Fairy Tales for the Insane, Part III
A Warm Place: A simplified report
“My book was closed, I read no more, Watching the fire dance On the floor. I have left my book, I have left my room, For I heard you singing Through the gloom.”
- Chamber Music, James Joyce.
Circling. I circle in a zero-sum game in which I played the losing side. I had been stranded in the city for four years. The distant past, when I had travelled the world, sounded only like a memory I could no longer do anything with. -do you remember every day of 2015, or can you summarise the most important points of a few months? Could you do the same for 2010, 2005, 2000, 1995, 1990 and on until you were 3 years old? I thought, 'This is when the first memories begin to solidify, unless someone has prenatal memories, references to other lives, other stars - these are treacherous things'. In a state of mania and despair, I tried to escape from the city that humiliated me, that harmed me, whose bricks and houses I hated, whose magical communities I despised, along with ordinary people who were as anonymous to me as yesterday's day. At night, my living corpse was pierced by invisible shadow crawlers.
Buddhist meditation on a decaying corpse. Maranasati. In my bathroom, the walls were full of the spiritual remains of the dead, which I could see better inthe twilight. I packed my things, never to return. I gave my entire precious book collection, a whole library of Rara Avis books, to the antiquarian bookstore without even asking for money.
In a state of mania, with my mind shattered and assaulted, I wanted to escape as quickly as possible. My bus departed and made its way to the northern Carpathians. The original plan was to catch the eastbound bus transit in Slovakia, but I changed my route. The problem was that I had no money, I was completely burned out and broken, deranged and torn. When I reached the city in southeastern Poland, I remembered another young woman I had once loved, but I did not want to see her.
Who goes amid the green wood With springtide all adorning her? Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier?
-Chamber Music, James Joyce.
I boarded the regional train to the border with Ukraine and arrived there after midnight. The stars vaulted me into a cosmic cave where I explored the slow initiations like the ancient Mithridates. As I walked along the railroad tracks, I came upon a ruined house. The roof had burned to the ground, but the late summer weather was so beautiful that I lay there to rest. The shadows of the dead gathered, and I heard a whisper:
'You are not welcome here, go somewhere else'.
I gathered myself, even chased away by the dead, and continued along the meadow path. The fog had fallen by now. I found a small hut near a lake, judging by the sounds. The door was closed. I lay down on the floor of the porch and tried to sleep. I had nightmares in which I dreamed of hospitals, blood, and sadists. I woke up an hour later. The nightmares were still there. Not dreams, but real nightmares. Beings that feast on people's fears. I heard a call nearby. I went to see what was in the forest. There was a sharpened wooden stake, pounded on the ground. I took it out and played a pikeman, half delirious, half aware that something was about to emerge from the darkness. An old friend joined me, I felt two belts of light around my chest, focused on my solar plexus. Megingjoerð. I judged that there was no danger and turned my back on the forest, reproaching myself for never turning my back on a potential danger. I collapsed into the hut, exhausted, and caught sight of a damp, wet mattress. I lay down, covered myself with my travelling trench coat, and heard a demoness scream through the air, "That?! That, you bastards! To my son!!!". I smiled to myself, adopted by a demon mother.
Sleep now, O sleep now, O you unquiet heart! A voice crying “Sleep now” Is heard in my heart.
- Chamber’s Music, James Joyce
I slept well that day and woke up with the rising sun. For the first time in a long time. The next day some villagers reported me, fortunately not because of the burglary, but because I had been hanging around. My documents were all in order. The border officials let me go. I felt demotivated and tired, the whole trip was sabotaged. -'I have travelled all over the world' - I thought - 'and now a fucking short trip in this shitty country can finish me off'. I took a car and hitchhiked to the next village. I needed money, so I went from shop to shop trying to sell my camera. In the last shop the man was convinced it was suitable for his daughter and bought it for a third of the price. As I drove back to Warsaw, I remembered the witch from the Ukrainian border. I thought: 'Jagerfrau', mistress of the hunt. When I arrived in Warsaw late at night, I said: 'I want revenge, order a hit'. I heard gunshots in the air, violent outbursts from some Warsaw pigs, and the scream of a vampiric bitch: 'You betrayed your family'. Originally, I was to be committed to a mental hospital for screaming in pain and talking in word salad, like Victorian insane asylums. Fortunately, thank the gods, I survived. My bed, a roof over my head, something to eat. What a warm place. I travelled with the conviction that I would be homeless for some time, and broke the inhibition. In the end, I was content and grateful, especially in winter, for a warm place to be.
Despite the Writ that stores the skull; despite the Table and the Pen;[1] Maugre the Fate that plays us down, her board the world, her pieces men?
– THE KASÎDAH of HÂJÎ ABDÛ EL-YEZDÎ by Sir Richard Burton [1880].
Modern Age: From an Emperor to a Monk
Shout and argue all you want on your moronic talk shows. It’s not common knowledge - if you want to change history, you need both status, authority, charisma, money and power. Those who have that power rarely want change, they want to maintain a more conservative stance before they fall into an abyss.
Scribble, scribble all you want, you little scribblers, but the days when literature was the philosopher’s stone for revolutions and foundations for cultural heroism are long gone. This is not the Golden Age. Talk, argue on your social networks while every move is virtual, so - empty, feel-good effects of identity politics and narcissistic shenanigans projecting your impotence, helpless rage and opinions without wisdom to the outside world count for empty insane foam. You could not even wave a flag, rally the masses, command an army to strike, smile at a child, appease the gods, rule yourself - a source of power, love a chosen girl unconditionally.
I once shouted in the middle of the old city, commanding people, shouting with tears in their eyes and a powerful, masterful voice, some were afraid, others thought I was a crank, others applauded. They argued with their pointed tonguesabout something they were incapable of doing. An agitator in the age of complacent slavery. The human spirit is dead to those who see the Socratic tremendous deep irony.
Sometimes I feel that I could change the riverbeds of history, but long ago I have been rejected by time, like a man in the Book of Changes - waiting for his retreat. Perhaps it is better that way, for only a fool wants to be a ruler over fools even greater than himself. My advice is - devote yourself to something useful, build a house with your bare hands, little satisfaction in a ritualized virtual age. All your entertainments are ephemeral, like your short-lived fame, causing only a temporary twitch in people’s minds, who then move on to something else. But the waves continue to crash.
This life lost its appeal to me with each sacrifice that forced me to choose between the hunt and the bait - all illusions, because the enemies make plans to seize, steal what is yours and distribute, to enslave what is worthy only of the blind pursuers,the greatest of my dreams - I would settle for nothing less. -Say you serve and you get it back - one devilish pig smiled, another said - ‘We’ll give it back if you make a deal’ - a pathetic vampyric worm, how not to despise their envy, stuffed with filth.
‘Take what you have stolen, little ruiner, spoiler, may you rot with my vanished possessions, I will return them to nature, as the great Epicurus said - having lost everything, I have dealt happily with the loss’ - ‘I had more gifts to offer than the treasures you stole’ - I replied.
‘Now that I have killed them and spat on the gifts of darkness, I am content with carnal death, like a monkish hermit cicada leaving its shell and perpetuating itself on kheper - a struggling gigantomachic golden scarab heart with a new life entwined by the Ophis, a mighty sunbeam, I have laid my arms and command with all that I have lost to the heavenly shrines of the gods and goddesses.
To be immortalized in the stars, you must prove your spirit worthy through allthe movements of your life. It is less burdensome to leave this world behind than to leave it in disarray. Gather your wings, accelerate a lightning strike, escape as far as you can. How insignificant are the lives that are forgiven, stifled before they have begun. I spit on my life and despise it, for nothing I won a star.
Epitaph
“Inconstant Fortune took from me,
To pay her fee, the dearest that I had,
But she for that hath made me wise.”
- Merope in Plutarch. Moralia, Volume II: How to Profit by One’s Enemies. On Having Many Friends. Chance. Virtue and Vice. Letter of Condolence to Apollonius. Advice About Keeping Well. Advice to Bride and Groom. The Dinner of the Seven Wise Men. Superstition. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. Loeb Classical Library 222. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928., p. 25
Divinities and Plato’s Cave.
We come here to build and to govern, some out of compassion, others out of a sense of duty, but as soon as we burn our fingers on this world, when it whips and hounds us against our gifts, we retreat in toil and regret, and there is nothing left but learned human scientia and the call from above to return. A rephrasing of Heraclitus’ quote with a transcendent intent to metempsychosis:
“Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn’t even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.”
- Heraclitus
The fundamental characteristics of the gods and goddesses are their objectivity, truth, self-consistency, dispassionate attitude based on the original intellect and idea, a form of eudaimonia (hypostasis of joy) sustained by a non-emotional feeling that permeates the entire universe. If I had to choose one idea that unites everything and tries to bring everything back home, it is compassion,the restoration of harmony. Moving actions that merge with the subject of their idea are always objective, they are a divine current. They are connected with a substance that is common to them all, and yet each of them has a special substance that distinguishes one from the other. Carl Gustav Jung wrote in the ‘Red Book’ that his holy guardian angel Philemon of Egyptian-Hellenic descent taught him above all objectivity.
“She liked to find little trophies in the street, which she always brought to me joyfully; we had tears in our eyes when we first met, both exhausted, suicidal, and miserably lost. Great loves are forged in great pain.”
It is questionable whether a human being is capable of being objective from a human perspective, as opposed to the perception of an Agathos Daimon or a deity, for example. It may be a subjective or intersubjective approach to objectivity, but these intersubjective and subjective approaches sometimes trigger intellectual signs that approximate an objective interlocking between subjective and objective worlds.
Passion belongs to the generative realm of nature, as do suffering, great emotions, love, happiness, all excitements and privations. The hard-core Buddhists of the Lhag Thog teachings moved close to the realm of deities described by the Neoplatonists.
“I begged Magna Mater to take her home, kneeling on my knees in great reverence, gazing into the body of my beloved as into the garments of the stars, as I foretold that her soul would be killed by my ancient enemies. She used to play with crystal prisms, ‘oh look how wonderful, it’s like a kaleidoscope’. She was in the stars with diamonds.”
‘Locked in a cage of subjective suffering, his agony was objective’ - a thought once formed in my mind. So for the gods, every moment of our life, every feeling, every pain, every happiness is purely objective, there are no subjective states of mind and heart. The question of intervention is another matter, because everyone receives according to his share and development. Gods rarely interfere inthe affairs of people, especially this world was taken over by people when people stopped calling on the gods.
This is the basis of Theion Ergon: “Work of men, work of gods”, as it is said in the Chaldean oracles of Julian the reborn Archangel Theurgist “Calling and Receiving”. “I saw her face in the starry sky, it was sad and full of compassion, may all the gods swear that we will meet again. She left a small gift for me, a book in which the phrase ‘Find me’ was most prominent. I received it for my thirtieth birthday”. Builder of the house, you shall build no more - a Buddhist stanza. With all the strings pulling us back and forth, finding yourself is truly a miracle, but it’s not an easy path. It’s like being in Plato’s cave from above, where sometimes you do not know whether you are the prisoner or the radiant Deity. Others call us, but we do not know whether we belong to them or to the prisoners.
Discourse on forgotten mysteries thread.
Let the haters of reason scatter to the winds, they are like malignant spirits who obscure the meaning of great doctrines and replace them with vile ignorance of blind faith. The obscurantism of the exclusive flock has always foughtagainst the intellect of Providence with the ever renewed fervor of a blind fanatic, de facto replacing it with the words and doctrines of their zealots who confuse the logos of Providence with their own infantile projections. They coerce others and indoctrinate them into a passive spiritual slovenliness, believing in the foul, heavy air of their cathedrals that they are on their way to heaven. By kneeling before their half-dead corpses and bewitching them, attributing to them their false love for a corpse.
They also mock, ridicule, and destroy any master and mistress they discover along the way who offer a prospect of freedom, beauty, intellectual support, high integrity, and self-identity - a true hypostasis against their stubborn, morose intoxication with suffering and pain, which they masochistically refer to as ‘love’, a Stockholm syndrome of bellicose hatred towards the world that is pure cannibalism to ‘consume in the name of love’, to ‘kill in the name of love’. The cacodaimons help them in this miserable work of extinguishing the fire of reason, the flame of intellect, the great creative power of the celestial, supernatural worlds, which give birth to stars that our astronomers consider to be collections of swirling densities of gas and gigantic masses, birth chambers of powerful stars. All this is also true when we study both the phenomenal shadows and the philosophical essences.
All these lords and mistresses destroyed in the name of a faux pas on the cross to which these believing imbeciles, these dangerous fools looked up as if he were their savior. The Savior of their indigestible desires, scorned by Heaven. May Christ redeem himself from his suffering - would have a Boddhisatva said to him, if he ever listened.
A theologian of them would say that it is a ‘symbol’, that it is an example ofa sacrifice, of a mortal representing a divine interior slaughtered by His own. A stolen henosis, the point at which a man, a woman is raptured by effort, Isidiac, truly, into the greater expanses of the hieratic worlds. What kind of a hoax is this? Was not Heracles, the initiate of Eleusis, and his mysteries, the Heracleiana, protected by the gods? Was Dionisos not an initiate.
Is not Orpheus and Euridice a greater passage, a topoi of beauty? Julian Autocration compared one after another - heroes of antiquity against the Galilean hoax of a crucified pig. And yet, yet! Christ embodied all the sewers of the lowly, the wretched or the rubble. He had to curse the world with his rottenness and contamination in order to give meaning to his worthless mysteries, which initiated no one and seduced many. Julian Autokraton wrote: “What an unwise saying is this, to forbid tasting knowledge, not to distinguish good from evil?” - he further wrote:
“To know good and evil is a natural need of men, for how can the wise and sensible decide what is good and what is evil, turning to the good by inclination and knowledge, without ignorance.” Praises Helios in his hymn, Magna Mater, the Mother of the Stars.
They called me a serpent, may the serpent spiral up to the divine, in the Akkadian text the kings were serpent-tongued, lion-headed. What a compliment to be compared to these people of wisdom, greatness, justice and power! What a hoax to turn a lion into a sheep. Peace is won by righteousness, not slavery; it is won by striving to be strong-true peace, not by the meek, who would willingly turn into jackals if given the chance to be stronger than they are. Glorious sun religions had to be destroyed so that their Nazarene eaters could triumph, the world had to be turned into an ugly, disgusting, suffering diabolic so that this religion could triumph. For what is the meaning of their Galilean Essene Gnostic in a world of beauty, of greatness, of reverence, a world where harmonious life is not strangled by the hardships of life? Their diabolical deception of a crucified mortal has defiled many a greater, better man.
One might ask: What is the point of this accusation in the modern world? Is it a reverse resentment of what cannot be undone, cannot be undone? What is the point of finding fault rather than creating something beautiful, noble, principled? It is a personal account of a funeral, a cathartic burning of a religion on the Devanagari grounds. It is a rebellion against what was done, against what was and what is, a wedge in Plato’s cave that crossed the prisoners on their way out, with seers reaching out to those who could see themselves. Every civilization has a round of destinies, every culture has its karman that leads to one or the other. Nevertheless, it is significant to leave a warning sign - to see what fruit the reaper will reap with his scythe. A poisoned fruit is left for Veneficium, the craft of the poisoner, a good fruit is used for healing, as the Drottars (Druids) knew.
But are the mysteries of the ancients in the modern world a mere imitation, a mere repetition, a faulty reconstruction that has no right to exist? Or is there a hidden scheme of recovery, of initiations, to which men can look with all due sanctity and depth? Do the traces ofthe parental initiations hang by a golden thread over the globe, the Spheres, the stars? Are we really on our own, on false masters and charlatans, on instituted religions, on those few who know how to speak when they should be silent, as the masters and mistresses command? Is it really the time of silence? Abandoned we are not! I have been blessed with too many laurels, with too many signs and sigillia from Heaven to ignore this. What a brazen fool I would be if I did not share these invitations with the others! Sometimes I feel like Prometheus, cautiously making his way, fearing I might lead astray, who has stolen the fire of the gods. But it seems that the gods promote my way, if I interpret their intention and my intention correctly, that what was transmitted should not be held back! The chains, the processions of initiations are not held back, they call, we study, we practice, we act. We do the scientific work, we do the ceremonial work, we direct our senses, our intellect and our feelings to the Divine. We rebuke ourselves when we fail and stumble, we correct our ways when darkness enters us, we point our Pythagorean forks at Divine from messages, we swing and fold our follies and unrulinesses into an even greater path! As one Hindi philosopher – Kautilya (371-283 BME) mentioned: “Philosophy is the lamp of all sciences, the means of performing all the works, and the support of all the duties”.
Like the sun, which distributes its rays equally to all, it was understood to be an honest force. Thus, contracts in Rome were signed under Helios to represent honesty. It also stood for truth, which is obvious to all. Truth stands a priori, objectively, as the deep grammar of the universe, and is therefore closely related to
Justice as the regulating force of this grammar, insofar as the force gives them a drive, just as the intellect (nous) gives a certain order. In the tarot cards it is the star (sun), justice, strength.
To Dare, to Will, to Stay Silent
If daring is the courage to break established patterns, to ‘defy the world and venture oneself on the sacred path’, to break the shell of the comfortably known and conditioned, automatized, and thus discover one’s freedom and willpower through training and confrontation, then the will is an individualised movement of desire into a vision by ‘knowing oneself’, knowing one’s movements and forming mastery, in accordance with the divine will (procession, metaphor of the true Will), which one discovers by peeling away the layers of deception, ignorance, discord, cacophony, confusion, by constant means of reason, intellect, intuition, and not without Swedenborgian feeling, a gigantomachy within, represented by the Mithraic axiom: “harmony of tension in opposition”, “against the void of inertia”.
In this, duality is resolved into a ‘unio oppositorum’, which is situated between the ‘coincidentia oppositorum’, the movement is decisive, the decision liberating, whilethe liberation is a struggle, “be patient, struggle, work”, go with the gods, the redemption (liberation) is not a pill to escape (as in the song of Killing Joke), but a strong determined attitude. In the process of liberation there is no rest for the free, the evil and slaves must continue to be evil or enslave. On the other hand, a highly contradictory (antinominal, personal, egoistic) will that tries to hurt the world and itself with its personal projection.
The difference between the divine Alexander of Macedonia and Hitler is gigantic, just like the difference between the Imperial Rome and its mocking cliché - the Nazi Empire. For the daring and the will we need a foundation, a fundamental self-constitution, a maturity, that of an Olimpius, mentioned in the letters of Iamblichus. It is a vision that dynamically and continuously sets in motion the effects of one’s actions and of events in the world, but with reference to the Highest of which one is capable, a system of coordinates united in a perfect synthesis Staying Silent is the Eleusinian gift of transforming the world with the perfect silence of an idea. Bythos, the deep depth of an abyss, and Sige - the deep idea in silence are the epitome of a magician. The language of the magician and his deities is silence. To speak Gnosis Arretos is a great art, Gods understand all languages, but the former is ultimately the greatest interpretation of a man, translated into the logos of Providence.
This is the reason why Eleusis mystes kept silence, words were useless and could do more harm than the silence of pure intellectual ideas. The world, I believe, is intelligible in all its realms and intellectual at its base, it is of continuous providential illumination, we must open ourselves to it and engage in the process through powerful streams of silent, glorified ideas, all else is but a reflection of it of it.
The memory twitch
Godot, now 92 years old, sat in his wheelchair in a nursing home. The nurses occasionally looked around and exchanged a few stiff words.
-’Why did he move?’ he wondered quietly, with an unspoken thought.
Somewhere above his head, a storm of memories raged. Scenes moved backward, but they did not catch his attention. One, a cloudy, blurry one, stopped for a while. A scene, a flash. That was exactly sixty-eight years ago. She ran after him, laughing and shouting, “Stop, you stupid bastard, I love you!’. He stopped, silently content with the fact that they were together, comfort to his tired mind.
Another scene. Unspoken things, tension as they parted. His finger twitched again. He smiled gently in a way he had been taught years ago, a compensation for not feeling pain. He did not, both the gesture and the pain had been dead for years. Gone. He stared at a spot on the wall that was fading more and more. Again the scenes were frozen. He, though trapped in a body, was already incarnate. If emptiness were to be defined, but a passive, humiliated emptiness, that’s what it would be. In the corner of his eye he saw a shadow, a shadow soul. It whispered: ‘Tis’ tis’, ‘tis’ tis’. Tic tac toe’.
He did not answer, smiled numbly, after forgetting it, he mumbled something that sounded like this in the good old days: ‘I am not afraid of anything, never have been, moments like these fit into eternity’. But it was just a -’mmmm’- followed by a nod. He saw something else for a while, future events on Earth, the disasters. They did not catch his attention either, he stared as if hypnotised, without any reaction. It was more important that he had to pee. He could not call the nurse, so he wet himself. She will come later. He did not know that either, she cleaned him up anyway and changed his underwear.
Another whisper, trying to rouse his understanding: ‘Once a roaring, snake-tongued lion, now fading into insensibility, you had a chance to die young.’ He did not understand, just blinked, a nervous twitch. -’The last thing you’ll say after you die will be a cold gasp’ - the shadow tried to intimidate him. He thought of the night and the stars, but in a cold way. -’You are useless, you always have been, you do not even understand what I tell you anymore’ - the shadow said.
The man behind his white eyes suddenly replied in a voice that was not his, ‘You tore up everything I never needed. Thank you for freeing me, I am already free’. The shadow grew in powerful anger, darkening the room and whispering, ‘You will not escape, you will not, you will not easy!’
The man was already dead.
Ides’ march
Tap tap tap, the water dripped into the sink, and each drop was as cold asthe winter air, ripping wounds into a stone of sour understanding of his mind.
Spring came, March 20, at 10:30 p.m. Vernal Equinox, the Ides of Mars, the games of the wolves and the she-wolves. Somehow the water sank ceaselessly as he listened to it in a kind of zenistic union, half stunned, half stunned.
He had not wondered for a long time how he had gotten to this point. Because it is so. That’s the answer he got to his questions as a child. He was a little blond guy, very lively and cheerful. Like a stern wreck barely adrift navigating the meanders of life, he tried to remember. He imagined his tired, stern, tense and dry face sitting next to this boy, smiling wearily. The boy did not understand, he was scared and afraid of his future self, he wanted to run away. The older man would cry if he still could, because that’s what you have to
feel.
He detested these hatched souls of inferior quality. Even moon souls did not match his intellect or spirit. His soul was killed long ago, it bled to death and was torn to pieces by evil machinations. Draconic brain, thank
Gods for this reinforcement! It was a gift of mercy. Even the gods had enough of his pain, so they killed his feeling out of compassion, but strengthened his mind, intelligence and resilience. Serpentine compassion, like Aesculap or the great Naga Kings. We all become cruel, but we hold back the poison with a greater strength of will, so as not to shed tears of poison, of veneficium. The child uncomfortable, inconsolable, the father in him looked at the child for a while with a paternal smile that would scream ‘murder, destruction!’ and look malicious, but it was an honest smile of a strange, darker benevolence.
He searched for her in the eyes of the other women, avoiding their faces lest he accidentally catch a glimpse of her physiognomy. She was long gone. At least she died in him. A caregiver, an archivist of his stories she wanted to listen to before her memories were erased, killed, twisted, perverted.
He decided he would never share them with anyone again. What would be the point? In the grave, carried like a burden, beyond Starborn memories of everything are restored, Mnemosyne’s pass. Absolute memory, perhaps a small nod of understanding remains for the last life that should not be. I want nothing else, objective memory of all instances of the universe is the ultimate truth, as is silence, the perfect thunder of an idea. He saved himself from suicide, another time he failed to commit it. Never again! Never again! A silent, wordless voice in the air spoke: ‘Keep going, on the other side your perspective will change, you will not suffer anymore’. The dropping of body and mind, a broken, damaged, crippled brain, an attacked nervous system, slander and lies that buried him deep in the grave of the profound gesture of ‘not this, not that’ until he began to grow resigned to it. Leonardo da Vinci once wrote: ‘Those whose mind [and heart] are fixed on a star, are not hurt by lies and slander’. He was not, although he heard it every day, from people, from the other side, who spread illusions and malice. He was busy overcoming bigger problems and engaging with an expanded mind and heart despite the bite of the locusts. He lost his love, but that too had to be overcome, why bother with it? Mere nihilistic feelings that were not worthy of his efforts. ‘First the gods, then the world, then men’ - Pymander, Corpus Hermetica, from a human animal, a humane man was to commit himself to the worlds above, to call, to call, to call, that the world may receive, that the kingdoms of the earth may receive, then men, last of all, ungrateful and stubborn beings, for whose sake ‘the stars do not turn’ - a trace of Chaldean wisdom.