Variations on a Dream

July 28, 2010

   */RonGasparri\* Speaks/*

If ever there was a man who has done so much and yet not enough, it would be   */RonGasparri\*. While many others would be happy to just rest themselves on their past accomplishments, Ron would say he has barely just begun – only because so much still remains unfinished.

During the years of the first Gulf War, it quickly became apparent to Ron’s superiors that he was no ordinary jarhead. He was quickly (and appropriately) inducted into the world of military intelligence and soon after began his association with the various lodges and fraternal orders — this did , of course, provide certain advantages for him professionally. Within a few short years, Ron found himself wearing the apron of a 32° Scottish Rite Freemason.

He has also been awarded various, respected positions in other fraternal groups and lodges including being:

– Elected Monarch of the Effendi Grotto
– Knighted by Knights of Pythias
– Knighted by Priory of Knights Templar

After all this, Ron’s true passion for the mysterious and occult dominated any other desire (other than being a good father), and he dove into the somewhat obscure arenas of Enochian and Ogdoadic Magicks. Eastern Indian and Tibetan practices and disciplines have also found a home in Ron’s life.

 

He now continues his path by stepping up and sharing a small piece of himself with us today.

___________________

 Variations on a Dream

My heart is racing, the sweat runs down my face and the fear I feel inside is overwhelming. They are coming for me. They’re going to find me and I am going to go to some god-forbidden jail or receive some type of sadistic punishment that enslaves my mind and arrests my development. I need to keep moving and I do. Lockers line both sides of the hallways. The breaks between the rows of lockers are filled with doors that lead to classrooms of various sizes. Some are exits, and I need an exit… now. Past another row, another door, and then a backlit exit-sign appears, but I instinctively know that this door leads to the auditorium.

I have no time to second-guess myself—I see that the two plain clothed security personnel are gaining on me. This time, one of the teachers is with them and he knows exactly who I am. He’s the one that discovered my true age and identity. He has to be the one; he was one of my teachers when I was here the first time. In the door I go, and—what the fuck is this? It’s a slide, an inflatable slide that leads right out to the front of the building. It looks like a huge version of those emergency slides that are used by aircraft after they make emergency landings, except this one is really wide, sectioned into ten or so rows and it’s black with white stitching. This doesn’t seem normal, but it is something I must navigate if I am to save my life and be free again.

Now, I just need to get to the top of the slide, slide down it, and freedom shall be mine. I run down the center row, between two large areas of movie-theater style chairs aimed at the stage, arranged in the typical descending fashion. If this weren’t a high school auditorium, it would be a very posh theater. There are about five stairs that flank both sides of the stage and just as I decide to go up the left side’s stairs, I hear the doors open behind and above me—they enter and yell “Stop!” Yeah, right. Why would I stop for someone who doesn’t have my best interests in mind? Why would I listen to any other man, anyway? I run to the very top of the immense slide, throw my books down first (I don’t want them to slow my descent) and down I go. It feels like the “Moon Room” inflatable amusement area those neighborhood churches and social organizations would set-up during fund raising events. I’m down, and quickly out of the building.

Why do I not feel free? Where is that sense of relief I expected? Why am I not elated? I see a yellow school bus pull up just in front of the gymnasium complex, and I notice that my friends are getting on, well, the guys, anyway and they are all dressed in their football uniforms. A rear bus window opens and a close friend yells, “Ron. Come on, Man. You’re gonna be late!” I am going to be late and I may very well miss the game, too. In fact, now that the administrators know who I am, I may never get to finish the football season. Now there are two things I will not finish and the feeling of doom overwhelms me, but I have to try.

As I run along the sidewalk, the bus pulls away from the entrance and as I take another fast stride, I find myself between two parallel bars, both are greased beyond belief and there is nothing beneath me. I have no idea where or why this obstacle appeared before me, but it did and now the real fear sets-in. Whoever did this to me knows that ever since the fall, I have had a paralyzing fear of heights and of falling again. I navigate the parallel bars and jump off them, back on to the sidewalk. I realize that these bars had replaced a bridge that used to be located in the same area. The bus is only about a half of a city block ahead of me and I have to get on it.

Suddenly, I awaken to the sound of the night and the sound that my sweat makes when it rolls down the side of my head.

__________________

There are turning points in everyone’s lives. There are major decisions that we make when we are too young to know anything about future repercussions, both personal and intra-personal. I made a decision when I was sixteen and that decision has affected every facet of my life since. Some say that it has all worked out well and that things just took a little longer to “gel” for me because of it. Bullshit. I know the truth. That decision still haunts me to this day and impacts me still. Nothing has worked out the way I wanted things to work out because of this decision. Sure, there is an element of shame, of guilt, but the real feelings underlying that fateful decision are regret and anger. I regret dropping out of high school to join the Marine Corps. I am angry that nobody tried to talk to me about the unlimited field of other options that were accessible and tangible. The excuse I heard was, “We could have told you nothing that would have changed your mind,” but I know that’s a bunch of crap.

Over time, I have come to terms with myself and this decision, but apparently not completely. Over time, I have forgiven myself and have been able to allow myself to be proud of being a Marine, but maybe that’s bullshit too. All combat Marines live with a burden unlike any other and we generally don’t do well once we’re outside the Marine Corps environment. Had I not panicked back then when my girlfriend informed me that she was pregnant, I would have been on the road I am on now, only ten years ago, and that means more than you can imagine. The reasons are selfish ones and I get that, too. All I needed and wanted was someone to tell me that waiting 24 hours before making a major decision really is OK, that answers sometimes don’t come immediately, and that impulsive action works only about 10% of the time.

So, tonight when I sleep again, I wonder if the “High School Principal” of my former high school will try to find out why, at my age and with my college degrees, I am still trying to pass myself off as a high school student (and trying to get a diploma I obviously don’t need). I wonder if I will ever catch the school bus that used to drive the football team to its games and get to play another varsity year of high school football again. I wonder if having graduated high school means as much to my former classmates as it would have meant to me. I wonder if, when I make my next major decision in life, I will allow myself 24 hours to think: just to make sure I have explored other options. I do know one thing: I was too young to make such an important decision as to drop out of high school so I could provide for my child. This was a decision made too fast.

You can learn more about Ron and yourself in the following places:

MSI – Modern Scientific Illuminism

MSI Facebook

 

 

Today…

July 18, 2010

Today, which if time were truly linear (apparently it’s not), could have been a week ago.

Nevertheless, I am now happy (as I always am) to announce my affiliation with a wonderful and wild philanthropic group of adepts and mages who come from varied and sundry influences within the magical community. They currently run a website called “Modern Scientific Illuminism. Whether they bear any relation to the notorious “Illuminati,” remains to be seen, but they are doing a Great Work that can only benefit the community and society at large.

MSI’s mission statement reads simply and directly as follows –

“We aim to re-introduce the Sacred Feminine to mankind as found in Ritual Sex Magick Doctrine, Thelema and the Gnostic traditions that utilize physically produced Sacramental Media as an adjunct to Self-Realization and the ‘Christic Consciousness.’ “

The Modern Scientific Illuminism Blog can be found here, featuring the work of the aforementioned mages and wizards –

I will currently be a contributor to the MSI blog in the form of my typically unpredictable and erratic entries, which will follow a more specifically ritual-oriented, academic approach than I have been known for in the past and on my other blogs. I do believe this could be fun for all of us.

I encourage you to follow the MSI blog, and to become a member of the MSI facebook group found at –

MSI: Universal Thelemic Gnosticism

 

Pete Madstone Speaks (Again)

July 1, 2010

This story came about from a complete failure of subject-agenda. A friend and co-conspirator (blogger), Marian Youngblood of Siderealview’s Blog invited me to do a bio of sorts for her to feature on the same blog, and requested I do a continuation of “A Visit With a Sirian.” This sounded like a wonderful idea to me, and so I agreed. Stories such as this take little effort for me, for I subscribe to the maxim that “An Idea is
One Whose Time has Come,” and so assumed the time had come. While I had more to say regarding my experiences with “the Sirian”, I was struggling with much in the technical aspects of execution – or composition. I was unable to compose this story.
 

Meanwhile, something else, or someone else, was pulling at my attention, insistently even. This little friend of mine was relentless in his need for communing with me, and wanted me to share a story that included him. I didn’t know this was to be the story I would share with Marian and her audience – I only knew that I must write this story – the one you
will be reading today.
 

Meanwhile, I questioned the Sirian regarding the “block” that I was experiencing with his story, and in a serious and austere way and winking at the same time, he told me, “This is not the time….” 

And so – I would like to introduce you to A-Bar in

 A Land That Time Forgot
Pete Madstone 

Today, I find myself living in the southwest of France in a place I could have never dreamed of. It abounds with life — birds, animals, insects and woodlands. There are more trees than people, and many of the inhabitants of these savage lands live just outside the arena of the physical world that we are so familiar with. In spite of the typical challenges that come with life itself wherever any of us might live, I would have to say this place is simply “exotic”. 

So, let’s begin with Webster’s defining the word exotic – 

exotic1 : introduced from another country : not native to the place where found <exotic plants>
2 archaic : foreign, alien
3 : strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual
4 : of or relating to striptease 

Lets take this step by step – 

definition 1. With this, it seems that I am the exotic one here, since I was “introduced” here from America – a member of a not yet extinct variety of humanity’s transitional sub-species – the evolutionary inclusionist. 

definition 2. Foreign, yes — alien, likely. So this would be me, again. I am foreign and alien to this place (or at least its people), since I come from another with different ways — but from my perspective, this place is what is foreign and alien, so all things can, indeed, be seen in more than one way. 

definition 3. Okay — now we’re talking, and not about the “famous” french cuisine (though the food certainly fits with this one, as well). Let me repeat this definition — strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual. If I apply this definition to this place, I would have to say that I couldn’t say it any better — it describes perfectly the environment that surrounds me. Because I cannot say things as simply as Mr. Webster, I will devote much more time and effort to describe this place that is far from south Santa Monica, the place where I cut my teeth on a surfboard. But first… 

definition 4.  This one is pretty much irrelevant, since the kind of place you might find “exotic” dancers would be in the nearest city  –  which for me
would be a French city called Bordeaux, and like all French cities, this one is terribly intimidating. Along the same note, I will mention that it is not unusual for the french female to tan her chest freely on our summer
beaches just as the males do – and so these beaches could certainly be considered “exotic” in this context, but I don’t live on the beach. 

I would now discuss just what is strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual (re: definition 3) about this place, for this is what I really have to share with you. It is not that what I will be discussing was never available to me in the variety of other places I have lived, it is just that never have these certain exotic flavors been so apparent to me — so evident, tangible or real. Maybe it is me who has changed, but I would have to surmise that it is my environment that has changed me — this exotic environment. 

I live on a half-acre of land 500 meters (3 “city” blocks) from a medieval village in, as I said, the southwest of France. The road to my house is unpaved and few cars pass by on their way to some scattered homes beyond my own. Splitting off this small road by the gate to my land is an entrance to an old path which is used by the occasional equestrian, hiker or nearby resident of the village on an evening stroll. A couple of winters ago, I was walking this path more than anyone, for I had made a discovery that was reliant upon one condition for this peculiarity, or phenomenon, to be witnessed most easily — I had to be present at a certain place accessed by this path at the time of the “crack between the worlds,” the quarter-hour just before and just after sunset. 

Into the land that time forgot...

So it was out my gate just about every evening, and down this path around 500 meters in the opposite direction from the village into a little tree-lined pasture. On the path were two old oak trees that became a vortex, or portal of sorts for me, for every time I walked past these two trees, everything became silent — there was a definite shift. Far away traffic, birds, insects, and the general buzz of life all stopped here. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was passing into a different time, and a different place — into a land that time forgot. 

There, at the far end of this grassy field where three hedgerows join is a small copse closing in an otherwise invisible corner of the field. Directly at the “entrance” of this little secluded corner is an old water well — a well covered and overgrown by years of non-use and neglect. This was certainly a forgotten place. 

The first few times I had gone to this place, I would feel eyes upon me — many, many eyes from behind and in the trees and branches of overgrowth surrounding me — always blinking off and on, twinkling like bright little stars in a woods bereft of foliage. There was something here, and I certainly felt right at home. It didn’t take me long to begin doing sunset rituals of communion wand-less, and without any of the typical tools, talismans or regalia of the trade. There was certainly a bustle in these hedgerows, and well before the time of the May Queen. 

My simple but raw ceremonies became a standard for me, weather permitting. Upon arriving, I would stop to take in the energy and air of this ancient place, and center myself in the open space defined by the leafless trees. Then, I began walking my circles, and defining my pentagrams, hexagrams and sphere of influence/reality. Salutations would be done, followed by invocations of the cardinal’s overseers. Then, simply stillness and release. It wasn’t a few days before I began sitting at the mouth of the old well after performing my ritual. I just wanted to just be with the land and its wild life, curious about the abundance of those shy and reluctant, but always blinking eyes. From the first time I sat at the opening of this well, I could sense the presence of our local Undines working in the watery realms directly below me — however, these were not the ones with the eyes in the woods. 

These others , I found quickly, were of the earth realm, beings who never ventured into the light of day unless absolutely necessary (invoked), or simply overwhelmed with curiosity or craftiness — these were the Gnomes, working the same caverns below me that the Undines travelled. These caverns and tunnels are abundant in this region of France, with many of them open to the surface, and all of them are crystalline in some way. All these caverns are paradise to those who secretly dwell in them. 

"No, it's not a hat -- it's my head!"

So it was at some point just after the winter equinox that I met this local group of Gnomes — builders they are, if you don’t already know this, and here I was getting ready to build a house. Every evening I was there, they would begin to crowd around me, these little Gnomes. Small they may be, but certainly strong and stout they are, for they are rock workers. Masons they are, Stonemasons, the prototypical Freemasons, and the earth they work is their temple. 

So, I decided to ask for one of these earth-dwellers to help me with the building of my house, which had been at a standstill for 2 years. I specifically stated my requirements (I thought) that were as follows — The house needed to be done in 1 year, and I needed funds, materials, support from friends as yet unmade with the actual physical work, plus support from one of the Gnomes who was considered highly skilled at this work they did so well. Of course, it slipped my mind that these beings were best at rock-work, and other than the rock foundation, the house was to be of wood frame/strawbale construction — but Gnomes are builders, and the best in the world, so why would this matter? 

One of the Gnomes did come for me, knowing it wouldn’t be a full-time job. He would only come around when I was actually working, and besides the other events he was to oversee, he still had his own personal time, and life. He was an A-BAR — this is the title of a Master Rocker, and his name was “Ephrana -yam.” He prefered to be called A-bar, or simply Eff. A year passed as agreed, and the rock foundation was done. So what of the house? Well, it was far from finished, but at least I did have a floor to build the house upon. Apparently, one year was not enough time for me to build a house, even when partnered with a specialist in rock-work. I still had wood frames to bring up, roofing to do, and everything else up to and past the kitchen sink. 

Of course, A-bar did exactly as he understood — it was I who was somehow vague or a little unfocused/misdirected in my desires. So for my little Gnome friend, a year is what it took to complete his part of the job– a year for the foundation. Of course the funding did arrive to for the project within that time from an unexpected place, and I could not have continued without that, anyway. So Eff did do his job, as requested, and did it to the Tee. 

So what of this exotic nature of the place that I call home (for now)? There is something about it that is so pure, untouched — unqualified even. In the history of man, very little has been done to corrupt, or even direct the energy here, and so it can be a little difficult to work with. It is very still and unmoving, and it is used to being still — it is an uncertain energy. It is tentative, having had little experience with outside direction or foreign influence. But we can both learn — both me and this energy. Some have said the energy is flat here, but to me, its potential is remarkable, for it has been unused for millenia, maybe since the beginning of time. 

I still have to wonder, though – is this a place that time forgot, or just a place that man forgot?

A Stranger in a Strange Land

June 27, 2010

Recently I found myself planning a trip to the States. I don’t have a personal assistant to do this like some world-travellers do, and taking care of the details was not the easiest thing to do from my location, but thanks to the internet, the job was made somewhat do-able.

For those of you who don’t know, I currently live in France, and while my French is passable enough (barely) in ordinary circumstances, confirming things such as flight and hotel details on the phone is impossible for my limited skills, and sometimes the internet cannot answer all the questions one might have.

So, I opted to book my flight out of England, which was a decision made easier when I saw the prices to fly to the US from Paris – the UK has much better deals, even directly from the airlines. This simply meant that I would take a short flight across the channel and into a land where I am comfortable with the language (at least the written language – the Queen’s English still remains a mystery to me, even though most of the words are the same).

Unfortunately, I could get no decent connection from the UK to the US, so I had to spend the night somewhere around London, preferably close enough to the airport so I could get my first flight out the next morning without stress.

I must qualify that when I have travelled in the past, I have always been a Motel 6 – Travelodge – Ramada Inn kind of guy, but these don’t exist in England, so I did my best. I ended up booking a hotel at more than twice the price of one of these “ordinary” establishments, thinking that prices have gone up in the few years since I travelled, or just plain expensive around Heathrow Airport.

When arriving at the hotel, I thought that it was actually a pretty nice place, and I would probably be getting what I had reluctantly paid for. At reception, the night manager offered me a choice of rooms — I could have the room that was reserved for me, or I could benefit from what was a “quiet” night and take an upgrade to a club/suite at no extra charge. I said, with no question, “Okay.”

It was off to the west-wing and through a set of extra security doors to a land where the carpets are plush. I was to see how the other-half lived, and I wouldn’t be disappointed. Big screen TV in the living room, another TV in the bedroom, and one in the bathtub. Sofas, plush chairs, and even a safe! So… , call me naïve, but a TV in the tub? This place was nicer than any apartment I ever rented! There were a half-dozen fresh cookies by the coffee machine which I quickly went for, and a good-sized refrigerator that I knew was the “mini-bar” —  I avoided this like the plague.

It’s not that I don’t drink, but I was not about to pay double the price for the same thing I could have down at the bar, which was where I was headed anyway for a nice glass of wine (which turned into three). My first glass of wine was accompanied with a request for my room key, and an assurance that this wouldn’t be billed to my room, so I figured “good, I’ll pay cash,” which is how I like things, anyway. The bartender came back with a “Thank you, Sir,” and walked quickly away, so I left a 5 pound note on the bar.

A bit later, I felt like another glass of wine (my second, and usually my limit), so went back to the bar. I noticed my 5 was still on the bar where I left it, and offered it up with my second glass, where it was declined. The bartender told me there would be no charge for the drinks this evening, so I thanked him, and told him to keep it as a tip. This offering was flatly refused with a comment that “everything” was taken care of. I was told, “We don’t like our Club patrons bothered with details.” This is what led to my having a third glass “on the House.” I thought this whole thing was pretty good, and knew I would do it again if I ever got the chance.

It wasn’t until returning to France and telling this story to my wife, that she began to explain the ways of the world to me. Apparently, this is not unusual in the least bit, and she was somehow thoroughly familiar with it. She asked me if I raided the mini-bar, and I said “No, but I ate all the cookies! Why do you ask?” She told me that the mini-bar is ALWAYS free in these situations, stocked not with the usual garbage, but with chilled wine, champagne, and snacks a good step up from Beer-Nuts — all this without any additional room charges. I thought I had been around, but was starting to realize how naïve I really was.

What kind of world is this?

Imbalance and the Tree – Part 2

June 16, 2010

So to continue, in this microcosm of what is always “running and returning”, I am back to elaborate from where I left off. Imbalance, of course, is always a risk, and plays a divine (for lack of a better term) role in our course. This imbalance exists so that we may find balance through correctional activities that compensate for vibrational (habitual or otherwise) shifts that we so relish (while, of course, denying them). The desire for balance teaches us our mobility – it teaches us to walk, and will teach us to recognize when we are faltering on our path. It is a good system.

The risks on the straight and narrow can all be sourced from one thing, and this is mistaking it for a short-cut, or a fast track. This path is actually more demanding, requiring a discipline hard to come by. By not exploring the branches of one’s potential through direct experience, the fruit on those branches could be said to be studied from a distance. This is, however, a relatively short-term condition (in the greater scheme of things), for as one reaches the central point of the tree, s/he is availed all that exists to the right and the left in a direct way, and can be willingly, albeit momentarily, in these realities as s/he chooses, knowing the price to be paid if this existence, or pole, is not balanced by its opposite, or mate.

Suffice it to say, whatever path one finds themselves on, it is one that leads somewhere – it is always one that leads to new realities, and new ways of thought and existence. Pitfalls are essentially irrelevant if seen as negative experience. Duality reveals itself as an illusion, and the journey is one that takes us to the place we find ourselves in, in each and every moment. If we cannot be where we are, we have failed, forsaking the present moment by a future moment that does not exist, and will only arrive malformed due to our own neglect of taking notice of where we are in this moment. We cheapen our own existence by thinking of it as less important, even mundane, in comparison to what we believe to be a positive trait – that called hope of a better future.

Hope is superficial, and sitting on a chair, wishing things were different. If you get up out of that chair, you are no longer hoping, you are creating. If you are totally within this creative activity without thought of its outcome, you are in the moment, and assured that all subsequent moments will unfold perfectly. This reality transcends all hope, and you stand as being the one responsible for your creation.


%d bloggers like this: