OM.G
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Posted:Apr 20, 2021 5:18 pm
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 10:00 am
6788 Views
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*. *. *
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Aphrodite Rising
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Posted:Apr 19, 2021 3:45 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:59 am
5394 Views
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Dear Reader,
This is the last and final installment of my short story Mephistopheles Salinas Gets Laid. I wrote it last week and have been holding it. I planned post it Tuesday night. Well... Change of plans.
I wanted take a moment Dedicate this story to the Ladies this site who inspired . You are a Conglomerate of Aphrodite. I have been cold and fucked and my heart has been empty for a while but I gladly invite your influence in my sphere.
I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing. ... Writing is both pleasure and pain.
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Agent 007
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Posted:Apr 6, 2021 3:30 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:56 am
6793 Views
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Mephistopheles Salinas Gets Laid (Part One)
The lambent flame flickered over the dark candles. Dragon's blood essential oils permeated the room, as incense smoke faded into the walls and the ceilings, in the make shift cave, one of three cave like dwellings, established to contain the spells.
I was sitting on a faux leather chair, at a desk, both purchased at the local thrift store. I held a transfixed gaze into a sacred space, seeing or feeling a savage fierceness behind my own eyes.
On the desk was a makeshift altar, composed of a small, independent wooden shelf that I found on a garbage heap and... Repurposed. You might say. A black bandanna, stained by blood, covered the shelf. I had the bandanna for a while, at length I forget. On the altar was an assortment of objects. Sacred objects. A lapis amulet, a Cross pen, columbian emeralds set in yellow gold, amethyst, obsidian, tourmaline, moldavite, Holy oil, and other items.
Crowning the altar was a citrine crystal tower.
At the base of the altar was a circular shaped carving, made from a tree, fallen by lightening, from my family estate. The carving represented the Kaosphere, and had a wide variety of applications; your imagination is your only limitation.
Suddenly a tunnel began to form, beginning in the depths of my perception, extending to the forefront of my mind's eye. There was a swirling imagery at the periphery of the tunnel. I could not tell if these were entities, memories, or both... Memories and entities.
I held this state of thought. This thought form. Without being able to discern the type or kind, with exactitude. I stared into the periphery, as I held the thought. I could feel a certain sorrowful impulse in my heart. Maybe they were entities; maybe they were memories. Memories or entities. My past held both, and both contained sorrow inducing qualities.
What I have learned to do is laugh. This will make the ghosts go away, with certitude. And I did. Laugh. In my mind. Nothing can touch me or hurt me. Can you not see my scars. I say. Silently. In my mind.
I have known banishment and therefore I may banish.
I decided to go for a run. I decided to initiate the operation.
*. *. *
The crisp spring air and the night captivated my senses. To be in the meeting place between two seasons, I could see, simultaneously, the extend of the two, like being between parallel depth and height. Like being shipwrecked out to sea, in between parallel ocean and sky. One becomes the other. The sky is upside down, an upside down sky. Like Heaven upside down. Heaven becomes Hell and Hell becomes Heaven. An exquisite convergence of terror and serenity. Like a self aware dream enfolding into itself, in a state of self realization, elevating in a vision of spirals of smoke...
... Running is a meditational activity to me. I've heard it said that running is a way of teaching yourself to exert your will upon things, in a magical way, by pushing through the physical boundaries, introduced by seemingly impenetrable cardiovascular walls.
Seemingly mirroring such a sentiment, that of running as a fortification of will, I saw this video, where this guy replaced drugs with running. If it works, use it. Poly paradigmatic.
The road at my feet presented a stabilizing firmness as my body started to move. I could hear my feet finding their rhythm, followed by the pace of my breathing, as I increased the volume on my music player, and departed into the night.
I love the empty world. Spaces echoing with the dissipated remnants of shapes and movements of the day light.
I crossed the empty street, running past an industrial building, a Subway, a Burger Joint, a Car Dealership, making it to the Highland Street tributary I was seeking, which passed a few office buildings that produced itinerant light and spaces. I ran past a few houses, staying on the grass, finding a rhythm.
From there the run became like a current to follow.
I read this article about free diving. Into the Blue. These people who break records for the deepest dives, packing their lungs full of air. At a certain depth, they just relaxed and got sucked into the void, as the currents and buoyancy levels took them down into the underworld. Life - Meditation - Thought.
I think this is like distance running. Going into deep waters. There is a serenity to the kinetic force and gravity that comes about.
Embraced by shadows. The houses I passed were solemn and seeming to be asleep.
I turned when I got to the graveyard. A deep solemnity. We're all just dead skin. I thought of an old friend who appeared with tattooed letters on his fingers... DEAD SKIN... I read the words as I inspected the new ink.
"That's all we are." He said, as his green mohawk pointed at the sky.
In the graveyard, a deeper texture of darkness was prevalent. My awareness shifted, instinctually prepared for flaws on the path. There were no flaws. Everything is perfect. I trained my legs and they formed a solid base of movement. The music in my ear buds plays: The Closed Casket Album.
The darkness loomed and seemed to be alive, like wave form notes of jazz music, written by entities who had received the revelation of death.
This was the part of the run where I began to drift in the darkness. Lost in my thoughts, amidst the ancient trees and graveyard monuments and darkness that pulsated like magnetic icebergs in Antarctic, ice laden waters, glowing with depth.
Life is the blink of an eye on a deep breath that preceded a dive into the deeps and the depths like dying and being reborn into the solemnity of synchronicity.
And my legs carried me out of this wilderness of contemplation and truth. I saw a car's headlights speed past, feeling the centrifugal force generated by the car's weight, moving through time and space.
I sent a biochemical message, from my brain to my body, as I made slow motion of reality, perceiving the synapses flooding with microcosmic entities that sent into the inner space network of nervous systems and catacombs. I sped up the pace, my arms pumping in forty five degree angles as sharp as gleaming razors.
I could feel a transference of alternative vibrations, similar to those of the graveyard, as I approached a park that was established next to the water, a scenic refuge for families, photographers, and escapist travelers.
I picked up the speed again, tearing through the hills and a winding path through a darkness pulsating with water spirits, exiting the park, taking a side street, crossing a bridge, running past a nature preserve, past the shadowy trees of another park located in a more primal area, exhibited by the nature and the texture of the midnight fabric of the waving pennants that were placed upon this path, this path that seemed like a pathway of the immortals.
Past the park were a few expensive condominiums and houses, as well as houses built at varying epochs of time.
As I drew near my destination, I felt like a 007 Agent, which seems appropriate, given the destination, as 007 was inspired by the sigil employed by John Dee, in his his correspondences with Queen Elizabeth.
The destination? The House of Satan.
*. *. *
The House of Satan. The Satanic House. There really was no official name for the location.
A staple of local lore, I first heard the story at a dilapidated apartment building that was a haven for fiendish squatters. I stopped there, momentarily, and smoked some hashish out of a wooded pipe, carved with strange symbols.
I remember the pride and mystery in the aire of the owner, as he removed it from a bag made of quilted patchwork.
What got us on the topic of such things was the pentagram, drawn on my associate's hand, as he was into a whole lot of countercultural interests, and had the demeanor of an intriguing and frightening individual.
"Dude, are you a Satanist?"
The question was met by a cold gaze.
"Have you heard of the House of Satan?" He continued, as though his question was answered and an invitation was made to engage in conversation.
I, being a connoisseur of exotic information, immediately encouraged him to continue, refilling the pipe and casting my attention upon the story teller.
He told of an enormous house with a very long driveway and statues of goats.
He did not know the location of the house, just that the legend had been passed down from generation to generation.
*. *. *
From this point on, the legend was in the forefront of my thoughts. I believed. I always believe. But how in the hell could I find out more. I grieved the broken chains of history.
It is strange how your wants and your desires can attract things to your hemispheres.
I would find the key to the kingdom in a somewhat unlikely source: a fugitive in an alley way, with whom I exchanged money for merchandise.
He had a few more pieces of the puzzle. There was a house. A Satanic House. A House of Satan. There were goat statues. There was also a wishing well, with a glowing pentagram at the bottom. There was also an approximate location.
I nearly forgot about the large bag of neon green, aspirin sized tablets, in the hidden pocket of my Hilfiger denim jacket.
After some dedicated recognizance, I found the house. And there were... Goats.
The property, on which the house was built, was extensive; the front driveway was the length of two football fields; there was a wall around the parameter. To the right of the main yard was a forest of trees, all equal in size and stature, with a separate entry way, this being two pillars and a gate, a miniature of the design of the entry way of the main driveway.
To me, and no one else, there were unspeakable treasures through those gates, behind those walls.
I had to know. Gnosis above all things.
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Thou Shall Be Illuminated
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Posted:Mar 29, 2021 9:25 pm
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:56 am
5594 Views
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Do you believe in reincarnation? Transmigration of souls. Do you believe in the signs? The strangers and the signposts. Things that emerge from an existential scaffolding that challenge the powers of perception and defy the powers of language? Do you believe in synchronicity?
Do you believe in the supernatural? An all encompassing term. The far . That which is reminiscent of an acid trip. A grouping of disparate things that researchers propose are all connected. From ghosts to ufo's to cryptozoological creatures and beyond.
WTF+W in thee F=Strange
Strangeness. Or Weirdness (as coined by Eric Davis).
So... I live by Lake Michigan. Have all my life. Other than temporary/extended excursions to far away lands. LM, unbeknownst to many, is a strange body of water. There is actually an area on the body known as the Lake Michigan Triangle, having a government mandate requirement of planes, flying over, to check in every 5 minutes (approximately). Not to mention sightings of strange lights, orbs, and events that belong in the Missing 4 documentary. Amongst other things.
There was a time when I had never really visited the areas by the lake. Growing up, I worked summers for my dad, on a concrete crew, and basically stayed around my area of town. "The lake" seemed like something... Other. Basically of sight of mind.
some point, I met someone who knew about these areas. I very exuberantly insisted she show me the house where the writer of the Wizard of Oz purportedly lived.
The house was built on a sand dune. From the vantage point of the road, the view was like looking up a Chicago skyscraper. Wow. I was awestruck. Even though the idea of this being the house was a rumor, not confirmed by official sources, I believed. (I recently saw a documentary, that my mom recorded for me a while back, showing that in fact he did live there). The idea occurred to me that maybe I could write books like that, someday. I was filling notebooks of poetry at the time. Like writing ALL the time. Ideas perpetually bursting forth in my mind. Learning to watch the unfolding of a thought, and falling in love.
Around this time, I started frequenting local areas that I would consider to be sacred locations. I felt a strange energy. I believe there is a spirit that inhabits locations. A numen, if you will. It was just a feeling. Later confirmed by the idea of Shinto shrines and quantifiable energy vortexes. Or the genius of the desert/mountains. Or, presiding deities.
* *. *
The Wizard of Oz always held a certain fascination for me, as I am shore it did with you as well, fellow searcher. For me, the fascination was coupled with something like a nameless dread.
My maternal side of the family (3 uncles/3 aunts/cousins) used to gather at my grandma's big-beautiful house to watch the annual broadcasting. All technicolor like.
Given the fascination that Oz inspires, it is no surprise that there are a plethora of meanings ascribed to the production. (From gold standard theories to MK Ultra/Project Monarch theories to theories concerning Occult initiation).
As a , of course, you and I watched with open hearts and open minds, pure. And yet. There was something about it. Calling out from behind the veil. Perhaps a state of recognition, like gods with amnesia.
I would later go on to study story structures, the hero's journey, and the Occult, which provided a language of thought that permitted me to analyze things in a more refined way, having the potential to pull things from behind the veil, where the Wizard resides.
Recently, I was looking at a first draft manuscript that I wrote, placed upon a shelf. As I wrote it, I described it as Alice in Wonderland meets Oz meets Star Wars. The story has elements in the basic story structure of the stages of the physiological effects of a DMT trip. I wrote the book for my (my first novel), who I have not had a chance to interact with (long story of course), so that someday he would know that I was thinking of him. (I actually wanted to send it to him but had to adapt to shifting circumstances). I put his name in the title and wrote it after hearing about the sorts of things he was interested in, which reflected my interests in many ways. I wrote 00 words a . It took about 8 months to complete.
I had seen references to alternative points of view, regarding Oz, but never had a chance to really into it. What I found was astounding, and illuminating.
Essentially, Frank L. Baum had a path that was similar to mine, in regard to esoteric interests and attraction to letter.
I trod the areas that inspired the yellow brick road. I parked at night by the castle that inspired the emerald tower. (without knowing the history of these places). I conferred with the same numen, the same presiding deity, as I sat atop a giant sand dune, gazing at the stars.
The same sacred locations that inspired the Wizard of Oz inspired my ideas for books.
As I looked further into the matter, a new piece of the illumination came to me, in the strange land of this rabbit hole: I have the same date of birth as Frank L. Baum.
WTF+W in thee F=Strange.
Strangeness. Weirdness.
Do you, fellow searcher, believe in coincidences, as they become increasingly-mathematically-less probable? Do you believe in coincidences at all? Do we exist in a magical universe? If so, imagine the possibilities.
*. *. *
May the universe communicate with you, in the most beautiful of languages, about the most beautiful of things. May you receive these things with an open heart and an open mind. May you be fortified in all circumstances.
- O
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Killer Clowns From Outer Space
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Posted:Mar 24, 2021 11:02 pm
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:55 am
5597 Views
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There a few book ideas in my mind. Thus far I have written four manuscripts of poetry, novel manuscripts and some essays.
One of the novels is what would describe as Alice in Wonderland meets The Wizard of Oz meets Star Wars. I never imagined I would write such a boo Mysterious ways. The other is a story about a group of Kaos magicians, a strange figure, and the Demiurge. The story revolves around a technological surveillance state i.e. the will to singularity. It takes place in what I would call: Mysterious Michigan. I have an idea for a continuation of the story. It is far the fuck out.
One of my dreams is to start a publishing company down the road. Someday I would like to have my own poetry and novel manuscript contests, in order to facilitate the development of emerging writers. I am a proponent of the Pandaemoneon.
One of my unwritten ideas is one that revolves around online dating.
I just think the concept is fascinating. To think there was a time when no such avenue existed, and now, what is it... or of five marriages began online?
Jaques Vallée, one of the creators of the internet, considered the internet to be an alien entity. A curious thing to say. Vallee is the inspiration for the doctor in Steven Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
I have only met a few people online, in the past. I remember the strange feeling of watching their words flow across the screen, in an instant message box. And somehow making enough of an impression on them to make them want to meet me. And the transition to interpersonal communication. I guess it depends on the person, but if they are a person of substance, the experience is multi layered and like magic, in terms of human history.
Of course there is a dark side to the internet, if you would call it that, a side cloaked in a smog of toxicity, maybe in a state of expansion. I think it is an interesting point, in conjunction with the idea of the internet as alien entity. What kind of entity?
Think of this. How would we know if an alien was a psychopath (in terms of an alien standard).
Some say that people can be ravenously cruel.
Some say it is only the internet. Could this potential minimization be true? Is the message the medium? What of the medium? The recipients? Everything has far reaching effects; everything counts.
I think I've been around phenotypes that the world considers the worst of the worst, some of which were my friends. A different medium perhaps, but nevertheless provides a unique perspective.
Maybe it's like Tyler Durden said...
Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hat so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.
These are just aspects of the alien entity.
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1984
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Posted:Mar 23, 2021 9:30 pm
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:55 am
4830 Views
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Of the American Horror Story variety.
In general, I am a fan of the series. I think the creators are talents of the highest order. I have wondered if they have insider knowledge of the afterlife, or the supernatural, in general. The actors/actresses are also very talented, and capable of channeling a most vivid vision of the macabre.
Murder House? One almost has the feeling of at least a plausibility of the strange. Coven? Fiona, women in black, visions of the infernal. Cult? A blue haired Michigan man, the battle of the sexes, the Zodiac Killer? Apocalypse? Natas Satan Natas Natas Satan, the witches and warlocks, time travel? 1984? Technicolor opening credits, summer camp, The Night Stalker.
I always waited in anticipation for a new episode.
I was listening to The Living , by Mike and Mechanics, a song that plays at the end of AHS 1984 season, as the father watches his going free into the world, saved.
I found the selection, perhaps, uncanny, as my father liked this song. I remember him telling me about it. Him describing the part (I wasn't there that morning/when my father passed away/I didn't get to tell him/all the things I had to say/I think I caught his spirit later that same year/I'm sure I heard his echo in my baby's new born tears/I just wish I could have told him in the living .
Beautiful lyrics. My dad liked that part, especially, because his father passed and he was out of state. I was a few months . There was a strange connection between my grandfather and myself. I am told that the first time I was seen I had my grandfather's face, which slowly morphed into that of a baby. I understand this is an omen, regarding the qualities of the baby.
I wasn't there either. The morning my father passed away. Strange, how aspects of history rhyme. Like a holographic fractal. I never cried or told anyone about it. Just. Silent. Knowing-daring-willing-silence.
In tha past, I have said that the loss of love is like the death of God. I still think this true, or it is at least the illusion of the death of God. Honestly, I sometimes explore the labyrinth of first love. (most of the time my feelings are dead, I think). I have even pondered the neural/bio chemical structure of love and memory. Do you find it curious that a neuron, in and of itself, is merely a mechanical structure, and, a bio chemical, merely a molecular structure, and yet they formulate a unique human experience. Is there more to that narrative?
Nevertheless, these things are me explore the outer limits, like the creators of AHS.
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Alchemy
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Posted:Mar 23, 2021 1:12 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:54 am
4185 Views
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They say it is a process. Maybe it is.
I still haven't been able to cry. Even though I feel like it sometimes. I don't think crying is part of the process. Lately I have been putting on music and laying in the darkness, with white noise in the background. Morbid?
I was thinking of my uncle. He used to tell me stories about how he saw Batman at the bar last night, or he hung out with the Leprechaun, or The Gremlins, or Chucky. I believed him because it was him. And it made me happy.
Later in life, at his secret hideaway apartment, by the expressway, he asked if I remembered the stories. I said yes. Seeming to relive the spirit of the age, the zeitgeist, and yet, ahead of space and time, he said if he saw Chucky he would tell him to have to have a seat and be cool, offer him a beer. Anything you want Chucky. Somehow, it was just as real as any other time he told me the story.
In a Chucky marathon, I was moved by a declarative and aspirational statement made by him: I am me, and I dig it.
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Holy Wood
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Posted:Mar 23, 2021 12:15 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:54 am
4113 Views
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TOATEOT II
So I have tentatively taken to calling this space. Are you ready for it? Bloggywood. I have this thing for originality and Margaritaville was taken. No more jokes from me. My jokes are worse than the Joker's. The joker as played by Joaquin Phoenix. (The first movie I saw out of the monastery and I empathize). But it is not really a joke. Bloggywood, in a pristine sense, seems appropriate to me. There are writers around here who are upper echelon. Very wise, adept souls, with a flair for the turn of phrase. The beautiful ones. The shining ones.
I haven't really written much in the last year or so. I remember wondering what it would be like to be back at the key board. (Closes eyes and breathes deeply as though savoring a piece of classical music).
Thinking of things is helpful to me. Articulating things.
I had an idea for this book. It would be about the transcendental object at the end of time. And-like-how we are constantly moving towards this thing, both collectively and as individuals. And we do not exactly know what it is, or where it is. Like something that we have never seen or measured but we have proved the existence of, mathematically.
Symbolically, this thing may be represented as a monolith.
Well, my idea for the book, on the individual level, was to be comprised by this poetry reading, as an anchor.
I remember watching the Def Poetry Jam on HBO. Totally amazed. How did they do that? My amazement became greater after engaging in public speaking. They say public speaking is statistically our deepest fear. The Fear. I found that in itself to be amazing.
So, at the monastery, these extraoridinary individuals conducted a creative writing course, which I joined, in a way that was... Synchronicity.
At the end there would be a Bloggywood level show, full of glitz and glamour. A gymnasium full of... Students and... Students?
Everyone would compose poetry to read aloud at a microphone.
I decided now is as good a time as any to make my Def Poetry debut.
So I wrote a piece. 10 four line stanzas with a concluding 11 line stanza. 1111.
And I committed to commit them to memory. Similar to public speaking but different. (Remember the thing. Things I just must do). So I set about doing the thing.
I thought about how the druids were said to be required to memorize a thousand poems before they could be initiated. Or how Socrates would stare at a candle, entering a trance like state, holding on to a singularity of thought. Or how Tesla could trouble shoot a motor in his mind.
I laid down and closed my eyes. One line. Repeat. Two lines. Repeat. To eleven. 1111. And it worked.
I thought about the Aztec education system. And how they would make their youths (who they adored) run for miles with a mouth full of water, without being allowed to spill a drop. And I recited the poem while I ran eleven miles.
The closer the event. The fear.
The event. THE FEAR.
I went last, as determined earlier.
It was later said that I approached the microphone like a gladiator. To the approval of the audience.
I don't know. But as I did the thing. I saw this bright, beaming light in the eyes and faces of the audience. I will never forget that.
It was fucking awesome. Real horrorshow.
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Vortices and Vortex
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Posted:Mar 22, 2021 1:18 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:54 am
3267 Views
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TOATEOT I
I was never really that good at keeping a journal. I would say I understood the potential benefits of journaling, at some point, long ago.
In certain mystery schools, it is requisite to journal, or, maintain a magickal diary, and be impeccable in doing so, at least in part, because at some point you arrive at the realization that we live in an interactive universe (a magickal universe) and all the events in your life are direct dealings - with you, by..?
Well... I discovered the blogs and was reading through some of them, here, in what has been called: Blogland. I felt obliged to contribute. I wondered, what exactly does a person write about in Blogland?
Suffice it to say, I felt a certain gravitational pull to-maybe-write something. There is something sacred about The Word... A transformative something...
... My life has always been filled with what I might call: the supernatural.
My coming of age was like a birth of a universe. That summer all I did was work on a concrete crew during the day and read Ray Bradbury in the evenings (there were reasons for this), meditating in the depths. In solitude and words I vividly watched a whirling vortex begin to turn.
As the phases of life shifted, I think I was sort of detached from the mundane. A difficult walk, probably.
Anyway. I saw this girl, who dumped me a few years prior, for being too shy. (I used to just, like, put my head down when around her). She was smart, preppy, popular, and, like, cool, and one year ahead of me). Well, I saw her standing there, and felt the inclination to speak to her. I have this thing; certain things I just must do, especially if I am completely terrified, a gift or a curse? So, I-just-said-hello and went from there.
As the conversation evolved, the sun was setting - alternately emphasizing her, emphasizing me - a cool, end of summer breeze framing us. There was a sort of supernatural flow that was astonishing. In the back of my mind I felt some sort of profound connection to the aforementioned interactive universe. I had gone somewhere and brought something back. A new energy.
What if everything really is alive, conscious, sentient?
I began to awaken to such possibilities, in a different way.
That evening I was at a bookstore, where I would peruse the magazines. This time, something beckoned me to bookshelves I had never explored. It was the cooking section. As I merged the aisle, I noticed a book at eye level, out of the corner of my eye. A book that did not belong.
In the upper right hand corner was the word: Poetry.
In the upper center a quote: The poet makes himself a seer, through a long, prodigious, and rational disordering of the senses.
You know how Tupac said thug life hit him like the Holy Ghost. Well, that is how these words hit me. Like the Holy Ghost.
And so I picked up a pen and a notebook.
I began exploring the idea of going to the other side and bringing something back.
My belief is that your blog can be an oasis of self transforming energy: A thought-form that becomes a servitor that becomes an egregore.
All extensions of the self. Or even. The Self, itself.
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All My Friends Are Dread
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Posted:Mar 16, 2021 2:33 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:53 am
3796 Views
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The monastery was located high in the clouds, precipitous heights, far away from the world, illuminated only by internally generated ionic productions.
Barbarians at the gates were a constant, having a singular intent to rip down the canvas of your landscape. WTF.
After a strangely symmetrical number of 7 years, the immense carved doors opened.
I am a strange ghost. A remote universe in a dark hood.
I saw a vision of the lake shore.
Whatever tangible reality is constructed of, sub atoms and such, I wondered if such things turned off and turned on, to the presence of my perception: that is, I looked into the abyss of things. WTF.
I notice that a certain blend of toxicity permeates the world in a different way.
This observation is in no way political.
People believe people are NPC's. Oddly enough, this does not stand for non politically correct, or ironically. Amongst other things. People placing inordinate attention as to whether they are alpha or beta or... whatever. Sigma.
Well...
There was one person who wrote to me in the monastery.
We lost touch the last 2 years. My thinking was just... Live your life beautifully. I know you are my friend for the duration.
When I attempted to contact her cell phone. Nothing.
I discovered she passed at the same time we lost touch.
Gone. Not forgotten.
In a late night vision, I saw my gift to her of lapis and gold around her neck, in the depths of distance and darkness.
A sympathetic connection, resonating.
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Under A Cold Aurora
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Posted:Mar 11, 2021 12:40 am
Last Updated:Feb 11, 2022 9:52 am
3135 Views
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Strangeland III
"My heart was sent pieces, into the sky, confetti reconfigured into a magnum opus of light and darkness."
It was precisely 3:00 a.m. The witching hour. The world was empty, save for the dynamic movements of the wind, which whispered the secrets of the wastelands and the heavenly realms.
My earth bound physical Frame pulsated in the shadows.
The light on the garage drew my attention, beginning to come alive.
Out of the light emerged a visage of the deity: Shiva.
A conduit began to form, as the arms of the deity began to maneuver, a cosmic dance, before my eyes.
I watched.
After a time, my earth bound physical frame transferred to the driver's seat of the vehicle, seat laid back, in and out of awareness of an earth bound dimension.
I closed my eyes, summoning the courage to face The Fear, overcome with simultaneous elation, as excess sensory outputs transferred to the forefront of my mind's eye.
A wheel appeared, and began to spin, slowly, a mechanistic movement.
A numinous spot light ignited, cast upon a pin point on the wheel, as the wheel stood still.
In the spot light was a face from my past.
Out of this face from my past came a deluge of information, which I was able to interpret and process, simultaneously; a psychological spectrum of human thought, emotion, and understanding. I understood.
The wheel then began to spin again. A mechanistic movement.
I then saw a face from my present. The same mechanism occurred.
Then a face from my future. I understood.
of my earth bound activities drew the surface. of my divinely inspired times descended and merged with the earth bound.
Although I was human too human, at the same time there was beauty to my existence perhaps. Beauty.
I felt the urge to weep. Tears of joy.
Maybe I could be... Redeemed.
I felt the urge and ability to take a vow of silence and never speak again.
I always knew I was headed for the monastery.
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