Body outing, I know. It happens to me since childhood. Suddenly I am no longer matter, I float in astral. Under my feet, the landscape where I was still walking the second before. And a standing body, tinkering with something. That body is mine. He seems to have a life of his own, and I no longer have anything to do with that life, organic and deadly. I am a spirit. I belong to the other world.
In astral, we have no eyes, we see better than with them. We have no ears, we hear perfectly. Everything can be done as with the body, and even better. I live elsewhere, I live above. Hence the title of this paragraph. The two words are spoken (almost) in the same way. By the aspirated h of the English word higher, above. There is no chance. To have the head elsewhere is to dream higher…
But the worries of the material world still clutter my mind. Am I dying? Am I already dead? I have become accustomed to living in these borderline situations. You end up finding the impossible banal. this familiarity with the other world has made me an expert in astral. I travel there better than by train, better than by car, better than by plane. Human travel is no longer my age. Astral is my garden.
Expert in astral, I have been bringing many readers there for four years, by whole pack of Flying Wolves. But this is another story, the last stage of which is happening right now.
To dream is to experience a duplication of oneself, a bilocation. You are both asleep and awake, both here and there. One is a double, but your consciousness is in both. Not at the same time. Alternating. Strange feeling.
A few years ago, I wanted to take a sea bath under the full moon of February. Suicidal, my life looked like nothing. As you can imagine, the English Channel was freezing, but I felt nothing. I was somewhere else. In great danger. I swam out to sea, it was ebbing tide, I felt good. Detached… I remember thinking, “Stop, as soon as you pass the point, you’ll be caught in the current, you’ll drown.” But that was a dead letter. I continued to swim towards the dark, night without end, vast as the sea, and cold too. Later, when the current took me, I repeated to myself once again “you’re gonna drown” but it was a simple observation as if it were another, an ant, an insignificant insect, and everything was fine.
So I got the image of one of my places of power behind me on the coast. A magical rock where I liked to sit facing off. Suddenly I found myself on this rock. Shivering. Hallucinated. Without knowing how, I had torn myself away from the embrace of icy water, I had made a jump of several kilometers, until this rock on the cliff.
No, it’s worse than that. The same second I let myself sink low into the icy water, I was also on this cliff, facing the dark night, listening to the monotonous noise of the waves below. Yes, I could have told myself that I had dreamed the whole story … Yet I had a short, fast breath. I was breathless, exhausted as if after a long effort. My clothes were wet. I shivered without stopping. Somehow, I got up, and I left in a hesitant race to my home, through the trees. How did I do that? I slammed my teeth, my clothes weighed like icy lead, but sweats flooded my face and chest. A cloud passed over the round face of the moon. I could have sworn the moon winked at me.
Unimaginable. What happened was a mystery to me for a long time. Until I remember an anecdote that Juan Matus told his apprentice Carlos Castaneda. The history of the river. Juan Matus had as benefactor a force of nature. A former actor, landowner. One day when Matus had irritated him, he grabs his body and throws it down a cliff over an impetuous river. Not knowing how to swim, he already sees himself deadwhen he hears his benefactor shouting: “Don’t be mad at the river!“
“These are the last words I hear,” said Matus, who flows at full speed. Struggling with the energy of despair, he rises to the surface, but unable to keep his head above water. The river, a sort of torrent, rolls with foam waves. It will drown when it sees someone running on the shore. It is himself! In the moments that follow, he is sometimes the one who runs along the torrent, and sometimes the one who drowns there.
This insane carousel completes demoralizing him until he remembers a lesson from his benefactor: “In such a case, choose well in which of the two bodies you want to stay.” This memory saves him. By the force of his will, he remains in the runner’s body, leaving the other one flowing into the river like a stone.
A similar adventure happened to my benefactor when he was just an infant sucking his mother. The milk did not come well, the baby “fell asleep on the roast beef”, according to the elegant formula of the friend Flornoy. In his sleep, he bit the feeding nipple, waking up his mother who was also drowsy. She utters a cry of pain, half asleep, and throws the baby into its cradle.
Dumbfounded, scared, haggard, the boy started screaming. It was then that he saw himself alternately on his mother’s lap and in the bottom of his cradle. Exactly like Don Juan Matus.
In his life, my benefactor never made the connection between the two anecdotes. Though he had just experienced a constant of castanedism: the importance of the assembly point and the reality of the places of consciousness it determines.
Years after this adventure, Flornoy baptized the infant experience here and here. Here and there would not be suitable, because the cradle and the breast of his mother were not lived as different places, but as the same place visited alternately by the baby. This is what happened to me in my seaside bath in February 2015. But not only.
Actually, I’m used to it. There was also this incomprehensible episode when I stopped time. I learned that from an alchemist friend who made me drink jade water. This precious liquor distorts time, either by contracting it, or by stretching it, or by simply stopping it. When a warrior needs it, he uses the Juan Matus scheme. Here and here. One foot in time going his train, the other foot in non-temps. This gives him plenty of time to settle the matter.
Remember Matrix? The bullets that come in slow motion to Keanu Reeves? At the movies it’s a trick; in life it’s here and here. One foot in time, the other out. No more complicated than that. How do I get there? From time to time, I do practical work. Reading me is good. But while I’m alive, take the opportunity to learn. Sign up for my practicum. At the moment, I lead the Flying Wolf Pack. Every night, a dozen volunteers are introduced to astral travel. Learn while you sleep is easy.
Later, in the spring, I will propose something else. Do not lose sight of Eden Saga, you will always find something there for you.
80s. Late July in Normandy on a deserted road, I was driving in my R20. It was hot. Torrid even. A fine drizzle begins to fall, five minutes, no more. Not enough to give freshness. I’m approaching a bend. It turns out to be tighter than expected and I bite on white stripes. Out of luck, the sputum had made the white plastic of the stripes super slippery and the R20 went into a spin. As the crate turns on itself like a spinning top, I look at the landscape. Fields. I could break down the fences without too much damage.
But there’s this old stone barn. A slightly ruined but still solid wall angle. If I make fun of it, it can hurt a lot. While the car is spinning and flipping, that’s all I can think about. Time is idling. So is the top. It does not stop, it seems to me that the ballet lasts forever. And always I look at this corner of the fatal wall.
And my car went into that corner of the wall. Shattered windows and crumpled metal. The engine backed up on the back seat. All that’s left of my car is a wreck. Completely smashed, destroyed… except the driver’s seat. I barely got out of it, without a scratch. I had learned that if control of your vehicle escapes you, it will go to the place where you look. In this case this stone wall. I also understood that I could deflect deadly shocks. By short-circuiting time and space.
Last July I had a stroke. The day before, I had been hospitalized in an emergency for severe chest pain. I spent the night on a stretcher, in a hallway filled with sick people moaning, crying, growling. The covids and the others are peeled, without any sanitary rules, without elementary hygiene.
I went home shaken. I never get sick, never see a doctor, never take any medicine. How could I imagine that my country had fallen so low? That the sick no longer went to the hospital to heal, but to catch death. The next night at home, I went out of body, as every night. In these cases, my body keeps sleeping quietly. Not this time. My room is upstairs. I probably got up on the radar because I have no memory of it. My body has no consciousness, no guidance. I fell down the stairs and got knocked out on the living room floor.
The night continued, bumpy. Between two sleeps, all along on the cold slabs, I still thought I was in bed, up there. I thought: What’s the fireplace doing in my bedroom? Totally disoriented I was. All night long I commuted between my room and I don’t know where, but not at home anyway. I played the big game here and here. I was, no doubt, in the lobby of madness. Harsh and hard it was. Not controlled in the least.
In the morning, my son took care of me. Without him, I would have died. For two days he treated me like a baby. I was the son of my own child. It’s hard. They diagnosed a stroke. I don’t believe it. I was shocked, that’s all. Without you, my dear son, I would not be here any more. Not because of a stroke or other eccentricity of medical vocabulary. A warrior dies on his time, that’s all. It wasn’t mine yet. The shame of this hospital had overcome mine, which almost overwhelmed me.
By living in the stars, I had forgotten the world where we are bored. The world where we suffer, where we die, where we cry out in pain. Humbly, I confess, I lived only for this site, to write, to transmit, to open to two shutters the portal of the elsewhere, to help you with all my strength to take two steps into the other world. Once you make contact, the rest is up to you.
I am nagual, I am passing, I have forgotten everything about the mundane world that is ours. I thought I could abstain from it. I spent too many years out of my body, too many centuries out of time. Here and here, really? I was somewhere else. Under other skies where a more merciful star shines.
When the time of departure comes, what would the Fool be afraid of? He’s already dead. Forever elsewhere.
Pour toujours ailleurs. Forever I year
C’eravamo tanto amati. We loved each other so much.
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