What follows is made up of journal excerpts and does not (necessarily) represent my current perspective or beliefs.
Wednesday, April 10, 2002
Last day of writing Book of the Adversary, if I can swing it. Not coming through very well, however. I am a bit blocked, though invocations last night and this morning have been pretty powerful, and last night’s dreams were as intense as they come.
First a word about yesterday’s movie shoot, the period piece Cromwell and Fairfax, on which I spent 14 hours in the cold, playing one of two surgeons, dressed like a blacksmith, covered in blood. [This was released in 2003 as To Kill a King.] The first shot, I had to run up some steps. We were in this very nicely done army camp, I was carrying a bowl with a rag and a saw in it. We weren’t given any direction. The director didn’t even come down to where we were until later in the day. There was this Australian guy Eddie, who looked like Alec Baldwin, dressed in a red jumper, nice enough. When I asked him what I ought to be doing, he said, “You’re the surgeon, you figure it out.” I said, “I’m not a surgeon.” He said, “Yes you are!” I thought, Uh, OK, method acting. He expects his extras to be Marlon Brando? But I didn’t want to stress him any more than he was. Obviously we were just deep background so it didn’t really matter much, but you never know where the camera’s pointing because you can’t look at it, and even if you do you can’t tell what sort of shot it is, long or medium or whatever. So I did my best to make it real.
When I got to the surgery tent I put the stuff down and attended to this soldier with a missing leg and a bloody wound. Since his whole leg had been blown or chopped off, it was a wonder he was alive at all, what with no anesthetic to get him through the pain and shock. The guy who played the solider was called Pete, and of course he was really missing a leg. The weirdest thing about making movies is that you start to think everything is fake, and it took me a while to realize that this guy really was missing his leg! It was as if I thought it has been digitally erased! It was his right leg that was missing. I am slightly lame in the right foot, due to jumping off a Guatemalan terrace, and the bruised heel still bugs me to this day, nine months later. The guy’s name is Pete, and my first hero was Peter Parker, Spiderman, “With great power comes great responsibility.” Then of course there is Peter Pan. Then there is Cephas, Simon Peter, Christ’s first apostle, with whom I have some sort of past-life affinity thing going, call it what you will.
Pete was a very nice guy, piercing blue eyes and high Wangus quotient. No doubt that’s how he got the flesh-eating virus that devoured his leg in a matter of hours, back when he was 17. Just getting this virus is a million to one shot, but surviving it is almost unheard of. When they chopped his leg off at the upper thigh, it had advanced so far that there wasn’t even any bleeding: just this dry, dead stump! So they had to go higher and pulled the whole leg out at the socket. He said it was sheer agony for weeks. Add to that the emotional trauma of losing a limb at that age, and Pete was truly an example of the human spirit’s power to triumph over adversity. And he was my first patient. All I could do was lean down and take his hat off (bad idea at first, as his dreadlocks fell out: not very period!), feel his brow, and offer him some water. I was holding him down because it seemed like that level of pain would lead to heavy thrashing. Pete liked the touch with the hat and said holding him down was definitely the right move. So even though the movie people couldn’t have cared less about what I was doing, and as it happened (as far as I know) it didn’t even get into the film, I felt like I had done a good job, together with Pete, in our make-believe world.
There was another soldier, an older guy with gray hair, standing by between takes, listening to a portable radio playing hymns for the Queen Mother’s funeral. She was 101 years old, never did anything of import save parasite off the collective and help maintain the social dementia of personality worship, and was probably an evil old crone to boot. And we are all supposed to be devastated by this “great loss.” It’s amazing to find how deep the hypocrisy-humbug goes. Even I— rebel, prophet, artist, surrealist, psychological terrorist and all-round iconoclast— find it hard to express my true feelings in this environment, for fear of upsetting people! I got in a dig at this guy with the radio, anyway, who was trying to get people to share in his sorrow/reverence. I said, “I think people are making such a big fuss over this to cover up the real truth, that no one really gives a damn anymore.” I said this to Pete, but loud enough for the other guy to hear. Pete certainly agreed, but no one much likes to admit it, like I say. The spell cast is that powerful and far-reaching. Anyway, this led Pete to mention how he’d just lost a 26 year old friend, a girl who was blown by this nagual north wind of the last few days, while riding her bike, into the path of a truck. This was more Wangus, because the day before (I’d been horribly sick walking with Valerie [my mother] on the Heath), talking to Valerie about the wind and joking how it was “my work,” I said, “the wind never killed anyone.” I quickly amended this, realizing it was sheer nonsense. And this Wangus is to be continued, as last night’s dream will testify. To get back to Pete, we got onto to talking about viruses and this led to his telling me about his leg (I asked, having no idea it was a virus that was responsible).
So to get to my dreams.
I am starting to remember. Everything. Who I am, what this is all about, everything. But these are just fragments, and all I can really remember of any import is that I am starting to remember!
In the dream, I realize that I can’t pretend anymore. I have remembered who I am. I haven’t remembered everything yet, however, and even the awareness I have seems to come and go. It’s like I am moving between states, alternating between pretending that I don’t know/remember, to pretending that I do. But either way it’s always part pretending, and I can’t decide which is worse. I apologize for acting as though I don’t know what I’m doing, and the other person jokes that it’s OK, I really don’t know what I’m doing! They are basically admitting that they are as confused as I am. I am completely and utterly bewildered: apparently I do know what I’m doing, yet I have no idea how I know. Overwhelmed, I move into heightened awareness and start remembering everything. Part of me is still thinking I’m making it all up, then the memories come flooding in. The only thing I can recall is a written play of words, both Spanish and English: “ha sido” (has been) and “a seedo” (i.e., seed with the Spanish “o” on the end!).
After that, I am with don Juan Matus, learning, maybe even at a computer. I am aware that I do not know who I am. I have no personal memories at all, no personal history. There’s no panic or confusion in this. I know, or Juan explains, that this is the optimum state for me to receive his teachings, that without the burdensome baggage of personal memories, ideas and thoughts about self, I am almost infinitely more open and powerful (aware) as an individual. Yet I don’t feel like a God or anything. It’s peculiar. Carlos never wrote about memories of the other self in which he had no memory of who he was. Usually the opposite is the case: in the other self one remembers everything. In this state I remembered nothing, yet I was somehow vastly greater, or at least purer, as a result. Like being a baby, perhaps?
From here I become bodiless consciousness flying near the ground seeking this specific spot that relates to my nagual connection. It’s like a designated meeting place, I guess. First I am seeking a spot near the home I grew up in, a big mansion that in an earlier dream I “discovered” belonged to the naguals some centuries back. Then I switch and I am nearing the house we moved to after this, in a different town, when I was eight. Apparently there are two spots, or perhaps many, that relate to my childhood and are part of some sort of energy configuration, map, whatever. I stop at a tree and see a knot-hole in the tree. I fly into it, into the earth, down this long tunnel into another world or state.
Last fragment. The archangel Michael, whom I see as a sort of living doll, has broken his right leg (!) right off, like a stick. He’s taped it back on. It doesn’t work obviously but nor does it hurt him. He’s talking with God about getting it fixed and God is promising to do so but seems to be hedging somehow. Michael the Angel is interested in, if not in love with, a mortal female and is going down to Earth to see if he can woo and win her. It’s possible however that she is in love with another angel, Gabriel (? It’s a watery being), in which case Michael will know that he was mistaken and that she is not, after all, his other half.
Friday, April 19, 2002
Here’s another 2nd attention memory, extremely tough to flatten out into tonal awareness.
It involves this guy who I think I know of as “John.” He is middle-aged, white bearded and bald-headed. Yet his human form is not really fixed, there is something distinctly nonhuman about him, almost as if he’s a robot or alien, or some such. He is enormously powerful but there is also something physically wrong with him; for one thing, his brains are showing! For another, he seems to be lamed in some way; there is something wrong with his legs.
Before I dreamt this dream, before I fell asleep that night, I had such an intense flash of something that it filled me with awe, if not panic. It was a memory of something that had never happened; I don’t know what it was, it was so brief, all I know is that had I held on to the memory it would have been like a vortex that sucked me off into a whole other world of experiences. All I was left with was the vaguely physical impression of a metallic tube with holes in it. I have no idea whatsoever what if anything this relates to, but the emotional power of this “flash” was as intense as anything I’ve experienced. It felt as though the veils were being drawn aside and the Other was peering through at me.
I also recall sitting down with John and seeing how his brains are showing; his face is sort of held on by his glasses, a kind of mask, and underneath his brains are clearly visible. This suggests both that he is not human and that he has been damaged in some way. I then attend to his legs, which are somehow twisted up. There’s great power in them; when I touch them (am I healing him?), I feel all this energy flowing through me and altering my perception. The weirdest part of all this is that I wake up in the midst of healing this guy (if that’s what I’m doing, it seems like a sort of test also) and I am trying to remember it all, or at least hang on to something, and so I am dreaming of writing it down, even though I’m not (I don’t write dreams down, at best I recount them into a mini tape recorder; but I couldn’t even face this at this point). I keep returning to the actual second attention dream and resuming the healing thing, and I even apologize to John for my “absence,” or rather, my wavering attention. So I am in three places at once: in the second attention with this nonhuman person; in an in-between dream state writing it down; and (half) awake, trying to remember it all! I’m not sure how the healing itself went, but I didn’t do too well in the task of remembering. These are just fragments.
Last night/this morning was the time I lost my virginity, eight years ago, April 30th, which is Beltane, the pagan fertility day. It was with an older French woman, a Taurus. As if to commemorate the occasion, this morning I had the following dream: I was with my father and his father, Alec, my grandfather, now dead. We were talking about intelligent life in the universe being scarce and Alec cracked, “You can say that again,” referring sardonically to those present, I guess. It was very funny at the time (Alec was not renowned for his wit). I had to help my father into a chair (he is crippled) and he was incredibly heavy (some woman helped me do it). It transpired that my father, Nick, was married to the Queen of England and, as such, he was the King. This meant that I was heir to the throne. As a result of this, I discovered through reading the tabloid papers, literally millions of women in the country were lining up to have sex with me. There were photos in all of the papers of seething crowds of females, from as young as 11 or 12, teeny boppers, all hoping for a chance to bed down with yours truly.
Sunday, May 5th, 2002
I am walking up a hill in the country with some other people; it is a previous time, not quite medieval times, maybe 16th or 17th century. There are three people I am aware of: a Lord or high ranking officer, who is blonde; a peasant soldier type, who is swarthy and dark; and a peasant woman, attractive with dark, curly hair. I am chatting and joking (flirting) with the woman, despite the fact that she “belongs” to the swarthy soldier. I am joking about how harlots have their uses (not referring to the woman herself, however). Since the peasant woman is tiring from the climb, I take her by the hand and help her forward; then I become even more bold and put my arm around her. She is pleased, flattered, perhaps even aroused by my attention. The peasant soldier, however, is enraged and begins to goad me and to provoke me. Somehow, it is unclear how, he attacks me, causing tree branches to fall on me. I am infuriated by this and without warning I take off into the sky. I am Homoplasmate all of a sudden, Plasma Man, a being made of fire. (Like the Human Torch from Fantastic Four, Johnny Storm.) I fly high into the sky and take up position, several hundred feet over the scene. It is night all of a sudden (as soon as I hit the sky it becomes night), and as this being of flame I throw fire down at the passing men (and horses), whom I now consider my enemies. The fire hits the trees standing over them and causes flaming branches to fall down upon them. They are burnt and crushed, consumed by falling, flaming trees.
I know (though he is too distant to see) that the soldier who insulted me is now looking up in horror, and for his benefit I create a burst of flame around me, like a supernova in the sky, so that he will know who has done this. I can see the wreckage of my work. All of a sudden it is modern scene: police, cars, all destroyed. Rather than feeling satisfied by my work, however, I feel ashamed. It’s as if a voice tells me there’s nothing to be proud of, when all I have done is display my hotheadedness. Just like Johnny Storm, going off half-cocked again, I have indulged in my emotions and caused wanton destruction. A much more sober reaction would have been preferable. This is a huge manifestation of power but it is also an abuse of it. A God does not act in petty wrath; he does not avenge his own insults, for he is beyond them. The manifestation of power is a beautiful thing, but it might just as easily been used creatively as destructively. I feel bad. I decide to make up for it by flying to another level, another dream, maintaining my lucidity. I am aware of being physical in this dream, of having a body, albeit of another kind (plasma). Here the dream shifts into what appears to be past-life recall.
I am a warrior who has been in battle, but at the same time, I am pregnant! What’s most bizarre is there is no contradiction, no awareness that as a man I can’t be pregnant. It is just accepted. As pregnant warrior, I have to pause in mid battle, during a lapse, in order to give birth. The baby is given to this woman who may be a royalist, and there are these religious figures involved, this whole conspiracy going on, to take the baby. Following the birth I have an encounter with a man by a river; following this I wind up in this tower, a high room, writing in my notebook. Two or three soldiers enter and begin to ask me questions. They ask me where my paintings are. I tell them I haven’t been doing any painting. They are momentarily confounded by this, then demand to see my notebooks. I permit them, thinking there is nothing in them to incriminate me. I am aware of having committed this terrible crime (burning all the soldiers), and of why they are here. They look through one of the notebooks and sure enough towards the end there is an image, a doodle, of fire and horses and trees. The more zealous of the soldiers (who in fact is the soldier I originally attacked, though I am not sure how he got out alive) describes the drawing to the others. Since it is quite abstract, I am still hoping they won’t spot it for what it is, that they won’t believe him. He’s saying, “Here’s the horses, here are the trees, and here is the fire.” They see it clearly enough, and they arrest me.
There are two other people in the room who are simply guests, bystanders; it’s one guy really, and perhaps a servant (who in those days wouldn’t count as a person?), and they are listening to this, apparently disinterested. I am put in chains and I am praying they will leave the notebooks there when they go, since this is the only evidence they have against me. I can see the future and I know that, if they do this, the guest will come to my aid (he is sympathetic to me) and throw the notebooks away. I pray the soldiers will leave and allow this to happen. At first, I can see that the zealous soldier is far too zealous to overlook anything, but then he leaves me and the evidence with the other two soldiers. They are far less conscientious, and simply place the notebooks on a high shelf, where I can’t reach them because I am chained. It hasn’t occurred to them that the guest will take my side, so they leave them there. I am taken away with the soldiers, but somehow I am able to see what happens in the room after I am gone.
The guest grabs the notebook and looks through all the pictures. There are some interesting ones but they get less and less elaborate towards the end, as if my drawing interest simply petered out over time. Near to the one that has gotten me into such trouble, there are all these other images telling a story. This is where it all comes together. The story is of me being in this battle, of escaping the battle briefly, taking refuge beside some crashed wagon or cart by a stream, where I find this warrior, this knight, who seems to be dying. I kneel down beside him. I take off his helmet and I recognize him. There is some confusion or disappointment here, because somehow, by seeing his face, I realize that he is not who I thought he was. This is the same man in the room who is going to help me, and he in turn is realizing that I am the man who came to his side and took his helmet off. There is something about water here; it is as if I am gazing into a reflection. This is all so deep I cannot begin to fathom it. And going over the story in picture form, as if reading a comic book, I become aware that none of this has happened. As I kneel there, the knight just disappears as I remove his helmet. I see he is not who I thought he was, and that his face is just a refection of mine, whereupon he disappears. And then we enter into some tale of his being married, having a child, enjoying family life, and as I remember all this, I realize it is all just a dream: everything is just a dream.
The whole story relates to Hamlet, and I realize I am watching a play, the greatest work of art ever created, and I am experiencing the most astonishing sense of happiness. My assemblage point just careens off into a new position and I am in a state of utter, all-consuming, delirious happiness. I have undergone total ecstasy in dreams and using hallucinogens, but this is something else. The most beautiful, delirious joy, and it is created by this work of art. The last coherent thought I have is that, since this is the greatest work of art, it ought indeed to create the greatest sense of happiness. Then I soar off into it, and I am just there for a time, and I can’t think anything except, HAPPY. It is all yellow, that’s all I remember.
Eventually I mange to summon an anti-happy thought, my little sense of self, the underman who undermines, come back to assert himself, and I think “contempt,” the bugaboo word. But the thought makes absolutely no difference. It is not welcome, because it is so inappropriate, but it doesn’t change the feeling of euphoria. It simply creates a tiny blip in the bliss state, and I get a visual of this little blue man, god knows who, maybe the Underman himself. He looks like a cartoon figure, and though he is summoned by “contempt,” he is happy too. He is smiling.
“All we see and all we seem is but a dream within a dream.”
The realization of this is complete and total, no room for doubt. Hence from this realization comes the complete and everlasting happiness. I am weeping with happiness, and so I wake, weeping. Everything has been wiped away in this raging inferno of euphoria that has no cause, that needs no cause, that simply is. This is our natural state, I know, and we can exist forever in this state: delirious, euphoric happiness. Completely mad, in fact; and that’s how we are going to be. Happy fools.
After that the dreams went on and on. Transformation time.
I am in this small room, dancing with this… being. He is like the mutant Orc from Lord of the Rings, only he is not evil-looking and is red-skinned rather than blue-skinned. He continues to change form throughout, but basically he is stocky, muscular, shortish (shorter than me anyway), with this long black hair and dark red skin. He is definitely non-human, and totally, overwhelmingly alive. We are just dancing around the room together, circling one another and dancing together and I am looking the Being straight in the eye and I am aware that he is real, beyond any doubt, and that I am completely and utterly there with him. This is a real, living being. I am in awe, and struck by the fact that I feel no fear whatsoever. I am myself, and yet much more than myself. My ordinary sense of self is gone, save for the memory of it, or rather the awareness of its being gone. That is to say, it is present only by its absence. The self is a distant memory that in a sense warms or comforts me, though what really provides me with comfort, with strength and courage and happiness, is the awareness that this self is gone! I am unmoored, unleashed. And I am dancing with this incredible Being and there is this power that is coming to me and through me through the act of dancing, through communion with this Being, who is an aspect of myself, yet also a being whom I have summoned, specifically for this. He is definitely a warrior entity, perhaps it is even Lam? He is Gnome-like, almost Neanderthal, with aspects of the Underman. Definitely a source of power. There is music, though I don’t remember what it is exactly, save that later on I return to the room to seek this being again, and this time the music I do recall: “I want to be loved,” is the lyric, over and over. Some reggae song I have invented for the occasion. Is it me speaking or the Underman? Either way, it is true.
Summer has come with a vengeance. Everything changes. The cycles progress. Am I coming or am I going?
Every evening I reconnect to the Spirit and all is right with the world. Every morning I awaken in Babylon again and face the devil’s music with no desire to dance. No desire much to speak of at all. There is a saying, Only those who have overcome all desire for women attain freedom; or some such. I would say it’s pretty sound a saying. There is desire and there is desire. The little desires that rule us and the one big Desire that moves us. Since the desire for sexual union is a hormonal, metabolic, and as such a spiritual desire, the desire for the other, the anima or animus, for wholeness, it is the ruling desire of our existence as physical beings. But even this desire must be vanquished in the end. I am nearing a state of indifference. Weariness. Detachment. Approaching boredom, really. Need to find a balance. Between caring too much and not caring enough. I know that sexual union is necessary for Jake’s apotheosis as a magical nagual being. I also know that his desire for this is the one thing that prevents it ever happening!
What I am more aware of than ever with the women is how my interest wanes so easily. The desire for sex is really no different from the desire for ice cream. A sensual lust thing, all too easily satisfied and all too easily indulged. Since indulging in sex is infinitely more draining and irresponsible than indulging in ice cream, fate has arranged it so that I am logistically, or circumstantially, incapable of indulging. Now with Bryony, for example, my desire to have sex with her is both a good thing and a bad thing. It encourages me to give her the time and attention and energy she deserves as a magical being, but it also somewhat interferes with my capacity to simply enjoy her company as such, without thinking about how to direct things towards this (common) goal. It’s easy to say, well, just hang out and forget about it, but if it wasn’t for the sexual factor, it’s doubtful we would be hanging out at all! (I at least would probably let the friendship slide, i.e., develop, or not, in its own time.) And I know from bitter experience that to make the moves too late, or not at all, is just as terminal to the friendship as to make them too soon. Boring, as I say, all adolescent stuff, of course; but again, trying to find the balance. I don’t want to stop courting females because this is pretty much what any social life I have consists of! But I am really bored of the rituals.
Last Friday, I debuted as Lucifer, at a poetry reading. This is the first time I have partaken of such in many months, and I wanted to try out the new persona which making the movie has helped develop. So I asked them to introduce me as Uncle Satan. There was a woman there called Rebecca, another poet. As soon as I saw her I made a beeline for her and we hit it off. She considers herself an incarnation of Venus (morning star). She read a poem called Aphrodite, about her pussy. She had also just written to Sebastian or someone close to him, the previous day, and meant to go to the Crucifixion opening but hadn’t made it. So when she saw my last name she asked if I was related, and was impressed by this Wangus. She had dreamt about the poetry reading the previous night, that the microphone hadn’t worked, and lo and behold, that was exactly what happened. A wang girl.
While I was away briefly some guy came and latched himself to her. She introduced him to me as someone studying Theology, so I asked him, “What do you think about Satan?” He said Satan was UGLY! Moments later, Rebecca told him my name was Jake and I said, “Uncle Satan.” He began to rant at me that I wasn’t bad enough to be Satan, that I should come around his neighborhood and try being Satan there, and see how far it got me, and so on. It got to the point where he was asking me if I wanted to step outside and see which of us was Satan! Pretty funny, but I wasn’t laughing at the time. I wasn’t really scared either (though he was a formidable looking guy), just a bit annoyed, since he was interfering with the poetry reading with his endless ranting, and the other poets were getting upset, even starting to ask me to move to another table. “I was here first,” I said, to the psycho, determined to stand my ground and sensing how fatal it would be to give an inch at such a time. He finally moved away, then came back briefly again and challenged me, again.
Finally I said, “OK, I take it back, I’m not Satan!” This seemed like the best move, by and large, since I wasn’t really in the mood to live up to HIS idea of Satan, only my own, which involved poetry not fist-fighting. He went off and lingered some time after that. I was slightly tense because it seemed likely he would hang out and attack me after the show. I was even thinking about backing out of the whole performance, feeling that my invocation of satanic forces was going a little too well. I went through with it, however, and even made a crack, “If anyone would like to beat me up after the show, that’s OK. But please, go easy on the suit.” He’d left by now, however, so it was an empty show of bravado. I read some of the first part of Book of Adversary and it went down surprisingly well (I was prepared for total indifference, being indifferent myself).
When I got home that night I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the TV and The Devil Rides Out was playing!
I guess dat means I did a fair job?
Today I went to see Spiderman. This movie was released the same day Sebastian’s crucifixion officially opened, and also the same day Jake made his official debut as “Lucifer.” (Uncle Satan) Coincidence? With great power comes great responsibility.
During the night, I woke up several times and was not myself. Was someone or something else, the Double I would have to guess (everything else was the same, but not “I”). On one occasion, I opened my eyes and saw three beings at the end of the bed, glowing green. “Saw” is a euphemism, however, it was more of a sensing, perhaps even true “seeing”? The beings, small and thin, did not say or do anything, nor did they frighten me in any way. A moment later they were gone. I didn’t even remember it until later.
There may be crisis approaching. Of course there’s always crisis approaching. But in the personal life of Jake. Considering the degree to which he has been summoning the forces of the unconscious, the nagual, the Wangus, in the last few weeks, it seems pretty much certain that there will be some sort of cataclysmic manifestation at the external level. My hope has been that it be a global crisis large enough to affect me personally, rather than a local apocalypse that only affects myself and those close to me. I have for a long time been concerned for Sebastian’s welfare. Now he has made a name for himself, the arrows are beginning to fly. I feel that big success, fame and the rest will in the long run be worse for Sebastian’s state of mind, sanity, than a big failure, which will be terrible in the short term but force him to realize how meaningless this whole tonal-based quest for power is. Hard to say which way it is going, maybe both, but certainly he is being forced to deal with public humiliation as critics dismiss his paintings as worthless and his auto-crucifixion as a shallow publicity stunt, etc. All this could drive him into a corner of despair in which he self-implodes. I support him as best I can from a safe distance.
My own Wangus of recent months, since I got back to the homeland, has involved the merging of the physical body with energy body, the left and ride sides, and the loss of the human form which accompanies this process. The other night, before I saw the light beings, essentially it was as if I was waking up in the energy body, the double, only for the first time I was also in my physical body as opposed to elsewhere. Hence my impression, or deduction, is that the energy body and the physical are now almost aligned, meaning that little by little the double can start taking over the reigns, the human form be discarded and Jake become just a memory, as I remember myself at last?? If this is even half right, then the appearing beings were simply there to witness this and confirm, by their presence, that it was nearly time to become a vessel for Them. My life as Jake is pretty much over. At which time, one must literally be prepared for anything, not only good but bad. Because any residue of the former self that has not been purified will take on autonomy and become a marauding phantom. Or put another way, the forces of the nagual that are being unleashed by this transformation, if interpreted thru a faulty lens (an improper tonal) will become terrifying to the point of being potentially fatal. This (to me) was the primary message of the light beings, that I was able to acknowledge them now in a relatively pure form, without fear, hence they were ready to manifest.
But if I am beginning to manifest these forces, then everyone is. Since I am the one who sets the pace, and who sets the test.
I spent some time with my mother today and almost walked out on her. I gave her the whole flyers lowdown [Castaneda’s energetic vampires who create our false minds] one more time; she just can’t accept it, and resists by accusing me of preaching doom and gloom, or trying to force something on her. But I am only trying to ensure she has the information she needs, as a witch, to combat her “enemies” and prepare for the coming weeks, months, and years. Since rather than saying, Jake, I find all this a bit scary, can you ease off? (in which case I would certainly have responded), she accuses me of depressing her, I feel myself giving in to anger and disgust. For a moment, we almost lost the plot entirely. But instead of walking out, as I said I would, I stood around and we got back on more civil ground. It is hard I suppose for a mother to have to take this from the child she reared and raised. Whatever.
She just called while I was reading over that paragraph to say, “Thank you for taking me seriously. A lot of kids wouldn’t take their mothers seriously.”
The Sadness of a Fallen Angel (accompanying podcast)