“Well, there it is.”
–Ian Malcolm, “Jurassic Park”
So I played around with this idea for a while—just putting up an entire past journal more or less in the format it was recorded in. So I figured since I started with De Vinculis, I might as well just finish it.
Just as a recap: I chose these selections for this volume because they all seemed to be pointing to the same path & involving overlapping and quite heavily esoteric imagery. It should be noted that prior to 2010, I was not doing much journaling, dream recall, or anything like that since around 2004-2006. So this followed sort of a “dry spell” for me in that regard.
Then there was the automatic writing material from the same period—which, frankly, felt like a completely new element in my life. Now, I did do a few pieces of channeling in 2005, but these ones from five years after that felt much more “precise.” It touched upon specific things that would become centerpieces of my esoteric work in the crucial 2013-2015 period.
The sequence of dreams I had in the end of February/beginning of March in 2012 were particularly occult in their imagery and felt “related.” In particular, they all seemed to reference Crowleyan symbolism and even terminology.
I cannot vouch for the entertainment value, here, and you do not have to read all this. Caveat emptor, cogito ergo sum, frito lay, etc. Hyperlinks where appropriate; probably put too many, but again: I’ve always wanted to try something like this, so we’ll see how it goes.
This is going to be quite a bit of work, so I’m going to take a little break after this. It’s mentally exhausting. I’m not even sure why I’m doing it. I’ve put a lot up here lately, and I guess it all has a purpose.
Lastly: this is a sort of shamanic metaphysical exercise with a lot of pop-culture references. It’s probably a bit messy, corny, whatever. It’s not supposed to mean anything. It’s all dream-stuffs.
With thanks to the Muse, as always.
De Vinculis I
I was shown a chart depicting the ups and downs of the life of an artist or Messiah. I’m not sure if the chart depicted several people, or the same person. One looked like it was from the time of Jesus, but had been painted over (the original art looked more active).
It was said that to ensure the Messiah would come, they had more than one in case one died.
De Vinculis II
De Vinculis III
This is not a human consciousness but rather an extra-dimensional entity that has travelled virus-like through multiple lifetimes. “Extra-dimensional” can be conflated to mean angel, alien, demons, etc….out of these I am closest to “angel,” but “angel” implies a certain perfection, a certain level of evolution reached and =stop=.
Angels are not perfect. They continue to evolve. They have free will just as humans…to choose between good and evil…only the stakes are higher. Everything continues to evolve, even God, this is a part you should know. It is all a constant drift on the sea, like scattering particles on the water…even when the particles dissolve and break down, the adventure goes on to ever microscopic levels, never ceasing. Though all the “ghosts” of the previous forms remain, they can be tracked back if you wish.
We enter within the first year, typically, so we can have the full human experience. It’s testing, a lot of the reason, to make us choose—to develop a better entity, or count us out. Our particular type are not, then, primarily here to assist humankind by revealing certain warnings, though that might also be part of the overall experience. The ones that radically enter the full-grown specimens are more likely to be these “warners.”
What happens to the infant host is that it is sent back to the human soul pool to be revealed later. What remains is our essential entity consciousness buried within nascent consciousness that is not human in origin…but thinks it is. Like the animal raised from birth to suckle on that of other species. Yet certain things, peculiarities, cannot be masked by the amnesia.
FIRST: the subject will seem somewhat out-of-step concerning taken-for-granted human affinities & mannerisms.
SECOND: subject will seem unusually intelligent or mature…an accent more on the peculiar state of maturity than intelligence.
De Vinculis IV
Vision of me walking in the sun, in the city, an agent of Stuart Kent, a tracking device attached under my clothing. Stuart Kent was once my mortal enemy, but now I am under his employ.
Why am I working for him? Is it simply some sort of coercion, slavery?
Walking in the sun, a briefcase in my hand (or a bag slung smartly over my shoulder)—“My team is dead.” My team is dead—Kent made that very clear to me. What is unclear is whether or not he performed the deed himself, or was it simply the circumstance of battle? I only remember waking up & it was the first thing he told me: “Your team is dead.”
So back to why I am working for him…
“Remember that dream with Christ? That was me, of course.”
Who is Stuart Kent, really?
“Sell your dolls,” he told me. “There are things we can give you to fill that need. We can give you purpose. You will be placed in a colloidal state of self-expansion. A cocoon, if you will. You are relearning to speak. We are rebuilding you. I make the most impact on you in your dreams. So you must follow me.”
Kent offered to obliterate my past. Some offer, I mused. But as he said: my team was dead.
“It all happens for a purpose. Every piece.”
HOW WILL I KNOW THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING?
De Vinculis V
“Sam,” an “Automatic Writing” story
Sam had been giving away and throwing out a lot of personal effects that month. The general consensus amongst his small circle of dedicated friends was that he was planning on ending his life. Sam resented that; it assumed that the objects in his possession were somehow an essential part of himself. They were how most his friends and associates seemed to define him: by the books he owned and the CDs he listened to. The posters on his wall; there was a consistency about these possessions. They lent consistency to Sam. As he stripped them away, that consistency faded. People were alarmed.
They said they were alarmed for Sam. But they were really alarmed by the possible end of his consistency. It would have made him as good as dead in their schema.
As his bookshelves, closets, and walls emptied, Sam felt a sense of excitement. His heart leapt at the blankness, the whiteness. He had never had the walls painted. Even if they had been painted before he moved in, he would more than likely have left them that color. Initiative never extended to hearth-building and decorating. He had at least knew enough that at some point, he was going to leave it all behind anyhow. There was no purpose to nesting. There would have been no authenticity he could have brought to it. So he let various roommates and companions arrange things as they saw fit.
He was leaving. He was being a bastard.
He was leaving, perhaps only in his mind. It was clear to him that it all had to originate in his mind. That once not only the intention of leaving was firmly planted in his mind, but the act having been achieved in that dark vastness as well: then it would be like it really happened. That’s all that was necessary. What happened in the realm of the material would only be a symptom—perhaps inevitable, perhaps not. The world was a reaction to the interior. This is what Sam thought.
He was trying to perform magick again, in his own passive-aggressive way. By ridding himself of his possessions, he was sliding that chip towards the universe, daring It to make a move in return. Irresponsible? Lazy? Should he have merely drew up plans for a new life himself, made a series of concrete actions to effect change? Should he have moved away, got a new job, took up a religious discipline, made a commitment to think more positively in the future?
Sam poked around the top drawer of his desk. It’s where he put everything that seemed to hold some sort of importance or investment. Old bank cards. A pair of glasses he wore ten years ago. Half-finished chewing-gum packs, single shots of Tylenol in folded-over foil wrappers. Unredeemed gift cards to place he’d never want to go. He pulled the drawer out and dumped everything into the black garbage bag, even the scattered coins.
In a padded envelope on the top of his desk were all the documents he considered “important.” On the envelope was written with a Sharpie: “TAKE THESE FIRST.”
He was fucking up at the job. He realized that was one of the last gates, that fucking job. You’d think the last gate would be your personality, your health. But, at least to society, it was that motherfucking job. You throw that away, you walk aimless down the street on a Monday morning, you’ve erased yourself. You become a potential liability. You become a casualty. Better to have cancer and still work at the motherfucking job. Better to die at your desk.
And maybe Sam could have made a commitment to get up early and catch up on the work. To talk to his boss. Or even look for a new job. Yeah, just look for a new job.
And how would this new job change anything?
Sam’s friend Cory told him:
“Yeah, just go look for a new job. It’s after the holidays, the jobs are booming now. Find something that pays better. Find something with benefits.”
But Sam knew that the benefits would only make it that much harder to pass through the gates. Those benefits promised so much in the way of the consistent life.
“I’m sure it will all sort itself out, Cory.”
“I’m worried about you, Sam. I’m worrying about you more than I’ve ever done. You seem to be giving up.”
Then Cory said: “And what about Anna?”
As part of Sam’s descent, he pulled all his artwork out of his closets and randomly destroyed half of them. The other half, he offered for cheap on several online outlets. If they didn’t sell within a two-week span, he would destroy the rest.
As he expected, the online pieces were not moving. Perhaps he could have put more effort in promoting them. Perhaps he could have emailed all his friends and alerted them to the sale; surely some would have bought some of the paintings out of pity or friendship or to repay an earlier kindness.
But no: this was Sam offering the last chance to the Universe to find him brilliant. Last chance, going fast! No takers? Then past the blue-white horizon pure, with all his works nestled safe in his portfolio. Pure. The thought was almost a relief.
And then: a purchase. Payment prompt electronically, under the name Vista Gallery. And a note of praise & an invitation.
Sam didn’t answer in right away. Sam was frozen. He was so used to silence in reply to his self-expression that he just didn’t know what to do in this situation.
Maybe the purchaser felt sorry for him in some way. Maybe this would all end quickly in some form of disappointment.
The painting sold for the asking price of $30. Anna noted that Sam could make $30 during one hour at his job, but that painting took so much longer to do. There was an imbalance, it made no sense as a long-run strategy. It was not worth getting too excited over. Sam didn’t seem too excited, but Anna spied him looking up the prices for new canvas on his computer. It was all very dangerous.
“I’ll just deliver this one painting to the gallery, and then I will be done. I’ll throw out the rest and it will be done. And then we will have more space in the closets, and under the stairway.”
And Sam reassured her: “I’m not excited, not in the least. This was just a quirk, an aberration. I know that. I know how these things go.”
Because I know I’m not talented, Sam thought to himself.
Sam taped brown wrapping paper around the painting and rode with it on the subway. He was familiar with the area the Vista Gallery was located, but not with the gallery itself. It took him several passes down the Soho side-street before he actually found it. He swore to God he had been looking directly at the gallery as he passed by, but had not actually seen it until now. It just sort of popped into vision at the third or fourth pass.
He walked up the black metal steps and into the gallery, which was nondescript and black and had nothing but a small sign painted onto the window in gold. And gold reflected the light and the surroundings, and you could hardly see the letters at all. Perhaps the Vista Gallery didn’t need to be flashy and advertise; perhaps its patrons were loyal and spread via word-of-mouth. Or maybe, like Sam, it didn’t need to be found. The finding: it was inevitable.
The gallery looked as if it was preparing for a renovation, or a move of some sort. Half the paintings were off the walls, leaving behind their shadows and brackets upon the dark-brown walls. The canvases that remained were covered with sweeping meshy cloths that looked like gauze, that looked like shrouds. It felt like an Egyptian tomb.
There was nobody in the main gallery, but he heard movement below. And then:
“You must be Sam,” the middle-aged man said in a deep, almost raspy voice. His body was solid and boxy in a suit that seemed too formal for a gallery curator; not that Sam had visited too many galleries or would know for sure about such things. But he figured a such a person would be dressed somewhat…arty. And yet the suit quite complimented the man. And his face held both a delicacy of features and toughness acquired by the sheer accumulation of Life. His eyes shone like grey flints in the track lighting.
He held out his hand to Sam:
“Stuart Kent. I’m quite a fan of your work. How long have you been painting?”
“Well, I guess since I was a kid. This is my first sale, though.”
“I would have purchased more, but I wanted to talk to you in person first.”
“Those online auction sites take quite a cut.”
“I want to represent you.”
“I want to represent you, but honestly: you need a bit more work on your technique.”
Sam’s heart dropped. Was this some sort of scam? Or did he really just suck? Was this man looking upon him as if he was some sort of high-school student artist? Was it the pity he so loathed?
“I feel as if you are holding back. I’m not saying your work isn’t good: it is. There’s a lot of potential there…”
Sam again felt depressed at the word “potential.” God only knows what Mr. Kent thought of some of his pieces. He totally embarrassed himself, putting that work up for auction, pretending he was some sort of professional…
“…but I truly feel that you are not letting yourself go, here. I can help you.”
And so the invitation was open, just like that. Sam could choose to follow up and have lunch with Mr. Kent, or just drop it. He didn’t expect Anna to be encouraged by this turn of events; so he never mentioned it. He didn’t need any advice from anyone, pro or con. He didn’t want anything muddying up this decision that he alone had to make. He knew enough intuitively to determine that this was a life-changing decision. And so he felt only his intuition would be fully-equipped to know what to do.
He cleaned out the rest of his room—rather, his home-office in the apartment he shared with Anna—swept, mopped, blessed it all. He needed a sacrifice. He didn’t have many possessions left, so he destroyed a bunch of his writings; the dream journals. He always thought those journals prophetic, but he heard a voice in his head say:
“These journals are merely records of ‘what might be.’ By holding on to them, you hold the prophecy back, freeze them in potentiality. I know they are precious to you, Sam. I know they hold proof to you of your destiny, give you hope. But this is not the time of hoping. This is the time of fulfillment. You will be entering a realm of Process. And the navel-gazing is over, at least in terms of the man you once were.”
The voice was that of Mr. Kent.
Sam wordlessly answered back:
“But you speak as if I’ve made a decision. I haven’t. That’s…that’s why I’m performing the ritual, am I not? To find out what to do. Because I just don’t know yet.”
“Ritual, Sam, does not really create. It is a symptom, a reaction, to the outstanding event that has already been set in motion. You think you are affecting reality. But you are just reacting to it. You are not in control.”
“If there is anything I can teach you, Sam it is this: you are not in control. You are a conduit. The more you struggle to define yourself, to decide on your path, the harder things become for you.”
“If ritual is merely a symptom, a reaction: why should I do it at all? It won’t cause change. It seems wasted.”
“You have to do it because the Outstanding Event is coming. You have to do it because if you don’t, you will go mad. You have to do it because it is not only foretold that you will do it, it has already happened.”
“So I should just throw it all out, then? My dream papers, a work of almost twenty years? What if I need its instruction?”
“You are going to have to trust me, now. I am your new instruction.”
“You feel real, but you are not. I am talking to myself. I visualize you as some familiar person, but you are not him. I am fooling myself.”
“No—it is too easy to fall into madness down this path. If you are truly real, I will need some proof.”
“It’s 1:11. That’s a good sign to start.”
“I need more.”
“I don’t appreciate being tested, Sam.”
“I barely know you, and you want to be my instructor now. On what basis should I make this decision?”
“On the basis that when I met you, you were preparing to die. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sam, you were pretty goddamn desperate. And still are.”
And so Sam went to eat the lunch that Anna had so thoughtfully prepared for him. He had many more things he had to do that day, if he wanted to catch up with work, and make the best of things.
“I’m taking you over, Sam. We are taking you over.”
“That’s a pretty horrible thing to say, isn’t it?”
It’s not meant to be. It’s just being honest. You are shutting down because we are taking over. It is not sinister, though I can understand how it might be perceived as such. It’s really meant to bring the best out of you. As your mentor, I need you to trust me.
“Why should I trust you? You could be totally using me.”
“In your heart, you know you are ours. You are waiting. You have been waiting, your whole life.”
“And where will I really find you?”
“At the Vista Gallery.”
“No, where will I really find you?”
(does random photo search, he pops up immediately)
“You have to admit, that was pretty good.”
“I think it might have read searches I did for your image previously. That makes the most sense.”
“I think my deconstruction, my deactivation, does not really involve you. I just want to drift away.”
“But now, in your mind, you are in the gallery. You approach one of the covered paintings. You ask me if you can pull the shroud off. I say yes.”
“I already can feel you altering my mind, my thought pattern.”
“Yes. Pull the covering off. Pull it off and tell me what you see”:
“I saw the following sequence of images:
1) My head half-buried in the dirt or sand.
2) A butterfly flying.
3) A double-image of a pyramid and my body ascending in the vertical direction of the pyramid.
4) Then Baphomet flying over the waters, over the city.”
Sam awoke the next morning and resolved to not speak with Stuart Kent again.
“Welcome back, Sam.”
De Vinculis VI
This agenda goes beyond people/individuals.
This is why I was so filled with a need for Crowley last night, for reaching that material.
It knows it is one step closer to manifestation.
De Vinculis VII
Journal Scribblings, Springtime
- To wolf
- To car/robot
- Altered States woman/Negative Woman
- “Transforming Woman”
- Rykosopp video: woman levitating
- Klaxons video with eyebeams
spontaneous needs: to change my music & wardrobe
Dream: The man I know is secretly a shapeshifting alien. He tells me I should do a story about someone who can tell people are really aliens.
- Blue butterfly
- Woman transforms from/to robot
- Eye beams
Woke up in the middle of the night, podcast talking about PKD
Ash Wednesday: Time to give up something.
Lent: Ends with Rebirth.
“The End Of Delays”
Holographic World: each part is a piece of the whole. They all mirror each other.
De Vinculis VIII
The innocent children are transformed, taken over like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. They become much more adult. It’s like something evil or alien infected them…very troubling.
De Vinculis IX
The Magician had three forms:
1) Satanic/Anton LaVey, Red-Devil skullcap
2) Big top hat, staring eyes, Mandrake
De Vinculis X
Hermione had become some sort of powerful, possessed being, and had an army of “ghosts”—taking over the Harry Potter world.
Meanwhile, I was asked in class to give a report I was not ready for…
De Vinculis XI
Journal Scribblings, Summer
“Demon With A Glass Hand”: Towards the end, this episode almost gave me a panic attack.
How do we know there is an independent reality outside ourselves & our perception?
Also: the idea that a particular belief system can be very effective, regardless if it is true.
Tenebroust: “…the controlling mechanisms that are overriding our reality right now see to be breaking down; seem to be moving in some other direction. Because we are seeing synchronicities & symbolism openly displayed.”
A lot is happening. People are relocating, finding new careers. Where do I fit in? I know I am yearning for change, but in what form will I find it?
Maybe it really boils down to aligning oneself with one’s true purpose. Maybe there is no more wiggle-room.
The Change Is Coming.
This is merely the home stretch.
Dream: I take in all these pets, back at my Mom’s house. The cats, a rat that looks like one of the cats—and then a “freeze dried” pink snake that has been waiting all this time to be activated.
Symbolism: Loss of Face/Loss of Identity
- GI Joe story with the face-stealing machine
- Comic book with The Question
- Faceless knicknacks on sale
- A teddy bear that had teeth
- This strange, good-looking man with fluffy bronzed hair
“You have a conscious reality in which you can try to use your conscious mind…to try to weave your way through all the various maze-like things that are put in front of you by the oppressive human tools of the Archons.”