The Devil we are talking about here is that of the Tarot of Marseilles. More precisely of the arcane XV of this initiatory tarot. Because it’s really about initiation. Look how happy he is. Energy makes his bodies shine, the one we see and the ones that make up his invisible envelopes. His horns express his magical power. They are antennas, like those of the two shamans attached to his pedestal. They are not so bad there. The rope on their neck does not bother them.
The tarot of Marseilles is an instrument of divination and above all a tool of self-knowledge. Every detail of the image is useful, meaning. That’s why we have to stop to listen to the shapes and smell the colors. Nothing is due to chance, everything has meaning. This good devil is not frightening. The life phase that he designates is troubling. Fun, but so powerful that the warrior may think he is sick of nerves. A surge of energy is not easy. It shakes the whole body like the Saint-Guy dance.St Vitus’ dance
This famous dance is not what we are hearing today.French homophony between mistletoe ans Saint Vitus : gui and Saint Guy It is due to oak mistletoe poisoning. Druidic practice, the infusion of oak mistletoe caused a good rise of energy as well as many deaths by overdose. Mistletoe is a violent poison. This was not to displease the Gauls! We remember their heavy use of psychotropics. The Saint-Guy dance.St Vitus’ dance was the strongest rise in energy, often that of arcane XV. You understand, this devil opens the door of shamanism.
The war against drugs can not be won because it is a war against human nature.
Shamans and shamanesses discover in this arcane their true magical power. They are attached to it — a natural manifestation of ego. This is the devil’s terrible trap: shamanic powers. Castaneda calls them the warrior’s third enemy. This enemy can and must be defeated. The ultimate enemy is old age. It always triumphs, says Juan Matus.
Even! It seems to me that the wisdom of nagual has been handed down from generation to generation according to a superhuman teaching. The supermen who made us are our teachers, our educators, our parents, our teachers and our teachers. They are our judges too. They taught us everything. But their message is blurred by centuries, translations and intermediaries. God knows how much!
Dogmas and naive beliefs have so distorted the original message that it is hard to recognize. Many have taken the bishopric for a lens.lost in translation In short. It is up to us to recover this initial message and restore to its original purity.
I’ve never done one of my discoveries through the process of rational thinking.
Powers are useful. Why defeat them? And above all, how to defeat them? You must welcome them with detachment and greet their departure with the same indifference. They do not last forever. The most spectacular powers are the most useless in your progression to the top of yourself. They are taken away from you if you use them to show off. It is not our merit that is worth them, but divine grace. Why should your ego attribute them to itself?
He can’t help himself. Powers come as they go: by surprise. If you really need one of them, it comes out intact at the right time, even if that power has long since disappeared. Powers are volatile. When the ego appropriates them, they evaporate. Don’t worry about it. They will follow you like your shadow. The bright light kills them.
Victory does not depend on the number of powers, but on the Dream. And nothing else. Battles are won by dreaming.
In my opinion, modesty is the warrior’s first virtue. And his most reliable ally. She is the Siamese sister of humility. My shield. The damp wets and rusts me, behind the humility I am dry. Prepared for any eventuality, like the impeccable warrior.
The warrior remains insensitive to compliments — wherever they come from. He greets with indifference his new gifts — wherever they come from. He doesn’t buy anything or anybody. Nobody can buy it. He doesn’t thank anybody because he doesn’t know who to thank. Believing that gifts come from a person who loves us reeks of human egocentricity, said Don Juan Matus.
I don’t know anything. I’m nothing. I’m the size of an insect in the eyes of the gods before. The brevity of my life makes them laugh. They wanted it that way.
Humility my shield? To protect themselves from whom? Ego attacks do not come from outside. He is in, the traitor. He holds you. This shield is useless. Humility my mask, my facade, my disguise, my decor, my false pretence.
When I say I had nothing to do with healing, is it humble or untruthful? True humility is to be silent. Shut up. Keep to yourself. Keep a low profile. Who are you, baba? Who do you think you are? Dare you stand before the immensity? You look like a louse to me on a hot shovel, which stands up and gets stressed and straightened out as long as he can so as not to burn his papattes. Lice are crazy.
I burn myself to this little game. I get burned. I burn myself. Poor Tao who makes the peacock! True modesty is silent. She has her tics and her tact. Whose act.
The ego is the only part of human being which will not know awakening
The Devil said to me: Bravo Xavier! You write like no one else. Your style is rare and enjoyable. You make us all laugh. And also you have such strong images! It’s really you. It feels like you. Don’t change, good guy. Keep it up.
It’s okay, Devil! Get your tongue out of my ass, I want to fart. That’s what I should have said. Break it, curse it. Send it to the devil. He’s already there? He’s staying there to vomit too. No worries. Calm down.
I wonder. Is the Devil good advice? That’s not what they say. Did he help one or the other? Yes, against his will, by a deal he lost. We won’t take it again. Is it a safe way to the light? Delusional but why not? All roads lead to it. So it’s quite possible….
We spend the first half of our life forging a strong ego, and the second half to get rid of it.
If this Devil is not wise, he is still an image. Opening the page to the great passage. Arcana XVI is the House of God, that is, your body of energy open to transcendence. Awakening. Apotheosis. Joy enlightens you. Peace keeps you. To get there everyone takes the path marked by the Devil.
What is the point of his compliments? He wants to swell my ego. Does he think I’m a squash? He fancies the sin of pride. But that’s not enough. He’s friends. He’s trying to coax me. I suspect a twisted plan, a dark Machiavellian design. That’s his style.
Do I understand that the beautiful formal appearance can distract my reader from the deep background? How could the beauty of the images and the beauty of the style stand in the way of teaching? Instead of serving it? I don’t know.
These talents have been given to me. They are innate. Do they harm me? They are an integral part of it. Can art harm me? I cannot say.
To reach the truth, we must get rid of all the received opinions and rebuild the whole system of our knowledge.
Oh the hard desire to shine! This inextinguishable thirst devours more than one, swallows up more than one. To be known! Recognized! Get out of the status of unknown who sticks to your ass. How sad is the life of an artist! How he despises himself before the hearth without fire, the empty fridge and the heart full of love that serves no purpose.
Look at this world, these empty people. Avid. Remain impaempty. Do you want to be like them? You don’t belong to this world. Why would you want it to be yours?
The desire to come out of anonymity does not let you go like that. It eats you, it obsesses you, you think only of it. Your wife left you for a star of ouèbe. Tired of crumpled injured waiting for your success that plays Arlesian, she took the expressway right bank. The beautiful districts of nobility. The heart is losing speed. Is your friend leaving you? Let go. Let go of her leash.
Stop. You’re not Chopin to compose Sadness. You’re not Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa. You didn’t heal to die of grief. You are not giant, forget your pyramid. No one succeeds in being another. Be yourself. Become the one who loves himself. We love what you sow.
One day you will love yourself. The sun will see it. The rain will smile on you.
Life’s but a walking shadow,
a poor player that struts and frets
his hour upon the stage.
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Xavier, Xavier, you’re crazy wolflike.
Stephane Kervor (1952-2022)
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