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I trust that it is, my brother, and that I will – with Grace enough to overcome the less advantageous aspects of my dramatic gifts – emerge as victorious as you have proven to be! The challenge – which, due to the law of ‘Like Attracts Like,’ snowballed more than it need have – IS some kind of fucking master class in overcoming fears and karmic imprints…
In a nutshell (and this dialogue is helpful in terms of writing ) in my twenties I reunited with members of my circle, those with whom I’d managed to commune, briefly, in early childhood… Many stages of approach on different levels preceded direct contact.
A student of the mysteries throughout my life, vocationally I was an actress, and I met my wasband on a film.
“What an asshole,” I thought on day one. Tall and very slender, his fair hair bleached Billy Idol blond, a pack of Marlboros lay next to where he lounged, legs clad in tight black denim and crossed with an air of disaffected nonchalance. “Do you mind if I take one?” I asked. “They’re not mine,” he didn’t exactly sneer (English?) his voice was soft, the words conveyed with subtle, critical arrogance; a flickering shadow of cruelty danced behind them. “English punk asshole,” I swore to myself.
Moments later I stood utterly transfixed, however, as I beheld the power of his talent; the seething edge that grazed me seconds before now tempered with a gentle sensitivity. Fierce and shy and funny – still the angry boy, yet sunlight radiated from his soul. Summoned by the director and with no preparation, he sprang into a riveting and nuanced improvisation that .. stirred the depths of an ancient, forgotten well somewhere in my gut. I recognized him. And before long, fell under an impassioned spell, cast in holy whispers carried on the wind that blows across the barriers of time.
Not English after all. Years later he would recount, while deep in trance, a series of English lives – all of them bloody – concluding, “Don’t want to be English anymore; the English hurtle headlong into a rather crappy novel.” He was from Capetown. Julian Hope. People called him Jude.
(From the earliest days with my brothers I was under a vow of silence, but when they left I was given permission to write – with one stipulation: “You have liberty with all the material, child; we would urge you, however, to the use of caution with respect to names. For there are still those out there…able to abuse.” Time has taught me the wisdom of their warning. But the name is one I know he would approve.)
During our courtship, the good angel stood guard over his spirit’s throne – most of the time – and echoes from the past, of a love I knew in my heart’s blood, eclipsed the verity of my first impression. It was just fucking unavoidable. That dichotomy has remained, manifesting over varying intervals of time and intensity, throughout our kinship.
Extraordinary phenomena signaled our future path early on… Little things at first; an unseen guest, who would remain with us for years and, until meeting her, I fondly dubbed “The Table Spirit,” became quite good at moving tables, flatware and utensils, for some reason selecting one Chinese restaurant in particular, in which to make herself known during the first several months of our acquaintance. Her debut performance commenced with an enamel soup bowl, which suddenly slid six or seven inches across the table, as we enjoyed dinner along with a roomful of other patrons. We assumed the legs of the table were uneven and the surface slick with water, so we checked the legs and wiped away whatever undetectable moisture may have provided lubricant, and when everything was ship-shape, pop! The bowl slid another several inches, like a ball hit with a pool cue. Obviously, we’d botched the table leg thing, so down we went again to insert bits of napkins and matchbook covers under legs that must have been wobbly, but weren’t. We tried moving the bowl ourselves, tapping it with our hands to see if it moved in a similar way, but it barely moved at all; if we’d hit it any harder we would have spilled the soup. And then zing! A chopstick flew out of my bowl and over my shoulder, landing next to the table behind me. I apologized to the startled but friendly gentleman whose balding head it had barely missed, and after retrieving it and requesting a fresh pair from our unsuspecting waiter, met Jude’s eyes in a flash of aroused recognition of the adventure that we sensed lay ahead. Our unseen dining companion – who, to her humorous credit, almost always chose to appear in restaurants – waxed increasingly bold in her expression; I recall one table sliding along the floor a good two feet, after which the waitress admonished us as if we were rowdy kids in the school lunchroom. I thrilled at these visitations and found them delightfully amusing, a response my partner shared not at all. When we finally met years later, our unseen friend introduced herself to me as Lorna and explained that she and I had worked together in Greece, among a group of Gnostic Christians in the fifth century.
After a couple of years of marriage, during which I wondered more than once what I was really doing with him (realizing that I’d made a contract – my end I knew to involve assisting him to embrace the light – wasn’t yet sure what his end of it was, though that was soon made clear) the velocity with which the extraordinary graced our lives accelerated to a speed that brought us into contact with a small group of adepts very much at home in a less Disney-esque version of Harry Potter’s world; a sort of Don Juan meets Dumbledore crew.
I. Was. In. Heaven.
With, of course, those delicious caveats worthy of a Jungian dissertation that inevitably accompany real-life fulfillment of an archetypal fantasy.
We – my extended circle – have a certain fraternity of purpose and identity that has involved trajectories inclusive of .. the quest to anchor what may be called the Christ consciousness, in this magnificent but scathing world… And the wizard/warrior/artist who was my spouse, as gifted as he is, has struggled with primordial imprints that generate considerable darkness, for all that time…
Unknown to me on a conscious level, my brothers – those adepts with whom my then husband and I were so intimately bound – were preparing to ascend, in what I consider to be the true denotation of that word: the acceleration of the physical body to the speed of light, and withdrawal from the material plane in such a way as to retain full awareness and ability to participate in multiple dimensions, including the mundane.
In the year (or more) preceding their achievement we came under siege, were attacked, and in the interest of self-preservation were forced to engage in an absurdly cliché, ongoing battle with an obnoxiously tenacious and gnarly band of sorcerers… It just KEPT on keeping on, even though after every encounter I was sure it was finally over.
I came to know the true feeling of battle fatigue, the state of perpetual fight or flight specific to warfare and genuine effing blood-lust – after one battle I spontaneously broke into a victory dance that may have been from the Maori or Scottish Highlands – and instantly composed a song, or remembered it – and so understood the psychic matrix from which those kinds of historical creations were birthed. During that twelve or sixteen months of mounting stress, I managed a semblance of equilibrium thanks to a constitutional fit of daily weeping, after which I would curl up in a regressive ball next to the member of my brotherhood who, in a number of ways, had the most protective, authoritative vibe – and voilà! I was good to go. My wasband, on the other hand, who was a graduate student out in the Mid-West during most of this episode, simply withdrew, never expressed the vulnerability triggered by warfare, and proceeded to fragment in such a dramatic way that I could see his denied inner child, cast out among the stars.
A classic case of soul loss… I could communicate with this separated portion of his being and receive verifiable information. The child … was the purest expression of his heart’s essence – an achingly beautiful, wise and sad, blond little boy in exile, so, so alone. I loved that child and he loved me. Amidst the chaos of those many, insane months, the urgency in our excruciating relationship intensified; both of us desperate for Jude to reclaim his sacred heart, this soul child whose presence among the starry lights I perceived with an increasing clarity that bordered on physical sight. Throughout that time I – with as much vehemence as I could, given the requirements of ‘real life’ work and ongoing, magical battles – urged my afflicted mate to accept all the therapeutic remedies I could think of…I had explained the disowned inner child – had told him everything, and he seemed to understand, but attempts to reach through whatever dark enchantment held sway were to no avail. He grew ever more remote, cold and aloof, expressions of love and humanity retreated along with that tender psychic spark, for whom I fought with greater ferocity than I knew I was capable of.
It may have been during a visit home from school that year, when he first mentioned the magical approach to resolving the crisis – suggested to him, so he said – by our brother Joshua. Dear, Sweet Jesus Effing Christ.
The psyche is the greatest mystery of all, for so unfathomably disturbed was I by what Jude described of this arcane operation that, in spite of the literally fantastic realities we’d grown accustomed to, I couldn’t take it seriously. The inconceivable thought lay buried in a hastily dug, forgotten grave, soon to be vomited back out in a chthonic upheaval that ripped my world apart.
* * *
Well, that helped… sketch out a bit of narrative…. Doesn’t explain anything in terms of the healing challenge that accompanies my 2nd Saturn return in any detail, but as an episodic installment will leave this here… The extent to which so much of what went down defies belief creates a challenge, needless to say, and huge plots of land, here, are left with naught but stakes to mark foundations… But the importance of being able to speak to someone – to feel even a tiny bit received – cannot be overstated.
With increasing gratitude for your presence, dear one.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
With the elegant and easy stride of a young lion, he crossed the park lawn to meet me for lunch, steadily holding my gaze in a look of controlled ardor, sweet tokens of affection concealed in his hands or in the bag slung over his shoulder. Almost bashfully, he slipped a tiny, antique doll into my hand, her delicate porcelain limbs sewn together with silk threads. On subsequent days, like a knight of the rockstar roundtable, with head slightly bowed he modestly offered a spray of burgundy and red anemones; a verse of poetry, written by his own hand centuries before (something neither of us would know for years): Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Whoever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight? Showers of gentle charm poured like soft, summer rain. Slowly he led me by the hand and bade me sit, before presenting the miniature framed assemblage he created from a photograph he’d taken of me set in one of his painted landscapes; the endless vistas punctuated with low-lying trees and distant mountains that he often drew, reminiscent of his homeland. A gift to mark the anniversary of our first embrace. Surprised as I was moved, I could not have named the day at all – but he remembered. At times he was so tender and trusting that I felt jaded in comparison, and hoped I wouldn’t hurt him.
“Who is she?” his friend, Michael asked.
“I can see that you’re in love.”
But the dark angel descended with an arctic blast that froze the warm, inviting pools of his blue eyes into sharpened crystal points of solid ice. Hooded and forbidding, their eager shine became merciless; cold enough to burn. Lips slightly pursed as if his patience with mere mortals were exhausted, he purposefully ignored me when we were in company; dismissive and aloof, his manner fairly dripping with disdain. Everyone – his family, friends, and colleagues all reacted to this changing of the guard. We were so young – barely in our mid-twenties – but he had enormous personal power even then, and like beasts alert to a lurking predator, ripples of unease passed among all who were nearby when these chilling moods possessed him. I could not stop loving him, but he’d grown practically defiant in his callousness and as intoxicated as I was, I reached my limit for humiliation and emotional abuse. Gathering what remaining dignity I had around me like a life-vest, I was determined to keep that frigid ocean from dragging me to my doom.
“Then I guess I have to say goodbye,” he answered quietly.
Punched in the chest, I folded in on myself, heart clenched around what felt like a searing blade. Too devastated to rationally examine what viscerally I understood – that only some twisted pathology could account for such a radical reversal – I collapsed in lamentation as if widowed in the Trojan war.
(“I was two people,” he confessed over a decade later, in a lucid moment as he struggled to surface from the tourbillon a desperate act of sorcery had sucked him into; so extreme that I wondered briefly if he meant he’d dwelt in separate bodies.)
Youth has its advantages, however, and with the attentive distractions kindly provided by sympathetic friends, I rallied. To an extent.
For many months I’d been the student of an older couple, a mystery school of sorts – they taught, among other things, the ancient Hawaiian path of Huna, having been themselves apprenticed to a highly revered Kahuna in the sacred islands. Perhaps six weeks after the agonized parting from the man I thought would be my mate, I sought and found a state for which I thank Jack and Josephine Gray – my beloved teachers on the path of spirit in those days.
Eyes closed in an inspired meditation, I saw Jude bathed in a soft, pink light. That divine, rosy glow grew brighter, stronger, as it surrounded and infused him. My body softened with relief as grief and rancor drained, poison mercifully dissolved into a nurturing sea of pure compassion. Free from possession or design, my heart elevated and expanded in my breast, and filled with sheer love for the beauty of his eternal spirit, I prayed for his happiness – that he would find the woman who would fulfill his deepest soul. I wanted that for him. Tears of bitter-sweet surrender rolled down my face as I prayed with such fervent sincerity that he may know the very highest joy possible in this life. And I willingly released him to wherever that may lie. “Go,” I said, sending him into the current that would take him there. “Find your true love.”
That evening he showed up at my door.
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 2017
She’s gonna listen to her heart, it’s gonna tell her what to do. She might need a lot of lovin’ but she don’t need you.
~ Tom Petty
It happened in the closet, of all places.
The combined effect of a dark enclosure, the quiet interlude and easy, repetitive action must have freed a sufficient amount of mental bandwidth for my Greater Self to seize the opportunity to shoot its message across.
One minute I’m folding clean laundry into drawers while Jason, the smokin’ hot Scorpio-with-a-Sam-Shepherd-quality with whom I’d been having a passionate affair, sat on my bed. The next minute I’m hovering a hundred feet, or so, above a small African village, looking down at nothing whatsoever remarkable, in terms of activity. A handful of round huts with straw roofs, a dog or two meandered around the dusty enclave on what I sensed to be a hot, though slightly hazy, afternoon. I did not notice any people.
I was there for just a moment; a reality as genuine yet completely separate from my waking state, so that, as in dreams, I didn’t think to wonder at it or look out for anything in particular. I was simply there. But I returned to normal awareness with the pressing knowledge that in order to align with the trajectory of future events – the destiny – my soul called out for – I had to act quickly. I had to reunite with Jude, whose heart I’d returned the favor of breaking a short time before.
The scene seemed so random. The African connection was evident, but it was only when discussing it with Jude after we married that I made any sense of it. He told me of a medicine man he visited a few times in his early teens, whose village in the Transvaal resembled that in my vision. The shaman had received him with respect and ‘threw the bones’ for him, solemnly pronouncing the oracle which had made equally little sense to the young Jude. With his stick, the old man drew one straight line in the sand and another curved line across it. “She will stand by you,” he said, tapping his stick on the ground and repeating the message to make sure the boy understood it. “She will stand by you.” It took a few minutes for me to recognize that the seer had drawn a symbol of the spinal injury for which I was, at the time of their encounter, enduring long and painful treatment. Why that was the image my spirit sent – or which my psyche translated – along with the cognition, I couldn’t say, but the old Swazi was a Man of Power.
“I have to get back together with Jude.” It was a simple statement of fact; I immediately explained what had just occurred – the vision I’d received – and the young man sitting on my bed, while not happy about it, accepted the gravity of such things and after a minute slowly nodded his head. As a parting gift to my vanity, he soon after pulled up stakes and left New York for Turkey.
I’d returned to the city when my sister vacated the magnificent, rent-stabilized apartment that had been in the family for decades, with the understanding that Jude would join me later in the year. His attitude toward me soon reflected the physical distance between us, however; his heart seemed to be stashed in a dark closet of his own – the split I’d registered on that very first day had not disappeared. I dreamt he was dallying with some blond haired girl, and when I mentioned the dream to him in a telephone conversation, his response did little to assuage my fears. His voice coolly pitched on the far side of concern, he sounded altogether bored with my sensitivity and eager to get on with his day. Still bruised from having traveled down that treacherous road before, and being young and famished for love, when the gorgeous, charismatic actor that caught my eye in class approached me, I said, ‘bring it on.’
Having had a lot of practice, Jason did an excellent job of sweeping me off my feet. One evening as we sat before the fire, he held a diamond up before my eyes so that I saw the flames dancing through it. A crimson drop of light emerged from the stone and expanded to eclipse his hand before filling most of my field of vision – I nearly fell backward. “I love you,” he whispered. Always a sucker for that sort of thing, I happily ignored the myriad drawbacks in the relationship, having had a lot of practice, myself, in that department. In consequence and thanks to my immaturity and reluctance to break it off long distance, I was caught off guard when Jude announced that he was flying out from San Francisco to visit over the Christmas holiday.
I knew it was a terrible thing to do, to let him come all the way across the country without telling him, but a combination of love and fear kept me from calling it off. I was still angry. God, how could I do this? Who’s the asshole now?
“I’m in love with someone else,” I said, the day after he arrived.
In that instant I saw the star that shone in the depths of him, the heart I’d always hoped was there after all, as it shattered. His eyes searched mine without moving, spoke in language more encompassing than any words could capture. He did not recriminate me. Quiet and tender in his regard for the rest of the evening, he flew out the next morning, a week ahead of schedule.
The day after he left for the airport the downstairs buzzer woke us up. “Who is it? Who??” The early hour, scratchy intercom and unexpected response confused me so that when I opened the door I was completely taken aback. An extremely upbeat messenger from Florists’ Transworld Delivery handed me a shiny, white box containing two dozen long-stemmed roses.
“From Jude,” I told the young man in my bed.
I had to agree.
He later told me that his mother had been at JFK when he’d arrived there – to this day I don’t know if she was actually there or if it was a telepathic transmission. She might have been flying somewhere, herself, but in retrospect, that seems improbable. Born with a caul, Jude’s mother had profound psychic gifts; when he was growing up she would, in fact, often know when he was in danger and go to meet him, so who knows? But she looked in his eyes, embraced him, and told him that I would come back.
* * *
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 2017
“What’s that sound?”
A muffled, irregular, percussive rhythm – like a persistent yet barely dripping faucet, seemed to originate somewhere on the other side of the wall. Rather than the thin ping of a leaky tap, however, this was a thump… thump … thumping that, though faint, came and went from the wall nearest to the bed.
I had two high-quality rubber balls that I used for my spine. Got them from my physical therapist and rolled around on the floor with them under my back. They were the perfect combination of soft and hard; infinitely more comfortable and effective than the cheaper, denser substitutes I’d just purchased because – I couldn’t find my good ones. I kept them in a basket under the nightstand, but they were gone. I Looked everywhere.
“Seriously – what IS that?” I asked, a few days later.
My husband heard it, too.
“When the brothers were here they had some kind of business with a group of monks or something,” he said. “And the monks were looking after some kids, some boys. I think the brothers gave them those balls to play with.”
The brothers had requested use of our apartment for a few days, not long before. For what purpose I had no idea, but they were free-floating masters on a mission and if they needed our place, so be it. It was understood that the monks and their fosterlings were.. not physical. I could only imagine what kind of work the brothers were doing with a group of astral Benedictines, or whatever.
So they’d managed to transport my deceptively special and very physical, genuine rubber balls into another dimension, and now these kids (I envisioned some kind of bucolic, phantom 19th century Boys Town in sackcloth) were innocently playing catch against my wall from another plane.
Except A) The noise was kind of getting old, and B) Those were my good balls.
“They gave them my good balls? Without asking?”
Seemed presumptuous, but I felt terrible asking for them back. I figured I could make a trade, however.
“I’m so sorry! But I need those rubber balls for my back!” I called out in the middle of my living room. “I have others here that are just as good for playing with; you can have those and keep them forever!!”
I apologized repeatedly and urged them to take the substitute balls, which I carefully placed in the center of the Persian rug in the middle of the room before we went to sleep. The next morning I noticed that the pink rubber balls that had gone missing were now resting against the bookshelf.
The sound stopped.
But the other, seemingly identical balls that I’d put out for the boys the night before were still there. Several times I called out, begging the boys, or their monks, to come get them. I even bounced one against the wall myself several times, to demonstrate their excellent bouncability.
They never took them. I was mortified.
I noticed, also, that my copy of the collected works of Theresa of Avila had been pulled out from its place on the shelf.
I purchased it from the Franciscan Bookstore on 34th St a few years earlier when I was still acting. I’d been cast in a production of Agnes of God and had catapulted headlong into a trance-like obsession with mystic nuns. One night, during early rehearsals, I recall walking down 13th St, when I tentatively allowed myself to acknowledge a desire that knocked on the trap door of my innermost heart: to manifest stigmata. So utterly submerged was I in that other world that it didn’t occur to me in the slightest to examine such a thought (though I did experience a vague twinge of embarrassment, which I also did not examine.) When a shooting star arched across the West Village skyline as if in response to my inner dialogue, however, embarrassment instantly gave way to a secret thrill.
I knew basically nothing about Theresa of Avila; was drawn to the book by an intense, instinctive impulse. I took it home, read one or two pages at most, felt weird and never so much as looked at it again.
But when I saw those two rubber balls, which I now sorely regretted asking to be returned, nestled on the floor by the bookshelf, I noticed that book I’d purchased with such numinous anticipation years before was now sticking out as if someone had begun to remove it, but stopped. I figured the monks were perusing my library and Theresa caught their eye.
But that was not the reason, entirely.
It would be a few years more before I understood why.
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 18, 2017
Summer Solstice, sometime after we retrieved as much of your light as we could, in the ritual which marked an initiation for me and a rebirth for you, we were invited by our friend, Ben Watts (the beautiful Lieutenant) to a champagne party on the piers in Williamsburg. We were all to wear white and be fabulous.
You were in a scowly, anti-social mood and had no interest in going, though I cajoled and coerced you, and, in true Cancerian fashion, you appeared, at any rate, to have a marvelous time. So freely you expressed your affection when we were in a social setting, or on display, while in private so much less forthcoming. Alas.
Returning home, we stopped at the Cedar Tavern for something to eat. As we approached the pub on that warm, first night of Summer, a young man around our age, also dressed in white, looked at me with an intense, puzzled expression and asked, “Shannon?” I stopped and asked him if he was addressing me. He seemed a little dazed and after a minute replied that he .. thought I’d been someone he knew. As we proceeded to our destination you said something about the (Scots) Grays – you thought he’d been among us then, perhaps that had been my name (but Shannon is a decidedly Irish name, so who TF knows…) It was a strange and electric night, however, and – on this longest day of the year I recall, for the first time in ages, the bizarre and disturbing demonstration of conjuring what you claimed to be poison toads, underneath a napkin, as we sat across from one another at the table in the Cedar fucking Tavern.
“We used to slap them on the backs of enemies,” you said, as napkin after napkin came alive with something small and moving inside it.
“Get rid of it!” I whisper-cried every time (maybe four?) you played at that.
Which you did, only to manifest what you said was another such critter, which, without a doubt, looked like a small toad moving inside the freakin’ napkin.
The episode concluded, as we prepared to settle the bill, when you exclaimed in a muted voice about a burning in your hands, and you held them out to me. A gray-white, pearlescent substance oozed out from under your fingernails, and eventually from the palms, themselves. We wiped it off, used water, yet it continued to ooze forth, apparently causing great discomfort.
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 18, 2017
I didn’t go there to fight. I went to Jerusalem to heal.
There was, however, an epic battle that I ended up participating in, much to my mind-blowing surprise…. Got hit in that one and ended up at Shaare Zedek – The Gates of Righteousness – an Orthodox Hospital, on Shabat FFS, when it’s pared down to a skeleton crew. The nurses all insisted on speaking to me in Arabic, for some reason.
Anyway, one day I had a very intense dream – a morning dream, right before I woke up. It was filled with a strong golden light. In it, I met a being, a kind of … dwarf / gnome type guy… I don’t want to be disrespectful – from a species like ours but smaller in stature. He was a serious effing dude, no-nonsense, rather gruff. He told me his name and I asked him for a boon. I literally used the word, ‘boon,’ in the dream. He was all, “Fuck you, no boons for you,” type thing. I explained to him that it was NOT for me, that I was asking on behalf of a young man. Begrudgingly, he agreed.
So – that was kind of a wild dream. But, you know, whatev…got dressed and headed downtown, somewhat later than planned.
My bus had such a beautiful route to downtown Jerusalem – past olive groves and Mt Zion – a lovely ride, around 20 minutes or so….At one point a group of school children clamoured aboard and one of them sat down next to me; a skinny, adolescent boy with straight, light brown hair and an unsmiling, reserved demeanour… He sat on the aisle, to my right, and turned his back to me as he fished out a crumpled piece of paper and read a note, written in a kid’s awkward hand, in English. Being naturally extremely nosy, I could not help but read it over the boy’s shoulder; it seemed to be a continuation of some metaphysical discussion he’d been engaged in with whoever the note-writer was… some type of junior high, meta-philosophical debate…Being nosy and lonely and something of a metaphysician myself, I butted in and spoke to him, pointing out a gap in the logic of the argument (it involved an example of cats, I think? Not in reference to Schrodinger or in any scientific/quantum-meta theoretical sense but, if my memory serves, the writer posed some issue related to incarnational trajectories, a la Hindu/Buddhist cosmologies.) I addressed the lad in English, interjecting some point of logic overlooked by his friend, the note writer. His response was guarded, surprised and excited, at the same time. My young companion’s first reply was to explain that he’d intentionally selected me to sit next to because he thought I looked among the least likely to be able to read English, of the passengers he scanned upon boarding. A lot of folks in Israel thought I was Yemenite…
As soon as I engaged him in conversation he immediately launched into a measured but relentless barrage of questions about various metaphysical subjects. Had I read this book, or studied that discipline, and what did I think about that other thing? His Russian accent and imperfect English, an innocence natural to his age overlaid with a heavy, world-weariness and impressive knowledge of a range of esoteric subjects was at once endearing, intriguing and disconcerting.
He was 15 years old, a recent immigrant from Kazakhstan. He got off the bus where I did and followed me up Jaffa Street, like a puppy…
I didn’t quite know what to do – he was clearly starving for contact, so I gave him my phone number and said he could call me at any time.
His call later that evening caught me by surprise, having forgotten about the whole encounter. (I’d been on my way to a meeting with one of my professors that afternoon, which had shoved the strange interpolation of meeting the boy down the menu of items requiring immediate attention.) Surprise quickly morphed into a familiar sense of surreality as he began to explain a bit about his background. After a short while, I realized that I was dealing with some sort of a bona fide boy magician. In the course of his exposition, he mentioned something about a sword he had been given, and I heard myself asking him, in a tone one might use to ask a first grader about their day at school,”Was it a magic sword?” “Yes,” he answered softly. He was at once vulnerable and tough and searching for understanding and communion with an urgency that I understood all too well. I sank to my knees, resting on the cold marble floor in my sparsely furnished living room, holding the heavy, black, old-fashioned telephone receiver in my lap, in shock.
It was the first time I’d come into direct contact with anyone from those circles outside of my own crew, much less a fucking kid, and given the PTSD I had escaped to the Holy Land to resolve, it ended up filed under “WTF.”
Things were pretty normal after that, I was working and studying, he was my ‘little friend,’ and I would buy him lunch and stuff.
Kind of like a big sister type thing. Mother, sister, friend. At one of those lunches, I mentioned the dream I’d had hours before we met.
“He told you his name??” asked the boy, who corrected my pronunciation of it.
“He’s my friend. I met him in the mountains, when I used to go up there.” His tone conveyed a controlled sense of amazement and .. protection, in a way, of his special bond with the being I had met in the dream, as if I’d snuck into a secret clubhouse. Still, he seemed pleased.
The mundane routine into which we had fallen resumed until, over the course of a few weeks, during which I was heavy into a neurotic obsession with a project I was working on, some Dead Sea Scrolls paper, he called repeatedly with what struck me as an odd series of questions about rather abstract subjects; God and destiny and I forget exactly what..
I answered in a regrettably condescending way, assuring him that we would be able to speak after I completed my ‘terribly important’ work…
He kept calling with these kinds of questions, and I kept blowing him off.
One day he called and said he needed to speak to me in person, would I meet him? He had to ask me something. I understood it was important, and agreed.
We meet at a cafe and he tells me the following story:
(He lived in a suburb outside of the city, in the desert just outside Jerusalem. Ma’ale Adumim. Lived with his mother, who he had supported in Russia by working as a fucking computer programmer. The kid was a genius.) The phone in his apartment had been shut off because his mother couldn’t pay the bill for a while, so he had been using a phone booth near his house. Cell phones were more common in Israel than in the states, at that time, but not yet so ubiquitous as to extend to poor, immigrant teenagers.
So one day he was in the phone booth and the phone rang.
He answered it, and some guy on the other end addressed him by name, in English. My friend said he sounded American. This American sounding man proceeded to ask the boy to locate a particular woman in Jerusalem and get her away from some guy. Didn’t tell my friend HOW to find her, Just to find her and somehow free her from the influence of a dude she was involved with, to her detriment…I got the impression she played some role in the balance of forces, or something, but know nothing about her.
So – my little friend did. I have no idea how, but he found the woman and managed to separate her from the bad hombre in question.
I had been aware of none of this as it was going on, of course.
So the kid is in the phone booth again and the phone rings, and it’s the same American sounding man who had addressed him by name and given him that assignment.
He thanks my friend, congratulates him and asks him if he would join forces with his group of warriors, because some shit was coming down the pike. At which point, my savvy Kazakh boy magician asks, “Who the fuck ARE you and why should I do anything for you???” At which point the mysterious phone guy says, “Why don’t you ask your friend, Victoria, if you should fight with us?” At which point my young friend called and requested to speak to me in person.
I took in the boy’s story as we sat under the blue canvas umbrella outside that cafe on Emek Refaim (“Valley of the Giants,” as mentioned in the book of Genesis) and after a couple of minutes broke the silence that had descended between us like a delicate balloon, a silence unique to the liminal state that one enters when intentionally taking a certain fork in the road… “Yes.” I thought he should agree to join the cause, to fight with the unknown dude on the phone’s band of magical warriors. It had not been all that long since I had been more or less immersed in that world, so while it did, absolutely, blow my mind, the part of me that just automatically kicked into those gears was not far away.
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 18, 2017
Years ago, early in our marriage, before the whole soul retrieval ritual with Bethany, Angus, Lynnee and the sorcerer (who I will not mention by name, though I believe he is still to be considered healed, and an ally) I put out, to the Universal Spirit, a heartfelt intention to genuinely understand what motivated people to look to ‘The Dark Arts’ for power or gratification. For, try as I might, I was simply unable to grasp it in any meaningful way and felt that lack of understanding to be a considerable gap in my knowledge. My ignorance, a real inability to comprehend the whole ‘dark magic’ appeal, felt to be a liability that was important to correct.
To understate the obvious, the expression, “Be careful what you ask for,” springs to mind.
Shortly after placing that intention, as I ran some errands on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning in April, I stood on the corner of 5th Ave. and University place and quietly rejoiced in an exhilarating sense of grace. I felt whole and strong and radiant beneath a cloudless, brilliant blue sky, drinking in the deliciously clean spring air that carried gentle notes of earthy perfume from the daffodils blooming in the church garden across the street. I basked in the unusual privacy I seemed to enjoy in that heightened moment in time, for – though normally a busy intersection on Saturday morning, filled with students and Greenwich Village thoroughfare – absolutely no one was perceivable around me within a radius of a block or more.
I turned to my right and saw a single paperback book lying by itself in the wire metal trash can on the corner. Not one other thing was in there, not even a gum wrapper – just this one book. I couldn’t see the title, as it was lying face down, and too curious to leave it alone I reached down to turn it over and take a look, whereupon I dropped it and stepped back in shock. It was a clean and relatively new copy of ‘The Satanic Bible,’ by Anton LeVey. After a momentary adjustment I laughed to myself, thinking, “What a perfect place for that.”
I was familiar with it to a degree, had seen it before, and considered it – apart from being obviously disturbed – juvenile and stupid. Still, I wrestled with the impulse to retrieve it, remembering my explicit request for knowledge of the psycho-emotional and metaphysical reasons for people’s attraction to ‘the dark side.’ I hesitated with some trepidation, then thought (I THINK it was my own thought!) that it was a dis-empowered attitude to let fear decide what I would do, and I chose to take the action. With a warrior’s resolve I stepped over, reached in again and picked that book up out of the trash can. And, though I was not entirely conscious of it in that instant, I heard – on what now seems to have been an astral level – an assured laughter when I did so.
I took the book home and left it on the coffee table.
Now, at the time I had a considerable library in the apartment of metaphysical books of different kinds, none of which you had ever expressed much interest in, despite my efforts to share some of them with you and – though incomprehensible to me – in spite of your profound psychic gifts and obvious (to me) reincarnational background as an adept. For, although our years in the heart of the magical world were in their earliest stages, your natural ability as a trance medium and the dimension of experience which opened in accord with that had begun to manifest; the arc of destiny we were to share was being drawn. Nevertheless, you expressed little desire to pursue such subjects in your normal, waking state.
However, as if permeated with some nefarious, etheric pheromone, that one book which I retrieved from the garbage on that fateful day appeared to exert an irresistible, magnetic appeal for you. You went right for it with an odd, animated zeal and – although a sad, lame and generally unimpressive composition – your attraction to that book was such that you clung to it with an attachment that was alarming in the extreme. After a few days, I literally wrested it from your hands and threw it away.
Do you remember any of this?
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 18, 2017
I had to return to the Mount of Olives.
To walk there and back would take the day; it was twelve miles from where I lived and no buses would run until sundown. So much of Jerusalem is Orthodox that even people with cars travel mostly by foot on Shabbat, if they go out at all.
Concerned neighbors and the few acquaintances I had by that time warned me against going alone. A single woman in that part of the Old City was a target for abuses ranging from the offensive to life-threatening.
But I was a street-smart, big city girl on a mission, and it was fueled by a ferocious obsession with my Ultimate Right to be there. Buoyed by faith and driven by compulsion, nothing would get in the way of my bittersweet adventure.
I’d taken the small apartment on Antigonus Street just weeks before, and those late summer days were soaked in a heavy unction of grief and hope and destiny. I planned to sit on that immortal hill and let it wash over me.
I was in shock, and that’s all I could think of.
I kept my pace brisk, my armor on and my senses primed. Playing it pretty much by ear, I’d been there once, had a good sense of direction and was confident that I would find it without much trouble.
After an hour or two I pressed through Damascus Gate, its massive fortress doors held open for the swarm of fanny-packed tourists, fast walking, poker-faced merchants in jellabiyas, sweltering Hasids in fur hats and black wool suited to 19th century European winters and other assorted locals that jammed those historic streets that time of year.
I walked past ancient remnants of limestone walls framed against pale, rippling grasses and the impossibly blue sky of Jerusalem, golden in sunlight. A skinny Arab boy in shorts that matched the tawny landscape herded goats; they wove in and out of the ruins to my left, as I wound my way around the far edge of the City of David.
The high desert sun reflected off the cobblestones; cool strings of sweat snaked down my sides.
I clocked miles, half conscious of the inner compass guiding me to that shady hillside overlooking the city, dense with lore and olive trees, the soil stony with olive pits, the whole of Jerusalem spread out below.
I became aware of someone following me. A man. Every turn I made he followed.
I pretended not to care and that my glance backwards to see him was unintentional.
He wore a long, dark blue robe with the standard black and white keffiyeh wrapped around his head.
The warrioress in me directed my steps.
I turned left. He turned left. I pretended to know exactly where I was going and walked faster.
I turned right. He turned right.
The path wound gradually upwards, the crowd of the Old City now far in the distance as I drew closer to my destination.
I turned left again and the man behind me also turned left. No one else was in sight. My system surged with adrenaline as I instantly mapped out moves.
Let him pass me, I thought. I won’t play this role. I was afraid that if he followed me all the way up Olive Mount I would be in genuine danger.
So I stopped and waited for him to catch up, letting him see that I Had Attitude. This badass sister was making her stand.
And he did catch up to me.
His kind, elderly face, which I had not seen in the hasty check over my shoulder, conveyed both compassion for my fear and assurance that he intended no harm. He looked into my eyes with the serene intensity of a loving brother with secrets of his own.
Shalom, he said.
Salaam, I answered back.
With a sweeping gesture of welcome, he drew my gaze to the right of where we stood, as if to say, “Look.”
I noticed we were near a sunken church yard of some kind…Rows of ancient olive trees, thick and knotted, spread out beyond closed iron gates. How could I not have seen that?
“My name is Daoud,” he said, and motioned for me to follow him down the short path that led there. “I am the gatekeeper at the Garden of Gesthemene.
Whenever you wish, you may come and I will let you in. When it is closed, I will let you in and you can have the garden to yourself, with no one to disturb you.” He bowed.
He spoke with slow, calm reverence, each word reverberating like a tender note in a dream-like melody of shared understanding. His eyes shone out from coppery folds as he smiled gently, searching my face for agreement.
The stalwart virago that had sprung full-grown from the head of my dying soul, the exoskeleton I clung to lest I have no means to stand upright at all, dissolved.
I felt around six years old.
He pulled out a set of appropriately huge old iron skeleton keys, opened the gates and walked in.
He turned to face me and bowed again.
“Please come whenever you want.
I will always let you in.”
© Copyright – All rights reserved – absolutionpool.wordpress.com – September 18, 2017