For quite a while now something has been trying to break through my thick head into awareness. While I still can’t grasp all of it, I am getting some of the message and it is so simple and self-evident that I am surprised at how hard I have fought against accepting it!
There is a direct relationship between mental/emotional/physical/spiritual health; the vividness and substantial reality behind dreams and paranormal experiences; and our ability to creatively find and take advantage of potential possibilities in our everyday physical world!
This is a three way relationship that exists in a multi-dimensional way in our individual reality.
So let’s bounce some of these ideas around a bit. Can it be true that the more healthy we are in an integrated way, the more powerful, vivid and meaningful our dreams become? Is there a direct correlation between what we dream and our spiritual, mental, emotional and physical health? Can it be true that the healthier we are, the more integrated and powerful we are in our dreams and in our physical lives? Is there a direct relationship between our physical lives and our dreams?
And what about the third aspect; does spiritual, mental, emotional and physical health and an integrated personality allow us a greater creative ability in recognizing potential opportunities and dangers in our physical world? Does it lead to more paranormal experiences? Is there a multi-dimensional connection between the paranormal and the physical?
This entire concept is still quite slippery and difficult for me to really grasp although I recognize its validity. And if valid, what part does a healthy self-esteem and healthy ego play in the integration of all aspects of who we are? Just what does “soul retrieval” really mean?
One final thought presents itself. I have been actively trying to connect with my most primitive ancestors, who were horse riding nomads that lived in wagons on the Pontic Steppe in what is now the Ukraine and Russia. These people spoke proto-Indo-European which is the original mother language of the entire western world! Their influence was immense!
There is a direct connection between spiritual, mental, emotional and physical health and simple competence in basic survival, self-defense and basic first-aid! There is also a direct connection between an active and stimulating environment and intelligence. My ancient ancestors lived lives that required all of these things. The taming of the horse and the ability to ride greatly expanded the possibilities and the world of these nomads in comparison to their contemporaries.
So the question really is:
Why does our society not focus on the spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical health or its members by teaching them simple competence in basic survival, self-defense and first-aid? Why is the importance of a good self-esteem and strong ego not recognized? Why does our society not recognize the importance of an active and stimulating environment?
Why does our society actively teach us to be dependent upon external authority rather than independent? Why should we depend upon society itself for our survival needs, for our defense against aggression and our medical needs? Why is the ego considered a bad thing that must be eliminated? And why must we spend our lives in soul sucking jobs that enslave us and like a vampire suck us dry of every drop of life and vitality?
Der Orchideengarten is the world’s first illustrated fantasy magazine. This issue was published in the German language in 1919. This is the first English translation of these stories and contains the original cover and artwork. It includes: Death by Classified by Fyodor Sologub; OM! by Max Rohrer; Rumplebumm by Richard Theuringer; The Masked Ball by Hanns Reiser; The Deluge by Will Scheller. All translations by Joe Bandel; Layout and design by John Hirschhorn-Smith.
Each day I have been doing a Shifting the Point of Awareness Meditation and I am seeing profound results! My awareness can be at where my feet touch the ground and I can be in the deepest possible altered state and still my awareness functions like normal waking awareness! What this really means is that my normal awareness is to function at an altered state where I can integrate all the chakras at one time!
I didn’t plan this ahead of time and like most things that happen to me I am either led to do them or simply stumble into them. So now I am led to believe that the ability to shift awareness from each type of energy to the other is perhaps the most important thing to aim for in the process of self-empowerment! By doing this all the chakras are stimulated into functioning in harmony with each other.
I’ve also been having a lot of empowering dreams that involve lots of people. The impression that I have is that Gaia’s ascension process has moved into a stage of resolution for us hydrogen types, whatever our stage of development might be. Our etheric bodies have been activated and we have won the right to create new lives for ourselves! Instead of a world and universe of duality, there now exists a third option that integrates the other two. This has never existed before and the hydrogen types are the first with the ability to make use of it! Meanwhile the battle for Gaia has moved on and transferred itself to the helium types who are now facing the eruption of the Shadow full force.
For the first time the collective supports us as we stand and walk upon a middle path of empowerment and integration! We are no longer in the fight and move to the stage of creation and regeneration of our lives. The real question becomes whether we can find our true path which will allow us to wake up each morning excited to be alive?
There is a mold and decadence that floats like scum on the top of society. It sticks to us and contaminates our thoughts and hinders our free actions. It is up to each one to free themselves of the slime that surrounds them. Ask yourself the question, “Do I really want to live?” If the answer is yes, then DO IT!
Many of you don’t know that I translate German horror stories as a hobby. I just finished translating this story and am offering it as a Halloween gift to all my readers! It is a story that will be published in Der Orchideengarten Vol 1, no. 11 which I am currently working on. Enjoy!
Death by Classified
By Fyodor Sologub, translation by Joe Bandel
Resanow suddenly felt weak, tired, and wilted. His thoughts were occupied more and more with death. It seemed to him that there was no sweeter resting place than between the fir boards of a coffin.
Suddenly he was overcome with the desire to do something different from his daily routine.
He sat alone in his silent room and studied the classified ads in the “Nowoje Wremja”. He was looking for something. He compared them and selected one.
His pale face which had already begun to wither, expressed perplexity and indecision. In his absent-mindedness he reached out with his pencil and the tip struck the lamp shade.
His hand trembled. The pencil tip tapped against the glass. He smiled. He said to himself:
“I am getting old.”
He lowered his eyes again; they had once been so lively and full of humor and now were tired and indifferent as he looked calmly and attentively at the newspaper.
Finally, he chose one of the classified ads. An educated, intelligent, and good-looking lady found herself in dire straits and asked a noble person to loan her fifty rubles. She would agree to any terms. The address read: Post office No. 17, general delivery. Present receipt Nr. 205824.
Resanow took a yellow, rough sheet of paper out of a box with the letterhead and water mark “Margaret Mill”.
With a sad smile on his lips, he wrote to her:
“Dear Madame!
I will give you the amount you ask for, neither as a loan nor as a gift; but for a service which I can only indicate briefly in this letter. There is not much to say. Since you claim to be intelligent, you will easily understand what I ask of you. That you come to me in the form of my Death. The more attractive it is the better— and act accordingly. If you understand and make this a fun game, the fee will be ample enough for you to live on. Are we agreed? Are you too afraid? Do you understand what I desire of you? If you are in agreement and not afraid and understand me correctly, then write me back, so I can meet with you for the first time. 5 o’clock in the afternoon would be the most suitable time for me. Respond by special delivery. Cash on delivery receipt Nr. 384384 for three ruble notes. I want to pick up the letter on Thursday.”
The three newly printed and issued 1905 ruble notes crackled uncomfortably, like the starched dress of a first communicant. The number 384 was repeated twice. This seemed strange and meaningful to him.
He thought to himself:
“And if? . . .”
He smiled weakly.
“Well, even if . . .”
He did not sign the letter. He sealed it and carried it to the mailbox. The maid could pick it up in the morning.
When he was back in his room, he wondered what the unknown woman looked like. Was she skinny, ugly, with an impoverished brown face, yellow teeth and thin strands of reddish hair beneath a wind and rain battered hat and a comical feather stuck in a ribbon hatband?
Or young, shy, and gentle, a seamstress with her delicate fingers pricked by her needle, with a pale waxy face and a large, sulking mouth?
Or a drunken, painted up, cheeky street whore with a screeching voice and crude manners?
Or an uncouth provincial lady in impossible clothes, with impossible manners, an unwashed neck, one abandoned by her husband or that had not found a lover?
“How will she, how will my Death appear? My own Death?”
“Perhaps she will meet me in a dark corridor, so that when I put my wretched gold into her cold hand, I won’t even see her face?”
On Thursday he went to the main post office. The summer day in the capitol was dusty, hot, and noisy. Here and there the houses had been plastered and whitewashed, and they gave off an unpleasant odor. Yet he felt cheerful, and the familiar restaurants seemed festive to him.
He did not hurry. He went into the Leiner and drank a glass of beer. He did not meet any of his acquaintances. Who could meet with him now? That would be an extremely unusual coincidence.
Around four o’clock he stepped through the open gate into the glass roofed hall of the new main post office. He remembered the old dirty hole that once had served as a post office. Today even the employees looked elegant.
He stopped and stood in front of the kiosk where the stationary was sold. A rotating stand showed him all sorts of sweet banalities that only post cards could give.
“Are these for sale?” He asked the saleswoman.
The cute girl with a bored expression shrugged her rounded shoulders.
“What do you want?” She asked him in a hostile tone. “Stationary, envelopes, postcards?”
He looked at her carefully. He saw the small curls on her forehead, the porcelain white complexion and the blue pupils and said:
“I don’t need anything.”
He went on. Opposite the main entrance in a large four cornered stall sat three young girls behind a double counter handing out letters. The public stood outside. A fat lady with a wart on her nose asked for a letter with the name Ruslan-Swonarjowa?
“What is your name? Swonarjowa?” asked the postwoman, whose face reminded one of the color of a roll, and she went to the box with the letters.
“Ruslan-Swonarjowa!” cried the lady with the wart, in a frightened whisper.
And as the postwoman with the bread-colored face stepped up to the counter with a packet of letters in her hand, the lady with the wart said:
“I have a double name: Ruslan-Swonaryova.”
A red-haired gentleman stood next to the lady with a stiff hat in his hand and followed the movements of the second postwoman with restless eyes; the prettiest of the three, she was looking through a packet of letters and appeared immensely proud of what she was doing. The gentleman appeared to be expecting a “sensitive and frivolous” letter. He was extremely nervous and made an uncomfortable and miserable impression.
The third postwoman, who was plump and red cheeked had a broad face and her chestnut brown mane was combed and parted deeply at her forehead. She laughed merrily at some private matter. She turned for a moment to the other two, who smiled and laughed as well, as if she had told them something very funny.
Resanow silently handed her his three ruble notes. He eyed the three girls and determined that they were all young, healthy, and pretty. The postal administration had certainly added some elegance to their new building.
He was reminded of the newspaper dispute between this postal worker and a petitioner that he had seen somewhere the other day. The petitioner had not been allowed to sell newspapers at the post office because she was skinny, ugly, and withered from hunger and poverty, and already over thirty-two years old. He closed his eyes and in front of him immediately appeared an emaciated, pale, frightened face with wide open eyes and nervously twitching lips. Someone whispered quietly, but clearly:
“I have nothing to keep me alive.”
Someone else answered just as calmly:
“Then don’t live!”
Resanow opened his eyes. He looked balefully at the plump postwoman, who was busy looking for his cipher. Several letters and postcards were thrown onto the table one after the other. Her laugh was so disgusting and insistent.
Finally, she handed him a letter in a narrow envelope and put all the other letters away.
“I don’t have anything else.”
“I don’t need anything else,” said Resanow in annoyance.
He moved to the side, sat down on a bench in front of a pillar and opened the letter. He did it in a hurry, but otherwise he remained calm.
Large, narrow letters, delicate punctuation marks, a regular, calm, and unexpectedly beautiful handwriting.
“Dear Sir!
I am in agreement. I am not afraid. I understand everything. On Thursday at six o’clock. Michael’s Park, the avenue to the right of the entrance. A white dress. Your letter in my right hand.
Your Death.”
A postal employee rang the bell. The hall emptied. Resanow went to a Viennese restaurant. He ate a quick lunch and drank wine.
At half past five he was already at the park.
She stood under a tree at the beginning of an avenue near the entrance. Her white dress rose from out of the dark green of the silent park.
She was slender, pale, very quiet and calm. While he was walking up to her, she looked him over carefully. She had gray, calm eyes that did not reveal anything. But her gaze was tense and watchful. The expression of her face, which was by no means pretty, was cheerful and humble. The smile on her generous mouth was sweet and sad.
“My dearest Death!” He said softly.
He remained standing in front of her and reached out his hand in greeting, suddenly seized by a strange unrest.
She remained silent. She took his letter from out of her right hand, put it into her left and squeezed his hand with hers, which was noticeably narrow, cool, and gentle.
He asked:
“Have you been waiting for me long?”
She answered, every word articulated slowly, in a lifeless monotone and deadly silent voice:
“You didn’t expect me. You thought that it would be someone other than me.”
It seemed to him that a strangely cold breath streamed from her. The folds of her white dress were so still and motionless. The simple white straw hat with a white ribbon that she wore high above her hair threw a yellow shadow across her face.
As she stood in front of Resanow, she leaned forward and with the tip of her parasol drew a fine line in the sand between them from left to right.
He asked:
“So, you want to be my Death?”
Her answer sounded so calm:
“I am your Death.”
And he asked again, while a shiver ran over him:
“Aren’t you afraid to play such a sinister role?”
She answered:
“Death fears the living and shows no one its face. You are quite well the first, of the living, who has seen the human face of his Death.”
He said:
“You play your role too quickly and too conscientiously. Tell me, what is your name?”
She replied with a sad, soft smile:
“I am your Death, your white, quiet, stormless Death. Breath quickly, your hours are numbered.”
He wrinkled his brow and said:
“You are an educated woman; you are in need and ask for money. What has brought you to this, that you accept all my terms and agree to play such an uncanny role?”
She answered:
“I am hungry, sick, tired and sad.”
He laughed and said:
“By all means rest. Why are you standing? Please sit down on a bench.”
They went a few steps further and sat down. She drew an intricate pattern in the sand with the tip of her parasol.
He said:
“You are hungry. If you want, we can go to a restaurant, and I can get you something to eat. I also want to give you the money that you asked for. Tell me, is there anything else that I can do for you?”
“I will take everything from you that you care to give: your money and your soul.”
He started. Then he said with a laugh:
“You play your role most excellently!”
She answered:
“I came. My hour will soon strike. I will wait.”
He took his wallet out of his pocket.
In the small middle compartment, closed with a steel clasp, lay the five gold pieces which he had prepared for her. He took them out. She silently reached out her narrow, pale, soft, and steady hand. Delicate lines crossed her white palm in a clear, simple network.
The five gold pieces made a light click as one by one they were placed in her cold, motionless hand. Her delicate, long, white fingers slowly closed, and her hand quietly slid to a pocket on the side of her white skirt.
He thought to himself:
“My poor gold. — my last gift. — the poor earnings of a day laborer, — the miserable earnings for a superhuman work. — that is what I give you, my beloved!”
Did he only think these words, or did he say them aloud? They sounded so clear in his ears. Such a deep grief weighed down upon his heart!
She looked at him sadly with her gray eyes and smiled. Then she leaned forward, and the tip of her parasol rustled swiftly through the sand.
She whispered:
I have taken your gold and will also take your soul. You have given me your gold and you will give me your soul as well.”
He said softly:
You have received my gold because I have given it to you. But how will you take my soul? How do you plan to take it?”
She answered:
“When my hour strikes, I will come to you to fetch your soul and you will give it to me. You will give it to me because I am your Death, and you cannot outrun me.”
This felt unbearably harsh to him, and he said with a cutting voice, to drown out his pain and fear:
You live in a furnished room. You are seeking a position or employment. Your name is Marie or Anna. What is your name anyway?
And he screamed, seized by a sudden hatred:
“Tell me what your name is!”
And she dispassionately replied:
“I am your Death.”
Her words sounded so hopeless and merciless. He started and hung his head. Discouraged he asked her:
“You need my gold, because you are hungry and tired, but my soul, — why do you need my soul?”
“With your gold I will buy bread and wine. I will eat and drink, and also give my death brood something to eat. Then I will take your soul. I will carefully take it out of your body, will carry it on my back, will goe with it into that dark room, where your and mine invisible Master dwells, go down and hand your soul over to Him. He will squeeze it and capture its sap in a deep bowl, into which my silent tears will also fall. — and then He will take my silent tears mixed with the sap of your soul and sprinkle them among the midnight stars.”
The strange words sounded so stiff and slow, like a strange incantation.
People passed by, voices rang out all around. Equipment rolled past outside on the pavement. Light footed children ran past, laughing. — everything was hidden behind the magical veil of her slow words. The colorful, joyful evening of the vanishing day disappeared as if in a cloud of incense.
He was sad, tired, and indifferent. He said softly:
“When the trembling of my soul reaches up to the stars and in those distant worlds an insatiable thirst for lust and life ignites — what will happen to me? I will be here rotting in a dark grave, which indifferent people will scratch out for me. What do I receive from your high sounding promises? What? Tell me!”
She replied with a mild smile:
“In blissful sleep is eternal rest.”
He said:
“Eternal rest! Is that your consolation?”
“I comfort any way I can,” she replied with the same stiff, gentle smile.
He stood up and walked to the park exit:
Behind him he heard her soft footsteps.
For a long time, he walked through the streets of the city, and she always followed him. Once in awhile he quickened his pace, as if to outrun her. — then she also went faster; she gathered the hem of her white dress with her delicate fingers and ran after him. If he stopped and looked back, he would see her in front of a shop window looking at the displays. When he got angry, turned around and walked toward her; she would quickly run across the street or hide in a doorway or shop entrance.
And she pursued him with her gray, calm, watchful eyes. Incessantly she pursued him.
“I will take a cab,” he said to himself.
He was amazed that this simple thought had not occurred to him earlier.
But when he spoke to a cab driver, she came closer. She stood right next to him and breathed her cold and sadness upon him. And she smiled.
He told himself angrily:
“She will sit with me in the coach. I can’t outrun her on foot or by coach.”
The coachman demanded sixty kopecks.
“Thirty,” said Resanow, and then walked away quickly.
The coachman cursed.
Resanow climbed up to the third floor and stood in front of the door leading to his apartment. He rang the bell. Meanwhile light footsteps came up the stairs. He rang a second time impatiently. A cold wave of fear came over him. He wanted to be inside his apartment before she could see which door he entered. There were four apartments on each floor.
She came closer and closer. Her white dress shimmered in the semi-darkness of the stairwell. She came nearer and her gray eyes looked watchfully into his own frightened eyes as he finally entered his apartment taking one backward glance.
He pulled the door shut behind him and turned the key. In the semi-darkness of the corridor, he remained standing and looked with sad eyes at the door. He felt, — as if the door had suddenly become transparent, — that she silently, with a mild smile on her lovely lips, stood outside the door and lifted her pale face to read the apartment number so that she could remember it.
Then he listened as her footsteps slowly went away.
Resanow stepped into his study.
“She is gone.” A voice said clearly.
Another hopeless, calm voice replied:
“She will come back.”
He waited. It became darker and darker. His heart tightened. His thoughts were unclear and confused. He felt dizzy as waves of hot and cold ran over him.
He thought:
“What will she do now? Perhaps she will buy something to eat, then go home and feed her hungry death brood. That is what she called her own children. How many children did she have? What did they look like? Were they as quiet as she was, his dearest Death? Starved, skinny, white, shy? Unseemly, with those same watchful eyes, just as dear, as hers, my white Death?”
She is feeding her death brood. Then she will go to sleep. Then she will come back here. Why?
Suddenly he was overcome by a burning curiosity.
Of course, she will come back. Why else would she have followed him to the doorstep of his apartment? But how will she come? How will she fulfill her task, this strange lady, who for money was prepared to do anything and wanted to be his own Death?
Maybe she is not a woman at all, but Death incarnate? Perhaps she will come here and take his soul from out of his sinful, weak body?
He laid down on the sofa and wrapped himself in a plaid blanket. A cruel-sweet fever sent shivers through all his limbs.
What strange thoughts came to his mind! She was very smart and conscientious. She wanted to honestly earn the money that he had given her and was trying to play her role to perfection.
But why was she so cold?
Well, because she was poor, starving, tired and ill.
She was tired from work. She had too much to do:
Has sewn the entire day,
Is tired, is sick . . .
She wandered around sick and hungry, searching. Her poor death brood was waiting, with wide open hungry mouths.
And he remembered her face, the earthly, human face of his Death.
The face was so familiar to him, her features so intimate.
Her face emerged more and more clearly in his memory, that known, trusted and beloved face.
“Who is she, my white Death? My sister?
It is difficult for me because I am sick.
Dear brother, stay with me!
And if you are my eternal sister, my white Death— what does it matter to me, that you appear to me here in this incarnation as a woman, who has met me through a classified ad and lives in a common apartment house?
I have placed my poor, clinking gold, my pathetic gift into her cold hand. She has taken the gold in her freezing hand and wants to also take my soul. She will carry me into the dark room, and the face of the Master will appear before me. — My own eternal face because I am the Master. I have brought my soul to life and have commanded Death to come and take me.”
And he waited.
It was night. The doorbell softly rang. No one heard it. Resanow threw off the blanket and crept softly into the anteroom. The screeching of the key in the lock was much too loud. The door opened and she stood on the threshold.
He stumbled back into the darkness of the anteroom. He asked, as if he were surprised:
“Is it you?”
She said:
“I came. My hour has struck. It is time.”
He closed the door and went through the dark rooms into his study. He heard her light footsteps behind him.
In the darkness of his room, she snuggled up to him and kissed him with tender and sinless kisses.
“Who are you?” He asked.
She answered:
“You called me, and I came. I am not afraid, and you should not be afraid either. I will give you the last sweetness that life has to give— the kiss of Death. And your death shall be easy and sweet because of the poison.”
He asked:
“And you?”
She answered:
“I already told you that I will climb down that singular path with your soul which now stands open to us.”
“And your brood?”
“I sent them on ahead, so they can go before us and open the door.”
“When will you take my soul?” He asked again.
And she snuggled up tenderly against him and whispered:
“The dagger is sharp; it’s sting gives pleasure.”
And she snuggled up against him once more and kissed him.
Then the sting of the poisoned dagger touched his neck. A sweet fire ran like lightning through all his veins, and he lay dead in her arms.
With a second sting of the poisoned dagger, she killed herself and fell down dead on top of his corpse.
As many of you know I celebrate Samhain or Halloween as the 2nd full moon after the autumn equinox. I celebrate this as a lunar festival when the veil is thinnest between the worlds and that is during the full moon. This year it is very late and occurs on the 19th of November. So the harvest continues till quite late in the year. The lunar and solar cycles are not coinciding very well this year and you can consider it an orb of influence that will last from 30 October to 19 November.
I’ve just finished a very intensive deep dive into the origins of the proto-Indo-European Pontic Steppe nomads that roamed the Pontic Steppe living in wagons and herding their cattle on horseback. These were my ancestors, Haplogroup G that clustered around the Caucasus mountains and Pontic Steppe in neolithic times, 3,000 BCE and even much earlier. So I’ve been getting in touch with my most ancient roots!
I’ve also just finished a deep dive into the origins of the Druid culture that also was related with my ancestors that somehow managed to get from the Pontic Steppe to Ireland around 3,000 BCE bringing the hospitality concept with them. The hospitality concept is that of the warrior nobility protecting the common population in exchange for tribute. The Druid culture seems to have arisen in support of this sacred obligation. So I followed that to the point of the collapse of the Druid culture in 472 CE and the massacre of the Long Knives at Stonehenge during the sacred Beltaine festival. You can read about some of this on my other blog OAK Inner Circle.
There was a third research that I have concluded at the same time. I recently completed reading “Suggestive Inquiry Into The Hermetic Mystery” by Mary Anne Atwood. This was a classic text that collected almost all the known works on alchemy and sorted them out. Those that have followed me for several years know that I have traveled a tantric path that has sequentially permanently developed and activated my various non-physical bodies from the top down. This has taken over twenty five years but it has completed itself. My research is about others that have followed a similar path.
I can say with absolute conviction that hermetic alchemy in Mary Anne Atwood’s book describes the exact same path that I followed as does that described by Mantak Chia, Julius Evola and Aleister Crowley. Of course the terms and concepts are cryptic, but the sense of repeated purifications to achieve a purified soul body or immortal physical body are all talking about the same thing!
This alchemical path has been known by the ancients for thousands of years and hundreds of masters have traveled it!
But there is one difference in that most of these people have developed their soul bodies from the bottom up and not from the top down! That is the only difference that I can see. Life was much more difficult for people in the ancient world before reading and writing was discovered and they developed the lower nonphysical bodies out of survival needs. The root chakra was strong because it needed to be! They had difficulty with the higher levels.
But we today live in our heads and it is the lower levels that we have trouble with! So we need to reclaim our magickal link to Gaia, mother earth, and the Womb of Creation. Normal conscious awareness needs to be integrated with our etheric body. Doing this requires the activation and integration of the Shadow Aspect! It is not pleasant!
In any case I am moving on to my translation projects. I’ve reached a good point of closure with the above subjects for now. Those that are interested will know what to do. I’ve given more than enough clues in my numerous posts over the years. Those that don’t get it never will! I just want to say that I’ve proven to my own satisfaction that this same path has been followed by thousands over the ages! There is nothing new about it!
Anarchistbanjo's World 