Am I at the dawn of what Christians call the apotheosis or body of glory? But no! I must first be dead. After a painful, deadly moult, I discover the glory of the body. I’m not talking about my old physical body. I’m talking about the body as a power. This power is shared by all those who have a body. There are many.
I would rather say that I live permanently in my body of sorcerer, or body of dream. Do not giggle. Nothing sexy in mine, be sure. My physical body is breathless. Sewn with wrinkles and scars left by life, it is bandaged, twisted, ruined. As soon as I see myself in a mirror, lol. Stop pounding, the body you see is not the real one. The true body, as I discover, I have been living in it for twenty days. It is not given to birth, but to rebirth.
For lack of a better name, I call it dream body, because it is the body of my astral journeys. I could say the etheric body, but this suitcase word has too many divergent meanings according to the authors. So I stick to dream body, which refers to nagualism and Carlos Castaneda.
You just have to wonder how to use correctly the power you have. (Carlos Castaneda)
Fish bowl or decor?
Let’s be clear. I didn’t get through the walls of the Jar, but I’m tearing up the backdrop. I feel the boards under my bare feet. The scene is still black, the room is lit, but empty. My nails have the power to split the illusion. When we take it off, there’s not much left.
The Theatre of Comic Illusion has lifted its curtains. It has eighteen, which rise one after the other in eighteen different ways while the lighting of the room diminishes in measure. When the last curtain disappears, the darkness is total, on stage as in theatres.
That’s it. The stage lights up on the right. The centre and the left remain in the dark.
Fabulous feeling, so exhilarating feeling, champagne of the mind, I sparkle, I bubble and I bring with me the intoxication. The light grey that makes it pretty. “The young lady is a little chablied,” say the British with this elegance they keep through the worst debacles. Chablied meaning tipsy comes from Chablis, the most elegant of French white wines. The drunkenness it gives turns the lady into a princess.
Now I am chablied. Squiffy. With no grog or drug, I’m sparkling. Shining. Euphorizing. I’m laughing. Precision: I did not stall from reality, the intoxication is too light. But the power it gives is really great.
I water, I diffuse, I radiate. “Each one has his share and everyone has it all” (Victor Hugo). That’s it. No more broken pieces, but a coherent whole. No more tugs to port or starboard, I keep my course effortlessly, without thinking about it. With an empty head, as I have been for years, I now have the intelligence of the body that guides my actions and modulates my reactions.
Trivialize. Thank the living. Bow before the greatness that infinitely exceeds my small self. To recognize the power of Intention, of which part is given to me. To know constantly that this power is not mine. I use it. I eat it up. It delights me. Intent without which we would be nothing.
Gifts of life
Gifts come to us in the rhythm of trials. The path of awakening is paved with broken glass, paved with sharp blades. It ascends through the seven ramps which are the seven degrees of awakening. She ascends, harassing, laborious, hard. And you ride with her, sore bum thirsty for azure.
You crawl more than you walk
One ball in each ankle
Naked in horrible rags
You’re working towards the Great Arch
Ascension has long hurt you
You’re no better at summits
Cut off from your life now
Out of the animal kingdom
The Arch is but a bygone creed
True or not, who cares?
You’re the goal, you’re the door
Who will open in time
Patience and guts to come
For now, be on your guard
The Blind Source looks at you
Keeps a blind eye on what you do
Poor sad boy figure
Pulling up your pants
You’re all over the place
Incident of ill omen
Too bad we fucked off a good start
But you clown you gesticulate
Puffy with ridiculous pride
You ruined your role and exit
There is a chasm between two summits. Any mountain needs valleys. Hurtle. Reaching the bottom, you drown. What do you miss? She. The woman finally complete, unified, happy. But the greatest magician can do nothing against the will of others. These are the limits of magic. You can only help those who help themselves first. Those who ask. The fed up gal, so fed up that the moment comes when she’s fed up with being fed up. When her star morale turns to wild, when she’s all black from bra to briefs, ‘Got to get out of the way’ embroidered on her banner.
I’ve always been prone to vertigo. Not always. For nearly forty years, following the accident of my eldest son, I have carried this wound as a curse, a punishment I inflict on myself. With this new me, I thought I’d get rid of it. No fucking way! Vertigo is intact. Weary, paralyzing. The wound has opened and the altitude heightens the pain. Of course. Do I have to return to the world of the living for a while?
Demons aggressively assail the elect who ascend to the Kingdom. I learned this once in catechism. My recent status has nothing to do with it, but the analogy is true. The higher you go, the harder you get.
I climb to the light, my glow is brighter, my flavor attracts astral flies and vampires follow them. Morfales come to the table. I get eaten alive and I’m surprised to freak out! I am devoured from the inside by agile leprosy, terrifying filth in power and vivacity.
There is always stronger than myself. I should have remembered. Lack of humility, I jubileed too strong. And the crazy crank struck me back. Joy of the day. I have lost the path of the sweet land of love.
Before the station, one gets out of the train-train. Who too embraces badly. I am contrite, constrained, deconstructed.
Coda: to the chorus.
If you want to believe in a god, don’t give him any appearance. Don’t make him a human, overpowering but similar. God does not dress in the morning. He does not sleep in a bed or anywhere else. He has no more beard than hair on his ass. Those who have them are mortal. You still want to worship the eternal? He doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn. Don’t expect any thanks. He doesn’t care about anything since he’s not.
The former gods have served as models for the gods of religions. They are not the source. They made us in a genetic lab. They are alive, therefore mortal. If there is an origin to all this, it is impersonal. For convenience, it is called the Source. There is no need to pray to it or to attract its attention: the Source is blind and deaf. Its two deputies do all the work, Energy and Intent.
Detachment. Distant gaze lost in the mist. Dirt road drowned in the sea sand. This strength that is mine is also my weakness. I become bonder, affectionate with strangers. I am dry and inhospitable for others. No more this impression of being driven by a thousand impulses sometimes contradictory.
There are no more crowds in me, I no longer take any inner distance to watch myself act or speak in a strange way — foreign to my personality. My behavior is in perfect harmony with what I have become. He looks more like me than a brother, but he is not me. Not the usual me I’ve been carrying around all my life since I was a kid.
It is my childhood that I find again. This incredible power that I show to heal is exactly what I had until I was 15. Magical and indifferent. Miracles never turned my head. The kids I cured of their problems always found it normal. I didn’t take any pride in it, so I wasn’t jealous. Healing is a harmless act. We all knew how to do it at the dawn of this humanity. Will it be so for the next?
My strength is my weakness because it isolates me. If children are not surprised by miracles, adults are afraid of them. They probably think that healing comes from the devil. So I stayed in the shadows. Far from the number. I am no longer in this world where unhappiness abounds. Where the error is deep. Where the revolt rumbles.