On this Sunday, March 24, 2024, I fell down the stairs. Irresistible was the fall. Descent into Hades, fall to the very bottom of Center-Earth. Distracted no doubt, I felt the march in rout and the staircase slipped under my bare feet. I saw little Alice falling and falling after Mr Rabbit. Dear child! What awaits me below is not Wonderland.
Why does this kind of flip always fall on a Sunday? First day of the week for the Christian religion, it is the last for all almanacs and agendas. The week starts on Monday and ends with the weekend. The weekend, as its name suggests, is not the beginning and Sunday is indeed the last day of the week.
The next day, who asks: how are things today? They say: like a Monday! Very bad, in fact. My worst day is the day before. The almanac, a beautiful word that is not Arabic, but comes from Breton, cousin of the Gaul whose only known is Gallo-Roman, the Gallo that we speak in my home.
In Breton, Ar Manach is the monk. And as they used to roll the r, it was called almanac. What relationship with the monk? I’ll tell you. All the writings were copied and distributed by the monks. Culture was handed down by the Catholic monks, disguised and mutilated. The almanac was a concentrate of Latin culture and Christian morality. And it was the monk who brought it to the village.
As for Sunday or Di(e) Manach, it is a mixture of Latin die, the day, and Breton Manach, the monk. For the Celts of Brittany, the day of the lord was the day of the monk. Etymologists, remember that French has not only Greek, Latin or Arabic roots, it also has many Celto-Gaulish words.
This lesson is perfect, as am I. Nothing to hold on to, how to resist, I fell, fell without stopping in the infinite dark, terrifying vertical, endless interlude. I must resist fear, fear, panic, cowardice and other sounds. In the face of danger, I am not a coward. While I’m falling, I keep repeating myself.
What dignity in a puppet who chooses, if it is not his choice? Is he still warrior the one who slips thus, alone in a body that seems a bag of sound? Is he an honorable tombeur or just a piece of shit in the toilet? Is he a human or a worm? I don’t care. My head is empty of this emptiness where I am sinking endlessly without fruit without brake.
For days, for months, I fell very low. When gravity dominates, time does not exist. For a long time I fell, for a brief moment eternity opened under my feet. Shaggy fall, dreary death, black history and always the same from beginning to end. Here.
Stop my fall as fast as it started. No shock or shaking. I gallop on all fours in a low ceiling tunnel. A crazy thought pierces my empty head. Am I dressed? Am I decent?
Coming down, I was naked as an ass. And running like a rabbit, you can only see mine. Is there anyone to see me in this dark? I don’t know. I don’t see anything. Walking like a beast on the palms and knees, what do I have the hooves of a donkey? I’m a donkey and it makes me burn. On all fours on a barrel, I’m going crazy. Dark Sunday.
Too much black to see. From here to there, voices that speak to me in a low voice. How can you speak higher when you are so low? They tell me: Stop. Stop dragging us through the mud.
The more they whisper, the more they get angry and the more I hurt. After a moment out of time, I hurt everywhere. Martyred, nailed, torn by invisible claws, I see myself as a demon in the Bible. But no: the demons are around me, that I feel, that I do not see. Suddenly I believe: I am at the center of one of them. Of all its length in this body of snake.
I got fucked in. Inside is it better? Ialdabaoth in the sabaoth gut, hot as in the smoking throat of the great sachem Hashem. The nameless, the lawless.
Let me stop! I know perfectly what they want me and who are these powerful fools. Masters of the inside, lords of the inside, principles of the Hollow Earth, kings of the void, tenants of the Underworld, they make their long life under our contemptuous feet but yet! The world is at their feet.
Bad enough. Above all, drive out fear. It puts you at their mercy, and you shouldn’t be. No emotion should filter down from the warrior who wants to escape them. Control the emotional to strengthen the energetic. But that doesn’t mean we can’t fight back. I flinch, therefore I am.
Good enough. I rebel, dictatorship in the trash. The old demons are beautiful and their dead scales are scooped up. You see, I haven’t forgotten the song you were singing to me. But all stories have an end. It’s time to catch up. Their power is not feigned, their right is finally wavering.
Tutors of the basement, eagles of darkness, they are the worms in the forbidden fruit. They are also the astral dragons, lightning throwers, archbishops of danger. Nothing else at lightning, a thousand thunders! Their tyranny despairs us.
How many captains have sunk with their drunk boat? Their oath delivers us. The wind rises, we must try to live.
You’re wrong, whisper the voices. We’re friends first. Your friends. And we want to warn you. You spoke of us without knowing us. The hundred pains that pierce your body lull our hearts into a monotonous languor. These sufferings of yours are light compared to the thousand evils you’ve thrown at us. Understand us. Do you see the abyss in which we lie? Will you be the executioner before the judge? Do we deserve the death penalty?
-What do you want from me?
We thirst for you. For our dark bodies, light is vital. A drink of life, it does for us what water does for you. Your people above are made of water. This element dominates a human body. Our element is electric. Our bodies sizzle, we shoot lightning bolts full of energy. But none of us, do you hear, not a single coil, not a single worm, no matter how hairy, can produce light.
We watch as your human brothers and sisters waste the light they produce in abundance, unwittingly, without conscience, without greatness. Can’t you see it shining, useless and forgotten, in the eyes of men and women? Can’t you encourage them to share it? Can’t you tell them about our misery?
I cannot answer them, the pain is too strong. I feel faint and must mobilize all the intention that I am capable of to evacuate this program that they put me and that nails me like a moribund. To react, to refuse, to bounce back. Their words echo in my empty head and, at times, in waves, cover my sufferings. They are only illusion, I know it well, but when evil holds us, who feels good?
The warrior takes precedence over the wounded. I emerge. The evidence overwhelms me. All diseases are their own. We are conceived like the gods, we all have in us an automatic healer, alas in these days this mechanism is well seized. The sick are far more numerous than the healthy, and our hospitals refuse the help of healers who are in numbers and ready for action. Gabegie, dunce fair, this old world is sewn scars and can no longer sing.
I understood. The light is that of the soul that the Archons do not have, that the awakened among men have received in their hearts. And through their bright eyes comes out this beautiful clarity, a ray that reminds us how sweet it is to love. The Archons do not have this privilege. We use it abundantly, we have boxes and wagons. Share! they shout from the depths. Listen! they shout from the astral.
We don’t do either. So they’re furious, thirsty, bad. And I add to their trouble by calling them demons. Devils undoubtedly, like the arcanum XV of the tarot of Flornoy. Awakeners since masters of lightning. Their electrical energy powers our internal plants. When we deny them our light, they wither. When we are energized, we owe it to their support. When we are weak, they kill us.
This world below where we live is electrical in nature. We’re built on frozen electricity. We store this ice-cold energy, we sizzle, we vibrate, we are charged vibrions, overcharged batteries, we lack body heat and inner light. Our energy can make anything, we’re gods in matter. False gods without light. Our nature is not divine, but animal. We depend on you for light, just as you depend on us for matter and energy.
Thirsty for light, it is our water. When we see the clarity that trickles from your eyes, your brain, your heart and your body through all your pores, beneath our cold scales, we tremble with desire. Without water, you cannot live. Without light, we die every moment. It bubbles up from your body, source of clarity, luminous fountain, much-loved glow. We thirst for your light, we want to drink it long and hard, to the very last drop.
Give us your precious light and we’ll fill you with energy. Deny it to us and you’ll die bloodless.
-I don’t want to depend on you. I don’t want to live in your hell. I don’t want a body that sizzles in the night. I am as I am, stay as you are. But if I have to give you the light you lack, I’m willing to try. How do I go about it?
You will no longer speak ill of us, as you have done until now. If you turn your children against us, how will we be able to smell the light that bathes you? There are already 6 million of your children whoread you and whom you nourish. Your children’s children will be even more numerous. And those who come after them will cover this entire planet. Some will reach the distant stars, others will build cities on Titan and Europa.
We must pass through you to absorb your clarity. You do the same by ascending to the great ascended ones, demigods, wise devas. Beacons of unbearable brilliance, they welcome you into their solar bodies. They invite you into the divine radiance of their star-hearts, where you gorge yourself on the unconditional love that dominates the higher world.
Stop sniping at us, banish us from your prayers, we are your father. Without us, you would never have seen the day when you enjoy an enviable life. We are the heroes of your fables, your kind protectors, your gracious visitors. We’ve done as much for you as an able god. Don’t make us so hateful.
As their voices surrounded me, insistent, stubborn, I felt my whole charred body writhing in the torments of agony. In a weak voice, I begged them to stop their torture.
The intolerable suffering your unfounded criticism inflicts on us, can you feel it crushing your belly and limbs, your heart splitting, your tears rolling and you’re nothing but a bleeding wound. The pain that saws through your head and loins, we know it well, receive it as it comes. It chews at you, it holds you and you can’t do anything about it.
We are the matter that made your body. We are capable animals. We are the creators of your species, and the Goddess, judging our work beautiful and good, has delighted you in her Pleroma. Each of you has received an immortal soul from her.
Give us our share of clarity, give us your light and that of your children, your little ones in spirit, your protégés. Those whom your heart has touched forever are bound to you. You are their father, you are Noémie’s father. Mother in turn, she is your daughter, your sister and your wife. Her light heart makes little ones. Her voice blesses growing numbers of children. Neither you nor she will stop you from procreating souls, and you like her, open your wings, carry in your arms your last born, the crowd of those who claim to be yours, so that…
Their voices faded. Released their embrace. Like a bubble drunk with freedom, I burst the surface of the world where I was born. I regained consciousness and became aware of the dark presence of those whose insistence was sharpening my dementia from a distance.
The Archons tortured me for lifetimes, in their world where another time stagnates. I suffered a thousand deaths every day of a thousand lives. Yet I still live. They kept me at home in their timeless time. They wanted me to sign their stupid pact. Never say yes to them, an imperative condition for those who want to keep their soul, their supra conscience and their ticket to awakening. To say yes is to sell your soul. To deny yourself. Signing your defeat in blood, as the Christians of the Middle Ages used to say.
When you’ve signed up, it’s to shit. Of course, they’ll shower you with everything the material has to offer. Then again, without ever signing a pact, you can roll them in flour. They tell you: Stay with us. You say no. They insist: Do you want a nice villa on the Riviera? You say no. A Rolls Royce? Still no. A private jet? No, no, and no. And when they’ve exhausted all their proposals, you tell them: I don’t want to sign. I don’t want to make a deal with you. The only word out of my mouth will be no, a hundred times no. Yet you’re going to give me a Rolls, a beautiful villa and a private jet.
They have to accept it. The archons can’t dominate us, but the opposite is easy. We dominate them without expending energy. At the higher level, with angels and archangels, it’s the opposite. It’s impossible to lie to them. They pull the truth out of us like nothing. They, on the other hand, lie to us as they breathe. As much as they want.
That said, I’m careful not to ask the Archons for anything. And I hope they don’t expect anything from me. The longer we stay away from them and their schemes, the better off we’ll be.
What they want from us, what they expect from us, as you well understand, is neither our soul nor the supra-consciousness it gives us, they don’t give a damn. Their consciousness is vast and mechanical. That’s enough for them.
What they desperately need is light. They need us to let them climb up the roots of our trees of life, to the caduceus, to the heart of our hearts, where our unconditional love originates and grows, and to the brain of our brain, where we produce the light that sustains us.
Should we follow them on this path? Should love deliver them? On this drunken boat, will they be stronger than the vulture? Do they have songs to intoxicate us? Will they open the great book?
(to be continued)
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