The preceding paintingmultiplied by my graphic designer is due to Jérôme Bosch. It is called The Extraction of the Stone of Madness. In the Renaissance, such were the medical methods. They may seem naive, primitive, even totally stupid — but in five centuries, how will one judge current medicine? Not much better, I’m afraid.
The Lithotomy, also called The Cure of Madness or more rarely The Extraction of the stone of madness, is a painting by the Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch. Oil on panel of 48 35 cm, it was made around 1494 or later. The painting is currently displayed at the Prado Museum in Madrid. (wikipedia)
From Jérôme Bosch, really? Not everyone agrees with that. Jean-Pierre Spilmont wrote a study of the painting entitled The extraction of the stone of madness. I learn this: It is an ancient copy of a lost work by Pieter Bruegel, painted around 1557 and displayed at the Sandelin museum-hotel in Saint-Omer.
Damn! I’ll be danged!
Until the moment when I understood that it is another painting, with a less fanciful treatment, where one recognizes the paw of Bruegel, different from that of Bosch who draws on the comic strip. With a few centuries of advance …
But let’s return to the first work, that of Bosch. Because what interests me here is the funnel that is not on the head of the madman, but of the medic who operates him. Should we assume that with the passage of time, popular common sense has attributed madness, not to the sick, but to the caregiver? Not so stupid, the good people… But I don’t believe that it is so.
The woman wears a book on her head, the Book. Yes, it’s a Bible. Why on her head? To witness her faith? Undoubtedly, but first to help the one who is suffering. Thus placed on the fontanelle of a loving person, the holy book must remove the patient’s suffering and ensure the success of the operation.
You shrug your shoulders? Superstitions, you say? No doubt. How will we judge our current beliefs in five centuries? But let’s get to the heart of the matter. The question persists: why did the caregivers wear a funnel on their heads? Patience, you will know everything shortly. At least everything I know.
–What am I already looking for? It looks like I’ve lost track.
How many times do we hear this kind of reflection! Not in the mouth of a senile old man like me, but in those of young people, of mature and self-masterful people. How suddenly they panic!
It doesn’t last much, they are already recovering, with a: “Ah yes!” And there they are, speeding towards a destination known to themselves. That they might forget a little further on… The destination is not my subject, but the distraction, as indicated by the title. Frankly, something is happening on that side. She is really the evil of the century.
-What was I talking about there?
No, I’m kidding. I know it perfectly but I’m cheating, since I have the title under my eyes. The distraction. ” Why did I go down? Where am I going?” etc. Constantly I hear that, I catch a hesitant, a lost one… not to mention me, the senile.
Sometimes I wake up, I get up, I wash myself, I get dressed, I start breakfast and then I wake up again.
No, not again. It’s the first time. My first awakening was a dream. If that’s true, this second awakening too? In short, I don’t know where I am, or who I am, nor even more troubling, if I am dead or alive.
A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.
So far I was thinking, we have so many things on our minds, it’s normal that we forget them from time to time. Little by little, by exploring the other dimensions, astral, cosmic, strange, spatial, the confines of time, scalar, I changed my point of view. Radically. My view of the world has changed dramatically. To speak like Castaneda, it is the position of my assembly point that has changed.
I wander on so many planes, through so many eras, when I return to the narrowness of our prison, I am lost. Where are my landmarks? Not here for sure. My life has been diluted in hundreds of spatio-temporal puddles, none of them work on the two dimensional beasts of space and time. The space is angular. It has a height, length, width. Coordinates and altitude. Time is linear, it has a past and a future. There is nothing linear or angular in the other planes, those of the real world.
It’s because we are imprisoned here below that we are linear and angular. As long as I could, I rounded the angles. By forcing myself, I punctured the bubble. As I am alive, I can enter it whenever I want. To eat, you have to go shopping. To eat, you have to go back to prison. Come back in the angulo-linear space while I sink a bronze. I am less and less hungry, so much the better. The day is coming when I will finally be able to feed on prana. Live off the zeitgeist. Of non-time. And to stay all the time in this world without space and without time, where there is room, all the space we want to explore it without moving, skip without running, run without moving.
Real life is elsewhere. Poor of us, who are not there! We had to do some big shit to deserve such a trick …
Some things cannot be explained. One can only experience them.
Being distracted, is it a gene or an asset? Both depending on the point of view. The one who gets deeply involved in the things of this world curses the distraction that makes him lose track. He who attaches more importance to the spirit of the depths rejoices in every distraction. For him, any distraction has value as testimony. Being distracted is a trace. The proof that another world exists, more true than this one. The spirit of the time denies it, the spirit of the depths prefers this astral world, more overwhelming, more convincing.
Each of our distractions is the result of a double view. They all testify to a double life. Those who are never distracted are nailed down here. Nothing could distract them. Nothing can divert them for a single moment from what they are planning in this virtual world that they consider to be real. Unreal and factitious is that prison for the soul where they exult by doing good business. The only good thing for them would be to be less stupid. Less down-to-earth.
Those who believe in God, in Jesus, in Allah, in Vishnu, in Shiva or in anyone else are not better off. The heaven-to-heaven are as far from the truth as the earth-to-earth. The golden mean is not preferable either. We live from earth to heaven, then sky to earth, we mix the pedals and the sacred cows are not better kept for that.
The extremes are rotten, the golden mean is not better—but where should it be, in the end? Elsewhere. Resolutely. Cast off the moorings at the risk of being dismissed as crazy in this world of nutcases. A cinch! In an insane asylum, the only one who seems crazy, the craziest of all, precisely is not. Flash back to our historical past, accessible, safe. If you find yourself there in the space of a real dream, you will inevitably believe yourself among the madmen.
To support other reports
to Earth’s pseudo-reality,
a special gift is needed.
Spacial. Antisocial…
Reconcile the irreconcilable. Match the opposites. Eat the diet, paint the air. This is my double life where I exult and I breathe out.
I am a happy man in a deep misfortune
Living half dead whose vigor melts
In a degraded blond plain color of death
Black and white, tasteless, with a multicolored taste
Tomorrow I was a scientist who would know nothing
Of all the ills of the world and that they do him good
I only understood when having understood everything
Emptied I returned everything it’s always that taken
One foot in the tomb the other foot for the rhyme
Suddenly since always on my face we grime
The pale indifference in absolute passion
Who moves me motionless in soft exaltation
Without a word I declaim and I scream in silence
My unbridled passion in all indifference
Two three verses by Verlaine and all that by Rimbaud
Under a driving rain in the sun by big beautiful
Tomorrow was gloomy, yesterday will be sparkling
I will play the violin on my pan flute
Lao Surlam, Double life
Hierarchy is a beautiful system that allows the strongest to do nothing.
Various theses have been announced in literature, cinema, comics… Few scholars admit them, many humans feel them. The official culture keeps us in ignorance of our fate. The powerful usurpers who are in control hide us who we are, and who they are, these demons at the origin of religions, and how they captured us, and the falsification of historical truths, and especially why we remain prisoners of these illusions.
Meanwhile, it is us, the visionaries, the seers, whom the prisoners of the false real treat as madmen. The people here see us as mentally ill. They have no idea for a second that the sick are them.
And distraction plays a preponderant role in the bad opinion that others have of us.
“Seeing” is a particular way of feeling like you know something beyond a shadow of a doubt.
The two Renaissance painters who open this article, Messrs. Bruegel and Bosch, seem to use the funnel on the head purely out of derision. I’m not so sure. A bas relief seen in India on a ruined temple had this same funnel pattern thrown over the head of a lotus meditator.
This temple, whose name I totally forgot, was lost in the jungle of Jammu-Kasmir. He played a tragicomic role in my Indian adventures. The sacred building was invaded by the stagnant waters of a swamp, and to achieve this I had to jump from stone to stone between the giant water lilies.
Halfway, in the middle of a swamp, I came face to face with a boa constrictor of incredible length. Floating. I can’t scream, my body is paralyzed.
The boa evaluates me for a short moment. Then it plunges its head between my legs. Her endless body slips between my thighs in a crawl that is nothing sexy, believe me on faith.
I told the story in another article, but which one? Impossible to find it. It is true that I have written hundreds of them since the opening of this site in 2008. Choose from below, you might be luckier than me.
But if I mentioned the temple at the boa, it’s to talk to you about the lotus saddhu with a funnel as a turban. This bas-relief is not the only one of its kind.
Years earlier, in Turkey, I had seen this same pattern engraved on a rock. It seems to me that it was on the side of Eskishehir, without any guarantee. May the reader forgive me, it was sixty years ago.
These strange hats are also found on African sculptures, especially in the Peul culture. Here is one opposite, a statuette that has belonged to my family since the 18th century, probably brought from Africa by a great uncle who was an explorer.
I had it assessed, it is ancient, at least three centuries if not four. The wizard, wide awake, holds before him a calligraphed text in an unknown script. Interesting, because writing is very rare in black Africa, and reserved for sacred use. It has not been decoded; it seems to be written in a spiral.
The hat he is wearing has not the perfect shape of a funnel. Nothing can enter or leave it: it is closed. The summit opening no longer exists, simply because its utility, not only symbolic but also subtle, now escapes people of that obtuse era.
But the symbolic remains, and undoubtedly the subtle effect for those of the sorcerers who still care. What symbolic? What subtle effect? This one. The wizard who wore this cap was wary of bad influences coming from above, bombarded on poor humans by archons whose only goal is to detach us from spirituality, our deep nature.
Under the aegis of the Great Goddess, we have remained in this spirituality for thousands of years. But it has been over for four thousand years: the Goddess sleeps of her reptilian dormancy. In her absence, only the archons lead us. Devoid of soul, these superior animals live very long. Like all that lives, they will die one day.
In the meantime, they are leading us into the decline of the Kali Yuga.
The funnel on the head allows to let out the kundalini through the fontanelle, while oppressing what would enter through it and influence us by cutting the link that unites us with the Goddess. She sleeps in the earth center and sends us the good energy aspirated by our perineum and the soles of our feet.
Material or spiritual, this funnel promotes permanent scalar contact with the Goddess, by shunting the archontic grid. And thanks to him we remain in the permanent state of
DIVINE DISTRACTION
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