Apparitions of the Past- 25th September 1991

TWO miners had been entrapped for many hours, which in passing had seemed to be as days to them. They had but one lamp which was almost exhausted. They had but one coat, for the other had been left behind on the other side of the rock fall. They had been picking away searching for precious materials, and although ever hopeful had found nothing which resembled that which they searched for.

"If this is to be my tomb" said the elder to the younger, "I should like for you to make prayers for my passing and cover me with your coat, as I find it disgraceful to lie limp and exposed and be left here only to rot with no proper burial."

Having said this, the older one was stricken by an upsurge within the cavity of his chest and drew his last breath and slumped back dead. The younger miner drew the coat over the corpse and proceeded to pray in the way he knew best.

More hours passed and he became so very cold beneath his skin. He looked at the coat and presumed it reasonable that he might borrow it back for a time. As he pulled back the coat he saw in the half-light that the form of his companion miner was no longer it what was but rather had become covered all in fur and was alike to a huge cat curled on the floor. Startled in terror, he drew back against the rock wall with no place further to exit to.

Waves of unconsciousness took him up and away, and he slept a fevered slumber until he was roused by the noise of clinking nearby and a calling to him. He glanced over to his companion and threw the coat back over the fur-covered hide. Beams of daylight had broken through the crumbled mass of outer wall, and he much relieved, strode through to embrace his saviors.

To his surprise there awaiting were a tribe of very large panthers, who in tension sat poised upon the outer boulders and steep incline. "Where is our brother?" inquired one with soft tones.

He beckoned that they might find him within, and so doing fled through the company, running as fast as he might, so startled was he by this vision.

Once home he was comforted by his wife and joyful children. "Wife, there is something I must confide in, for I am much troubled by the events of today." And he began to relate his tale in much detail as he had been witness to.

"Let me make easy your mind" said the wife who bethought her dear husband to be excessively strained - and she set about to cheer him in the only way she knew.

Her husband had been fossicking in one way or another for all the years she had known him, but generally speaking his archaeology was work which was all above ground and rarely was he called to take pick to a recess, let alone an enclosed cavern.

"It is my opinion" she sighed, "that you as usual have been working far too hard. This Egyptian expedition has imposed much too much on you and so far offered back nothing. Perhaps all of the sites are unfilled?"

And so saying she withdrew his shirt and found there beneath, engraved in the skin, lines which ran from neck down back, bloodied and deep as if from one great paw scratch. She took to cleansing and covering the wound, whilst he tried to make account for this assault, but could not.

Until it came to him: for too long had he delved into spirited realms which were by the old order and still remonstrate of those dark times. Perhaps this was a warning and something of a finding, that a tomb is a tomb and is best left concealed as such, not to be invaded or picked over in the name of curiosity or for historical record.

Seldom do we know what exactly for what purpose we seek at the outset. Those who do venture into the dark places of the past will find many an apparition which need not relate to times present. There are mysteries within deep traditions that do belong rightfully to the past and belong not in the future. For were that those forms laid to rest, unearthed and accounted for, we should surely come to much confusion in an effort of interpretation. The past may truly scar us, as deeply and as ingrained as that great paw scratch. Obsessions which drive a man to be so transfixed on his long ago past are but a quest made backwards.

Four Moral Tales- 24th September 1991

The Obliging Servant

"I ASKED you to send me more life, and you return with a mere youth who will not now give over the elixir!" he bellowed in rage.

"It is because it would be death for him to hand it over" explained the servant.

"Then take it from him!" came the desperate cry.

"I cannot Sir," replied the servant, "for it is not mine to take".

"Then I shall have to do it myself", thus saying, he swiftly snatched the vial from the young man's hand.

The youth did wither before their eyes, the flesh shrivelled back from the bone, the eyes from the sockets, and he collapsed in unspeakable mess of remains.

And as the devil-tyrant took tonic to lips, he enquired, "And what did you promise this time to this youth, that he might journey with you?"

The servant with eyes cast down upon the formless form, replied, "I promised that he should see one who is far greater than he. That he might be amazed at the power and grace of my Master, and he was eager to be received".

"Then you have fulfilled your promise" came the haughty reply, "you have done well by me. You may take rest for the moment, for come tomorrow I shall need you once again. Only this time, bring me more, for I am still not quite refreshed.”

Such it is with the devil of Conceit and his manservant False Pride, who with false promise does come to men to cajole the very life from them, if they but follow and give over their precious life to these two rogues.

Sweet and Sinister

IN the market there was a candy-seller, a woman of large and cumbersome proportions. She beamed with every trade encountered; she had such a sickly-sweet smile. Old and young would come and eye over her table, where there laid out was a rich display. So colorful, so sweet, so enticing were these pieces crafted and fashioned in so many shapes. There were animals delicately sculptured from the sugar, there were miniature houses spun with fretwork laced with crystalline fruits and ginger hue, there were carts that had wheels made of fancy chocolate that moved, and held within small trifling of peppermint and rose bon bons.

Many admired her trolley, and had to part with their money for this extravagance. You might have heard of this woman before in the latter part of her life for which she is notorious. However, she had found the one weakness of men which made for great barter, and was forever successful in that market. 

Oddly enough the woman cared not for the sweets herself. It was with much distaste that she watched the eager hand reach and choose from her colorful array. For her passion in extravagance was particular to human flesh - instead of bearing children, as most women are wont to do, she would consume them. But no one guessed this secret; they were so unsuspecting of this "sweet lady" of the market place.

The orphans who did approach the stall, were invited home to survey her goods. They would wait all day until she had sold all pieces, and would ride the trolley back, never to return to that market again. It was odd that she was thought of as kindly and as such a Good Samaritan. But then, not always are things as they seem.

How often we surrender to the witch of lascivious gratification. We pay quite happily without care for the orphans of the world. Were that those monies imparted had gone to good purpose - and if in excess, to be given over for a real meal for one who has not. We are persuaded all too easily by that which appears delightfully enchanting but has little or no nourishment to sustain the body or mind. This witch deceived the innocents, and also those who cared not to know, for she was the rogue of Lust's Submission.

The Unknown Passage

THERE was an old man who was loathsome to behold. For his teeth had moved in the jaw and did not fit properly; his hair was unkempt, his eyes with milk-blindness; his features were sunken and gave no hint whatsoever of his former portrait in youth.

One day there came by him a distraught soldier who was on his way to his first commission. The young man had been weeping and the old crow of a man went to his assistance.

"Come, come, my young fellow", he croaked, "Why do you cry so mournfully?"

"What would you know, old man?" The young soldier protested. "You have been given more than your fill of life, and I, at such an early age will be deprived of mine!"

"Then perhaps I should go in place of you, and in return you may live that life which I have endured? Would this be your will?"

The bewildered young man was confused with fear, and now with such uncommon speculation. He bethought this to be a mocking jest, and answered so: "Oh yes, old man, I shall trade you my destiny which is doomed, for a piece of those years and your destiny's past."

"So be it." The elderly one sighed, and instantly the two were transfigured.

During the next sixty years or so the youth became as old, and with many a struggle and a battle of kind, he had come to the end of his days to find experience was behind him and poverty a’front. His limbs were beginning to fail; he was still much tormented by those dreams that were as yet unfulfilled.

He now spent his days at the roadside watching the traffic go to and fro. He had felt cheated when thought that his life lived was not of his own - that he should never come to know, what might have been were it under his directive and not just the mere reproduction of another's.

He had pondered as to what had become of his perpetual partner, until one day when a young soldier came by. He recognized his face all at once, for this was his face, his very own he had long ago worn!

"Do you not know me?" he croaked, to the youth there before him.

"No old man, I do not know you. Should I?" replied the soldier, as he flung a few copper coins at his feet.

"I am Fate.,” the old man murmured as he gazed with great intent.

"Pleased to meet you, and fare you well! For I am the Conscious Will and must now go my way", and so saying departed with a laugh and a wave, cheerio.

We may all assume the life of destiny, or live the life of one with free will. There is a marriage of both in a man, who throughout the course of life is offered both limitations and possibilities, concurrently. We are wise to discern which is which and one from another, and be content with both, for they are brothers… brothers out of time.

The Needy and the Worthy

A YOUNG monk went to the coffers of his monastery and stole away all that was there to be had. He had a conscience which provoked him and spoke to him that the wealth might be served better - and so departed the in holy calling, taking from the community all of their treasured savings.

No sooner had he left the confines of the monastery was he beset by a group of thieves, who asked of him to display that which he bore, straddled in bags, a weight on his horse.

Honesty was most valued in righteousness, and therefore the monk did speak truthfully when replying, "I have a parcel of much treasure, which I intend to distribute to the needy".

The thieves were suspicious of this, but took the monk to be a fool - "Well my friend, you have come to find the most needy! We are they, hand it over!"

"I believe you to be in need of counselling" the monk replied, "but how am I to know if you are in need of finance. You appear to have much fat around the girth, and much vigour in your step. I had not you in mind, when I did rob and plunder that from my brother monks."

"From one robber to another, let us eat together and discuss this a little further?" They asked. And so the monk was shuffled amongst them and made to take food, on this, his day of fast.

The twilight came and many a speech was bandied, until the black of night could mask their treacherous intent. The thieves fell upon the monk all at once and stifled him to his death. They then grabbed upon his bags and tore them to pieces to empty the contents- scythes and tongs, wheat-seed and millet, axe heads and nails, and texts about the mysteries of good farming.

They disgustedly hurled the monk's 'treasure' to the ground, stripping the baggage to pieces in vain attempt to uncover some jewels or some gold.

"Useless!" they cried, as they kicked the corpse; and then departed.

Oft times charity is so rebuked, even when it is offering that which is most needed. One must discern wisely, no matter how good the intent, as to who is best fitted to receive those treasures and make good use of them. The monk met with dishonesty unto himself and then with the thieves - the men who would not choose an honest living, and required of him so much more than he could offer. Even honesty may be turned corrupt, when so taken to be the very opposite. It is better to give of oneself, in word or in deed, sparingly, and withhold much initially, lest it be all lost to those who are unworthy, and shall by their evil, defeat the good intention that it may not find its way to those who would gracefully and gratefully receive it.

Book Amoebae-23rd September 1991

Archives and Archivists

WITHIN little pools of water the microbial world is more readily perceivable. Such activity of slight micro-organisms is quick to hasten to that location which might harbour them as home. They, alike to the mossy outcrops and finer twines and grasses, spring into being where the vitality of the water mingled with oxygen, draws them in large numbers.

If one can imagine these small, shallow pools of water - as say collected in deposits shortly after rainfall, trapped in rock or hollow - being transformed from the point of collection; and now picture a book here and a book there, upon a shelf, upon a desk, new with fresh ink or perhaps many years old; and also with a multitude of tiny beings swarming to and fro, collected around the text in great activity.

It is perhaps harder to imagine this and yet not always is the water-life apparent either. Of course it does require much magnification to begin to make visible the host within the pool. But as we hold a glass of enlargement and enter the invisible realms connected with a book, just as surely we find certain activity with particular and peculiar entities who have found a means of expression.

Where do they come from, these “book amoebae”? And what inclines them so to something one might presume as dead matter, which may not of itself contain life but rather a representation?

The power of the written word is not only in the value of it being interpreted at a particular time. The intent from which that set formula of letters and phrases does initially 'lock in' as it were, and impart a life-infilled character which is essential to the coherent, thought-out text - this is quite different to, let us say for example, an instance whereby a meaningless or interpretless jumble was recorded down on paper. Rather, there has been a very definite action at one time, to begin with, that has placed the key symbols of language into a discernible format and represented a captured thought in the process.

The very object of the process of writing is in itself, one whereby the writer intends from the outset to capture the thought and reproduce the word in record of such writing. This is achieved not only in symbol, but in reality which extends through to a subtler graduation connected to that very format.

The scientist these days tries to determine his interpretation of certain aspects of life by defining that which he perceives and that which he conjectures, by way of formula. The alchemist of the past, the mathematician, and the primitive before them, knew the power of formula, and that life could in fact stream from it, proceeding the other way around. That given a set formula, be it in symbol, number or alphabet (alpha beta), they could conjure that which was represented and essential to that key configuration. This could also be attained with the physical use of geometrical forms and objects in jigsaw fashion, or rather in set layout, relate to the formula which was depicted in the ritualistic movement of such objects.

In point of fact, pure language was once the art of being able to actually pronounce and replicate that which actually is. Although this is not a precise art anymore, and nor are the effects of language as visibly discernible, they are nonetheless quite meaningful in respect to the invisible impressions and life-activity which swarms and congregates around such formula.

Vocalization has a power of its own and would take much explanation for one to enter into the many phases which vocalization does make certain impact upon the world and its ethers. But today we examine the humble book or for that matter any written work, and ask if it is only paper with dead word (until read), or has a book a greater quality to be understood? For it is a very real concern as to what one surrounds oneself with in regards to reading material- the nature of the work, the essential messages, the intent from which it was inspired from; not only the subject (which of itself must be regarded also), but also the concepts which go to add to the collated impression. 

A library is a wondrous place indeed, and one knows the awe, almost apprehension one instantly feels, when they enter into that room which has the air thick with the musty perfumery of many books contained. In measure, most of these works represent many a life and inspiration. Yet one cannot help but also feel a grave awakening that it is almost alike to a cemetery, this testimony which speaks of much long past. One should not live comfortably with this great collection, but rather be content to visit and pay respect to the authors singly than take them all home!

It is interesting to note that there are many who hold particular designs for the world who would happily put to fire those books which represent that which they dread. The physical removal is important to them. Furthermore, in the case of a book which is based upon corruption of the soul-condition, which demoralises man in any way whatsoever, be it even in humble historical format, one might well destroy such works, as their contribution is never of any value. Simply put, an evil book is most definitely actively quite evil in its actuality - if evil in content, it is evil in continual output whether it is read or not.

A work may also offer counterpoints for the answerment of certain evils, which it does itself conjure up. An example of this is the 'Good Book' itself. There is much potent material in the design of a work which sets firstly the ways of error, and then fashions a spell which does negate the error with doctrine set to transform and make pure the original horror. 

When reading the Bible one might analyze the content so: ninety parts error of men to ten superb parts remedy for such error. So we find within one work a counter for the evil, a recipe for remedy in the fact that the evils have been brought forth and actually put to flight within the text. They have had demanded of them, that firstly they be seen and drawn out of the conceptual world, but that they are seized and worked upon by thought which they cannot withstand. There is quite a battle within that work, and a battle which is constantly one of overcoming those qualities which are not desirable in man or his history; and answered continually, day in and day out.

So if one has to cite and record something which is quite dreaded or disastrous, to good purpose - whether in the light of illness, immorality or historical comment - there is much need to also provide within that very text, something of a counter to offset the very dangerous reproduction of sin as represented.

Whilst one may not readily perceive that which surrounds a work before them, granted the language is understood they may look to the content and thus decide whether or not this material is in fact desirable to continue on its way, offering to the world of thought that which by its very formula and being, it summons continually.

The Sea of Existence- 22nd September 1991

‘Where is the stream?'
Cried he, with tears.
'Seest thou not its blue waves above us?'
He looked up, and lo!
The blue stream was flowing
Gently over their heads.

-Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

COMPASSION may be viewed as a complete passion that is fulfilled from onset. To experience a passion is to fervently call out from either a lower or higher aspect, and grasp with the whole consciousness for a time that particular passion one is driven to. Compassion however, may appear overwhelming in like manner, but does not wash over the being as an unspeakably powerful tide where one is taken up in this or that direction, but becalms the waters of the soul through which one may look up through - through to the light of spirit, with clarity and even magnification.

Novalis pictured Man as though he dwelt beneath a great sea ever tumultuous. It was to this concept many writers refer whereby the spirit is somewhat rocked, swaying this way and that, following currents although free and weightless with the consciousness an anchor and the vessel travailing the seas of the Heavens.

The dream-world of men is often searched through for the answers to their conscious condition. Were that men could consciously rise upward the anchor, so to speak, lifted upward, then they should perceive with clarity that which lies above today's existence. However this of course would mean departure from such an existence, and whilst feet are on earth this wakefulness on earth is not possible to the undeveloped individual. The dreams therefore offer a murky representation at best of the pictures and realms in which the soul-consciousness dwells, and although interpretations can be extremely helpful it takes much careful discernment of such hazy recollections.

It is interesting that one hears references to a fellow being 'shallow' or conversely in 'deep thought' - these statements could and should be transfixed. When one is 'shallow' they dwell very much at the floor level of this ocean of existence. When one is 'deep' they are traveling through aspiration and inquiry upwards through such waters.

In order to clarify one's perception of the world: the sphere of existence, it is essential to becalm, bestill the waters. It was this sea that Moses parted that his people might pass through from the former ways of consciousness to follow on to another way of existence.

Christ walked upon the waters and of course still does. If one is to hold him in vision then one must becalm, bestill the waters that surround, that with the clearer window one may gaze upward and penetrate through to the worlds above, as He walks them in our name.

Novalis