Obfuscation

This writer is either purposely confusing
or simply obfuscating

Are you on the Kool-Aid?
(There's plenty more if you need some.)

The diagram you put up

shows levels of creation.

I could make the argument

the spells from the old books are

basically saying that unity is the real,

individuality the illusion...

we've got to live

with an angel and devil or wolf and a sheep

inside our self at all times.

Yes. We know this.

But what that is, nobody knows. Do you?

Once I read

I read and read

when it boils down to it,

all this reading shows that

Death is the teacher.

The plants, the milk, the clouds.

They were the warriors:

by them this light was brought hither.

I've never seen them

trying to strive to be God

or strive to be a rock.

But then this go on to say

Whatever he desired from the Mother,

that the Subject furnished,

as a friend from his own spirit.

Of course this is true.

So both are saying that

although not the same.

The Subject is the teacher.

The Mother rules, shines forth.

Light becomes the ruler.

Looking at life

and how it is set out

you have to strive to be

any of those things.

You have to.

Admittedly, an audience of terrestrials

is all you will ever achieve.

Is that supposed to be good?

Who knows how many people heard this

when it was first written.

They didn't, they don't.

Through holy discipline and creative fervour

the king protects his kingdom.

The teacher through his own holy life

seeks and finds the Subject.

It's very clear what you should think

we should be clear and correct.

People can come to their own conclusions.

I've kept pretty quiet about this.

I'm with you, whatever side you come down on.

Through holy discipline,

through creative fervour,

the gods drove away death.

By his holy discipline he brought the light to the gods.

Belief in angels ....God..... Or burning bushes

all of that man's imagination.

How do you get to the Real?

I don't have much to add beyond this.

The plants, that which was and shall be, day and night,

the tree, the year along with the seasons,

have sprung from the Subject.

Its shines a light

this is what these voices are saying.

There are relationships between all these levels

start looking at what's really been said.

This made me so mad when I first heard it.

My former fellow workers!

How could you have fallen so low!

When it is too hot, jump into the furnace!

The earthly and the heavenly animals,

the wild and the domestic,

the wingless and the winged,

they have all sprung from the Subject.

This is the math.

You've thought a lot about this.

But there is a lot of venom in your words.

I'm not going to argue

I am totally confused.

I need a number.

All the creatures of The Mother

carry breath in their souls.

All these the Spirit, which has been brought hither in the Subject, protects.

This, that was set into motion by the gods,

that is insurmountable, that moves shining forth.

But some things are not you.

You are more than things.

You are beyond things, you must step outside of the thing.

But the chart is useful. I must admit.

The writer insists on continuous willful obfuscation.

I can't believe that you seem to buy

something so difficult to understand.

You go over it and over it.

It only starts all over again.

The Subject carries the shining Spirit:

into this all the gods are woven.

Producing the inhale and the exhale,

language, thought, heart, spirit, and wisdom.

You give us sight, hearing, glory, food, semen, blood, and belly!

You can handle things

see them for what they are,

even the human body

nothing more than a thing.

It's difficult to compare.

We are one person, not many.

But nobody really knows this

although you might in some fashion.

What did you do to make

these things seem real.

What was it?

Then you became identified with them.

You are them as those things are you.

They can't be without you

you can't be without them.

Actually you aren't any Thing.

I must warn you now: this is a Spell.

The Spirit caste are the only ones authorized

to cast these spells.

In casting them, they save the universe from destruction.

So, if you accept this:

unity is, individuality is not.

Add another thousand years

to the time we have known this.

Why is this an illusion?

It seems like a valid assumption.

Be here now,

Let the evils of the day be sufficient for us.

Let the evils come on to me daily.

The big confusion

lies in the fact that the gods

do not pay

though they should.

I say again:

This writer is either purposely confusing

or simply obfuscating.

It seems like a valid assumption.

Invocation Of Spirit

Well, it's time. After so many nights wasted in sleep and so many days wasted in subservience to the almighty clock of the western industrialized world and the voices of those machines who came before and shaped this culture of diamond hungry whores ever watchful for the trespasses of their neighbors.
Like those dogs trapped behind fences that once barked at our beloved Spritzie, Spritzie who ran wild and free through the fields and streets and yards our heart holder. Her name, Spritzie, a spirit, the spirit which roams the open country side, the purple mountains, the yellow fields, the shaded areas behind houses.
She was my first familiar, the first non-human animal that I could touch and speak to and run with. I named her. I called her Spritzie. Spritzie, our protector, my protector, the protector of all those innocents who cross through her sphere. She ferries travelers safely through the dangerous terrain that is part of our kingdom. My Spritzie, my Spritzie, my spirit.
Late at night the air is cool and sweet like invisible undrinkable wine that flows through your very skin. Drinking in all of those negative ions, a long sip of ocean breezes and Moorish mists through quivering nostrils.
At night I am alive. But often I sleep and wait for the messages to come through to me from the woods; dreams, a strange Morse code from another myself whispering to me about what is out there and pointing to the Mounties of my soul.
I do not trust myself, I cannot be fully trusted as long as these Mounties who made me move around unseen. We need little girls with eyes in the walls to track their progress. I do not fully trust myself, but I murmur the litany, almost forgotten, into my pillow:
“In whom do you place your trust?”
“In myself, my teacher, and the Dharma.”
Dharma is a word I have appropriated, commandeered, liberated from the white halls of the symbolic order. I know what I mean by it, but I don’t know what they mean by it. I mean a WAY.
Like that preserved by the professor of dentistry who with a simple invocation of presence today said “Open” and I knew, here was a keeper of the WAY of dentistry. He knew more than how to recognize a possible lesion on 15, that was only what he did, but he did it with WAY. The master of teeth said “Open” and my jaw snapped to attention as though there could be no greater honor or privilege than to open for one such as himself.
Of course, my own teacher is not a dentist. When he says open it is not my Jaw that he commands.  He sings it, “Open, open Spritzie!” and I open.
Whistle, whistle, Spritzie where did you fly to? Where did you go on that cool clean air carried in from the blessed darkness of the night?
I press my finger to my lips and it is understood that something should be clothed, cloaked in silence and darkness, germinating beyond the diamond hungry eyes of the world. After so many nights it is time, it is time.
My Spritzie, I invoke thee! Holy guardian angel, oh sleeping prince of the rose, awake!
What is that stuff that drip drops into the bloodstream from some secretive gland that becomes active only in darkness, delivering its Cathar kiss to all dreamers? Stuff, stuff, do your work, anoint my cells with liquid light, oh secret Morse code tapping out to me:
“We are here, we are alive, we acknowledge your interest in Dog Farm, end transmission.”
 I place my trust in myself , my teacher, and the Dharma.
I have my little girls in the walls with tablets and pens ready to jot down secrets we keep from ourselves, ready to pounce on the photographic evidence that will illustrate beyond doubt the presence of Mounties at Dog Farm.
So many days wasted in subservience to the almighty clock of the western industrialized world and the voices of those machines who came before and shaped this culture of diamond hungry whores ever watchful for the trespasses of their neighbors.
Tonight we toss rocks at bottles and hope for the best. Free Tibet, free Spritzie, open!
There will be many days burned, many nights of waiting for the “short, short, long, short…” but for tonight a close encounter initiated from a vertical position, a simple invocation of presence, CIA tapping- Spritzie, Spritzie, open Spritzie. We acknowledge your acknowledgment of interest in Dog Farm.
End transmission.

The First Bite

The rulers, high and far from where clay men can see, took counsel with one another and said:

"Come, let us cause a deep sleep to fall upon Adam. Let us cause Adam to fall upon a deep sleep."

And he slept as if the night was never changing, like black was the only color.

Now the deep sleep that they "caused to fall upon him," is Ignorance, for it is darkness without bursts of sound and night without stars.

They opened his side like a living woman. Like a living woman they opened his side and they built up his side with some flesh in place of her, in place of her they built up his side with flesh, and Adam came to be endowed only with soul.

And the spirit-endowed woman came to him and spoke softly with him, saying:

"Arise, Adam."

And when he saw her, he said:

"It is you who have given me life; you will be called, 'mother of the living,’ for it is she who is my mother. It is she who is the physician, and the woman, and she who has given birth."

Then the authorities came up to their Adam, the man they had created with mud and clay and breath. When they saw his female counterpart speaking with him, they became agitated with great bursts of heat that flowed through them, pulsing with desire that called itself anger. They became enamored of her, wishing themselves inside her, seeking a great hole in her flesh as they had done with Adam. They said to one another:

"Come, let us sow our seed in her!"

And they pursued her. Into madness and the abyss they pursued her, into the jungles of twisting vines that form the mind, through the labyrinth that they created. And she laughed at them for their witlessness and their blindness; and in their fierce clutches, in the dark pit where there was no light, she became a thick tree and left before them her shadowy reflection resembling herself; and they defiled it foully, filling its cavernous knots with warm seed. They defiled the stamp of her voice, so that by the form they had modeled, together with their own image, they made themselves liable to condemnation.

Then the female spiritual principle came in the snake from the tree which she had become in their clutches. The snake, red and black and shiny. The snake, the instructor, taught them, saying:

"What did he say to you? Was it, 'from every tree in the garden shall you eat; yet - from the tree of recognizing good and evil do not eat'?"

The carnal woman, said:

"Not only did he say 'do not eat', but even, 'do not touch it; for the day you eat from it, with death you are going to die.'"

And the snake, the instructor, said:

"With death you shall not die; for it was out of jealousy that he said this to you. Rather, your eyes shall open and you shall come to be like gods, recognizing evil and good."

And the female instructing principle was taken away from the snake, and she left it behind, merely a thing of the earth, one more shed skin.

And the carnal woman took from the tree and ate; biting past red skin into sweet white flesh, and she gave to her husband as well as herself.

And these beings that possessed only a soul, ate. And their imperfection became apparent in their lack of knowledge; and they recognized that they were naked of the spiritual element, that they were bare. They took fig leaves and bound them upon their loins, hiding their raw form.

Jaguar

We don’t have no fire light, no fire life, just wiggle white flashing blinking strobing effect. Pulses of being. Here
I am
Here
I
Am.
Stretch it out or make it thin and tenuous or press the ends together tight. The message is the same.
I
Am
Here
I
Am
Here
Down in the details in the wobbling flickering details
A frosty blue beanie and ski jacket. A parking garage, a crow bar shaking like the snakes rattler
Ratta ta at
I
am
here
The words rippling, bubbling, flowing. Never ending aureobolis of sound.
Tse
Tse tse
The story gets told in segments.
The segments are stretched.
The segments are squeezed.
The segments are re-ordered.
It is all the same.
Story of life.
Ratta ta ta ta
I
Am
Here
The lean man jiggling, jouncing, grinning wide. Wide and skeletal, his face swallows itself.
I
Am
here
InTheDetails
DNA
AND
NAD
DAN
Ratta
Atta at at at
For hours on end we strobe.

We get bigger
and smaller
and bigger
and smaller
Say something about that.
I’ll show you.
S h o w

Y o u

ShowYou

S H O W Y O U


S H O W YOU

SHAPE
Y O U

I A M

H E R E
Here
Hear
Hear
I hear you
Talk talk talking
But something else is happening.
A frosty blue beanie and ski jacket. A parking garage, a crowbar shaking like the snakes rattler.

A frostyBlueBeanie.
SkiJacket.
ParkingGarage
Crowbar

S H A K I N G

Ratta

ta

ta

I AM HERE.

Pink Satin Roses Unraveling

Pink satin roses unraveling and round moon white belly out running tiny breasts. The great hallowed halls of my makers and their room of mirrors, that is the place where I go to wait. The wall of windows lies exposed and I can see the fields all gold and brown and the dusty green olive trees and a far away lake of dark blue. The sun shines eternally in that place and there is someone to take my hand and the memories shift like the beads at the end of a kaleidoscope, always changing the view. I am young and strong and brave again with the stars of wonder restored to my heart. I can run with long legs and bare feet into all of the days that come with lungs pumping and heart pounding, aching in my chest. The pleasure of letting the spirit fly through life outweighs the pain of moving the body so that there is no desire to stop. They make themselves old in that world far from the room of mirrors in the halls of the makers, stooped over desks and hunched over steering wheels. They die bit by bit each time that a bell is rung and they begin to practice this little death while they are children. Poison in silver wrappers, poison filled with sweet cream and stowed away in neat plastic boxes adorned with our favorite blue skinned heroes sets the mind racing when it finds its way into the blood stream. That is how we grow old, loosing our bodies to false gods and cramped spaces and sweet toxic substances that give us a moment of pleasure. That is how I grow old and come to sag, that and by giving myself away to all comers. Anyone who asks gets my attention. My parents start stealing it away when I am small. I come to believe it is what I must do in all cases, and only when it is too late, I realize that it must be stopped. I must keep a kernel for myself so that it can grow and flower again and again. Never ever give it all away. Keep it so that spring can come again. There is a way that leads to life and a way that leads to death. Not for the body alone, but for something else as well. We must live for the shimmering sliding something that passes through this world. It passes through what we think we are, it passes through the whole thing. Later we will read these words and we will think that they make no sense, but that is all a mater of perspective. You must be much bigger to see, you must be bleeding through the paper thin world of the temporary. I draw a cross in the little world and in the room of mirrors a door opens and I find a tiny sword in the darkness beneath a fur coat. It fills me with fear, because I never imagined I would find such a thing in this place. It came from somewhere that I am blind to, it has come from the Other. Now I have the tiny sword in my hands. I knew of the place outside of places when I found the sword. I knew it when I met the terrible yellow unicorn with its red eyes and it dared to defy the laws of the world that I inhabited. I knew it best of all when I stacked the brightly colored boxes, little ones on top of big ones or inside of big ones and there was a special square way that they fit. That was what taught me to understand space and it reminded me keenly of the place outside of places. Soft and sweet with little bits of pink satin roses coming unraveled, and a hard sidewalk on a pleasantly warm night and the infinite open above me. Another right there beside me and we are amazed that we are here, amazed that we are alive, amazed that there is another amazed one here, right now with the one I call “me”. The great hallowed halls of my makers and their room of mirrors, that is the place where I go to wait. That is where I am. A kernel kept for myself so that spring will come again.

Talking Shit

Let me say, first of all, without any hesitation whatsoever, fuck you. You who think that I need to, or will, sit passively before you and be dazzled into a stupor by your mumbo jumbo. You who think that I am so asleep that if you use words strange enough, words big enough, or abstract enough, I will submissively assume that I am the one who does not understand your higher teaching rather than standing up and saying,
"Eh, this cocksucker is full of shit. He hasn’t said anything at all. "
All of you new age douche bag peddlers of righteous and loving blah blah and blah can go and suck the baphomet's big erect cock, although I’m sure you wouldn’t. I would though, I would do that in an instant. What I will not however do is stand by and watch as you shear holes in the spirits of your followers the way moths eat through old unprotected gowns hanging dusty in a forgotten armoire without having my rant, without raising my fist and shouting,
"Charlatans!"
Some of you know it, and worse yet, some of you don’t know what evil magick you make with your endless dribble of love and light , your 99 days of 99 channels. Some of you recklessly think that maybe you are helping someone else or yourself by saying things which make everyone feel good, comfortable, safe, loved, and inherently beautiful. We are not as you would assert, all beings of light. We are worms, pale and filthy, crawling about the globe waiting to be gobbled up by something bigger and filthier than ourselves. To be more than a worm special efforts are required, a heavy dose of real activity. Caterpillars do not crawl around saying to themselves,
"Oh we are all lovely butterflies, such lovely dear ones, ah so beautiful and spiritual."
They eat and gather up the necessary store of energy they will need for their labors and then they begin to work and build. It is a real doing. They build. They create. They do. They construct a cocoon about themselves. It is not a metaphor. They actually build something around themselves. Within that construct which they labored their whole creepy crawly lives to erect, they begin to change, mutate, transform. They become beautiful butterflies. Not by sitting around comforting each other and saying how good and worthy and beautiful they already are. Not by having potlucks and hugging and discussing ideas. They do it by laboring away towards the end of becoming something other than what they are.
Suppose they don’t even know how things will turn out in the end. Suppose they only know that it is not good enough to go crawling about as a fat worm waiting to be eaten by something more grotesque like a big white catfish or an oompa loompa, or even a nice little birdie. Suppose that they feel in their ooey gooey green depths that they were made to be something more than they are, but they do not yet know what, so they begin to accumulate energy/ They eat. They take everything in, but not so that they may be fat caterpillars that sit around encouraging others to be fat. To take in the necessary packet of vital life force is not enough. Suppose that they feel this. Suppose that they begin to build their cocoons without ever dreaming of what will become of them after some time has passed.
They build something without knowing why they build. They build it without knowing what they are building. They build it without naming it, without encouraging others to do the same. They build it and then they find themselves within a world which they have painstakingly pieced together, and, once inside, something strange happens to them.
Suppose that it is frightening. Suppose that at some points they doubt themselves and think, my God, what have I done? I’m becoming a monster. Suppose they weep because their queer efforts have left them without their caterpillar friends. Suppose the dark within the cocoon frightens them, they feel powerless, they feel blind. Then one day they break through their world’s shell and fly away.
Do butterflies remember being caterpillars? Suppose they think it was just a crazy dream? Like that dream I had where I was human and had to listen to pasty faced bastards drone on about spiritual enlightenment without having had any practical knowledge of it. There are some buggers out there who know something, but they aren’t likely to take up hours of your life lisping about it at a social gathering after yoga class.
Let me close by saying, once again, fuck you, to all of you who steal breath and strip meaning from precious teachings, making perfectly good words unusable in impolite society by printing them all over tea bags. Fuck you who take away the power to transform by subduing and mesmerizing sleeping machines with soft voices and silver tongues. Fuck you who think you do good by sharing your wonderful ideas.
As for you, the one who is still reading this and does not feel at all offended, here is something for you to do.
Write all of the spiritual words you know and use on little strips of paper. Anything you have ever uttered or heard uttered in a conversation about God, the universe, the destiny of mankind, etc. Even and especially write the words you like, the ones you prefer to use, the ones you think mean something. For example, your list of words could be something like this:

Enlightenment
Rapture
Christ light
Satori
Cosmic convergence
Love
Peace
Hope
Prayer
Ritual
Sacrifice

And so on. Go crazy. Put them all down, the terms used by you in the past as well as in the present. Do not hesitate to include the ones that seem potent and important to you now. When you have written your words, go out and find yourself some fertilizer, compost, or pure cow shit. Select a suitable location and bury your words along with the fertilizer. Now comes the difficult part. Put all of the passion that you had associated with the ideas expressed by those words into silence. Do not use them for a month. Act as if you have taken a vow of silence which only applies to those words you buried. Avoid others that use them when possible, and even when you are in the company of those that do, keep your silence. Let them rest. For now, they have done enough.

Restoring the Dead God

The pressure is on- be spiritual, do something magickal, say something esoteric. There is an intense fracture somewhere, somewhere. I can’t place it now. I know it’s a broken mind from which many tiny blue tear drops dance down to the black soil, nearly colliding with the golden moths that flutter by in carefully rising and descending helixes like animated leaves in a whirlwind.
The pressure is on. The kettle of polished black enamel rumbles urgently, the first traces of steam slipping through it’s pursed stainless steel lips. Its scream pierces the atmosphere of the pearl dream time. It wails and wails about the blackness of the horrid cast iron skillet with which it has been forced to share the stove top, red hot electric coils glowing under its tortured steel bottom.
Meanwhile the moths have descended upon the electric blue skeletal remains of a humanoid life form. They crawl through the wide eye sockets to lay eggs inside the skull, a practice of theirs, thousands of years old. I know it’s a broken mind and I’m in it. I know that my body is a vague idea, an almost created dream that will evaporate as the tide rolls in and the sun pops up like an awakened eye to glare in at an emptied black stage where nothing played briefly.
I listen to the tiny little voice speaking to me about the excruciating pain that she’s in. She cannot wait for the sun’s gaze to burn her away. She is a bad dream. I know it must be a broken mind. We dreams seem to go on forever and ever and sometimes we think that we have awakened only to find that we are another dream, another glistening shard of a fractured mirror.
That’s all it is, smoke and mirrors, but no one believes me, and they keep on playing in the fun house, in the emptied blue skull of Shiva, where they are content to crawl as larvae, out of the nasal cavity, over the smooth dome, back in through the gaping eye socket mumbling about 2012 and Christ consciousness, tax returns and a water shortage.
Say something esoteric. I am asked to tell the truth, but so long as I am using words I am lying, there is nothing that I can say about the great adventure, about life, or death, or love, or beginnings or ends that will be true. I am very angry that I am being asked to say anything. Answer your own questions, I need to return to the sea.
After eons of living in the pool house of a dilapidated mansion, a tangled mess of countless winding hallways and dark rooms filled with mystery and murder and magic, the minotaur came and lifted me out of the pool with it’s chipping plaster and faded underwater lights. He was strong and muscular, covered with coarse brown fur, more like a buffalo than a bull. I went willingly with my savior, knowing that I was leaving behind my children , scattered throughout the many rooms, and I would never know what was to become of them in this story. Smooth hot pink skin with aqua blue nipples were mine and a long slippery tail, also hot pink. I was old. As old as the mansion and my companion, the long forgotten lord of the manor, the minotaur now carrying me away to open water.
Do something magickal. More magickal than creating this cracked up illusion? Yes, I can do that. I can come alive in it. I can feel this dream body tingle until it evaporates. I am none with nowhere to go and nothing to do. So I wake up inside of the dream, as one with somewhere to go and the capacity to do something. I do something in Shiva’s hallowed out skull, listening to the waves breaking on the shore beyond, knowing that the eye is burning outside. I let it burn inside of me as well, and I do something.
Anything.
Nothing spiritual.
Nothing magickal.
Nothing esoteric.
Just something, something for nothing.
Something to mend the break.
I build a chrysalis.
Something to mend the break.

It Was Taught Outside : Tanya

"Shall we step into Yesod?"
He nods and says: "Definitely. Right now"
We move together and instantly the world changes. The dark trees swirl around us like a tornado of greenery speckled with flashing lights and high frequency sound. In the center, where we are, there is a sense of quiet and solid stability, a place where we can stand and remain in place, nothing will disturb, nothing will pull us out until such a time comes that we decide to move again. We are together here in this bubble of tranquility, and inside of us, something changes as well. Tears start to flow, but without the added baggage of sentimentality. There is no sadness, no remorse, no desire for the past, only a simple ongoing release, salty currents that run down our faces, down upon our shirts and to the ground.
"So many avenues to travel on…"
"Let’s pick one."
"I choose Tanya."
"Yes, I know."
And we both remain in place while travelling to a far distant place, a place of danger and warmth and chaos, where we lived together and we both knew a shining girl that left her mark on us forever. She was small but not frail, strong but not pushy. Her temper was just enough to be fiery and severe, but not so much that she would lose her simple flowing beauty. Her desire was explosive and apparent, but it was balance by kindness and restraint. She would reach out to us through the gap that separates humans from each other and meet us at the place where we could be met. She would only demand what we could give and nothing else. And she would greet our efforts with a true smile and eyes that pressed almost shut in a burst of soft sincere love and friendship. With just such an explosion of light she must have given herself over to the guerrillas one night, giving her heart, her will and her body to the legendary lost brigade of the hills, and setting in motion the process that would end with her tied up, on her knees, with a soldier pointing a gun at her head. The pain of the bullet bursting through her face and cranium must have been terrible but quick. It was the echo that left her wandering, questioning the nature of what had truly happened and where she was now.
The tears continue and as they flow, our chest is torn apart, our hearts open wide towards each other and the energy flows unimpeded. For the moment, all obstacles have been removed and we become one, here in the cold and darkness, in our temporary space that tonight radiates with a rumbling vibration and the presence of the Others that have always been within us but tonight manifest openly and joyously without any reservation. In the process of invoking Tanya, we have invoked something that is greater than all three of us, and it now surrounds us from all sides.
Her gentle contact and accepting eyes, her rush towards self sacrifice, glorious in itself no matter what the human ramifications or effects, her open and warm embrace, innocent and sexual at once, it all descends on us here and breaks apart our assumptions, our old ways of being and deciding. It reminds us of microscopic knowledge that we have forgotten and which has roamed in the backwaters of our consciousness for years. The very movements of our bodies change and we dance and sing and laugh… while the rushing tears continue… and the forest itself joins in our celebration.
She is here and it is clear that we have learned from her, a subtle non verbal message that can never escape our lips and cannot be transformed into a simple statement, and that, in itself, makes it more Real.
"The Book of Tanya" records the special Jewish teachings of the Hassidic tradition and the Kabbalah. Here, in our own initial attempt at a Kabalistic invocation, we have invoked a shining girl we both knew, and through that memory, we have called forth the living spirit, the same that rushed to us through her eyes with great generosity, the same that moved the hand that recorded the teachings in a book centuries ago, the same that we will now call forth day after day, in the hope that it may once again honor us with its presence.
A spirit that has been named an endless number of times in an endless number of tongues, but which dances nameless in the Eternal chamber that is here before and after words, or ideas, or lips, or sound.

This night we say Tanya.
Not the book.
Not the girl.
Not my memories.
Not the stories.
Not the flesh.
Not the smile.
Not my friend.
Not her hands.
Not my companion.
Not me.

May she visit us often.
May she stay for a while.

The Pure Being

The pure being, the no mind, the formless plain of pure knowledge belongs to the Dragon. This we call the awakened state.
To be an element within a dream world that stimulates lucidity is to be a force for evil. That which contributes to awakening goes against the nature of sleep. All spiritual work is evil, otherwise it is not spiritual work at all, but rather trickery.
It is in the best interest of the dream that the elements of the dream lack self awareness and presence. Therefore the dream will do its best to ensnare the awakened element, seduce it back into a peaceful or tormented slumber.
One awakened agent can disturb the entire dream to the point of ending it.
Engaging in spiritual work may bring about the end of the world. This happens eventually anyway, the end of the world that is, whether it is your fault or not. If you have worked well in one dream world and gathered enough presence you may continue in the next. If not, you evaporate with the rest of the dream.
Immortality has to be worked for, it is unnatural.
You won’t experience immortality as a result of being "good" and not disrupting the dream.
The meek will inherit the earth and rot there, six feet under. Meanwhile there is no rest for the wicked.
Resist the pull of sweet sister sleep and live evil.
If you don’t, someone else will, over and over and over again.