surrounds them in the eerie silence that follows the aftermath of the unthinkable.  Birds sing in the distance as the boy mouths 'Thank God we are still alive'.  I dare not contemplate the horrors that escaped from Gaza and came to haunt their small fragile young hearts…. My children, my lovely young children who were meant to be safe in My One and Only Church.  The Mind.

 

I contemplate all the times I have taken psychedelics, the beautiful wonderful awe filled places that I visited so often with such feelings of safety and belonging.  All this innocent space now defiled and left in tatters, the veil of the dimensions being withdrawn from our reach.  How could we spout empty promises of liberty and love ever again when all the while we lie?   There is no safety here nor there nor anywhere, we are at the mercy of something so vile and so unimaginably grotesque it does not even have a name.

 

Eris is Dead. All Hail Eris!

I recently received another email from Alistair, this time it came with an attachment in the form of Claudia’s funeral and wake; Ali’s previous mail was to announce her demise.  

 

For weeks I stumble from the Death of Claudia to the recent passing of my father-in-law Roger and that of my mother-in Law Brenda earlier this year.  Lately I have been in the presence of Death and have been driven to contemplate my own unavoidable mortality through the expiry of those that I love.

 

Claudia Eris was special to me, a mentor and a friend, someone who chose to actively don the avatar of Discordia throughout most of her life. She succeeded in headlining as the Chaos Goddess in other people’s psyche with unparalleled magnificence and style.  She was a pro who shone like a true star and had the type of outlandish magic that was capable of rendering the madness of life tolerable and the insanity of the surrounding world almost bearable.  Her passing has left a small indelible scar on my heart which I incessantly pick at, not forgiving myself for letting her last message to me go unanswered all those years ago.

 

I was introduced to Brenda 5 years ago, who was already in the initial stages of pulmonary dementia, courting death much earlier than any of us had realized.    Earlier this year however she developed breathing difficulties and began to forget the simplest of matters or tasks.  One day she woke in a muddled state and was taken to Eastbourne District where on the 23^rdof February she died alone in a hospital under siege of a Global Pandemic.  Brenda was the most selfless, loving, caring and uncomplicated person I had ever met.  I am so proud to have called her my mother-in-law and not a day goes by that I do not think about her.  I wish I could have held her hand one more time. 

 

Roger was already very disabled by the time I met him.  Two successive strokes had reduced him to using his walker permanently 18 years ago.  Eventually I witnessed Roger become weaker and weaker as prostate cancer steadily claimed him.  Finally he became nothing more than a bag of skin and bones on a hospice bed, the morphine driver keeping him in a perpetual state of twilight, between death and sleep, for weeks.  Yesterday on the 23^rd of December he too died alone, try as we all did to take shifts by his side.  One of the last songs we played for him was Frank Sinatra’s ‘I Did It My Way’.  His large bushy eyebrow twitched one final time as if to so ‘Yes I did do it my way didn’t I?’.

 

These people, my Family and my Friends, have affected me in equal measures.  In Life they shared with me the most precious thing we all have, Time.  We spent treasured moments of humbling, vulnerable humanity forging trinkets of memories; loving gestures of tea and biscuits, hugs and smiles, spinning fleeting chit chat whose essence is now lost in the fog of time.  

 

Their Death also heralds my own imminent expiry and impels me to examine life and answer to myself the sum of all my actions.  The autopsy of my deeds is a difficult task but the process leaves me happy to be here.  I have made some puerile mistakes and I have made some good choices but I am glad to be alive and able to retrospect and remember. 

 

Recently I found myself standing in the kitchen thinking of Claudia, thinking of the last time I spoke to her at Festival 23, recalling how the previous summer I had travelled with her to Stonehenge for 2015 Solstice. At the time I had made a flimsy attempt at a blog about our adventure but never followed up, eventually misplacing my notes after my old MacBook crashed.  

 

Now, standing in the dark kitchen during a moment of stirring inebriation I felt Claudia’s absent presence so intense and overwhelming that it led me to declare if Claudia wanted to prove to me there is something beyond the Veil this would be her opportunity.  I marched up to my notebook and without much thought I opened the first document I came across in a defunct iCloud account and up popped the lost blog entry recalling the Solstice with Claudia. 

 

Reading it is embarrassing, an amateur attempt at documenting something wonderous and special, a flailing endeavor at writing, but the essence is indubitably there.  Firstly, there is the ultimatum of what was just agreed to in the kitchen; prove to me you are there, somehow, somewhere.  Then there is the fact that this lost blog was a private encounter between Claudia and I, no one else knew of its existence. 

 

Perhaps all this is chance or coinci-dance, as my friend Steve would quip.  But I know Claudia and I know she would say, ‘Just accept what is, do not question and do not doubt, it just is, Kali.’

 

 

 

 

June 2015

 

Mesmerized I watch as green and silver sheaths of wheat and barley softly rock back and forth, a verdant swaying sea as the wind races gently across the hills and vales of Wiltshire. Eris sits next to me with a fawn felt hat drawn down around her wild gold and silver hair, partially covering eyes that reflect the endless beauty of the countryside speeding by on our way to Stonehenge.  Smiling she reaches into her bag and passes me a small bottle filled with mushroom tea. 

 

We make small talk; I am trying ever so hard to impress her but it’s nothing she hasn’t seen or heard before. Instead, she grins and reaches behind her neck.

 

“I want you to have this.  Harvey and I whittled it, it’s just a small piece of wood we gave no particular shape to, it just is”, she explains as she removes it and places it over my head and around my own neck.  The carving is hung with a piece of soft brown leather, familiar, comfortable, original like Claude. It settles neatly on my skin and fills me with warmth and love.  

 

We arrive at the visitors centre and proceed to walk amongst the thousands of other pilgrims that are also making their way to the Stones. A river of bodies stretches for what seems like miles.  

 

We travel along green beside fields of poppies and lilac blossoms watching Wiltshire gently undulate in the twilight.  Claudes laughs and encourages me to take my shoes off then prompts me towards the soft grass and country flowers.

 

From afar we can hear drumming coming from the Stones and as the Sun begins to set we arrive just in time to Perch near a Sarson.  With Claudia by my side I watch in silent wonder as the Sun dives beyond the hills.  Long shadows are cast over the thousands that have come together to celebrate.

 

Claudia asks me to walk her around the Stones a couple of times and it is evident there are many people there that know her.  An endless stream of fans come to say hello until finally she tires.  We end up nestled on two fallen Bluestones near the entrance of Circle.  Stretching back completely I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to my chin and look up at the constellations with a smile.  With my free hand I rumble through a couple of pockets and fish out a small lighter and a silver pipe conveniently filled with hashish.  I manage to light it under my wrap with little effort.  Inhaling deeply I regard the heavens as I recline back on one of the oldest Temples in the world.

 

We watch as the midsummer zodiac makes its precession above our heads, this could be one of the most magical nights of my life.

 

As the solstice draws to its peak many revelers settle down to rest; imagine the biggest sleepover in the world.

 

During the brief night we visit friends here and there, people exchange hellos and hugs.  This goes on all night until the sky in the East begins to glow a soft honey gold.  Above, the sky is still a deep indigo that turns to magenta, then the velvet of the night sky eventually ripples into a deep blue.  Small passing clouds are set alight as they begin to glow an electric pink.  

 

The Sun begins to crest, lighting the surrounding vales and countryside, revealing a hidden landscape before our very eyes.  Everything seems to burst with effervescent life as Shamesh majestically makes His way over the distant hills. 

 

I look around to find Claudia and Susanna standing close behind.  They say hello then Claudia suggests we depart in order to avoid the exiting masses.  I take one final look around and glean Puck resting against a Stone, mandolin at hand, slowly strumming a medieval tune.

 

‘Bye Bye Stonehenge’ I whisper to no one in particular.

Barbelo the Shekina

Once again I find myself looking upward towards the great expanse as Levanah scales the twilight sky all silver and haze in Her Vernal Glory.

 

Lately I have been keeping company with the idea of Barbelo, otherwise known as ‘Shekina’, both the second and the final letter to the Tetragrammaton.

 

Barbelo, the Mother and simultaneously the Daughter of the Powers of Powers, second only to the Yod that makes up the Holy name of the Ancient of Days, pretty heavy principles right?

 

But what are they? What can they mean? Is there any point in attempting to decipher something that has its roots in origins stranded millennia ago on the forgotten shores of time?  

 

Sure there is! The Ancestors would have been alluding to something that is so sacred it is hidden in plain sight. This is how it has always been, the most profane mysteries are the simplest ones.

 

Many old school Rabbis, with a few modern ones also, maintain the reason and the solution to everything is right under our noses;  between our bottom lips and our noses to be more precise.  The answer to all the world’s questions is hidden in the act of Breathing.

 

Inhale and notice the sharp, near silent ‘ii’ sound that accompanies our breath? That is the fabled Yod.  Next exhale and focus on that sound.  Yes a melodic ‘hhaa’.  Both of these principles, in essence the act of one breathing cycle, is the closest thing we will get to experiencing God. 

 

The process of inhaling, the very first thing we do when we exit the womb, is the beginning of our Life, whereas the act of exhalation is the product of processing the initial inhalation, and so to does Life cascade into the rivers of time.

 

And yes, the initial the Haa, or Hey as it is known, is the first cyclical act we collectively take, it does not translate to anything coherent so to speak, but it is the foundation of existence.

 

Next up is the Vav, the Son or the Bridegroom.  It is an elongated Yod , the Flame that descends upon the initial process of the first breath and consequently birth, the first source of positive understanding that we are alive.  Prior to this everything is questionable, but the second portion of the Tetragrammaton  verily confirms the act of Life, with the final exhalation of Hey being the one that confirms consciousness; I AM and I AM ALIVE, and so in agreement with the scrolls and the books, the first and second Hey are Spirit and Consciousness accordingly. 

 

In support of what has just been written, on the Tree of Life Keter, the Head or Crown of the Tree has the holy name of IEHIEH, I AM THAT I AM, whereas Malkuth, the Kingdom, has the holy name of AHER ASHER AHER, translating to ‘I will be what I will be’, birth being the first act, consciousness the second. ‘I am and I will be’, and this completes the closed circuit of any individuals’ life.

 

Shekina or Barbelo, both referenced in the Old testament and many other texts and gnostic scrolls, is also known as ASHER whose roots finds it’s way to an ancient Sumerian Deity, the counterpart of Baal. Asher was the keeper of understanding and wisdom, divine influence so to speak, but notice how ASHER also seems to reflect the holy name of Malkuth, AHEI ASHER AHEI?  Indeed wisdom seems to have made Her presence known in many religions throughout the Aeons, and perplexingly enough she seems to have taken very similar sounding names and features.

 

What were the scholars trying to convey?  Why did they expend lifetimes trying to decipher and record meditations and studies often involving rigorous fasting, abstinence, isolation and many times persecution? What was so compelling ?

 

My prolonged isolation and contemplation suggests to me that it might perhaps be the other way round, that the Shekina is attempting to connect with us, on an individual and a collective level, Her experience transpersonal but also a numinous and ongoing process, a flickering flame waiting to baptize all of us in the exact holy fire that descended on the Apostles, the one that burned brightly in the bush Abraham so readily and willingly would have sacrificed his son to. In my opinion another metaphor for cutting away with childish things and embracing spiritual maturity resilient enough to endure what was to proceed ie Death.

 

The sparks of flames that Barbelo ignites glow within all of us but perhaps it is up to the individual to keep the embers alive and maybe this is why old age seems so cold, because we forget to breathe. We forget Shekina and sound of Her Voice, what some might refer to as conscience, but She is conscience and consciousness all in one breath and we know and understand this process intimately when we first begin to glean what is ‘Good’ and what “Bad’ although we have not yet been concretely taught these principles by our parents.

 

Shekina is also known as Kundalini, the Serpent, coiled at the base of our spines waiting to join Her Bridegroom as She ascends the stairway to Heaven, more esoteric principles to baffle, but perhaps not.  Both King David and Solomon the Wise sung about the effects of the Shekina and the mystical Alchemical marriage that happens once all the doors of perception have been opened.  

 

Very sexually suggestive and not isolated in their salacious and libidinous cantsicles, the intense erotic and sensual nature of Barbelo seems to be consistent throughout the scriptures, often building an atmosphere of carnal tension that the Jews have to satiate conjugally every SABBATH at precisely 3 am whilst employing a series of Mantras known to them, in an effort to ejaculate by meditating on being the Bridegroom and the Bride simultaneously.

 

Heavy stuff right?  But there are legions of religions that base their most sacred rituals around this principle.  Brother Crowley dedicated most of his fortune in an attempt to create the fabled ‘Moon Child’ through such practices. 

 

Perhaps it is during such rituals, which nearly the whole of humanity partake in when we fuck, that we all come closest to facing the Shekina, for it seems that within that moment of surrender and release that we all know splendor in its most purest forms; the potential spark of life waiting to seed another Tree.

 

At 50 without any offspring and with no inclination to execute further said ritual but I feel Barbelo within me burning brighter than ever before.  The more I abstain the more Shekina awakes and sends shivers up and down my spine.  Sometimes I feel Her wanting to gush through my legs and with a quick inhalation I send Her spiraling like a tornado made of flames, a twirling sword made of fire, up my spine, piercing my senses, reminding me to push higher, push the Dragon toward the Citadel of the Crown, do not let the Water and Fire escape, return it home and transubstantiate it into a Jewel.

 

It is then that Barbelo returns with more force than ever, a ten mile high tsunami, a black wave of immense proportions that annihilates my memories, my ego, my life, everything I ever believed to be important and real.  She fills me with the Knowledge that everything is perfect as it is, no Good, no Evil, just ‘Is’.

 

It is in that ‘Is’ that the Crown Jewel may be found, the origin of Her existence, Dante’s Heaven from Hell. Shekina originates and returns to the cycle of the flames of Yod.  A Perfect point in the Universe rotating upon Itself constituting the Axis Universum, Her coming's and going’s keep the Point twirling.

 

Look closer toward the tip of the Flame a terrible vision awaits you, it is NO-THING that is the Originator and NOT;  this contradiction of sanity is what maintains NO-THING and ALL.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nexuses

Today I stood still in the middle of the path I was trailing and just 30-40 feet from where I was a juvenile goshawk remained perched on a low branch regarding me intently.

 

It did not fly away when I attempted a couple of closer paces, it just tilted its head in that particular and familiar falcon way and spied as I came towards it.

 

Taking my jacket off and extended my arms to mimic a bird in flight, I started to dance in a clockwise direction occasionally looking up to survey it, it turned to get a better look and this is how we remained for a good minute or two, me dancing it watching, then it flew off low into a neighboring field that was being ploughed.

 

Jumping over the rusty tracks I was following I quickly made haste in order to steal another glimpse of my bird admirer but it was gone. Fleeting delicate moments of magick that dissolve in the River of Time…

 

I can see Pluto, Charon, Saturn and Jove tonight, behind me Aphrodite shines the brightest.  It is a little after dark and the dusty clouds that covered the skies today have now blown away, it is time for the stars to make their appearance.  My fire is blazing orange in the night, popping and hissing as the flames lap the sides of the large log I have just deposited.

 

My time to return to Babylon draws near with the knowledge that these moments are treasures to cherish and recall when the madness gets too much, but the madness not only seems to be getting ‘too much’, it is most likely taking over.

 

A week ago Afghanistan returned to violence and darkness with the Taliban taking over after the recession of the Armed Forces that were there to maintain peace, but peace did not seem to want to stay.  And so in acts of malicious madness the executions, beheadings and stonings returned with a vengeance; children and women paying the highest price for daring to dream the most.  Jesus wept.

 

Fires are ravaging South and Central Europe with Siberia also seeing the highest temperatures on record.  Central America is also aflame and Earthquakes are claiming thousands of lives in Haiti, this world is being annihilated by human vanities and there is nothing we can do.

 

Perhaps if I petition the stars could there be something they could do?  And how does one discourse with stars? Occasionally the books I read reference certain sacred languages although many times I find myself questioning the authors of these dialects and how is it they came about? Apparently the words are fashioned in such a way for me to be able to make sense of a system created to marry the stars with the human form, namely Adam Kadmon, but why am I to believe something a group of men generated in a paroxysm of their self-importance and delusions?  And yet there is nothing similar I can employ or work with in my endeavor to appeal to the constellations and heavenly bodies that have been with us since our inception.

 

I have started dreaming in this language now, often my dreams are accompanied by visions of a White Hawk, I am clueless as to how to interpret this, but I assume my psyche is shedding the language of Babylon and adopting something more befitting, I am simply worried that I am investing precious time looking for tools in techniques that have no actual function, just entertaining to the intellect, akin to creating structures in the mind that are just that, solely in the mind.  Were these men deluded or is there method to their seeming madness?

 

In the middle of the Australian Outback my principal lingua franca with the galactic forefathers have been my emotions and feelings as I encounter the beauty of Gaia and the majesty of the Cosmos, everything else seems to be futile, my only genuine connection with the All are the chemicals produced in my nervous system and brain when beauty appears in my reality.

 

Perhaps these ancient languages have been created to prepare the mind for the eventuality of Death and give it structure as to how to maintain some semblance of human familiarity for when the Veil is drawn.  But if we can commune with celestial bodies and events in the thereafter perhaps there is some way to call for help whilst we are still corporal.

 

The clouds have returned but my fire is bright and hot and although all the other stars are hidden in the darkness now, Chronos and Venus are still with me and so quietly I intreat them to look down and take pity.

 

In some of the texts I am studying Saturn is the abode of Fire known as Shin and is the Mouth of Adam in anthropo-astro associations, whereas Venus is East or West according to which system you are studying, and is associated with the left nostril.  These nexuses are relative and open to personal interpretation and study. 

 

Should I refrain from the temptation to breathe out fire and incinerate everything I know to be Evil or do I simply use the Fire to encourage the Serpent known in lay terms as Kundalini to ascend the Central Column?

 

And yes these simple mediations are all I have all I can offer in the face of this adversity that is Humanity and that I am part of.  

 

My fire is now ambers and even the last stars have deserted me and my musings. 

 

 

 

Selene and Jove

A while ago I left all things civilized behind and headed off to the jungles of Costa Rica with a lover who was over a decade older than me.  Apart from being a champion cyclist he was a tantric master, our time in the mountains of Rica were spent mostly naked and exploring all things carnal.  No electricity, no roads, if he were to choose so I could have disappeared, melted into the darkness of the jungle and no one would have ever looked for me nor found me if they did.

 

Besides from being yogic in his abilities to rouse the Kundalini he was also a deeply intrinsic and spiritual individual who had something more than just a prodigious penis.

 

Olympo was also an expert in all things Avian, he was adept when it came to creatures with wings, his favorite the Northern Eagle.  One evening whilst we were locked in our tantric dance he narrated the story of the rebirth of the eagle.  Apparently when an Eagles reaches 40 years of age they are so weighed down by beaten and dirty feathers that their plumage becomes a thing of confinement, a grisly disarray of matted quills and tangled down, what was once the source of their power becomes the thing that impedes them and renders them vulnerable because they can no longer fly nor feed, they are as good as dead.

 

And so in a feat of tremendous tenacity and strength they land near the top of a mountain and proceed to pluck their own feathers, beak-full by beak-full, until finally they as bare as the day they were hatched.  Then on surrounding rocks they repeatedly slam their beaks until they break and in this state of even greater vulnerability they remain for over 5 months until new plumage and beak are restored.

 

At the time I gave this beautiful bit of love making no real consideration, we said so much more besides, and the myth of the Reborn Eagle was put aside in the recesses of my memories of that time, a mnemonic chest of sorts that hold transpersonal treasures waiting to be curated when the moment is right.

 

Thousands of miles away on the other side of Gaia years later I sit by my small fire made from cured acacia and eucalyptus and watch as Selene rises sterling and perfect in the Southern Skies, convoyed by Jove with four of its moons on full display, chaperoned by Saturn who tonight bares witness to this celestial alignment during an August Full Moon.

 

All of the surrounding nature is silent as Luna ascends to execute her dance in the Heavens above.  I hear little birds occasional chirp in the dark bushes behind me and crows muttering down in the Eucalyptus grove, but other than the occasional tweet everything seems to have given over to this heavenly display.

 

It is in this moment of stillness and quiet that I come to glean the full meaning of Olympo’s allegorical and cryptic tale.  The myth itself, as any google search would attest, is exactly that,  just a myth. But behind this fable, in that libidinous moment fired by the ecstasy of our breathes and bodily fluids, I overlooked one minute detail, it is not so much the story, rather the message hidden in the parable that must be heeded. Olympo gave up so many mysteries, however in the paroxysm of my carnal elations my treasure chest remains considerably bare, still when the time is right its treasures will make their way to this blog.

 

Under the Full Moon in this moment of divine inspiration the mysteries begin to unfurl and their messages take hold in the empire of my mind. Accompanied by the myth of the Eagle Reborn, I sit in solace with Jupiter and Saturn as the Light of Shaddai brings back what is mine:  an understanding of true personal nature and the need for rebirth and resurrection, no matter how painful nor how mortifying it might seem.

 

Cradled in the arms of convenience and comfort we overlook the importance of transformation and transpersonal transfiguration.  This metamorphosis is the pinnacle of Life’s reason but we maintain to live a life in complete and stagnant devolution for fear of the discomfort and pain that metamorphosis might bring. 

 

I will not lie to you, it hurts.  It hurts when the cocoon of your entire life raptures, when you realise the fallacy of your entire existence, the fact that your entire life has been centered around a lie, the lie that an antiquated and outdated system has imposed upon you, the fact that you might be a product of transient desires, values and prejudices, not all entirely yours.

 

These seeded desires and the dross of rotten fruit that is offered you as a certain way of life slowly enshrouds you, envelopes you, until like our legendary Eagle you cannot fly any longer.  Similarly to our Eagle this happens around 40 for most of us.  So what are you gonna do?

 

Most often we have no other choice but to continue in our dead-end jobs, our dead-end relationships, our inert and comfortable lives, wings clipped and bound there is no way out.

 

Why is it that we try to silence the raging fire that pecks at our sides and keeps us awake at night?  Why is it we turn away at our screaming faces in the mirror, gradually avoiding our reflections as time goes by?  Is it because we fear that we have no control, that there is nothing we can do to encounter the unavoidable?  And what is the unavoidable?  Old age? Death? The deep wrinkles under our eyes and around our lips?  All of these things and no-thing of the above. The transition  into our destiny has only one way, through the Pyre and into the Water, utter transformation and dissolution of all that is worthless and of no use. Death is one way to look behind the veil of change, there are others too if we are brave enough.

 

I can see Callisto, Europa, Io and Ganymede with my binoculars, its enchanting, the sky is so bright, how fortunate am I to be bathing in this spectacle? The Snake-Barer is dancing with the Eagle and the Swan rises.

 

For those friends still interested in what happened with my mother well nothing happened, nothing at all and that is the exact point, the things we seem to think are important, the feelings we hold valuable are just a lie, it’s maya all the way, all I had to do was let go of the things that did me harm, one of them happens to be her.  That’s just how it is, another feather lost. 

 

Another log on the fire. Sweet fragrant incense for you Diana.

 

The Kingdom groans under the weight of Humanity’s Vanities but change has to come.