Astral Contact


Someone contacts me on my private linecode: sweet dreams. A voice speaks to me at night. Is it a soul in pain? Would it be a living? A returning from the other world? I would like to know. Words of distress, sighs of sadness. To know what does it wish. Detaching the leash. How? Listen to the distress, the helplessness of Messer de la Ficelle, knight on the verge of madness — “and I add my comments from other articles on the astral.”

What’s up?

A soul in pain! No need for purgatory, we already have hell on earth. It works me and I do not advance. Something is familiar to me, not the voice. Nor the words. A style. A I-don’t-know-what… Something that stops me in my motionless race. Understand who can, I give up.

“The first vertigo, the one that reveals our smallness in front of the boundless universe, is the first experience of metaphysical vertigo. It is certainly, for many, the most obvious, the most immediate. The astral journey almost always begins in this way, with cosmic vertigo.” (source)

Astral contact is one of the most beautiful and least explainable things. Everything happens as if the other world has solved all the communication problems that paralyze us here, prisoners of the mirror. The other world has wifi without access code, without IP address, without waiting time. Plug-and-play without plug.

And what a download speed! I’m hallucinating. It’s no good. Despite the high speed of the astral network, I’m not getting anything. I’m trampling. I’m stalling. I’m wandering. I’m standing still. I’m blocking. No matter how much I brake, I’m standing still.

“This night of February 4, 2023, about thirty Wolves will take flight in astral for an initiatory journey of 15 nights. At my side to guide them, five sharp lieutenants will be present and active, tireless patrollers of the Dream. And I will personally supervise the various patrols of explorers of the unknown.” (source)



Talking robot

This is String, I’m listening? No one at the end of the wireless. Not a single robot speaker. Handsome? My ass! Let me introduce myself. Monsieur de la Ficelle, knight without a mount, professional dismounter. I also climb in the air sometimes. To happiness, to misfortune, to fate. Insurance disassembler, with or without policy. The contract will not count. Crook, ie. Fit for bells, I pull the leaves and drain the gussets. No foolish jobs, said Mom. Only foolish people.

And officers! Force remains to the law. I avoid thugs and thugs. Bad people. My house is in the aloyau. Lean meat, I’m talking about mine. Efflanqué I’m, exposed ribs in its own right. Horse meat on the way back. Bourrin who never left. Since then, I’ve taken it. My party. It’s Darty my kiki. Like that one who’s been laughing in my balls in the middle of the night. Didn’t learn politeness.

“For a sensitive person, beings are porous, worlds overlap and interpenetrate, the various planes communicate to the point that it is sometimes difficult for him to know where he is. Must it forget who it is, where it comes from, what order it belongs to? Should it lose its limits, and fusion, confusion? Although we rarely remember, we do astral encounters every night.” (source)

And I’m on a leash. Staircase service rue du vice. I climb to the fifth floor at my mistress’: gone AWOL. No forwarding address. La bougresse! A girl to women. A famous queen of infamous fame. One of those who starve you. Is it she who screams in the dark? The voice I know but I do not remember the owner? If it’s her, I’m nothing. You think! My mistress! I knew her better than by sight. How could I afford a fight?

“As long as the warrior has not reached the energy layer, as long as most of his energy remains blocked in the emotional sphere, the free flight of the warrior into the astral is not possible. The energy is missing.” (source)



Investigation quest

In the meantime I flip through. On my notebook I have the blazes of friends. On my favorite notebook. My aphone smartphone that never rings for anyone. Who calls me? I remember no one. I still have the names, you never know. Here I look at picking. I peel one by one friends. I know none. But sometimes they remember? Sometimes who would call me at night? We don’t know.

Astral contact is not a sinecure. Happy when it lasts! It’s hard not to know. It’s stupid not to look. It’s worse not to find. What do you do when you don’t know how to do it? Wait. If nothing happens, the wait is hard to relax. What do I get into? Those contacted have no e-mails. Eresipelas: my nose peels. Red as a radish, pinard paradise, you forced on the chopine. You look good! Besides, you’re in deep trouble.

“If you try to grasp this article with the tip of your mind, you will be more than interested, but it’s nothing. If you don’t understand what’s at stake, it doesn’t matter. This article is not for you. Let it infuse in your body of magic, awake you will see, amazed you will fly over the motionless meadows.” (source)



Rainy or windy

I walk on the immense and empty beach. Low water. Those of the sea, because the waters of the sky have been dripping without respite since June. And this first of August looks like September 22. She walks next to me. But she doesn’t walk in the scheme. His silence seems to tell me: -Such a proposal is not worthy of you.

I confirm. It smells more like twine than the gallant knight. I look softly at the wet immensity. A tiny silhouette barely visible under the halo of spit.
“What the hell is going on out there?”
“Your principles?”
“I could not see myself so far from my principles…”

Pluviose, ventose, or vendémiaire? These months that have nothing revolutionary have rotted me summer. She who speaks to me in silence, would she be my astral visitor? Disguised as a man, why not?

“What happens every night while we sleep is mind boggling. We all have a double life. The one that escapes us is infinitely richer and more exciting than the other. The real, so-called. A beautiful nest of trouble. Let us no longer remain dangling arms. Open them wide, let the astral flight unfold before your eyes. You can experience it in your body, just like real life scenes.” (source)



Quiet, we’re dreaming!

Silence is the most threatened musical experience of our time. Din is the most cherished social experience of our time. In the noise we forget. We knock ourselves out. We dance, we fidget, we move, we move… So as not to look ourselves in the dark. In silence we find ourselves with ourselves.

For the most part, it’s anxiety. Everything but not me! The rare followers of meditative or astral introspection create enclosures of silence in islands of tranquility. I managed it while living in a seaside resort that multiplies its population by ten every summer. And the threat of summer heat waves attracts fragile crowds. Blessed is global warming, a boon for Lower Brittany and the highlands of Scotland.

“The inhabitants of Lower Brittany are as smart as broomsticks!” they once sang. “And many Bretons still think so.” What does it matter if the high Bretons want to fart higher than their ass? Each his winds. I have Gallo pride and French fiber. Rennes, my capital city, knows that our Duchess Anne of Brittany has become Queen of France.

“The Flying Wolves expressed the desire to meet the giants of yesteryear, those who belonged to the first humanity. And we got to the Cyclops. They’re about 50 metres tall, and they look pretty scary. But they did not attack us for the good reason that they cannot see us. We are in the astral, while they were in their reality. These two worlds communicate with great difficulty.

“They were observed in their terraforming work. We were fascinated by their way of throwing mountains into the sea to make islands, and it reminded me of the Ramayana, the episode where the King of the Monkeys Hanuman, ally of Rama, sows huge blocks of rock to form a bridge between the coast of Coromandel and the island of Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, where Princess Sita, Rama’s wife, was captive to a demon.” (source)




It must be someone I know. I don’t think of, so. But I know them well. I have cards, my precious notebook with all the names. It’s like pissing in a pan. Croutons soup!

Still, I have to find before I hatch a liver fluke with all the watercress I send myself. Shiite hatred seal. Yeah should.

But no, still nothing. no sign of astral life in my material environment. Worse, it seems to me that I cannot practice conscious astral flight. Or else? Or there is a part of me, the best, that hovers motionless on new worlds, and what remains of me, wobbly and cagnard, remains nailed to the solid ground. Elsewhere is neither a reward nor an adventure. It is a failure for the one who remains, and it is an assumed choice for those who go there.

The material world is getting heavier and heavier. I chose to live by the winds of the astral. In this end of Kaliyuga, the age of darkness, all values are reversed. What is above is no longer like what is below. The dark age sees the triumph of fools and the success of the unscrupulous. The reign of evil is spreading every day more and gradually its waves are contaminating the planet. (source)




Eternity is a long time. Especially towards the end.
Woody Allen