It must be that youth is happening, and it is now. The Arcanum VIIII THE HERMIT tells the story of a young man who has become too old to live again. The hermit is a cycle end. No revival is still in the program. Here, the individual is out of breath, his psychic structure comes to an end.
It’s the end of the party, not the end of the world. Look at this old man, all hunched up, whitened under the harness. The years are the cause, as they say. But here, in the case of the Arcanum VIIII, it’s a bit much! My story begins with a first romance, I just settled with my wife, I have life in front of me. Yet the image shows me in the guise of an old man. He walks to the left. So to the past. He is not in the here and now.
How is this arcane pronounced? The new arcane. Yes, perfectly, brand new. It illustrates a discovery that does not make me jump for joy, on the contrary. I feel old, bent under the weight of this discovery that takes on the appearance of revelation. I just understood that I can very well forget my superhuman origin. My spiritual destiny.
The inner life exists! I have always known, and always practiced. I had forgotten this evidence by discovering the dazzling wonders of physical love. All my life, since early childhood, I am an inner being. I live in myself. How could I forget who I am? I thought the thing impossible, yet I did it for years. I forgot who I was, where I came from.
My childhood spent visiting one by one the folds of the soul. Exploring the outside world came later, in late adolescence. The outside world and also the female anatomy. In my case, adolescence was prolonged very late. Some people claim that I did not leave it.
Sensuality, voluptuousness, orgasmic ecstasy occupies minds and bodies for good years. This pleasure without moderation led me to neglect the interiority. The hermit comes just to fix it. Putting myself on the margins of the world, I can reconnect with the spirit world.
I am passionate about riddles. I’m looking into the past of humans, already. I do not understand it, already. But I like it well. Younger, I had eaten Tales and Legends. Now, I plunge with delight into the black collection of Robert Laffont, which became the Bordeaux collection of I Lu. No doubt that the first stones of the present Saga of Eden were not posed during this arcane. Slowly the pyramid rose on these propitious foundations.
Another sign of renewed interiority: I discover sects with disgust and fascination. Hiding my natural repulsion behind a journalistic alibi – I was planning to make a book on several flourishing sects – I’m exploring Scientology. I discover a machine to grind consciences. The pinnacle of self-denial and abdication hidden under a triumphal facade: liberation, realization, return of blocked power, cleansing of engrams and the most important, adoration of the sacred word and the holy person of the immortal buffoon and the late founder of the org – or church, as you like. First named Lafayette, no doubt to impress the galleries.
Behind a hodgepodge made obscene by stupidity, there are some pearls of which I made a necklace. I still use them. Before succumbing to the temptation to amass a fortune by diluting his discoveries, Lafayette found a quick and practical way to awaken consciences. There are some fragments of it in his indigestible books. But you must read a hundred pages of megalo delirium to catch a single pearl. I may say two hundred. This guy wrote too many bullshit.
I left the sect without regret, but soon a friend cartoonist drew me to a more confidential sect – and especially less American. Sahaja yoga. Founder: Sri Mataji Nirmaladevi. These exotic and familiar sounds awaken my love of India. There is a funny thing going on. The cartoonist makes me sit on a chair before a kind of altar erected in his room.
There is the picture of Lady Mataji, between two tea lights. Dressed in kitsch jewels, draped in a tacky sari, she exhibits with satisfaction thirty superfluous kilos. Then he asks me to meditate. I go in alpha, which is customary for me. Then he puts his palm over my head and declares that I am awake. He felt a trickle of fresh air coming out of my fontanelle caressing his palm. This is the sign of enlightenment. The thing is indisputable, I still use this test today.
My friend attributes that to the holy lady, he shouts to the miracle: Do you realize, her picture was enough to awake, what power! What a great saint! His excitement is a pleasure to see, all of a sudden he looks less Swisslike.
Of course I believe him. To join the joy of a friend, I use to forget who I am. I’m always ready to doubt myself, to doubt you, to doubt everything. I should have told myself that for this test to be valid, it had to be done before the session as well. And do it again after. How else can you attribute a miracle to anyone? And how can you be sure that I was not awake before?
It turns out that I had been for a long time. At 12, first shock on the skull, first manifestations of my power to heal. At 16, a new accident, my fontanelle exploded, I leave my body in full consciousness. Since then, I live a double life, the astral and the common. Even though my common life is quite astral, I find my astral life quite uncommon.
I can not see my own aura. Not long ago, a clairvoyant friend told me that I was crystal. If I actually have this type of aura, then I am awake by birth, like all the crystal I have known ever.
During that time, with Micha my wife, my soul and my friend, we go around the world of pilgrimages. Ama in China, Loas in Haiti, Shiva in India, Garuda in Indonesia, Marie in Lourdes, Thérèse in Lisieux, Benoît in Saint-Benoît sur Loire, Isis in Chartres, I do not get tired of. Again my love of collections.
Disgusted with family Catholicism by a pedophile priest, I have not lost the religious sense. It took me time to move beyond the stage of faith and doubt. As if it had the least importance! True spirituality is conquered with great struggle. Faith transcends itself through knowledge.
Take a hundred men, you will find a man of faith. Take one hundred men of faith, you will find a man of knowledge. (Jall-Aladdin Rumi)
If you have noticed a pun in the title, do not doubt you or me. Sisyphus the son of Eole was a poor half-god condemned to mount a heavy stone on top of a mountain, and each time the stone rolled down. And still, poor Sisyphus had to go back up the same stony dirt. The gods have these games! This story is called the myth of Sisyphus. Hence my title.
On the new arcane breathes a new wind. The past is dead, the little king is dead, my old self is widowed, so long live the new!