NOTHING BUT AMEN!
They had brought me to a state where I no longer felt my heart lashing, fearful of sudden regrets; that state of mind transformed my weaknesses into fodder for my rebuilding ego. Nothing But Amen! repeated a strange little voice inside me, a virile little voice, infrasonic in its amplitudes, moving my body in a whispering rhythm. Then, Sabrina's hand glowing at the end of the lamp's beam, along her arm, long as an eel, recharging with electricity near her mouth, sucking until white spots appeared at the corners of her lips. And then, releasing me, right away, as if I were getting too hot. Rapidly for half an hour, until I reached that white world where the light of my mind swirled like a lamp in the wind. "Catch me, lamp. Catch me, K," she said. "Grab me, grab me, grab me," she repeated so many times, in such a monotone, that I felt overwhelmed. Undeterred, I grabbed her as I was told. Unsettlingly, I had the impression that what I held in my arms was the wind, the movement of that wind that lashed us. I had screwed everything up for the simple equine pleasure of disemboweling... or was I really eating the book of the mermaid with bloody teeth, gesturing on her rock in the open sea? "We know that things arrive - Soudainement," as she drowned beneath her hypnotic song, her sea winds read aloud, as in Mallarmé's poem, or in "The vampire who gently commands us to make love with what she leaves us, or else we are more drunk," by the enlightened Rimbaud of the Illuminations? No: Sabrina was simply trying to penetrate the essence of other people's fear, taking advantage of the swine-like satiety into which our intoxicated bodies had fallen. Like in the scene from the Odyssey, where the crew members are transformed into pigs by Circe. Or in the pigs of the Bible, by Jude. "Shadows or trop ornées," vastness upriver.
"He he... why not a Vampire? A Circe?" (Sabrina responds). A playful and amusing Hollywood siren, in the moment of her unnerving practices of spectral evocation. Who can say what that is today? Only you remembered the subject properly, the morbid and obsessive solitary addiction that the tantric masturbation of the soul uses to consult the Oboths, a subject that provokes so much strangeness, coming from someone who speaks so intelligently about everything else. Frankly: ghosts of the Ob, of the Astral Light, as you say, the insistence on the operation of the second attention in our physical world, this correspondence, perhaps dependence, that rises around us in flames and consumes us in unknown languages, alien tongues. Do you want to sleep with me here, tonight?" (she asks next) – and I hurry my eyes towards the clock hands on the wall, the miracle that licked our body with those observations was diabolical, but more than could be explained "humanistically," as Sabrina wanted. Her blood sought to linger on her skin, in the Blakean instant of the anathema-lighthouse, a lover-examination of the conscience purged by closed-eyed sins. Faith in each of the absurdities of the obstacles.
One in the morning. Absence from the world beyond any need I had for lies. She must have been immersed in a worldly semi-meditation, of artifice and crossroads, where all calculation is breathed discreetly, in public. Any bullshit like that, and "however"... was definitive: there should always be a "however" when we find ourselves in situations like this. "Of course I'm going to sleep here. Are you crazy? You're the woman of my life, let's get married, NO?" I say, and go to the bedroom window. I look out into the night, deserted in that part of the city, the bright full moon, bright and silver. "However," my lungs breathe that thin desert air, awaiting the lunar taxi that will come to put an end to this whole comedy. My sight, already acclimated to the satiety of it, of ejaculating and feeling from the balls, then, all those landscapes of buildings and dark streets disconnected from the Tao, through me, which was also falling into a new distribution of weight that excluded the levitation of the being of the Tao. The ground was an invitation with which the tantra would have to wrestle later, perhaps using it to rise up and reconnect its mystical “observation talents.”
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ResponderExcluir"Get real, K: images of the Ob, sleepwalking... that initial magnetic disturbance, fork in the tooth? The throat, a few inches of will, and the forehead bristles. The frenzy accelerates the pace, the flagrant, the sleep becomes a strange rehearsal for something greater, recurring, that waits standing, until the wind of the Nagual..." she said. Fears, ghosts, ideas, and obscure projections of the Shadow of the Personality, transferring dark unconscious content to others, without any scruples. fertile ground for sociopathy, black magic, the disciplines of silence and the matter of Evil. An open Work that, over time, became the shadow of the Great alchemical Work, invoking even poets and dark philosophers to the endeavor, amidst a multitude of attempts by the financial market and its industries, starting from the cultural sphere, soon degenerated into media circuits and political lobbying electrodes.
Sabrina is now smoking silently, on the edge of the bed, while typing on her laptop. She acts as if she's not listening to me. Deep inside, I sense her trepidation about my latest book. It's not customary, even in Lodges, to be so explicit—there's something about it that truly recalls the Lost Word of Freemasonry. My theoretical dive, at that moment, is into the darkness, into the dark, mute figure of a woman at the edge of the bed, her cigarette resting on her wrist beside her thigh. My heart tightens like an eyelid, searching for its projection point in the mind. The contents of the Shadow of the Personality are terribly powerful and can be seen by the seer as psychic aggregates. They are a force of tension that plays out, which the initiate submits to the primacy of consciousness, marking the unhealthy, possessive, and autonomous affections of the thought-forms that devour the common man, with the progressive equilibrium of the Grail; in short, the Grail as mental shining contours of an ego that remains structured and ----------------------------------
ResponderExcluir----------------------------------------alert amid the flux of forces, man, nature, and the universe enter a crucible of psychic athletics, their "wu wei," so that the ego can be purified. Like all contents capable of entering consciousness, projections initially appear in the spectrality of vicious, weakened evocations, of the vague and intermittent dreams of the faint, but they ignite in a state of frustration, to the point where the Shadow becomes a strong burst of enunciation, in the personality—negative, irrational, and challenging bursts, directly directed at the conflicting object. Envy, for example, evokes in the astral light, according to Eliphas Levy, the passive light of fatality, of the weakening of free will, ethics, and will. Unnerving constraints arise in his path, but the black magician subconsciously flies in the ghostly somnambulistic fluid amid these obsessive thought-forms, captive to their projections, throughout the space of his world, of his dealings with people, fixing them in the light that navigates like sea markers, coordinates of affects and percepts, and even using them as malevolent symbols to focus attention. In this dark ordeal, his own body vegetates nocturnally, duplicated by the moon, a palpable and real phenomenon of self-directed trance conservation, sharp as greed.
ResponderExcluirI put on my clothes, took two drags on the butt of a joint she'd left behind, and stood in front of the mirror. My demeanor at that moment reminded me of my military service days: all stretched out, shoulders back, chest out, aggressive, looking for a fight: watery eyes, bright as the tip of a blade. But soon a sad expression returned to my eyes. I wet my dry mouth with some tap water, took another deep breath, and walked out the door. In the reception area -------------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir----------------------------------------at the motel, the bill was already paid, and I felt like a call boy. The city outside looked unassuming, airy, wide, and pleasant, with no moon taxis nearby. We all know the name of Death Valley, I thought after a few steps. In Psalm 23... The Palm of God's Hand. Aren't we all here, in the palm of God's hand? I wondered in the middle of the empty street. "And don't we see, all around us, little people constantly raising their arms awkwardly in prayer? And do we hear cacti shaped like Christs thundering their transcendental hymns through the city's public gardens? Praise Choir." Evangelical Vigil – The candle, the deliverance, the healing, the Vision of the Desert – the turbulent Desert, of the invisible disillusionment within, in the pools of cancers, in the harsh words provoked by windstorms, and also in the anemone-like words, pedagogical murmurs, in the stony appearances of life, in the faces and traces of its difficult unfolding. Now, invoking the spirit of religion, I attribute all our ills to a degenerate society, to the "system," to the metastasizing Disneyland, thus suppressing and also admitting the remnants of my personal nobility, of intangible resistance, in the rarefied peaks of truth, of the rediscovered eternity that the Poet, on stage, refracts in Sabrina.
ResponderExcluir"The presentation of a problem of the spirit must be as fascinating as its solution: the reward of the struggle to initiate oneself, whatever it may be. Two eyes on the outside, millions on the inside. Our strongest thoughts are often those of passion, assimilation, observation, and relationship." And the Word of Christ fuses time and opens eternity, its Orphic pores of appreciation and encounters. Therefore, everything vague has always repulsed the Catholic Church, for the Devil dwells in the double meanings and viruses of language. Here, according to the poet Murilo Mendes, "we gain personal galleries that DISCOMFORT, or BILE, illustrates with immediate whiteness, the whiteness of CHURCH. Bourgeois gold dampened in the undone grace of God. To have power over everything, one must first waste nothing. But they want power over everything, wasting everything. The Catholic Church is merely the sacramental manifestation of ideas in time, not in Eternity," I said the other day.
ResponderExcluirUnknown words sang on her lips, the cursed remains of an absurd phrase. Sabrina remembered Lafcádio, the Vatican before the theory of the gratuitous act. And what concise astronomy in her short eyes, flexible in measuring instantaneous distances, transmitted by all thought-forms in tuning fork. The universe is mental. Vice? Filtered by the category of extension, reach, or somnambulant vigil, her mind was a baroque hiding place in a perfect book, continually remade. Penetrating the effigies of people through the filigrees of the astral, the obvious materials of that lesson, its play of variations.
ResponderExcluirFeet damp in the dust, straining to hear. Kissing the path, the press, in kicks, in conglomerates of barely contained eyes, of barely concealed cunning, gathered each day in scattered revenges of public image. A harbinger of the essentialist life that expands the spirit free of illusions! The resources of the opposition are reduced to intellectual prejudices, a backwardness of Culture that pushes the Word of Christ even further into the future. Dialogue between Creator and creature? Cosmic background radiation, initiatory hearing, glides of the Eternal Return on the journey to Samadhi—undeniably, there was an ancient Greek within Christ, a joyful and confident fatalism, enlightened, liberated, yet as errant, as varied, and as refined as that of Dionysus-Lucifer? "SHAKE THE DUST FROM YOUR FEET!" Tamquam re bene gesta (as of a thing well done, Amen). Isn't Heraclitus eternally right in asserting that Being is an empty fiction? Not through language, with which we simulate our wisdom, "its darkness and its astronomy," according to Borges, a form of time open to the numinous. RESONANCE and MEANING: "Rhythm is not measurement, but rather ORIGINAL TIME," in Octavio Paz, The Bow and the Lyre.
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