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.
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