Posts Tagged ‘reality’

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October 25, 2010

*Ron Gasparri*, founder of MSI – Modern Scientific Illuminism, colleague, co-conspirator and friend has been so kind and generous to have written and posted a terribly good review for the book “Dreams of the Magus – Where Angels Fear to Tread.” It is as follows –

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Indirect Prose, Profoundly Enlightening, Esoteric & Kabbalistic Revelation

“Some books are well-written. Some books have relevant information. Some books are filed with grand, meaningless rhetoric. G. Peter Madstone’s “Dreams of the Magus” is well-written, contains relevant information and has meaning throughout its easily readable, flowing style that is reminiscent of Robert Anton Wilson’s style, as found in his masterpiece, “Quantum Psychology.” Before I go on, I have to proudly disclose that Pete is a good friend of mine and rather than assume that would skew this review in a positive direction, it actually made me read it with a more critical eye. That’s the point; as near and dear as the Western Esoteric Tradition is to me, I would never actively promote anything that claims to be a device for illumination that didn’t provide any light at all.

I read “Dreams of the Magus” in one sitting and that’s how I recommend everyone reads it. There are obvious Kabbalistic allusions throughout this book and in this context, both the new aspirant and seasoned Esotericist alike will appreciate, and receive. Many have the perception that Magick is just something that Harry Potter does with his wand in hand. After reading this book, not only will that misconception be erased, it will be exceedingly clear that there is far less “hocus pocus” involved at all. The overall implication I took away from this lucid, well written guide is that Magick is a lifestyle that empowers one to take responsibility for every aspect of his or her life. It is a proactive approach that leaves Chaos as little room as possible to meddle, and that is not paranormal at all. That shouldn’t diminish the importance of active ritual, but it should put it in context. Universal energy made use of to manifest a desired reality works best when one ensures it can augment self under the best possible conditions.

There a few typos that made into the final draft, but they do nothing to take away from the value of this guide that should be in every serious student’s collection.”

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Added to this review comes another 5 star rating! Of course, as author of this book, I will take a shameless moment to also blow the same horn. This is an extremely valuable book which can benefit anyone who reads it in some unimaginable ways. That’s it…

You can buy this book anywhere online or order it from you local independent booksellers if you prefer to support the  smaller entrepreneurial spirits that drive our culture in non-homogenized ways. For now, here’s a link to my Amazon book page –

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1449547419/

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.

Corean Injections and Pushing the Word

June 8, 2010

Cover me, when I sleep
Cover me, when I breathe
You throw your pearls before the swine
Make the monkey blind
Cover me, darling please
 

Shock the Monkey – Peter Gabriel 

 

Like a good song, the word will always start having you think you know where you are — where you think you’re comfortable. Even the experienced and jaded would admit that, but, like a junkie wanting to shock the monkey, you want that jolt of adrenaline, that push (or pull) that takes you over the edge. You want to be challenged, but you keep this dirty little secret buried in the depths of that sponge-like matter called your brain. 

All your most bland desires would have you believe this little lie of comfort and calm, and so you would visit grassy, tree-lined fields where birds are singing. A lazy brook bubbles in the near distance accompanied by a sleeping frog’s croak and the drone of a non-existent chicada. Mushrooms open their caps in the glory of the morning gaining sustenance from essential alchemical elements — the clarified dews, dappled sunlight and cozy cowpies that have brought them here only as potential. They blacken before your eyes in response to your presence, while not so far away, but across the great water, lies a city of roses where color abounds by the dictates of man who attempts rather successfully the governing of nature. 

What is this that man does? 

You are tossed far to the south, quickly and not so gently, into a world bursting with chaos, motion and noise. Freeways, traffic and the stench of fumes spewed from tailpipes — everything here is attached to wheels and geared for activity, for the wicked cannot be allowed to rest. Panic, fear and aggression unheard of goes unnoticed by those who live in this arena, their senses dulled into a sleepy apathy when a gunshot sounds, and now, 

You are in the stars, behind and beyond the glittering sparks that you have dreamt of in your reverie for better things. This is the deepest, darkest and coldest reaches of space, and yet you feel no cold, and the light shines beyond all things. What is this, but vaguely familiar? All is indistinguishable here — unnamable, ineffable. Suddenly there is a form — a middle-aged troubadour skips by you singing a song of times coming by. He skips onward towards his inevitable demise while a small dog nips at his heels, warning him of his doom, but this is a jump, a jump into an abyss that does not kill — it is a jump that can only liberate. Fear is no more, and the wheel of fortune spins on….

The fear is pervasive in this place. It is persuasive in this place of final release. You have suffered here too long — for ages and eons of time. You have suffered with those of your tribe, with those you never knew until the suffering began. Uniforms have pushed you beyond abuse, starving and torture until they pushed you into this heartless and demeaning process of death. There is only pain and the taste of choking, putrid gas and vomit coming up your throat from the depths of hell and you explode into countless sparks of the brightest light you have ever known, and it has begun. 

You’re standing in that grassy field once again, but time has passed. The sun has gone low into the evening haze of the diminishing day. It is the crack between the worlds — and you know you have lived many lives. You have experienced all things and you are expelled again, 

Expelled into a world where image exists as song, a song which is built upon word. You have been taken away to places where only life, dream and mind can take you. You have been safely delivered back into what is your place. This is your good place — your safe place. This is the place where you think you know what is going on, and while worlds and realities continue to spin around you in eternal existence, you have important things to do, and your diversions fade away into the reality of  work, chore and responsibilities. We must be realistic…. 

Time and time again you have been given a gift. Time and time again you have taken these journeys and become one with all that is, one with the jazz of words and the jazz of life itself. 

The jazz of your mind…. 

And while Chick plays on, you obsessively shock the monkey back into its sleep once again. 

Sleep, little darling. Sleep.

 

A Land That Time Forgot

May 30, 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 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?


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