I have been recounting my adventures last summer (2010), investigating a haunted house in the Northern town of Wallasey. If you wish to read of how this came about, return to my first post.
Once I had the found the names and the key dates of the last Reverend’s children– the pillared archway of anyone’s temporal existence – I was determined to make contact with their spirits should they reside within the place.
Back at the house I sat in séance again, the effect of which was to reignite the knocking noises. They erupted downstairs and then climbed towards us, thumping through the floor boards toward the bedroom I had taken as my own. Closer they came and I mapped their approach. Past the clock, past the picture of North Wales, up to the threshold of my door. The sounds paused and I sensed a presence hovered there before the noises retreated again. Of the young men, it was Nozz who reacted first.
‘I saw it,’ he cried from the landing, ‘I saw it at that door.’
After much excited shouting and what not, Nozz described a ‘thin, jerky thing, it moved or scuttled, crab-like and then it just vanished.’
Attempts to recreate the experience failed and as we were all in thrall to the cameras, it was collectively decreed that we should return to the public house, leaving the equipment running. Our trek downhill was fuelled by an argument between Nozz and Crass. The latter claimed he was seeking clarification of any factors which might rationalise the other’s sighting. Nozz responded with some vigour, as if he were being accused of hysteria and we attracted some looks as we re-entered the establishment. Indeed, Aquinas was even required to create a fiction to account for the argument – our ruse, to fool the staff and regulars at the pub was that I had recently purchased property in the area and that they were a work gang who were renovating it. I’m not sure how convincing this was, yes, they all wore boiler suits but there was no evidence of labour staining them. Anyhow, the mood of the young men had deteriorated further. They drank quickly and drunkenness was afflicting them. Even myself, with my detachment from my cravings, failed to keep up. I sought to teach them the futility of submitting to such cravings but I may have been lecturing animals. I shall assert again, my mind and spirit are free from any craving save for that of the liberation of all, my body balances my outpourings of wisdom with a penchant for alcohol (as I am attuned to the Soul Supreme, my body can occasionally indulge it’s residual attachments whilst my mind remains ensconced within the cerulean Heaven of perpetual contemplation of the Absolute) and also occasionally, products that emit smoke – as my words wing upwards to the delight of the gods, so may palls of smoke guide them on their way.
Each time we resolved to leave the pub, another round would appear from one of our number, chaining us to the place yet longer. It was past eight o’clock before we were invited to leave. The argument over what should constitute ‘tea’ was deemed threatening and liable to spill into violence by the landlord. It appeared that Moffy had acquired only breakfast things and alcohol on his morning expedition and now there was debate over whether we should cook for ourselves, buy a takeaway or visit a local restaurant. I had nothing to say on such matters. As an enlightened man I am happy to accept the offerings of devotees. As it happened, on this night I was happy to accept the offerings of drunken young men.
Although the day had been bright and the sun still hung over the Irish sea, casting a blinding, molten sheen over the Dee estuary, it was a relief to return to the gloomy interior of the house. It seemed at that moment the day’s light had been too bright, bleaching the land and all of us drank deeply of water once we returned. I feared dehydration may have set into our corporeal frames and I was not the only one who stripped to the waist in a bid to relieve the ache that throbbed within me. I might have swallowed sea water and been left to shrivel in the sun, such was the pain.
Of course, the ill temper, the drinking, the repulsion from sunlight are all manifestations of spirit activity. That is what I expect you, as a potential student, to have realised. Whilst it is fully appropriate to rush to a materialistic explanation for aches and pains, sniffles and pangs when one is bogged down with day to day life, when one is investigating the paranormal, one should interpret any such symptoms in a metaphysical framework first.
Again, I sought refuge in meditation, occupying the hollow space at the top of the stairs. Although I was rehydrated, the ache persisted within me and I envisioned the full moon that would have been visible ascending the sky over the Mersey. Visualising the moon is a highly effective meditation. Any who has travelled on foot at night, or by any other open air means - boat, camel, elephant for example - will understand what I mean when I say that the moon and the starry night can become companions to such a wayfarer. For time out of mind the moon has been referred to as ‘Traveller’s Joy’, a term which has esoteric as well as exoteric meanings. If you ever spend time under the moon, its radiance draws the gaze and awakens a sense of wonder, it impresses itself upon you, it has a presence. In future days and nights, it is easier to invoke the sight and the radiance in the mind’s eye and frequently, a vision will arise in response to such an invocation. At that moment, in-between the silent clock and the landing step, I accepted the light, allowing it to filter into every cell where it waxed into an expansive, radiant flowering that admitted itself throughout my corporeal frame and beyond, filling the entire stairwell. In such states, visions arise and if one allows oneself to accept this visitation from beyond, rather than seeking to shape or rationalise it, then one can be ushered into profound states of awareness. As I sat in the lotus position, pearly light erupting from my being, I beheld a young lady, robed in the billowing night sky and crowned with a circlet of roses, scattering rose petals toward me. Later I would recall the initial vision of the young girl framed in a jewel of light, if it were she again, she was the Tara – Lady Wisdom who bears all to the isles of blessed non-attachment. As the soft, velvety petals fluttered against me, I felt myself arise in a fresh, less tangible body, dawning from the corporeal. I found myself stood within light and all was strangely silent. The lady had passed from view however the petals descended, acquiring a darker, earthier hue as they expanded into fissured, cratered plates beneath me.
At that moment I heard a female voice whisper, ‘roots!’
It was a distinct and vicious utterance, again at my actual ear. Later, I have wondered if it was ‘rooks’ as in the Crow or even ‘rocks’, although I am certain it was ‘roots’ with its multitude of attendant meanings.
For a moment, a peripheral awareness surfaced. The sounds of the young men’s investigation persisted at some distance still, none were close by attempting to record my experiences. There was no trace of any spectres and I swiftly returned into the state of inner absorbtion.
I found that the dark, cratered matter now loomed around me. I could feel it beneath where I sat, cross-legged, upon its cold, leaden surface as minute shivers ground away within it. Around me, eight, smoothed boulders lay and I perceived that they were human skulls positioned in a circle. The light within me, expanded yet further, shooting into the sky where a bulbous chunk of matter descended, as if a rocky, misshapen headed regard me. I felt I was in the company of some titanic presence that lay behind the land, behind the sandstone bluff, the salt-rich winds, the low-lying and sea-choked marsh and which has already leaked into the house.
Traversing the radiance emanating from within, I felt an affinity with the monstrous presence that held me upon itself; I also perceived that within the fissures pitting the substance, there were trails left by the trickle of waters as they probed downward, seeking the mysterious centre. My astral body may have slipped down there certainly, I felt droplets, easing down the stone, until they squeezed between the rock and cold flesh and I understood that stuffed deep into the crevices were human bodies. I felt torrential rains guttering around the flesh and bones, swamping the stagnant crevices, dragging at the remains, urging them deeper into the rock-like substance; I felt the inhalation of the winds eddying through the rock, bearing the stench of corroding human forms deeper inward.
Revulsion sprang upon me, ushering a fresh, vivid sight that exploded around me. The titanic figure had gone and I was in the immediate presence of a squatting female. Although it was barely a few seconds that she was before me, her spidery limbs, hunched around her torso and her sagging, blue-veined skin intensified the horror which I was occasionally prone to, despite my enlightenment. I apprehended the blood which dribbled from a human skull onto her chest and the hooked, pitted tusks piercing her lips, forcing the scabbed flesh aside which scraped together, setting more blood welling and bubbling and spooling onto her chest; her eyes swelled, popping, fixed murderously upon me and as she vanished from view, I recognised her as an aspect of Kali, of the Shakti, of the Great Goddess who must devour before she can renew and I offered my self willingly unto her...
I was rewarded for the dawn of understanding with a beatific vision, this time arising from a solar orb. With the demonic form vanished, I was sat again in the house and in the air of the stairwell, I beheld a long-haired youth, smiling understandingly from a sun-like disc, his features richly burnished with hue of an ocean sunset. His hair was stirred as if with a soft breeze and the gentle light and the air of peace exuded by the male awoke memories of a close friend from my younger days. I took this vision as a positive sign at that moment and along with that of the Moon Goddess ,it would sustain me well through the horrors soon to be unleashed within that house.
Saturday 27 November 2010
Sunday 21 November 2010
Relaible Communion with the Dead
Since the misunderstandings which were inflicted upon me last week and the generous accommodation provided by the enforcers of the law, I have purchased some nights indoors at a local hostel. The cold is visited upon us and I have yet to choose the moment of my own passing; as a de facto Maharaj I owe it to the entirety of creation to resist the weather’s attempts to force me into Samadhi perpetual.
Enough of my trivial day-to-day arrangements, I shall continue with my teachings. The events of the summer of 2010 have been so momentous that I am bound to narrate them so that the unenlightened may be initiated into mysteries bound in the land of the British Isles. The events were themselves built upon my investigation of a haunted house in the seaside town of Wallasey. The house in question was truly well-appointed. Not only did it sit atop a hill and receive sun for much of the day, but it was also nestled alongside a historic church and boneyard whilst below, a wonderful public house and that other bastion of public life, a library were located.
After discovering the grave of the last Reverend’s children in adjoining graveyard, I returned to the house. Aquinas – Phil – was happy with my discovery and prepared to go and film the monument. Nothing possessed any manner of being, it would seem, unless it were committed to film. Before he did so, he mused on what may have brought the Reverend’s children back to the Wirral. As a man who has returned, my own experience may be of relevance. People return to die in their birthplace for two reasons, they never truly left or because their absence has transformed them and they wish to return cleansed and free themselves of some past upset. Before rushing off to talk into his camera, Aquinas – I cannot bring myself to call him Phil – mentioned something again of the Reverend’s descent into madness. According to a local historian, the vicar had abandoned a vague, Christianised Neo-Platonism for a version of the Arian heresy. Always a mistake if you should ask me!
Once host and ‘facilitator’ had absented himself, I made for the library to refresh my memory on the afore-mentioned heresy. Doubtless the young men’s devices could have located the information in minutes but they were too busy analysing footage from the previous night and besides, sitting with a book gives one time to think; an activity that the internet does not always encourage. I should point out that one of the gentlemen, Nozzer or something, found on ‘The Wallasey eNews Archive’ references to apparent grave robbings in the cemetery – when graves opened for maintenance reasons were found empty. Subsidence was posited as the reason, the remains having slipped into the hillside. Again, my insight appeared to be corroborated.
I found in the pleasant, single-storey, art deco library, a reference book which reminded me that Arianism was the idea that the Christian God was the only divinity, thus reducing the status of the son – and all other gods! – to that of a mortal man; mere flesh encasing spirit. I had neither the time nor the resources to study the matter in detail, I was due in the Cheese at one and I determined to ascertain why the children returned and the reasons behind their father’s madness through the most reliable means possible – deep meditation and communion with the dead!
Several hours of refreshment passed. I drank to segue into the general group dynamic and to pay homage to both the fruits of mother Earth and the skill of the folk who craft her wares into ale. I noticed a certain ill temper had descended on the group, despite the success of our investigation thus far. Indeed, their respect for myself had even slipped. As I may have already stated, I am entitled to call myself Swami, I was routinely addressed as Ji-Swift in Mother India. I do not insist on such terms of respect from my English brethren, I have no need of such egotistical props and I am happy to bear the title my maternal Uncle earned for his services to spiritualism (that is the Sir – for the benefit of my acolyte and any other s he may not be ‘on it’).
I took charge of matters at that moment – never a good idea for an enlightened man to assert, we lead by drawing the unenlightened to us through our devotions and general aura of holiness – and standing, uttered the following:
We are charged to serve the powers from whom all spirits arise and to which they return – (I ignored Aquinas’ gestures to fall silent at this point) if our job is to liberate them from their residing attachments then we must cast aside our own cravings to achieve that aim.
These words ushered the spirit of Conchord over us and another round of drinks was purchased – not in defiance against my teachings but rather as a misguided attempt to pay homage to the decades of wisdom which inhabit my corporeal frame. I drank too, to show a forgiveness of their petulance and to demonstrate that alcohol is an attachment one can overcome until it loses all pleasure and effect.
It would appear that I must fall silent for another week but I should state now, the phenomena which had been experienced thus far was nothing compared to what should follow that evening!
Enough of my trivial day-to-day arrangements, I shall continue with my teachings. The events of the summer of 2010 have been so momentous that I am bound to narrate them so that the unenlightened may be initiated into mysteries bound in the land of the British Isles. The events were themselves built upon my investigation of a haunted house in the seaside town of Wallasey. The house in question was truly well-appointed. Not only did it sit atop a hill and receive sun for much of the day, but it was also nestled alongside a historic church and boneyard whilst below, a wonderful public house and that other bastion of public life, a library were located.
After discovering the grave of the last Reverend’s children in adjoining graveyard, I returned to the house. Aquinas – Phil – was happy with my discovery and prepared to go and film the monument. Nothing possessed any manner of being, it would seem, unless it were committed to film. Before he did so, he mused on what may have brought the Reverend’s children back to the Wirral. As a man who has returned, my own experience may be of relevance. People return to die in their birthplace for two reasons, they never truly left or because their absence has transformed them and they wish to return cleansed and free themselves of some past upset. Before rushing off to talk into his camera, Aquinas – I cannot bring myself to call him Phil – mentioned something again of the Reverend’s descent into madness. According to a local historian, the vicar had abandoned a vague, Christianised Neo-Platonism for a version of the Arian heresy. Always a mistake if you should ask me!
Once host and ‘facilitator’ had absented himself, I made for the library to refresh my memory on the afore-mentioned heresy. Doubtless the young men’s devices could have located the information in minutes but they were too busy analysing footage from the previous night and besides, sitting with a book gives one time to think; an activity that the internet does not always encourage. I should point out that one of the gentlemen, Nozzer or something, found on ‘The Wallasey eNews Archive’ references to apparent grave robbings in the cemetery – when graves opened for maintenance reasons were found empty. Subsidence was posited as the reason, the remains having slipped into the hillside. Again, my insight appeared to be corroborated.
I found in the pleasant, single-storey, art deco library, a reference book which reminded me that Arianism was the idea that the Christian God was the only divinity, thus reducing the status of the son – and all other gods! – to that of a mortal man; mere flesh encasing spirit. I had neither the time nor the resources to study the matter in detail, I was due in the Cheese at one and I determined to ascertain why the children returned and the reasons behind their father’s madness through the most reliable means possible – deep meditation and communion with the dead!
Several hours of refreshment passed. I drank to segue into the general group dynamic and to pay homage to both the fruits of mother Earth and the skill of the folk who craft her wares into ale. I noticed a certain ill temper had descended on the group, despite the success of our investigation thus far. Indeed, their respect for myself had even slipped. As I may have already stated, I am entitled to call myself Swami, I was routinely addressed as Ji-Swift in Mother India. I do not insist on such terms of respect from my English brethren, I have no need of such egotistical props and I am happy to bear the title my maternal Uncle earned for his services to spiritualism (that is the Sir – for the benefit of my acolyte and any other s he may not be ‘on it’).
I took charge of matters at that moment – never a good idea for an enlightened man to assert, we lead by drawing the unenlightened to us through our devotions and general aura of holiness – and standing, uttered the following:
We are charged to serve the powers from whom all spirits arise and to which they return – (I ignored Aquinas’ gestures to fall silent at this point) if our job is to liberate them from their residing attachments then we must cast aside our own cravings to achieve that aim.
These words ushered the spirit of Conchord over us and another round of drinks was purchased – not in defiance against my teachings but rather as a misguided attempt to pay homage to the decades of wisdom which inhabit my corporeal frame. I drank too, to show a forgiveness of their petulance and to demonstrate that alcohol is an attachment one can overcome until it loses all pleasure and effect.
It would appear that I must fall silent for another week but I should state now, the phenomena which had been experienced thus far was nothing compared to what should follow that evening!
Reliable Communion with the Dead
Since the misunderstandings which were inflicted upon me last week and the generous accommodation provided by the enforcers of the law, I have purchased some nights indoors at a local hostel. The cold is visited upon us and I have yet to choose the moment of my own passing; as a de facto Maharaj I owe it to the entirety of creation to resist the weather’s attempts to force me into Samadhi perpetual.
Enough of my trivial day-to-day arrangements, I shall continue with my teachings. The events of the summer of 2010 have been so momentous that I am bound to narrate them so that the unenlightened may be initiated into mysteries bound in the land of the British Isles. The events were themselves built upon my investigation of a haunted house in the seaside town of Wallasey. The house in question was truly well-appointed. Not only did it sit atop a hill and receive sun for much of the day, but it was also nestled alongside a historic church and boneyard whilst below, a wonderful public house and that other bastion of public life, a library were located.
After discovering the grave of the last Reverend’s children in adjoining graveyard, I returned to the house. Aquinas – Phil – was happy with my discovery and prepared to go and film the monument. Nothing possessed any manner of being, it would seem, unless it were committed to film. Before he did so, he mused on what may have brought the Reverend’s children back to the Wirral. As a man who has returned, my own experience may be of relevance. People return to die in their birthplace for two reasons, they never truly left or because their absence has transformed them and they wish to return cleansed and free themselves of some past upset. Before rushing off to talk into his camera, Aquinas – I cannot bring myself to call him Phil – mentioned something again of the Reverend’s descent into madness. According to a local historian, the vicar had abandoned a vague, Christianised Neo-Platonism for a version of the Arian heresy. Always a mistake if you should ask me!
Once host and ‘facilitator’ had absented himself, I made for the library to refresh my memory on the afore-mentioned heresy. Doubtless the young men’s devices could have located the information in minutes but they were too busy analysing footage from the previous night and besides, sitting with a book gives one time to think; an activity that the internet does not always encourage. I should point out that one of the gentlemen, Nozzer or something, found on ‘The Wallasey eNews Archive’ references to apparent grave robbings in the cemetery – when graves opened for maintenance reasons were found empty. Subsidence was posited as the reason, the remains having slipped into the hillside. Again, my insight appeared to be corroborated.
I found in the pleasant, single-storey, art deco library, a reference book which reminded me that Arianism was the idea that the Christian God was the only divinity, thus reducing the status of the son – and all other gods! – to that of a mortal man; mere flesh encasing spirit. I had neither the time nor the resources to study the matter in detail, I was due in the Cheese at one and I determined to ascertain why the children returned and the reasons behind their father’s madness through the most reliable means possible – deep meditation and communion with the dead!
Several hours of refreshment passed. I drank to segue into the general group dynamic and to pay homage to both the fruits of mother Earth and the skill of the folk who craft her wares into ale. I noticed a certain ill temper had descended on the group, despite the success of our investigation thus far. Indeed, their respect for myself had even slipped. As I may have already stated, I am entitled to call myself Swami, I was routinely addressed as Ji-Swift in Mother India. I do not insist on such terms of respect from my English brethren, I have no need of such egotistical props and I am happy to bear the title my maternal Uncle earned for his services to spiritualism (that is the Sir – for the benefit of my acolyte and any other s he may not be ‘on it’).
I took charge of matters at that moment – never a good idea for an enlightened man to assert, we lead by drawing the unenlightened to us through our devotions and general aura of holiness – and standing, uttered the following:
We are charged to serve the powers from whom all spirits arise and to which they return – (I ignored Aquinas’ gestures to fall silent at this point) if our job is to liberate them from their residing attachments then we must cast aside our own cravings to achieve that aim.
These words ushered the spirit of Conchord over us and another round of drinks was purchased – not in defiance against my teachings but rather as a misguided attempt to pay homage to the decades of wisdom which inhabit my corporeal frame. I drank too, to show a forgiveness of their petulance and to demonstrate that alcohol is an attachment one can overcome until it loses all pleasure and effect.
It would appear that I must fall silent for another week but I should state now, the phenomena which had been experienced thus far was nothing compared to what should follow that evening!
Enough of my trivial day-to-day arrangements, I shall continue with my teachings. The events of the summer of 2010 have been so momentous that I am bound to narrate them so that the unenlightened may be initiated into mysteries bound in the land of the British Isles. The events were themselves built upon my investigation of a haunted house in the seaside town of Wallasey. The house in question was truly well-appointed. Not only did it sit atop a hill and receive sun for much of the day, but it was also nestled alongside a historic church and boneyard whilst below, a wonderful public house and that other bastion of public life, a library were located.
After discovering the grave of the last Reverend’s children in adjoining graveyard, I returned to the house. Aquinas – Phil – was happy with my discovery and prepared to go and film the monument. Nothing possessed any manner of being, it would seem, unless it were committed to film. Before he did so, he mused on what may have brought the Reverend’s children back to the Wirral. As a man who has returned, my own experience may be of relevance. People return to die in their birthplace for two reasons, they never truly left or because their absence has transformed them and they wish to return cleansed and free themselves of some past upset. Before rushing off to talk into his camera, Aquinas – I cannot bring myself to call him Phil – mentioned something again of the Reverend’s descent into madness. According to a local historian, the vicar had abandoned a vague, Christianised Neo-Platonism for a version of the Arian heresy. Always a mistake if you should ask me!
Once host and ‘facilitator’ had absented himself, I made for the library to refresh my memory on the afore-mentioned heresy. Doubtless the young men’s devices could have located the information in minutes but they were too busy analysing footage from the previous night and besides, sitting with a book gives one time to think; an activity that the internet does not always encourage. I should point out that one of the gentlemen, Nozzer or something, found on ‘The Wallasey eNews Archive’ references to apparent grave robbings in the cemetery – when graves opened for maintenance reasons were found empty. Subsidence was posited as the reason, the remains having slipped into the hillside. Again, my insight appeared to be corroborated.
I found in the pleasant, single-storey, art deco library, a reference book which reminded me that Arianism was the idea that the Christian God was the only divinity, thus reducing the status of the son – and all other gods! – to that of a mortal man; mere flesh encasing spirit. I had neither the time nor the resources to study the matter in detail, I was due in the Cheese at one and I determined to ascertain why the children returned and the reasons behind their father’s madness through the most reliable means possible – deep meditation and communion with the dead!
Several hours of refreshment passed. I drank to segue into the general group dynamic and to pay homage to both the fruits of mother Earth and the skill of the folk who craft her wares into ale. I noticed a certain ill temper had descended on the group, despite the success of our investigation thus far. Indeed, their respect for myself had even slipped. As I may have already stated, I am entitled to call myself Swami, I was routinely addressed as Ji-Swift in Mother India. I do not insist on such terms of respect from my English brethren, I have no need of such egotistical props and I am happy to bear the title my maternal Uncle earned for his services to spiritualism (that is the Sir – for the benefit of my acolyte and any other s he may not be ‘on it’).
I took charge of matters at that moment – never a good idea for an enlightened man to assert, we lead by drawing the unenlightened to us through our devotions and general aura of holiness – and standing, uttered the following:
We are charged to serve the powers from whom all spirits arise and to which they return – (I ignored Aquinas’ gestures to fall silent at this point) if our job is to liberate them from their residing attachments then we must cast aside our own cravings to achieve that aim.
These words ushered the spirit of Conchord over us and another round of drinks was purchased – not in defiance against my teachings but rather as a misguided attempt to pay homage to the decades of wisdom which inhabit my corporeal frame. I drank too, to show a forgiveness of their petulance and to demonstrate that alcohol is an attachment one can overcome until it loses all pleasure and effect.
It would appear that I must fall silent for another week but I should state now, the phenomena which had been experienced thus far was nothing compared to what should follow that evening!
Friday 12 November 2010
Resonating with the transcendent outpourings of Brahma, suffused with the nurturing milk of the Goddess / An enlightened man never tries
I indicated in my last post that my body, whilst I was at the house at St Hilary’s, was clearly aching for a night indoors. The attentive student will recall that I was resident at the Magazine’s Hotel however I tended to indulge my patronage during the daylight hours, choosing instead to spend the evening in the nearby park in a state of Samadhi. My aging joints certainly craved the indulgence of a dry room, of soft furnishings and of curtains that deterred the unruly, summer sun. Fortunately I no longer obey my bodies’ superfluous demands and there is nothing I embrace more than a vigil under the stars or sitting in a strange property communing with the unquiet dead!
I should at this point recount a recent incident which those hostile to my message of universal love and liberation from the constraints of the ego, may seek to misrepresent. I was engaged in a séance at the Perch Rock Hotel in New Brighton. Once a week I have sat there, conveying the words of the dead to the customers of that establishment. As can be expected a fair number of detractors have attended, mocking and seeking to uncover some form of subterfuge. Despite numerous demonstrations of genuine contact from beyond (and I have no desire to enrich myself, gain fame or convince others of the veracity of the spirit world, although I have subsisted on some generous offerings from those who have welcomed contact with the departed) these detractors have sought to playfully undermine each session, chiefly through sarcastic comments and erratic examinations of my immediate surroundings.
On the occasion in question, I was channelling a spirit which propelled my leg forward toward the shin and I repeat, the shin, of the lady with whom I was sitting. The spasm was completely involuntary and of a manifestly non-sexual nature. The Kundalini was not in ascendant, I was not a scion of Shiva, or she Shakti, however the manifestation was observed, misconstrued and in mere moments and ugly scuffle erupted. I retreated into meditation, prepared as always for Samadhi beyond Sabikalpa (perpetual union with God, beyond a bodily trance), however the buffeting I received as a mob swayed to and fro around me, threw me from a state of deep communion with the Tara, the Mothering wisdom which transports the enlightened soul across life’s turbulent waves.
In a bid to calm the tension I sought to invoke the Goddess in her most maternal aspect. Before any derogatory comments make the headlines, I should state that I did not call anyone a ‘fucking cow’; I did not label any groups ‘fucking cattle’. I certainly did call for a diminishing of ignorance, for all to suckle upon the teat of wisdom – although perhaps not in those exact words – and for a deep bond to be made with the mother of all. As I voiced such prayers, I visualised the Goddess in the form of a cow – the embodiment of a nurturing universe and whose spiritual milk is a wise selflessness.
Alas, at times my zeal clouds my paltry social awareness and I was mistaken for a foul-mouthed ‘lampoonist’, it required the intervention of the licensee to calm the brawl with offers of free drink. I ejected myself willingly and offered thanks to Bacchus, whilst alone on the promenade and despite their aggression; I prayed that my antagonists who were celebrating some form of victory for rationalism with conspicuous over-consumption no doubt, that they may be charioted unto the stars by the leopards of that god of abandonment and joy.
My teachings concluded for the night, I desired some uninterrupted communion with the blissful absolute of self-abandonment and I found myself led to the breakwater, a pile of boulders on the shore. I climbed atop the rocks and found a niche, slightly withdrawn from the blustering wind. What buffets did assail me, I employed to detach me from my physical senses and soon I was adrift on the song of approaching winter.
The only ship or boat I am interested in is that vessel of maternal emptiness, alluded to earlier in the form of the Tara. Smothered in the comforts of self-denial, one is conveyed to a state of absolute alertness, accompanied often with a sense of bliss and above all and most profoundly, a state of stillness and peace.
I was not then ‘rescued by the life boat’; it was summoned by the police officer who had been alerted to my devotions on the rocks. My observations translated into a suicide attempt apparently. I should also say that I was not arrested I merely accepted the officer’s offer of a lift from the scene and a safe night inside the cells, which was considerate of them.
You will conclude, attentive reader, from this episode, that I am indefatigable in my wish to direct all whom I encounter toward the truth of man’s immortal essence, no matter how dangerous or inconvenient it may be towards my ephemeral body.
Even the most inattentive of students will understand that no such cynicism met my revelations at the house by St Hilary’s. The manifestations from the world unseen were treated with the dignity they fully deserved. However I was unable to see out that first night as fatigue forced me to retire.
I should state that I experienced vivid and rather disturbing dreams on that night in the house. I enjoyed the rest – the bed was comfortable and the house was warm and dry, so even one indifferent to the drag of ego and id could acknowledge the mortal frame’s comfort. I spent part of the night dreaming that I was in a coffin. This was not an unpleasant confinement. What disturbed me were the scratching and tapping noises on the exterior of my casket. Several times I awoke to find the sheets tightly bound around my sweating torso and I comforted myself that my final end would be through flame and wind and water. As the night progressed, my dreams took my from my coffin to another abyss, where I hung in moonlight, conscious of being regarded from some thing(s) that haunted the space below.
When I finally rose the following morning, I committed these dreams to my notebook and after observing my ablutions, I found the young men sat in the garden. I arrived as their heated disagreement over breakfast arrangements culminated in a decision that one should brave the interior of a local shop to purchase victuals. As one of their number (Moffy I believe) trooped off, I recounted my experiences to the remaining investigators. It was pleasant to sit, discoursing, in the sun. The earth was fresh after the rain, traces of mist still webbed the lower lands spreading across to the sacred sheen of the Dee, whilst the flowers were especially opulent, all edging into the greatest pool of light. A wall flower cloaking the graveside wall shivered delightfully at the faintest touch of wind.
Aquinas (whose name was actually Phil) was collating our experiences and suggesting tasks for the day. Quite sensibly, he requested that the rapping sounds try and be replicated. The words I heard he suggested could have emanated from the spirits of the last Reverend’s children who, interestingly, requested to be buried at St Hilary’s. A trudge around the graveyard awaited me as I stated I would seek the graves of the young.
An hour later, I tramped through the long grasses, skirting the ruined tower and descending the slope that fell toward the Cheese; the older graves were located in the eastern and southern part of the yard but I had yet to find the graves belonging to the troubled Reverend’s offspring. Not of course that I was checking the names on the graves, it was far quicker and more efficient to rely on intuition. Indeed I had been trying too hard – a mistake that an enlightened man cannot be accused of making too often – for it was as I slumped, wearied by my exertions that I found what I was looking for. I sat, facing the house and to my immediate left was a cracked, horizontal gravestone, adorned with a sandstone wreath whose bordering skulls bore minerals that winked in the sun. Checking and finding the appropriates names, I sat cross-legged on the monument and allowed my thoughts to drift away like the clouds; I released my awareness into the breeze ruffling the sycamores and the grass and I accepted the grasp of the sun, offering my residual attachments to the scorching interrogation of Heaven’s King. The distant traffic and the soaring lark receded and a pattern of syllables arose in my consciousness, resonating through me, scattering me into the blank grip of the earth. The world became that force and I was one with the blankness through which it moved and into which it descended. This state persisted until I became aware of a solid pressing against me. There was something reassuring by this sensation intruding into the blankness but when it suddenly fell away, fleetingly inducing a sickening horror that I would fall, it was replaced by the sense that something was dragging at me, pulling me down through cracked stone, packed earth, sifting sand and shattered wood. Thrown completely from the trance, my mind burned with the sudden understanding that many of the graves below my feet were empty and they had all been emptied from below!
I can continue no more this week. My acolyte’s son cannot sleep due to my resonating tones and I must now fall silent. (I do not bray or bellow, I resonate with the transcendent outpourings of Brahma) alas, I cannot show my acolyte my notes – he finds them impenetrable.
I should at this point recount a recent incident which those hostile to my message of universal love and liberation from the constraints of the ego, may seek to misrepresent. I was engaged in a séance at the Perch Rock Hotel in New Brighton. Once a week I have sat there, conveying the words of the dead to the customers of that establishment. As can be expected a fair number of detractors have attended, mocking and seeking to uncover some form of subterfuge. Despite numerous demonstrations of genuine contact from beyond (and I have no desire to enrich myself, gain fame or convince others of the veracity of the spirit world, although I have subsisted on some generous offerings from those who have welcomed contact with the departed) these detractors have sought to playfully undermine each session, chiefly through sarcastic comments and erratic examinations of my immediate surroundings.
On the occasion in question, I was channelling a spirit which propelled my leg forward toward the shin and I repeat, the shin, of the lady with whom I was sitting. The spasm was completely involuntary and of a manifestly non-sexual nature. The Kundalini was not in ascendant, I was not a scion of Shiva, or she Shakti, however the manifestation was observed, misconstrued and in mere moments and ugly scuffle erupted. I retreated into meditation, prepared as always for Samadhi beyond Sabikalpa (perpetual union with God, beyond a bodily trance), however the buffeting I received as a mob swayed to and fro around me, threw me from a state of deep communion with the Tara, the Mothering wisdom which transports the enlightened soul across life’s turbulent waves.
In a bid to calm the tension I sought to invoke the Goddess in her most maternal aspect. Before any derogatory comments make the headlines, I should state that I did not call anyone a ‘fucking cow’; I did not label any groups ‘fucking cattle’. I certainly did call for a diminishing of ignorance, for all to suckle upon the teat of wisdom – although perhaps not in those exact words – and for a deep bond to be made with the mother of all. As I voiced such prayers, I visualised the Goddess in the form of a cow – the embodiment of a nurturing universe and whose spiritual milk is a wise selflessness.
Alas, at times my zeal clouds my paltry social awareness and I was mistaken for a foul-mouthed ‘lampoonist’, it required the intervention of the licensee to calm the brawl with offers of free drink. I ejected myself willingly and offered thanks to Bacchus, whilst alone on the promenade and despite their aggression; I prayed that my antagonists who were celebrating some form of victory for rationalism with conspicuous over-consumption no doubt, that they may be charioted unto the stars by the leopards of that god of abandonment and joy.
My teachings concluded for the night, I desired some uninterrupted communion with the blissful absolute of self-abandonment and I found myself led to the breakwater, a pile of boulders on the shore. I climbed atop the rocks and found a niche, slightly withdrawn from the blustering wind. What buffets did assail me, I employed to detach me from my physical senses and soon I was adrift on the song of approaching winter.
The only ship or boat I am interested in is that vessel of maternal emptiness, alluded to earlier in the form of the Tara. Smothered in the comforts of self-denial, one is conveyed to a state of absolute alertness, accompanied often with a sense of bliss and above all and most profoundly, a state of stillness and peace.
I was not then ‘rescued by the life boat’; it was summoned by the police officer who had been alerted to my devotions on the rocks. My observations translated into a suicide attempt apparently. I should also say that I was not arrested I merely accepted the officer’s offer of a lift from the scene and a safe night inside the cells, which was considerate of them.
You will conclude, attentive reader, from this episode, that I am indefatigable in my wish to direct all whom I encounter toward the truth of man’s immortal essence, no matter how dangerous or inconvenient it may be towards my ephemeral body.
Even the most inattentive of students will understand that no such cynicism met my revelations at the house by St Hilary’s. The manifestations from the world unseen were treated with the dignity they fully deserved. However I was unable to see out that first night as fatigue forced me to retire.
I should state that I experienced vivid and rather disturbing dreams on that night in the house. I enjoyed the rest – the bed was comfortable and the house was warm and dry, so even one indifferent to the drag of ego and id could acknowledge the mortal frame’s comfort. I spent part of the night dreaming that I was in a coffin. This was not an unpleasant confinement. What disturbed me were the scratching and tapping noises on the exterior of my casket. Several times I awoke to find the sheets tightly bound around my sweating torso and I comforted myself that my final end would be through flame and wind and water. As the night progressed, my dreams took my from my coffin to another abyss, where I hung in moonlight, conscious of being regarded from some thing(s) that haunted the space below.
When I finally rose the following morning, I committed these dreams to my notebook and after observing my ablutions, I found the young men sat in the garden. I arrived as their heated disagreement over breakfast arrangements culminated in a decision that one should brave the interior of a local shop to purchase victuals. As one of their number (Moffy I believe) trooped off, I recounted my experiences to the remaining investigators. It was pleasant to sit, discoursing, in the sun. The earth was fresh after the rain, traces of mist still webbed the lower lands spreading across to the sacred sheen of the Dee, whilst the flowers were especially opulent, all edging into the greatest pool of light. A wall flower cloaking the graveside wall shivered delightfully at the faintest touch of wind.
Aquinas (whose name was actually Phil) was collating our experiences and suggesting tasks for the day. Quite sensibly, he requested that the rapping sounds try and be replicated. The words I heard he suggested could have emanated from the spirits of the last Reverend’s children who, interestingly, requested to be buried at St Hilary’s. A trudge around the graveyard awaited me as I stated I would seek the graves of the young.
An hour later, I tramped through the long grasses, skirting the ruined tower and descending the slope that fell toward the Cheese; the older graves were located in the eastern and southern part of the yard but I had yet to find the graves belonging to the troubled Reverend’s offspring. Not of course that I was checking the names on the graves, it was far quicker and more efficient to rely on intuition. Indeed I had been trying too hard – a mistake that an enlightened man cannot be accused of making too often – for it was as I slumped, wearied by my exertions that I found what I was looking for. I sat, facing the house and to my immediate left was a cracked, horizontal gravestone, adorned with a sandstone wreath whose bordering skulls bore minerals that winked in the sun. Checking and finding the appropriates names, I sat cross-legged on the monument and allowed my thoughts to drift away like the clouds; I released my awareness into the breeze ruffling the sycamores and the grass and I accepted the grasp of the sun, offering my residual attachments to the scorching interrogation of Heaven’s King. The distant traffic and the soaring lark receded and a pattern of syllables arose in my consciousness, resonating through me, scattering me into the blank grip of the earth. The world became that force and I was one with the blankness through which it moved and into which it descended. This state persisted until I became aware of a solid pressing against me. There was something reassuring by this sensation intruding into the blankness but when it suddenly fell away, fleetingly inducing a sickening horror that I would fall, it was replaced by the sense that something was dragging at me, pulling me down through cracked stone, packed earth, sifting sand and shattered wood. Thrown completely from the trance, my mind burned with the sudden understanding that many of the graves below my feet were empty and they had all been emptied from below!
I can continue no more this week. My acolyte’s son cannot sleep due to my resonating tones and I must now fall silent. (I do not bray or bellow, I resonate with the transcendent outpourings of Brahma) alas, I cannot show my acolyte my notes – he finds them impenetrable.
Saturday 6 November 2010
A dark gauze hanging
Whilst I have made it my mission to issue teachings every Friday – the day sacred to Venus who is the personification of fruition, grace, indeed of divinity traced within matter – circumstances may dictate otherwise. I may be battling an eruption of destructive, delusional evil that seeks to imprison all within its own neuroses or my acolyte may have a prior engagement. As it happens I could not post last week as my faithful typist’s son was attending a Halloween party at nursery. I was not myself engaged in some convoluted celebration of the season, nor was I battling a cosmic menace last weekend. I hold Halloween and its traditions in the highest esteem, however as I perpetually dance amongst the dead, I do not offer any specific observance during this period. On such a point it would be appropriate to return again to my first significant encounter with the supernatural since my return to these shores. Before I do must add that should my teachings ever suffer from apparent incoherence or tautology you may ascribe it to the conditions under which I am working. On the other hand one should never discount a specific purpose, not readily apprehendible, behind any apparent inconsistencies.
I had recounted how the first apparition awoke a trance state in which I journeyed out into the open air, over the crashing sea. As I perceived a gaze directed at me from the spirit, it began to melt away until I could have believed that I had mis-interpreted a slight shadow cast into the alcove at the top of the stairs. The young men had no such doubts however and as they examined the footage on their cameras, they found an image of a pronounced shadow, inexplicable by the objects spaced around it. Surprisingly, this shadow appeared to melt away rather than abruptly vanish.
As the young men recommenced their heavy drinking and bickered as they set a camera up on the stairs, I sat in a lotus position as close as possible to where the apparition had manifested. By focusing on the clock’s resonant ticking and the sighing of the dissipated wind, I was able to transcend the racket from below. Only the odd flurry of rain against the windows and the creaking of the timbers weaved themselves into my awareness and I rested in a state of Sabikalpa Samadhi (near Samadhi, or living union with God).
I was roused thankfully before the apparition returned (or a second manifested). The voices of the young men raged below in a drunken squabble but what disturbed me was the silence of the clock. Disorientated at first, I took me some moments to apprehend what was wrong. Although the voices bellowed, I found myself listening for a subtle sound. The clock’s rhythm had underplayed our time in the house and when I realised that it was silent I felt a little sad. I stood and eased open its cabinet and saw that its mechanism hung still. Moonlight broke through the landing window and as I turned, its glow delineated the silhouette of an adult standing on the first flight of stairs. It was clear that it was no substantial figure rather it was like dark gauze suspended in a human shape, again I could detect that its head craned toward me and a glinting eye was trained upon me.
‘...Father...flesh...’
The words rang through my mind as a sudden rap sounded within the wood below my feet. I looked down instinctively and when I glanced back up, the figure was, of course, gone.
All attempts at regaining the state of mind through which I apprehended these figures were futile. Nagged by a deep lethargy, I permitted myself the rare luxury of a night indoors where sleep came easily. What sleep I enjoyed was to be treasured, for the following day was to bring further, more vivid manifestations in this hill-top house.
I had recounted how the first apparition awoke a trance state in which I journeyed out into the open air, over the crashing sea. As I perceived a gaze directed at me from the spirit, it began to melt away until I could have believed that I had mis-interpreted a slight shadow cast into the alcove at the top of the stairs. The young men had no such doubts however and as they examined the footage on their cameras, they found an image of a pronounced shadow, inexplicable by the objects spaced around it. Surprisingly, this shadow appeared to melt away rather than abruptly vanish.
As the young men recommenced their heavy drinking and bickered as they set a camera up on the stairs, I sat in a lotus position as close as possible to where the apparition had manifested. By focusing on the clock’s resonant ticking and the sighing of the dissipated wind, I was able to transcend the racket from below. Only the odd flurry of rain against the windows and the creaking of the timbers weaved themselves into my awareness and I rested in a state of Sabikalpa Samadhi (near Samadhi, or living union with God).
I was roused thankfully before the apparition returned (or a second manifested). The voices of the young men raged below in a drunken squabble but what disturbed me was the silence of the clock. Disorientated at first, I took me some moments to apprehend what was wrong. Although the voices bellowed, I found myself listening for a subtle sound. The clock’s rhythm had underplayed our time in the house and when I realised that it was silent I felt a little sad. I stood and eased open its cabinet and saw that its mechanism hung still. Moonlight broke through the landing window and as I turned, its glow delineated the silhouette of an adult standing on the first flight of stairs. It was clear that it was no substantial figure rather it was like dark gauze suspended in a human shape, again I could detect that its head craned toward me and a glinting eye was trained upon me.
‘...Father...flesh...’
The words rang through my mind as a sudden rap sounded within the wood below my feet. I looked down instinctively and when I glanced back up, the figure was, of course, gone.
All attempts at regaining the state of mind through which I apprehended these figures were futile. Nagged by a deep lethargy, I permitted myself the rare luxury of a night indoors where sleep came easily. What sleep I enjoyed was to be treasured, for the following day was to bring further, more vivid manifestations in this hill-top house.
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