Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for October, 2025

Homo Sapiens: Under Way Chapter 6, pages 189-

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 17, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

VI.

The next day was a wonderful morning. Over the whole area lay the dew-glistening sunshine, and from the fields rose silvery mists in wisps. 

Marit went to early Mass. She was very pale, but from the exhausted, grief-stricken child’s face spoke an otherworldly calm. 

She walked, rosary in hands, and implored the Holy Spirit for the grace of enlightenment. 

When she entered the monastery church, the priest had just begun the holy office of Mass in a side chapel. Marit knelt before the high altar and prayed a fervent prayer. To the side, in a confessional, sat a young priest who watched her curiously. He too held a rosary in his hands, and his fingers mechanically slid from one bead to the next. 

Marit stood and approached the confessional. The confession lasted a long time. 

Suddenly, Marit rose, walked with shy steps to a pew under the organ loft, sat down, hid her face in her hands, and began to cry. 

The shameless man! To ask her such things! No, she didn’t want to think about it. Her head was completely confused. She hadn’t understood the priest. It was impossible: a servant of God couldn’t ask such questions. 

Dark shame-red rose in her face. 

The crude son of a farmhand! Yes, she knew, he was a peasant. Erik was right to be so furious against the priests; they all came from farmhands. 

But all people sin. A priest can err. He probably meant well; he wanted to be conscientious. 

But Marit’s innermost soul burned with shame and indignation. She cried. She felt trampled like a worm. Not God, not Mary, not the priest; no one, no one wanted to help her. Everyone had 

abandoned her! Oh God, God, all-knowing, merciful God! How unhappy, how wretched, how sick she was. 

The altar boy rang three times. 

No, now she couldn’t take the body of Christ, not now; she didn’t want to. 

She looked around, distraught. 

Church? No, this church, this smell of sweat and bad food. Falk was right: no one could stand it in there. 

Marit left the church. 

She stood indecisively. 

Could she go to Mrs. Falk? No, impossible, how would that look. Oh, she had noticed the sharp eyes that Mrs. Falk directed at her and Erik. 

And Erik is coming out today; yes, absolutely; he’s so good. Now she would listen to him calmly; yes, he was right. The priests are sons of farmhands; they become priests only to have good and easier bread. Hadn’t Falk said it was statistically proven: only farmhands and peasants let their sons become priests. 

And suddenly she remembered word for word what Erik had told her a year ago. 

He had a relative who had to feed seven children and her old mother. The husband was a mason, fell from the ladder and died. It was when Erik was still in gymnasium. 

And now Marit clearly heard Falk’s voice: 

I entered a small, poor room. Did I want to see the dead woman? No, I don’t like seeing dead people; it’s unpleasant. She should go to the priest, tell him her situation, then he would attend the funeral for free. Yes. So she went to the priest. But the priest—what did he say? 

Back then she hadn’t wanted to believe it; now she knew it had been truth. No, Erik didn’t lie. 

Behind the monastery church flowed a narrow strip of water, a small tributary spanned by a bridge. 

Marit stopped on the bridge and looked into the water. What had the priest said? 

Again, she clearly heard Falk’s mocking, cynical voice: Give me three thalers, and I’ll bury the body; otherwise, he can be buried without a priest, that costs much less. 

Marit involuntarily thought of the confessional. A shiver of disgust shook her. 

She walked on thoughtlessly. 

Oh, if he would come now! He usually took walks early in the morning. If she met him now… 

Her heart began to beat violently. 

Yes, now she would listen to him calmly, let him say everything, ask him more questions. 

But she waited in vain; the whole day in vain. Falk didn’t come. She had already walked through the garden a hundred times and peered at the country road, but no person was to be seen; only now and then a dust cloud rose, flew closer, and then she recognized a cart from the neighboring village. 

Tomorrow he will come, she thought, and undressed. She hadn’t lit a light, for she was afraid of the image of the holy Virgin; she didn’t want to see it. 

She stood indecisively before the bed. Pray? 

She asked herself once more: Pray? 

The ridiculous lust for happiness, the shameless lust for happiness, mocked in her ears. 

She got into bed with listening fear. 

Would the all-knowing God punish her on the spot? She lay listening, waiting. 

No, nothing… 

The clock ticked and tore the deep silence. 

She was very tired and already half-asleep. Her brain was paralyzed. Only once more did the question dawn in her: whether he would come tomorrow. 

And if he has left?! No—no. She was completely sure, she knew: now that she was his, completely his, now that she lived with his spirit, now he hadn’t left. 

Strange, how sure she knew that… 

But she also waited for Falk in vain the whole following day, the whole endless, terrible day. 

Could she endure this unbearable longing much longer? Involuntarily, she looked in the mirror. 

Her face looked completely destroyed. The eyes glowed from sleepless nights and were blue-ringed. Feverish spots burned on her cheeks. 

A deep pity for herself seized her. 

How could he torment her so inhumanely; why punish her so terribly? 

She felt like a child unjustly beaten. 

She tried to think, but she couldn’t gather her thoughts, everything whirled confusedly in her head. 

What was happening to her? She clearly heard continually single words, single torn sentences from his speeches. They gradually became like a great creeper that spread over the entire ground of her soul, overgrew everything, and climbed higher and higher with a thousand tendrils, up into her head. 

She was so spun into this rampant net of strong creepers that she felt locked in a cage whose walls grew ever narrower. Everywhere the trembling cage bars, one next to the other, ever more pressing, from four sides. 

God, God, what was happening in her?! 

Falk’s great spirit: piece by piece it passed into her. She thought with his words, with the same tone, the same hoarse half-laugh that was in his speech. 

She resisted, she fought with all her strength; but suddenly a grinning thought overpowered her. 

It was as if he had brutally stripped all the holy, all the beautiful around her; huh, this hideous nakedness! 

Yesterday in church: how was it that she suddenly discovered behind the glory of the divine service the brutal face that so disgustingly reminded her of a farmhand’s face? 

And now, now: what was it, for heaven’s sake? 

She didn’t want to see it, but again and again she had to stare at it. 

Yes, how was it? The whole expression of the holy, supernatural suddenly vanished from the image of the Byzantine Madonna, and Marit stared into the stupid laugh of a childishly painted doll. 

No, how ridiculous the picture was! 

“Christ was the finest, noblest man in world history—yes, man, my Fräulein; don’t be so outraged, but it is so.” 

And now a swarm of arguments, syllogisms, blasphemies hastened through her head. 

No, she couldn’t think of it anymore. 

And now she sat and sat in a dull stupor. The whole world had abandoned her. Him too… 

When she came down to the dining room, it was already evening. 

“Marit, I have to go to Mama at the spa; her condition has worsened. It probably won’t be dangerous, but I’m still worried.” 

Herr Kauer took a slice of bread and carefully spread butter on it. 

Mama? Mama? Yes. She had forgotten everything; everything was indifferent to her. She felt over her a dull, lurking doom, a giant thundercloud that wanted to bury a whole world. 

“Yes, and then the district commissioner has invited us for tomorrow evening.” Marit flinched joyfully. There she would see Falk. He was good friends with the district commissioner. 

“Yes, Papa, yes; I would very much like to go to the district commissioner’s. Yes, Papa, let’s go.” 

But Kauer wanted to travel early in the morning. Marit didn’t stop begging. 

She never went anywhere; she would so like to see lots of people again. 

Kauer loved his daughter; he couldn’t refuse her anything. 

“Well, then I can take the night train. But then you have to go home alone.” 

“That’s not the first time. She’s a grown girl.” 

Kauer ate and thought. 

“Why doesn’t Falk come anymore? I really long for the fellow. Yes, a strange man. The whole town is in 

turmoil over him. But he really does crazy things. Yesterday he meets his mother as she’s driving home a pig she bought at the market; she couldn’t get a porter. What does my Falk do? He takes the pig by the rope, drives it through the whole town, from street to street, his mother behind him—yes, and when people stare at him all dumbfounded, he sticks a monocle in his eye and drives the pig with majesty and dignity…” 

Marit laughed. 

“Ha, ha, ha—Herr Kauer couldn’t stop—”a pig driver with a monocle! Wonderful… And in the evening, well: you know that goes beyond measure: he offered the high school director slaps in the face.” 

“Why?” 

“Yes, I don’t know; but it’s really a fact. But imagine, Marit: to the director! Yes, yes, he’s a strange man. But the strangest thing is that you still have to love him. It’s a shame about the man, hm: they say he’s drinking terribly these days. It would really be a shame if he ruined himself through drinking.” 

Marit listened up. 

“Does he really drink so much now?” “Yes, they say.” 

Marit thought of his words: he only drank when he felt unhappy. And Father sometimes drank too…— 

She felt a strange joy. 

So it wasn’t indifferent to him… Tomorrow, tomorrow she would see him…

Read Full Post »

OD: Chapter 23, pages 294- 298

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 17, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Are those tears in Semmelweis’s eyes? Reichenbach thought madmen couldn’t cry, and in what Semmelweis just said, there’s nothing incoherent.

Suddenly, Semmelweis wheels around, fear and rage twisting his pained face back into a grimace. “They’re coming!” he shrieks. He leaps over the bench, falls, scrambles up, and hurls himself into the bushes. He races down the hill; for a while, you hear the crack and snap of branches, then he’s gone like a wild, hunted dream figure.

If Severin weren’t standing there, bent forward, leaning on his stick with narrowed eyes, Reichenbach might believe it was all just a dream. But Severin, who witnessed it, testifies to its reality. Rubble and ruins everywhere you look, and old men stand there, unable to clear the debris and start anew, as would be needed.

Then Reichenbach recalls something is required of him. Even when you want to let your hands drop and extinguish your will, life demands something. “Severin,” he says, “Rosina has fallen ill. Would you care for me and nurse Rosina for now?”

Severin nods. Yes, he’ll care for the Freiherr and nurse Rosina. He’ll do it. And perhaps that’s what Severin has been waiting for all along, sitting on his bench before the castle.

The doctor has been and given his instructions.

Severin escorts him out and returns to the sickbed.

“Yes, that’s a nasty illness,” he says, pulling a chair to the bed and sitting at a measured distance—not too close, God forbid! He acts as if the doctor confided in him specially and filled him in.

Frau Rosina lies in bed, the red-and-white striped blanket pulled to her chin, only her grayish-yellow face visible under a grimy nightcap.

“A nasty illness,” Severin repeats with relish, “very nasty. Could drag on for months. I wouldn’t want to be sick that long. When my time comes, I’ll lie down and die quick.”

“I won’t stay in bed for months,” Rosina vows grimly. She’s not supposed to move much, but she’s boiling with rage, the nightcap’s edges trembling.

“Oh, you could get up right now,” Severin says with deep satisfaction, “but then it’s over for you. My respects, obedient servant! With an illness like that, you collapse and die sudden-like. You can count on it, that’s how it is.”

“Now I’ve had enough,” Rosina snaps across, “shut your mouth for once.”

Oh, Severin has no intention of staying quiet. He finally has the floor and won’t let himself be stopped from making full use of it. Frau Rosina Knall is rendered harmless, lying in bed with her legs propped up, wrapped in thick compresses, unable to move and forced to listen to what’s said. Severin sits at a safe distance, pulls out his pipe, carefully packs it, lights it, and blows three leisurely blue smoke clouds. The old Severin is no longer a salty, shaky old man; he’s lively and sharp, puffing away like a freshly stoked locomotive.

The sound of puffing and the smell jerk Frau Rosina, who had turned her face to the wall, around: “Stop it,” she rants, “away with that pipe. You’ll stink up the whole room. The Herr Baron can’t stand pipes—he can’t stand smoking at all.”

Three new giant clouds billow into the room; thin, blue wisps of pungent smoke drift over Rosina’s bed and sink into the corners. Severin maintains his calm cheer: “I know,” he says, “when the Herr Baron comes, I’ll put the pipe away.”

“I can’t stand it either,” Rosina hisses.

Shaking his head, Severin observes the patient. Is it true you can provoke toads until they burst with bile and venom? Frau Rosina also reminds him of a simmering pot, its contents rattling the sides and lifting the lid. “Strange,” he muses, “some folks can’t stand smoking. I’m mighty fond of it. Nothing better than a pipe. Oh—what I meant to say. Things’ll change now; the Herr Baron will see people again. You can’t leave him so alone. I already mentioned that Frau Hermine came by with her husband and child recently. And we’ll need a chambermaid and a cook. I’m not one of the youngest anymore, and when you’re allowed up, you’ll need to take it easy for a long while.”

Everything Rosina built crumbles to shards. It slips through her fingers. This old fool sits by her bed puffing his pipe, and Frau Rosina lies powerless, nearly choking with rage.

“Sister’s child,” Severin returns to his main theme, “had it too. Got up too soon, and the illness came back. And she was a young, spry thing—with old women, it’s always twice as bad—”

Despite his geniality, Severin keeps a sharp eye. He notices a suspicious movement: one of the patient’s arms slides out from under the blanket, her yellow hand reaching for the nightstand where the medicine bottles stand. It’s astonishing how quickly old Severin can leap from his chair and dart out of the room. The large medicine bottle shatters with a crash against the already-closed door.

He giggles gleefully, in high spirits, as he potters through the kitchen and down the hall, lighting the lamp in the entryway. The door to Freiherr von Reichenbach’s quarters now stands open again, a lamp illuminating the path; people should know the dragon guarding him has been chained. And indeed, someone is already in the entryway, someone who lingered in the dark, not daring to venture further. It’s a shabbily dressed, gaunt woman; Severin doesn’t know who she is, a tattered bonnet shadowing her face, but he’s full of goodwill and courtesy even to such a poorly clad woman. He’s set on letting life reach the Freiherr again and sees no need to discriminate.

“Here to see the Herr Baron?” he asks kindly. “Come with me.” Without waiting for a reply, he strides ahead, knocks firmly on the study door, and when the stranger hesitates at the last moment, as if having second thoughts, he gently takes her arm and ushers her in. “Herr Baron, someone wishes to speak with you.”

Reichenbach looks up from his work, surprised by the late, odd visitor Severin has brought. But then he shoves his chair back and rises.

“Is it you?”

So it has come to pass, what Friederike saw as a distant glow in anguished, sleepless nights, amid the depths of her disgrace. There is Reichenbach’s study, the lit desk strewn with papers, and the Freiherr himself, an old man with a bald head and furrowed face, tufts of yellowish-white hair at his temples.

And Friederike is back, haggard, in tattered clothes, one might say ragged, fallen low, a shadow of her former self.

“Where have you come from?” the Freiherr asks softly.

Friederike glances nervously behind her: “From hell.”

And then the miracle happens. Reichenbach opens his arms, and Friederike may rest her head on his chest. My God, is this real—not a delusion? Is this living human closeness, refuge, and salvation? Will they not drive her from this threshold?

“You’ll stay with me now?” Reichenbach asks.

He asks if Friederike will stay. Does he not know she’s come to leave it to him whether she’s cursed and cast out or blessed and redeemed, whether she must turn to the final darkness or receive life? She clings to him, sinking, and Reichenbach must support her and lead her to the sofa. He tosses a stack of books to the floor, making room for Friederike, who sits with her hands folded in her lap—thin, wasted hands nestling together like disheveled, scattered birds.

Read Full Post »

Hermetic Mysteries: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 5

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 17, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory

Chapter 3: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 5

Introduction: Hermes guides us deeper into the alchemical art, revealing the transformative union of the universal essence’s principles. In this section, we explore the marriage of the crowned king and red daughter, forging the philosopher’s stone through fire and light.

Section Four (Continued): The Alchemical Marriage

Hermes describes a sacred union: “When we marry the crowned king to our red daughter in a gentle, harmless fire, she conceives a son, conjoined and superior, who lives by our fire.” The “crowned king” (the active, radiant principle, or Sulphur) and “red daughter” (the purified, passive Mercury) unite in a controlled process, birthing a new essence—the philosopher’s stone. This “son” thrives through the alchemical fire, distinct from common flames, as a subtle, creative force.

He continues, “When you send fire upon the foliated sulphur, the boundary of hearts enters, washing away impurities until the tincture remains red, like flesh.” This “foliated sulphur” (the essence’s active light) is refined, its impurities cleansed, yielding a vibrant, flesh-like tincture. Hermes notes, “Our king-born son takes his tincture from the fire, and death, darkness, and waters flee.” The purified essence, now radiant, overcomes mortality, emerging as the stone’s transformative power.

Hermes exclaims, “The dragon, guarding the crevices, shuns sunlight, but our dead son lives. The king emerges from the fire, rejoicing in the espousal. Occult treasures open, and the virgin’s milk whitens. The vivified son becomes a warrior in the fire, supreme over the tincture, bearing the philosophical matter.” The dragon (the raw essence) yields to the purified “son,” who, through the fire’s gentle nurturing, becomes the stone, a treasury of transformative light.

He urges, “Sons of Wisdom, rejoice! The reign of death is over, the son rules, adorned in the red garment and purple robe.” This triumphant image signifies the stone’s completion, its radiant essence fully manifest, ready to transform other substances.

Hermes declares, “The stone says: Protect me, and I’ll protect you. Give me my own, and I’ll help you.” The stone, now perfected, offers mutual protection and reward. He adds, “My Sun and beams are hidden within me. My Moon, my light, surpasses all others. My gifts—joy, glory, riches—outshine all. I freely give, rewarding the wise with divine understanding.” The stone’s inner light, both solar (active) and lunar (passive), holds unparalleled power, granting wisdom to those who seek it.

He hints at a cryptic code: “What philosophers conceal is written with seven letters: Alpha follows Yda and Liber, and Sol follows, but to guard the art, join the son to Buba, Jupiter’s hidden secret.” These “seven letters” symbolize the stages of transformation, with “Yda,” “Liber,” and “Buba” as veiled references to the process’s mystical phases, uniting active and passive principles.

Hermes advises, “Use judgment. I’ve demonstrated this with subtle investigation. The matter is one, but few inquire rationally. Nothing comes from unlike species—man begets man, not an ox. If creatures mix, the result resembles neither.” Rational meditation is key to understanding the unified essence, avoiding confusion from unnatural combinations.

Venus, personifying the essence’s light, speaks: “I beget light, not darkness. If my metal weren’t dry, all bodies would desire me, for I liquify and cleanse their rust, extracting their essence. Nothing is more venerable than I and my brother conjoined.” Venus represents the purified Mercury, dissolving impurities and uniting with the Sulphur (her brother) to create the stone.

The king, supported by his brethren, declares, “I am crowned, adorned with a diadem, clothed in the royal garment, bringing joy. Chained to my mother’s substance, I hold my essence together, making the invisible visible, revealing the occult.” The king (the stone’s active principle) unites with the passive Mercury, manifesting hidden truths and generating all the philosophers’ secrets.

Hermes urges, “Hear these words, keep them, meditate on them, seek nothing more. Man arises from nature’s fleshy principle, not elsewhere. Reject superfluities.” The stone’s essence mirrors human life, rooted in a universal source, requiring focused inquiry.

He clarifies, “Botri is made from the Citrine, extracted from the Red, and nothing else. If it’s citrine, that’s your wisdom. Don’t seek the Red if you’re not anxious for it.” “Botri” (the stone) emerges from the citrine (yellow) stage, derived from the red tincture, emphasizing the unified process.

Finally, Hermes instructs, “Burn the brazen body with great fire, and it will grant you the grace you seek. Make the volatile fixed, so it cannot flee the non-volatile. The fiery flame that rests on the fire, corrupted in the boiling heat, is Cambar.” The “brazen body” (raw essence) is purified through intense fire, fixing the volatile Mercury to create the stone, with “Cambar” as a veiled reference to the purified matter.

Section Five (Beginning): The Hidden Vessel

Hermes continues, “All is to be understood ethereally, according to the principles laid down. Venus personifies the central light of nature, hidden in its generations, especially in metals due to their density.”

Closing: Section 4 completes Hermes’ vision of the alchemical marriage, uniting the crowned king and red daughter to birth the philosopher’s stone, a radiant essence that overcomes death and reveals divine truths. Section 5 begins, hinting at the hidden vessel of transformation. The journey toward the stone’s perfection continues in our next post, unveiling further alchemical mysteries.

Read Full Post »

OAK: Temple of One Chapter 22 Courtly Love

Posted in Uncategorized on October 17, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 22: Courtly Love – The Tantric Renaissance and the Rebirth of Feminine Power

Historical Overview: Courtly Love and the Cultural Awakening Post-Crusades

The 12th to late 16th centuries CE, spanning the High and Late Middle Ages, marked the rise of courtly love, a transformative cultural movement that rekindled organic gnosticism’s gender-balanced, life-affirming spirituality and laid the groundwork for early feminism. Emerging in southern France’s Languedoc region, courtly love—celebrated in troubadour poetry like the Cansos (circa 1200 CE)—reversed centuries of misogyny, elevating women from despised objects to revered figures, as seen in works like Chrétien de Troyes’ Lancelot (circa 1177 CE). This shift, catalyzed by the Crusades’ failure (1096–1291 CE), exposed Europeans to advanced Muslim civilizations in Persia and Spain, where Greek and Roman texts preserved by Arab scholars (e.g., Averroes, 1126–1198 CE) reintroduced philosophy and sciences.

The Crusades left men absent, empowering women to manage estates and governance, fostering a newfound agency, as documented in charters from Provence (circa 1150 CE). The cult of the Virgin Mary, imported by Crusaders, paralleled goddess worship, resonating with Bogomil and Cathar influences from the Balkans (Ch. 18–19). Languedoc’s cultural melting pot—Jews, Saracens, Christians, and Bogomils—nurtured courtly love’s Tantric-like ideals, emphasizing soul unions over physical consummation, as in Andreas Capellanus’ De Amore (circa 1185 CE), which describes love as a “noble suffering” uniting souls. Arab practices of veiling women, signaling their special status, contrasted with Europe’s public exposure of women, inspiring courtly love’s idealization of the unattainable lady.

The Church, dominated by rational atheists (logic-driven elites) and social enforcers (dogmatic zealots), viewed courtly love as a Cathar conspiracy to undermine orthodoxy, especially after the Albigensian Crusade (1209–1229 CE) failed to fully eradicate heresy (Ch. 20). Yet, courtly love spread, with aristocratic households employing scholars to read and debate texts, fostering literacy among nobles, including women, as seen in Eleanor of Aquitaine’s patronage (1122–1204 CE). Among common folk, organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom persisted, with sexuality rampant despite Church accusations of incubus/succubus attacks (Ch. 14), reflecting Cathar rejection of sin below the “belly button.”

Mystery School Teachings: Courtly Love as Tantric Soul Union

Courtly love, rooted in organic gnosticism, reframed love as a Tantric union of souls, not bodies, echoing Bogomil and Cathar practices (Ch. 19). Troubadour poetry, like Bernart de Ventadorn’s Can vei la lauzeta (circa 1150 CE), celebrated the lady as a divine conduit, akin to the Holy Grail’s womb (Ch. 8), weaving male (expansive lightning) and female (containing matrix) energies for soul growth. This mirrored pre-Christian goddess religions (Ch. 1), where females brought life, death, and rebirth, and contrasted with Church asceticism, which deemed sexuality sinful (Ch. 10). The phrase “union of souls a thousand times more beautiful than bodies” encapsulated this Tantric ideal, aligning with Gospel of Philip’s sacred unions (Ch. 9).

Among common folk, organic gnosticism’s heart wisdom rejected Church notions of sin, embracing sexuality as sacred, as seen in Cathar beliefs that physical acts were not sinful (Ch. 19). Aristocratic scholars, influenced by Arab and Jewish texts (e.g., Sefer Yetzirah), debated soul concepts, while priests cynically sanctified their own liaisons, calling nuns “consecrated ones” in Spain and France (Guillaume de Puylaurens, Chronica, circa 1275 CE). This hypocrisy fueled courtly love’s appeal, empowering women as spiritual equals, setting the stage for feminism.

OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Courtly Love for Gaia’s Rebirth

In the OAK Matrix, courtly love aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (repressed sexuality, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Its Tantric duality mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating watcher selves (Ch. 2) through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4).

Practical rituals revive this:

  • Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
  • Courtly Love Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize troubadour love as soul union. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., sexuality as sin) and aspired HGA (e.g., loving balance). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave soul love, defying Church dogma.” Tie to Cansos: Inhale soul union, exhale physical denial.
  • Gaia Love Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as Grail, offering flowers for love’s vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s heart, honoring feminine power.” Echoes courtly love’s ladies.
  • Partner Soul Weave: With a partner, discuss courtly love’s ideals. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.

These empower organic gnostics to weave courtly love’s Tantric spark, reviving Gaia’s feminine power. Next, explore further courtly love developments, deepening feminism’s roots.

Read Full Post »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way Chapter 5, pages 183- 188

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 16, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

V.

It was night. Outside, a strong wind raged; from time to time, it whipped thick rain showers against the windows, which whined as they flowed down the panes. 

Marit sat half-dressed on her bed; she didn’t have the strength to undress. 

Why bother? She knew it from many nights. She would lie down, the bed would dance around the room with her, then she would sit up and straighten the pillows and stare into the dark room, then get up completely and press her forehead against the windowpane; and so again and again, staring blankly, thoughtlessly. 

Everything is indifferent, everything in vain… 

She repeated this in her thoughts with ever new pain. 

Before the image of the miraculous Mary burned the red oil lamp, which she had refilled again and again, and the ghostly light illuminated half the room. 

The wick tipped over, and the flame consumed the oil. A foul smell smoked through the room. 

The sweaty church with the bad smell—unwittingly, she thought of Falk’s words. 

She extinguished the flame; now it was completely dark. She stared thoughtlessly into the barren emptiness of the darkness. My God, what did he want from her, what did he want? A glowing wave of blood shot into her face. 

She sensed it; she didn’t understand it. Then suddenly, she felt his searching lips. It was as if a jagged lightning snake had bored through her breast. 

She couldn’t think; she only felt the wild, desirous shiver twitching through her body. She pressed both hands between her knees, bent forward, and drew her legs to her. So she sat hunched on the edge of the bed, listening with anxious pain to the unknown, terrible thing. 

What was that? It came so often; again and again. She feared it. She trembled before it. Oh, how gladly, oh how gladly she would throw herself around his neck, hot, wild, in silent passion, and kiss him, yes—kiss… 

But then it came again and drove her mad; her senses faded, everything danced in circles around her. 

That was sin. Sin! Sin! 

She tore herself up; she flew in all her limbs, groped tremblingly for the matches, couldn’t find them; she threw herself on her knees before the bed. 

She tried to collect herself, to pray. But she couldn’t find a word. 

“Ridiculous formulas!” she clearly heard Someone mock behind her. Terrified, she turned around. No, it was in her! Falk had spoken in her. 

“Everything you do is for the sake of imagined heavenly joys. Be yourself!” 

“God, God!” she groaned loudly. 

Suddenly, it seemed as if someone had forbidden her to pray. She tried to force herself, she struggled for words. 

No, it wouldn’t work. Not a word! Mary had abandoned her. 

Why was God punishing her so cruelly? What had she done? Ridiculous formulas—the lust for happiness—sweat-smelling church: his sentences whirled in her head, chased, overwhelmed her. 

A desolate tiredness made her sink completely into herself. 

And he said she didn’t love him! How had he put it? Yes, the formula was stronger than her love—no, no! He should see! She wanted to love him! She wanted to embrace him! Yes, she wanted to love him. May God damn her, plunge her into the deepest hell, but she would love him. 

She tore herself up and went to the window. She tried to think. 

Outside, the spring wind roared and howled in the trees. 

She felt his arms around her neck again; she didn’t resist; she gave herself to him. She sucked the poisonous happiness into her body with all her pores, she let herself be taken, she gave herself to him—oh, to Him—so hot—so warm. 

No! No! 

Finally, she found the matches. 

She lit the light; a wavering strip fell on the face of the Byzantine Madonna. 

Marit stood rooted, will-less, unable to move. She stared with growing horror. 

In the feverish brain of the child, the face of the Mother of God shifted to a mocking grin, then to pained compassion, and now to terrible, punishing seriousness. 

She wanted to throw herself down, she couldn’t. She was rooted to the ground. Fear-sweat broke out on her forehead; she gasped. The horror constricted her heart. 

Finally, the Immaculate showed her the old, gracious smile. 

A rustling crackle came from under the bed. Disturbed, she jumped to the side; she didn’t dare breathe. 

No, it was only in the wallpaper. 

She wanted to flee; the whole house was full of ghosts. She listened, trembling, tense. 

It was completely still. 

God, how uncanny, how horribly uncanny. She had to flee, far, far away—to Him—oh, to Him— 

No! Pray! 

No, she couldn’t. Something stuck in her that forced her hands apart, and when she tried, the sweat smell of the church rose again, and she heard his mockery. 

Oh, how unhappy she was. And He had made her so—no, not he; he was so unhappy himself. 

What should she do? Everyone, everyone had abandoned her. 

She threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows. A convulsive sobbing tossed her back and forth. 

That calmed her. 

He was so good. She would beg him so fervently that he demand nothing from her, only stay with her and talk to her. 

“But he won’t stay; he’s leaving!” She jumped up. 

“Yes, he’s already gone… gone… gone!” 

She ran through the room in frantic unrest, pressing her head with both hands. 

Yes, she knew it exactly: gone—he’s gone! 

And again, a long, choking sob tore from her throat. 

No, no—it’s impossible—he’s so good—so good; he won’t leave me. 

Erik—Erik, she whimpered; I’m with you, I’ll do anything, just don’t go away! 

Her thoughts confused themselves; she listened to her own sobbing. Don’t pray—don’t pray! I don’t want any kingdom of heaven! I want Him— 

Him! 

But the unrest grew and foamed and boiled; she couldn’t bear this torment any longer… God, these grinning shadows on the wall, and this punishing judgment of the Virgin. 

She had to get away. 

She dressed in a fever and ran down to the park. 

The cold wind calmed her. She felt strangely light. She thought of nothing. No, she really couldn’t think. 

She walked up and down the park avenue; it grew colder and colder, violent rain showers soaked her to the skin. 

She went back up and lay down in bed. Suddenly, falling asleep, she clearly saw Falk’s face. 

He stared at her, then his face contorted into a devilish grimace; he bit her with his vampire eyes, he literally devoured her soul. 

She looked horrified. She wanted to hide from him. But it was as if a whole heavy world lay on her heart; she had to stare at him unwaveringly. 

With her last strength, she gathered herself: the face faded, only a mocking grin did she still see in the dissolving features. 

She breathed deeply and sat up. 

She listened. Something was in her that wanted to speak. It reared up; higher and higher. A gruesome secret she would now hear: Falk’s soul. 

She had never seen him like that. Her brain struggled for clarity. With uncanny fear, she listened to her doubts. There—: had he lied? 

He? Yes! She heard him as he spoke that name to her on the first evening—Fräulein Perier. 

No, he doesn’t lie… But? what? what? what was it… 

She couldn’t think anymore. She was too tired. She lay and stared into the shadows. 

Outside, it had grown still; outside, the wind had laid itself. On the graciously inclined face of the miraculous Virgin played the shimmer of the candle. 

No, she thought of nothing more. Before her eyes was a great, bright field with flowers, and from afar she saw Falk coming, and now she went to him… he was so good, so good…

Read Full Post »

OD: Chapter 23, pages 288- 293

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 16, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Severin seemed far from sharp-witted; no, he was no longer the old Severin—brisk, dutiful, self-assured. Something had stripped his former grandeur; he no longer looked down on things as before, or he might have shown more surprise or joy at Hermine’s arrival or paid some attention to little Karl. He took it oddly lightly. “Yes,” he laughed, “take you to the Herr Baron… that’s for Frau Rosina now… or not, as she pleases. She never does, really—no one gets to the Herr Baron.”

“And you put up with that?”

“I… I’m no longer in the Herr Baron’s service. He sent me away. I live down in Grinzing now, but I climb up every day and sit on that bench.”

“Who is this woman?”

Severin winked slyly: “She’s everything now… she’s the only one with the Herr Baron. Frau Rosina Knall, used to be a nurse at the maternity clinic, then housekeeper for Hofrat Reißnagel. She came up with messages from the Hofrat, and maybe she liked it here so much she stayed with the Herr Baron.”

“We want to see Father!” said Hermine.

But that seemed a plan requiring no help from Severin. He was entirely sidelined, a nobody here. Frau Rosina Knall stood guard with her midwife and housekeeper fists; there was no getting past her. Oh, Frau Rosina Knall knew her craft. She’d bitten everyone away, claimed everything for herself. No one could reach the Herr Baron. No one managed it like she did. Severin spun his hand in a half-circle, as if brushing something aside, and winked cheerfully. She couldn’t use anyone, couldn’t stand spectators.

Yes, that’s how it was, but Severin came up from Grinzing daily and sat on that bench—she couldn’t drive him off. She tried once, but he raised his stick, and she backed off, leaving him alone since. It was pleasant sitting on that bench in the sun.

Then one day, Frau Rosina Knall tries to get up in the morning and falls back into bed with a cry. For days, she’d felt a sharp pain in her legs, dragging herself through the house. Today, her legs are swollen to twice their size—something serious is wrong; she can’t force herself to stand. She manages only to crawl on all fours to the kitchen, pull the large iron pot from the cupboard, retrieve the stuffed old stocking from it, and crawl back to bed with it.

By noon, the Freiherr notices he hasn’t had breakfast and that it’s unusually quiet. He goes to his housekeeper’s room and finds Frau Rosina moaning, unable to move, in bed.

He thinks a doctor and a nurse are needed; Frau Rosina’s legs look like they have phlebitis.

No, no, no doctor, no nurse, she shrieks and rants—it’ll get better, she’ll surely be up by afternoon, tomorrow at the latest, if the Herr Baron could manage alone until then.

But the Baron insists a doctor must come and isn’t swayed by the raging torrent of words. Frau Rosina remains helpless in bed, her heart full of curses and hateful glares at the door—a venomous, bloated spider forced to watch a fly tear through her web.

The Freiherr goes to the dairy and asks the stable hand Franz, still there from his time, to send a boy to fetch a doctor and perhaps inquire who might take on Frau Rosina’s care.

Franz is happy to send the boy, but as for a nurse for Frau Rosina, he’d like to oblige the Herr Baron, but he fears no one would be willing, even for a whole gulden a day.

Is that so, Reichenbach muses, and why not?

Franz hesitates to explain, so the Freiherr leaves without an answer. He doesn’t return to the castle immediately; he needs some air, a sudden longing for the forest stirring within him. How long since he was last in the forest? Is he really as ill as Frau Rosina always claims? His hearing is a bit weak, but otherwise, he has no complaints. A tired heart, true, and occasional dizzy spells—that’s all. My God, he’s no longer a youth. No reason to keep him indoors, forcing teas and compresses on him. It’s as if a thick wall has collapsed, and he can escape over the rubble into the open. Now he can think again about pursuing his travel plans. With Fechner, the renowned psychophysicist and philosopher in Leipzig, he’s developed a long chain of correspondence about Od; it’s urgent to complement these written exchanges with a personal discussion. Reichenbach has no sensitive with such convincing abilities to offer irrefutable proof. Perhaps one could be found in Leipzig—he needn’t let Frau Rosina’s objections hold him back.

He can still do as he pleases. Despite his loyal housekeeper’s undeniable merits and maternal concern for his rest and health, he should be able to pursue his intentions. Much has come crashing down on him, but he’s far from finished. On the contrary, his thoughts reach further than ever; he now knows Od is the carrier of life force itself, the bearer of the soul in all nature, opening new, bolder insights into the universe’s mysteries.

Yes, everything looks different in the forest than at home in rooms smelling of tea, where Frau Rosina shuffles about in felt slippers. The forest has waited long for Reichenbach. But the forest is patient, unlike a person; it holds no grudges, standing there waiting, and when you finally come, it is kind and generous, exuding more calm than all Frau Rosina’s teas.

When Reichenbach returns to the castle, an old man sits on a terrace bench, and another stands before him, preaching. With a booming voice, as if addressing a vast crowd, he declares: “And so, to end the slaughter, I’ve resolved unyieldingly to confront anyone who dares spread errors about childbed fever. If you believe there’s a puerperal miasma in your sense, that’s criminal nonsense. My doctrine exists to be spread by medical teachers, so the medical staff, down to the last village surgeon and midwife, acts on it. My doctrine is meant to banish the horror from maternity wards, to preserve the wife for the husband, the mother for the child.”

There’s no doubt the preacher is none other than Semmelweis, though Reichenbach might not have recognized him otherwise—so bloated is his body, so swollen his pale face with heavy bags under his eyes, so erratic his large, fleshy hands.

Surely, the listener, good old Severin, never claimed there was a distinct puerperal miasma.

Reichenbach approaches the professor: “Dear Semmelweis, I’m delighted—”

“Silence!” Semmelweis snaps furiously, “I’ll have you arrested!” He climbs onto the bench, pulls out a bell like one tied to goats, and rings it shrilly, persistently. Then he turns to Reichenbach: “It’s a fact that corpses on dissection tables often enter a state of decomposition that transfers to the blood in a living body. The slightest cut with a scalpel used for dissection causes a life-threatening condition.”

“My dear Semmelweis,” Reichenbach says as gently as possible, “you don’t need to convince me. And the medical world is now, in fact, coming around to your views.”

“Who are you?” Semmelweis thunders.

“I’m Freiherr von Reichenbach!”

“Freiherr von Reichenbach? Oh, yes.” Semmelweis shields his eyes as if dazzled by light. “I know you! And you really believe my doctrine has prevailed?”

“I wish I were as far with my Od as you are. You’ve achieved success. Even Virchow recently declared you’re right.”

A mad gleam dances in Semmelweis’s eyes again. “I’ll ruthlessly expose those scoundrels. Now pay attention—I’ll read you the midwives’ oath.”

He drops the bell and fumbles for a sheet of paper in his inner coat pocket, trying to unfold it.

But Reichenbach grabs his hand and pulls it down, drawing the man off the bench. “Calm down. I already know the formula and follow it. Come into the castle with me. You sought me out.”

Semmelweis nods and mutters, “Yes, you’re Freiherr von Reichenbach. That’s good, very good. I came to Vienna; Hebra invited me to see his new sanatorium.” Suddenly, he tears free, stoops for the bell under the bench, and begins ringing it furiously again.

“Why do you keep ringing that bell?” Reichenbach asks.

The sly look on Semmelweis’s face is more heart-wrenching than his contortions of rage: “Here in Austria,” he says loftily, climbing back onto the bench, “in Austria, don’t you think we must hang everything on the big bell, my dear sir?”

“And why climb the bench?”

Semmelweis’s face gleams with cunning: “So you hear me better! The endometritis, metritis, and puerperal thrombophlebitis…”

“I already know all that,” Reichenbach soothes, “come inside with me now.” He makes a quick decision. It’s necessary to get Semmelweis into the castle and, through Severin—who has backed away from the disturbed man’s proximity and watches from a few steps away—to urgently notify one of his friends.

“You’re Freiherr von Reichenbach, aren’t you?” Semmelweis asks. “You know everything, but perhaps you don’t know that your own daughter Ottane died of childbed fever.”

No blow could strike Reichenbach’s core more cruelly, but Semmelweis likely knows nothing of pity or responsibility. “Ottane,” the Freiherr says bravely, “Ottane died in Venice of typhus.”

“No, you can be certain she died of childbed fever. The child was stillborn, but the mother needn’t have been lost. Those Italian ignoramuses who want nothing to do with me killed Ottane. They called in Doctor Sattler, my student, but it was too late. He told me everything.”

Is this horror believable? Does the madman speak from his obsession fixed on one point? Or is he telling the truth? It seems his mind is now clear and ordered, as if a lucid moment has broken through his derangement.

Semmelweis steps deliberately down from the bench and lays one of his large hands on Reichenbach’s shoulder. Perhaps he senses the terrible uncertainty he’s brought upon his friend. “Don’t think,” he says sadly, “that I’m lying to you! Something’s wrong with my head, that’s true. I must go to Gräfenberg for the cold-water cure. My wife and little Antonie are with me in Vienna, and tomorrow we travel on to Gräfenberg. My assistant, Doctor Bathory, is also with us. But as for poor Ottane, dear friend… she’s among the victims, that’s the truth.”

Read Full Post »

The Hermetic Mysteries: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 4

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 16, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory

Chapter 3: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 4

Introduction: Hermes unveils further secrets of the philosopher’s stone, guiding seekers through the purification of the universal essence. In this section, we explore the alchemical art’s parallels with nature, transforming the dragon-like spirit into a radiant tincture.

Section Three (Continued): Purifying the Dragon

Hermes continues, warning that the philosophical essence, or Mercury, remains mortal while impurities linger: “Remove the vapor from the water, the blackness from the oily tincture, and death from the earthy residue. Through dissolution, you’ll gain a triumphant reward—the essence that grants life.” The dragon, symbolizing the raw, self-willed spirit, carries a poisonous blackness from its natural state. By dissolving this, alchemists purify the essence, freeing it from mortality to reveal its immortal source.

He instructs, “Cause such an operation in our earth that the central heat turns the water into air, scattering the residue through the earth’s pores. Then, the air becomes a subtler water.” This process involves dissolving the essence, letting its volatile spirit rise, then condensing it into a refined form. Hermes suggests, “If you give our old man gold or silver to consume, then burn his ashes and boil them in water until complete, you’ll have a medicine to cure life’s leprosy.” This cryptic metaphor describes feeding the essence with pure metals, purifying it through fire and water to create a healing tincture.

Hermes calls this essence a “temperate unguent,” a fiery medium between the earthy residue and water, acting as the “Perscrutinator” that stirs and purifies the spirit. He explains, “Unguents are called sulphurs because, like fire, they burn and act closely with oils.” This sulphur, the active principle, drives the transformation, purifying the passive Mercury.

He emphasizes the adept’s qualities: “All the world’s wisdom is hidden in this art. To master it, one must be free of arrogance, just, good, profoundly rational, ready to help others, serene, courteous, and diligent, guarding philosophy’s secrets.” Without understanding how to “mortify, generate, vivify, cleanse, and introduce light,” fighting darkness until the essence whitens, one achieves nothing. But mastery brings reverence, even from kings, though these secrets must be hidden from the wicked.

Hermes reiterates, “Our stone comes from many things and colors, composed of four elements. Divide and separate them, mortifying the essence with its own nature to preserve its water and fire. This isn’t ordinary water but fire, held in a pure vessel to keep the spirits from fleeing, making them tinging and fixed.” The stone, a unified essence, undergoes repeated dissolution to purify its spiritual elements, ensuring they remain stable and potent.

He praises, “O blessed watery form, dissolving the elements! To gain the sulphurous form, mingle it with our sharp vinegar. When the water’s power dissolves the composition, it’s the key to restoration, driving away darkness and death, letting wisdom proceed.” This “watery form” (Mercury) and “vinegar” (purifying agent) cleanse the essence, unlocking its transformative power.

Hermes concludes Section 3: “Philosophers bind their matter with a strong chain to withstand the fire. The spirits in the purified bodies desire to dwell there, reviving them. United, they never separate, reviving dead elements, altering bodies, and creating permanent wonders.” The “chain” is the alchemical process, holding the spirit in its vessel to vivify and transform matter, as Democritus’ fable of Proteus suggests, using “manacles and fetters” to compel the essence into its true form.

Section Four (Beginning): The Precious Stone

Hermes celebrates, “O permanent watery form, creator of regal elements! United with your brethren through a moderate regimen, you gain the tincture and find rest.” This refined essence, now fixed, is the philosopher’s stone, ready to transform other substances.

He warns, “Our precious stone, cast upon the dunghill, is made vile despite its worth. Mortify two Mercuries together, venerating the Mercury of Auripigment and the oriental Mercury of Magnesia.” The stone, though divine, appears common in its raw state, requiring purification through dual Mercuries—active and passive principles—to achieve its glory.

Closing: Section 3 completes Hermes’ guide to purifying the dragon-like essence, dissolving impurities to create a tinging, fixed stone, likened to nature’s cycles. Section 4 begins, celebrating the stone’s perfected form and hinting at further refinements. The alchemical art’s transformative journey continues in our next post, unveiling deeper mysteries of the philosopher’s stone.

Read Full Post »

OAK: Temple of One Chapter 21 The Bogomils

Posted in Uncategorized on October 16, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 21: The 13th Century – The Bogomils and the Pinnacle of Organic Gnosticism

Historical Overview: Bogomil Resilience and the Languedoc Legacy

The 13th century CE was a critical juncture for organic gnosticism, as the Bogomils, a sect originating in the Caucasus and Balkans, carried its life-affirming, gender-balanced spirituality into Bosnia, Herzegovina, and southern France, despite relentless persecution. Emerging in the 10th century, Bogomils—meaning “dear to God” in Slavic—settled in regions like modern Macedonia, opposing both Church and state authority, as documented in the Synodikon of Orthodoxy (circa 843 CE, updated 13th century). Condemned as heretics at the Synod of 383 CE, they practiced a mystical materialism that celebrated the body as a temple, weaving male-female energies for soul growth, echoing pre-Christian goddess religions and Zoroastrian asha (Ch. 12). Their migration to Languedoc, a cultural hub of Jews, Saracens, and Christians, fueled the Cathar movement (Ch. 18–19), but the Albigensian Crusade (1209–1229 CE) decimated them in southern France, with massacres at Béziers (20,000–60,000 killed, 1209 CE) and Toulouse (12,000, 1211–1218 CE).

In Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bogomils survived until the 15th century, resisting Catholic and Orthodox persecution, as recorded by chronicler Euthymius Zigabenus (Panoplia Dogmatica, circa 1110 CE). Their teachings, blending Tantric-like practices with dualist mysticism, were accused of incest, cannibalism, and debauchery—Church slanders reflecting misogyny against their gender equality (Ch. 10). The Languedoc’s vitality, with its alchemical schools in Salerno and Cordova, preserved Bogomil wisdom, influencing later alchemy and Rosicrucianism (Ch. 16). Their mystical materialism—perceiving the Trinity through carnal senses—set the stage for these esoteric movements, defying Church dogma that prioritized head-centric spirituality over physicality.

The Church’s dominance, solidified by the Fourth Lateran Council (1215 CE), enforced sacraments and rejected mystical experiences, aligning with rational atheists (logic-driven elites) and social enforcers (dogmatic zealots). Bogomils’ survival in Bosnia, despite eradication in Bulgaria and Byzantium, marked them as carriers of organic gnosticism, bridging ancient goddess traditions to medieval heresy.

Mystery School Teachings: Mystical Materialism and Tantric Soul Creation

Bogomil teachings, rooted in organic gnosticism, viewed the body as a temple where male-female duality created the soul through love and physicality, rejecting Church sacraments as irrelevant. Their mystical materialism—perceiving the Trinity’s essence through senses, emotions, and sexuality—aligned with Tantric practices (Ch. 5, 13), weaving male (expansive lightning) and female (containing womb) energies for a third-energy soul, as in their perfecti/perfectae’s consolamentum rites. Unlike Manichaean dualism’s matter-evil stance (Ch. 12), Bogomils celebrated life’s full spectrum, freeing adherents from karma through direct worship, not Church mediation, as noted in Secret Book of the Bogomils (circa 12th century CE, preserved in fragments).

Their gender equality—male and female teachers—echoed goddess religions and Zoroastrian asha, emphasizing heart wisdom over head-centric dogma (Ch. 12). The Church’s accusations of debauchery reflected its fear of Tantric sexuality, mirroring earlier demonizations (Ch. 10, 14). Bogomils’ dancing, fasting, and celebrations, akin to Messalian practices (1st century CE), integrated physical and spiritual, fostering watcher selves (Ch. 2) through love, not ascetic denial. Their influence on Cathar covens (Ch. 19) and emerging alchemical traditions preserved this, setting the stage for Rosicrucianism.

OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Bogomil Wisdom for Gaia’s Soul

In the OAK Matrix, Bogomil mystical materialism aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (physical passions, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Their Tantric duality mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating souls through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4).

Practical rituals revive this:

  • Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
  • Bogomil Heart Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize Bogomil covens, dancing in Gaia’s pulse. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., sexuality as sin) and aspired HGA (e.g., loving balance). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave soul through senses, defying Church dogma.” Tie to mystical materialism: Inhale physicality, exhale head-tripping.
  • Tantric Temple Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke body as temple, offering seeds for life’s vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I reclaim Gaia’s soul, beyond crusade’s chains.” Echoes Bogomil dancing.
  • Partner Soul Weave: With a partner, discuss loving duality. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.

These empower organic gnostics to weave Bogomil wisdom, reviving Gaia’s soul. Next, explore Rosicrucianism, where alchemy carries this mystical materialism forward.

Read Full Post »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way Chapter 4, pages 172 – 182

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 15, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

IV.

Falk sprang up. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, fully dressed. The daylight, filtered through the garden’s tree shadows, gnawed at his sleep-deprived face, giving it the expression of great, quiet sadness. 

His mother stood before him, trying to slide a pillow under his head. 

“God, what a terrible dream I had!” 

“But, dear child, you’re completely ruining yourself if you stay up all night.” 

“No, on the contrary, Mama, I slept very well. I was just so tired that I fell asleep right where I sat. Certain natures can do that excellently. I heard of a mailman who slept while walking and lived to 90. By the way, Mama; I’ll be traveling in a few days; it’s of great importance that I get to Paris as quickly as possible.” 

His mother couldn’t understand. Why had he come at all? This long journey just to stay a few days?! His wife could surely live a few weeks without him. Couldn’t he grant his old mother the joy and stay at least two more weeks? 

Yes, he’d love to; Mama knew exactly how much he loved her, but he couldn’t possibly stay longer, he… 

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Marit entered, confused. 

She greeted his mother by kissing her arm. Falk extended his hand with a ceremonial bow. 

Marit grew even more confused. 

“Mrs. Falk mustn’t mind her disturbing so early, but she had come to early Mass with Papa, and Papa had something to do in town.” 

Mrs. Falk apologized ten times that nothing was cleared away yet, but Erik, the lazybones, had slept until now. 

“Imagine,” Mrs. Falk continued, “he fell asleep right here in the dining room instead of properly going to bed. By the way, it’s very good you’ve come, Marit; you must help me keep Erik here. He absolutely wants to leave.” 

Marit looked up, horrified. 

“What? You’re leaving already?” 

“Yes, he absolutely had to. He had to start working a bit; he couldn’t do anything here.” 

Marit sat as if frozen, looking at Falk with wide, frightened eyes. “Besides, there was no point in him sitting around idle; life here was so narrow, so unbearably narrow… Yes, Mama, dear Mama, you mustn’t take it badly, but I’m used to the vastness, greatness, freedom of the big city. I can’t stand people here staring at me and gawking. And then this narrowness, this narrowness.” 

Marit sat thoughtfully; it seemed as if she heard nothing. 

“Yes, yes, she had to go now; Herr Falk would surely come for a farewell visit.” 

But she couldn’t go: Mrs. Falk set the table and brought coffee. 

Falk and Marit sat across from each other. Mrs. Falk let her wise gray eyes shift from her son to the girl. 

Falk brooded. Suddenly, he fixed his eyes on Marit and examined her closely. 

“It’s strange, you have such a remarkable resemblance to a girl I met in Kristiania.” 

Falk spoke completely dryly, in a reporting tone. 

“She was terribly sweet, and around her forehead was a flood of red-blonde hair; it looked like the Nordic spring sun.” 

“By the way, you look quite worn out, Fräulein Marit. It’s strange that you can’t be happy at all; it’s probably your religion that considers joy a sin?” 

Falk emphasized “your” mockingly. 

“No, no: Mama needn’t be so outraged, he only said it in passing.” 

Silence fell again. 

Mrs. Falk spoke of her late husband, tears coming to her eyes. 

Marit stood up. 

“She had to go now. She couldn’t wait for Papa; with him, five minutes always lasted an eternity, and now that Mama was at the spa, she had a lot to do.” 

Falk stood up too. 

“Would he be allowed to accompany her? A walk would do him good, and it was indifferent whether he went toward Johannisthal or with Marit to Elbsfeld.” 

“Yes, if it pleased him…” 

They walked silently side by side for a long time. 

Falk had pulled his hat low over his eyes, kept his hands carelessly in his pockets, and seemed deep in thought about something. 

And again, Marit looked up at him again and again, but he seemed determined not to see it. 

“Is it really true that you want to leave?” 

Falk looked at her as if he hadn’t understood, with a cold, tired gaze. 

“Oh! Leave? Of course, yes, absolutely. What am I supposed to do here? Don’t think it’s a pleasure to torment myself near you; I’ve had enough of that. Yes, I want to leave; maybe today. Besides, everything’s indifferent; and I’ll probably do whatever comes to mind.” 

Two large tears ran down Marit’s cheeks. 

“He mustn’t do that. Everything he said to her about love was a lie. A person who loves couldn’t do that.” 

“But for heaven’s sake, tell me, what do you want from me? Yes, just tell me: you know very well that you could give me the greatest happiness if I could just kiss you; you won’t allow that. I want to talk to you about something stirring in me; I can’t do that either. So what—what?” 

Marit cried. 

“You said I mustn’t love you, that you can’t give me anything! Didn’t you say you couldn’t possibly take love from me?” 

“God, I explained to you why I said that. Besides, even if there were obstacles, don’t you understand the infinite happiness of the moment?” 

Marit looked at him, astonished. 

“What do you want—what do you want from me? Speak completely openly.” “What do I want? What do I want? Well! Do I know?” 

“Yes, you want to ruin me! You want to plunge me into unhappiness, then leave—isn’t that right?” 

“Ruin? Unhappiness? The English want happiness… Ridiculous, disgusting, this satiated happiness of Müller and Schulze! Can’t you understand that the highest happiness lies in a second? That it’s disgusting to wallow in eternal happiness? What do I want from you? Two, three hours of happiness, then away, far away! Happiness is shy; you dishonor it, make it indecent if you enjoy it too long.” 

“God, don’t torment me so terribly. I can’t bear it. Do you want me to be destroyed?” 

“No, I don’t want that. Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s madness that I have to circle around this one thought; I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to say anything more. I want to be good to you, completely good. You just mustn’t cry. No, you mustn’t.” 

Falk was completely desperate; deep pity choked him. 

“Yes, yes, don’t cry; I’ll be good and reasonable and very cheerful. Shall I tell you something very beautiful?” 

“Yes, he should; she loved to hear him.” A while passed. 

“Well; I had a strange dream today. You know, when my father was still alive, we had a small estate right on the Russian border; right behind our barn stood the Russian border guard. So it happened that a farmhand had stolen grain. My father was a wild, strict man. He beat me mercilessly. I didn’t really get better from it; on the contrary, I hated him as only a child’s soul can hate. 

But my father had discovered the theft and the thief. All the farmhands were called from the village and the guilty one stood before my father. 

‘Did you steal?’ 

‘Yes,’ answered the farmhand defiantly. 

‘Do you want to go to prison or receive thirty lashes?’ 

Without a sound, the farmhand lay on the ground, and the execution began. 

‘Hit hard, or you’ll be whipped yourself,’ my father shouted to the coachman. 

And the coachman struck with the strong, oxhide whip as hard as he could. 

‘Now you strike!’ he called to an idiotic farmhand, whose broad face contorted into a contented grin. 

A blow so powerful, so terribly powerful… but my God, don’t be so terribly outraged, my Fräulein; so far, everything’s in order… 

So a terrible blow whistled onto the body of the unfortunate man. He jumped up, bared his teeth, and lay down again. 

The surrounding farmhands burst into loud laughter, in bright joy: The farmhand did well! Yes, he has the strength of a Goliath! 

Another blow, then two, three, four, five… 

I screamed, I raged in my hiding place. I scratched the ground with my fingers. I stuffed my ears full of dirt so I wouldn’t hear. Yes, yes, as a child, you’re so foolishly compassionate. 

The execution was over. The farmhand rose and fell again; he couldn’t walk. Around him, the human cattle broke into bright laughter. 

But the farmhand had incredible willpower; he rose anyway and dragged himself out of the yard. 

My father was satisfied and sat down to breakfast. I remember, he ate a lot and well. I wanted to jump on him like a wildcat, tear him apart. But understandably, I didn’t. 

That night, our farm burned at all four corners. I jumped out of bed and rejoiced over it as I never rejoiced in my life. Now my father was punished! 

The stable doors were torn open, the cattle were brought out… 

At that moment, my mother entered the room, and the dream ended.” 

Marit was completely shaken. 

“Did that really happen like that, or was it all just a dream?” 

“Well, that’s irrelevant. The interesting thing is only the work of the sleeping individual consciousness. In the moment when my mother opened the door, the non-sleeping consciousness unrolled the whole memory with incredible speed. There’s nothing remarkable about that, by the way. Hippolyte Taine tells of a man who, during a faint that lasted only two seconds, lived through a life of fifty years.” 

Marit couldn’t understand that. 

“It’s not necessary for you to understand it either. *Rassurez-vous*: I don’t understand it either… Now other impressions joined the original memory, and all that wove itself into a dream.” 

Marit wasn’t satisfied; Falk should explain it more closely. 

“No, Fräulein Marit, you won’t get any wiser from it. You just have to admit that the soul is something entirely different from what it reflected in the crude, uneducated brains of the Church Fathers. Just listen further. 

Yes, for example, the fact that the farmhand’s body writhed and jerked in my dream probably came from another impression. You know I studied natural sciences? Yes, back then I worked in the physiological laboratory and vivisected a ton of frogs and rabbits. I had to do it, and I always anesthetized the animals. But once I took a live frog, nailed it to a board, and opened the chest and abdominal cavity. The frog jerked so violently that it slid up the nails to the nail heads. Then I cut out its heart—” 

“You don’t want to hear that? Well, let’s talk about something else. Am I cruel? No, absolutely not. But it would be foolish to project human pain consciousness onto an animal psyche, or to measure my feelings with the pain scale of crude farmhands who watched the inhuman execution of one of their brothers with heartfelt joy.” 

Now both were silent. 

They came to a small grove that sloped down to the lake. 

It was hot, and across in the forest, noon shimmered and quivered. Everything blurred in the sucking heat. The lake lay limp and still; a oppressive calm lay over the whole area. 

“Wouldn’t she like to sit down a bit? He absolutely wouldn’t bother her. He’d sit at a respectable distance.” 

He lay long in the moss; she sat three steps away on a stone, nervously playing with her parasol. 

Suddenly, he sat up. 

“Why do you actually go to church? Don’t you have enough pride not to go where all the rabble goes, where it smells bad and the lust for happiness reveals itself so openly and shamelessly in prayers to the Almighty Lord?” 

Marit thought of how once she had fainted from the bad smell and sweat of all those people, how they carried her to the sacristy and a disgusting man ripped open her corset there so she could come to—oh, how abominable that was! But she stayed silent. 

“Don’t you understand that there’s something deeply coarsening in that?” 

“No, she didn’t understand that, and didn’t want to. Religion was her only happiness, her only refuge.” 

“Oh so…” Falk drawled… “Very good, very good.” 

Falk seemed terribly tired. He lay back down long in the moss and closed his eyes. 

Shadows of the bushes played on his face; there was a line of strange suffering. 

Marit thought. 

He was a terrible man. The image of the sweat-smelling church grew stronger and stronger in her. A disgust overcame her that grew and grew. She didn’t understand. Was he right? Yes, and then the eternal mumbling of prayers! She didn’t dare think further. God, God, what would he make of her! 

The line of suffering on Falk’s face grew clearer and clearer. Now she wanted to throw herself on his heart and smooth the horrible fold of suffering with her hand. 

How she wanted to see him happy, so happy, so happy… Tears trembled in Marit’s eyes. 

“My God, Falk!…” but she got no further. Falk sat up, astonished. 

She looked ashamed at the ground and struggled with her tears; one rolled down after another. 

Falk moved closer to her. 

She seemed about to stand up suddenly. 

“No, for God’s sake, she needn’t be afraid of him; absolutely not. If he wanted something, it had to be given to him voluntarily and with joy. No, he took nothing himself. No, no, he had not the slightest intention of touching her. She could be completely calm.” 

He stared at the lake and the shimmering noon heat across in the forest. Marit tried to resume the conversation. 

“Why had he actually been so mean to her yesterday?” “Mean? No, what was she saying…” 

Falk yawned. 

“Mean? Absolutely not; only sad was he. He loved her. He wanted her to live in his spirit, become a part of him. But on the contrary: everything he despised, what he considered low and stupid, that she revered. Everything he wanted to tell her, she couldn’t hear. He, the free one, the master, could of course not calmly watch the woman he loved so unspeakably live in such wretched, lowly slavery. He, who was God and supreme law to himself, would get completely sick if he saw every one of her actions predetermined by some formula… 

Yes, that spoils, destroys you for me,” he said excitedly. “You detach yourself completely from my mind. Give alms, and I know without further ado, you do it because it stands in your law book: ‘Be merciful, so that you may enter the kingdom of heaven.’ Visit a sick person, I know again that some formula promises you something beautiful for it. You’re compensated for everything, paid for everything. Don’t you feel the lowness, the meanness of this way of acting? Everything only for the sake of reward; everything for the sake of the ridiculous, imagined joys you expect in the kingdom of heaven. Disgusting!” 

Marit grew completely pale. Falk flew into a rage. 

“Do something because you must, not because you should! Throw away what doesn’t please you! Be yourself, only you, you, the splendid, wonderful Marit… Yes, yes, yes! Forever yes! You say you love me, and a stupid formula is enough to break your most splendid, mightiest instincts. And afterward, you pray ten rosaries to the Virgin Mary that she saved your soul from the claws of evil. That should be love? That? That love that can be broken by a stupid formula?” 

Falk laughed with wild scorn. 

Marit sat mute, trembling in all her limbs. 

“Yes, answer me then! That should be love? Answer then, what you understand by love!” 

Marit was silent. 

“Marit, answer me! I don’t want to torment you, no. I love you to madness. I’m sick for you! Yes, I know you love me, yes. I know it; nothing do I know more surely…” 

Falk moved quite close to her; he embraced her. 

“No, for God’s sake! Falk, Erik, no. Don’t torment me so terribly!” 

“Ah pardon! A thousand pardons. Yes, yes, I forgot myself again. God yes, it’s indifferent anyway. It shall never happen again… Shall we go?” 

Falk yawned affectedly. 

Marit walked at his side, torn by pain. She struggled in vain to master it. 

“Yes, yes; everything is completely indifferent,” she repeated in her thoughts. 

“Now goodbye!” Falk extended his hand. They had reached the garden gate. 

Marit flinched. 

He mustn’t leave, it screamed in her; for heaven’s sake, not leave! She grabbed his hand. 

“You’re not leaving, Falk? No? You mustn’t leave! Do what you want, but don’t leave.” 

Her lips trembled; she could no longer control herself. “Don’t leave! You’ll make me unhappy otherwise!” Her voice broke. 

Falk looked at her coldly and harshly. 

“Yes, I don’t know that. That depends on circumstances. In any case, you’ll hear from me before I leave.” 

He said a short goodbye and went.

Read Full Post »

OD: Chapter 23, pages 282- 287

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 15, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 23

When little Karl Schuh was two years old and already a very independent gentleman, Frau Hermine decided it was finally time to introduce him to his grandfather.

He marched stoutly through all the rooms on his chubby legs, and if someone tried to take his hand on the street, he’d swat it away and say, “All by myself!” He climbed onto every chair and recently pulled the crocheted cover off the dresser, along with vases, clocks, glass eggs, porcelain lambs, and other knickknacks, then tried to excuse himself for the mess. He dipped his finger in stove soot, smearing the walls with wild drawings, and held hour-long conversations with himself—in short, he was such a wonder that his mother could no longer justify withholding him from his grandfather.

She had planned a visit to Kobenzl soon after settling the ugly lawsuit business, where the father now lived permanently after selling his Vienna house. But with a small child, it was a cumbersome affair, and when they might have managed, the Freiherr was traveling abroad.

It was said he had conducted experiments on sensitivity and Od in London at Lord Cowper’s house, Palmerston’s stepson, then traveled to Berlin for an extended stay. The university there had even provided him two rooms, but the Berlin scholars had been utterly dismissive, impossible to convince. They either didn’t attend his demonstrations or, when they did, sniffed, nitpicked, and criticized so much that nothing fruitful came of it.

Karl Schuh sometimes brought home newspapers with mentions of Freiherr von Reichenbach. They recalled the Freiherr who, years ago, made waves claiming to discover a new natural force called Od, asserting the boldest claims about it. He had locked his unfortunate victims in a darkroom until their eyes began to glimmer in the gloom. Science had long moved past this quirk of an otherwise distinguished man, but the Freiherr kept the learned world on edge with his fierce attacks. The fiery old gentleman lashed out like a berserker, and his polemics, flooding the public, were as notable for their lack of logic as for their excessive tone. Yet all this couldn’t gain recognition for his Od, and recently the Berlin scholars had unequivocally rejected Herr von Reichenbach and his supposed force.

Schuh brought the papers to Hermine but didn’t comment further. “Whatever may be said of the Od,” Hermine remarked, “I think it’s unnecessary to mock such honest endeavor!”

Karl Schuh shrugged.

“There might be a force, invisible rays, so to speak, carriers of the soul’s faculties in people.”

Hermine received no response to this either.

“And I find it petty and mean when they hint here that Father lost his fortune and now owns nothing but the Kobenzl castle. I’ll finally visit him in the next few days. You don’t mind, do you?”

No, Schuh had no objections. Hermine could go and take the boy. He himself would hold back; he couldn’t be expected to make the first move, having been so gravely insulted. The Freiherr would have to come first.

The Freiherr had long since returned and was hurling invectives against his adversaries from his study. Hermine planned week after week to visit her father, but something always intervened—bad weather, little Karl’s cold, a big laundry day. As a housewife and mother, she couldn’t just leave at will.

Then came that letter from Italy, from Venice. Such letters from Venice didn’t arrive often but came at intervals, so Hermine was never too long in the dark about Ottane’s fate. She now knew Ottane’s story but hadn’t initially dared to share the truth with her husband.

Schuh, when he finally learned, showed much understanding and heart. He stood on a higher plane, with a broad view of the world; his notions of morality weren’t so narrow. They had arranged things—fine, he wasn’t appointed Ottane’s judge. He only asked once, “Why don’t they marry?”

Hermine passed the question to Venice and received a reply after some weeks. Ottane felt she should no longer conceal how things stood with Max Heiland. He was at risk of going blind—or perhaps, it wasn’t clear from her letter—he was already blind, and he resisted binding Ottane to him with an indissoluble bond. As long as her heart urged her to stay with him, he accepted it as heaven’s grace, but he didn’t want her free sacrifice turned into a rigid duty.

“He’s actually a damned decent fellow,” Schuh said after reflection. “I wouldn’t have expected that from him.”

The envelope of today’s letter from Venice bore not Ottane’s handwriting but that of a stranger. An unknown wrote on behalf of Herr Max Heiland, prevented by his eye condition from writing himself. He wrote that he regrettably had a deeply sorrowful message to convey, which he received with resignation to God’s will. Fräulein Ottane von Reichenbach had died after brief, severe suffering, comforted by religion’s rites, from typhus. Unfortunately, the undersigned, a German doctor, had been called too late, after the Italian colleagues declared themselves unable to save her. A few lines were enclosed for comfort, and it was noted that notices had also gone to Freiherr von Reichenbach and Professor Semmelweis in Pest, the undersigned’s esteemed teacher, whom the dying woman had wished notified.

“So these wretched papists botched the poor thing,” Schuh said angrily. He channeled his grief into furious rage, railing against Italy, its doctors, the climate, and life there—but at bottom, he raged against fate for inflicting such incomprehensible cruelty on the person, after Hermine and his boy, he loved most.

Hermine battled her pain for two days, while little Karl cowered under the table, uncomprehending why his mother wept ceaselessly and his father cursed.

Then Hermine said, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Kobenzl to see Father. I imagined my first visit with him differently, bringing the child. But perhaps the boy will be some consolation and joy to him.”

When she and the child prepared to leave the next day, Schuh opened his wardrobe and began dressing too.

“Not going to the factory?” Hermine asked.

“No, I’m coming with you,” Schuh grumbled. He had the right to use the factory carriage but rarely did. Today, however, he’d ordered it; it waited outside, and they drove off together into the blissful summer day, full of sun and colors. For little Karl, the ride was a journey to fairyland—wonders followed one after another; he crowed endlessly with delight. Over his blond head, the parents exchanged glances; they understood each other, full of confidence. However sadly and incomprehensibly cruel some decrees were, there were consolations bringing light even to the darkest soul.

The access roads to Reisenberg were far from good, torn up by deep ruts where the carriage jolted forward, sometimes throwing their heads together with a sudden lurch. The mulberry trees the Freiherr had planted stood wild along the roadsides. There were now enough leaves for armies of silkworms to gorge themselves, but where were the silkworms, where was the careful husbandry of the estate’s model days? It was clear Reichenbach had sold the estate, and the creditor to whom it was transferred cared little for it, thinking only of further sales.

The castle itself showed Reichenbach’s neglect. It wasn’t just the subtle signs of decay but an indefinable air of cold, surly rejection that made Hermine uneasy. It no longer gazed freely and cheerfully into the landscape; it lay closed off, ill-tempered, like a sullen fortress. And the great cast-iron dog on the terrace, the Molossus from Blansko’s foundry, with its grim face, seemed now the true emblem of the house. Little Karl was transfixed by the iron beast, standing before it as if waiting for it to suddenly bark.

Meanwhile, Schuh pulled the bell at the entrance by the garden hall, now boarded up with weathered planks in the middle of summer. It took a long time before anyone came, and even then, the door opened only a narrow crack, as far as an iron chain inside allowed. One might think the woman whose head appeared in the gap had modeled her expression on the cast-iron Molossus.

“The Herr Baron isn’t home!” she grumbled with blunt certainty, without waiting for an explanation.

“Just announce us to the Herr Baron,” said Schuh, irritated by this broad face with coarse cheekbones and thick lips.

“You’ve heard he’s not home,” the woman snapped.

“Tell him his daughter Hermine is here with her husband and child.”

The woman pulled a brazen, mocking grimace that Schuh would have loved to smash with his fist. “Even if the Emperor of China were here, he’d have to turn back. The Herr Baron wants to see no one… and you least of all, got it?”

Schuh’s patience ran out. He shoved the woman in the chest and tried to wedge his foot in the door to force entry. But the chain held, and the woman, a broad, solid, heavy figure, threw herself against the intruder, pushed him back, and slammed the door shut.

There stood Schuh and Hermine, staring at each other, at a loss for words. What kind of gatekeeper had the father hired? The house was indeed a fortress, guarded by a woman with the devil in her.

“Aren’t we going to Grandfather’s?” asked little Karl, finally tearing himself from the dog.

“No, not today,” Hermine said in a choked voice. “Grandfather isn’t home.”

They went to the carriage waiting on the road. On a terrace bench overlooking the city sat an old man.

“That’s Severin,” said Hermine. Yes, Severin—he would lead them to her father, he’d muzzle that Cerberus.

Severin nodded with an enigmatic smile and rose slowly, leaning on a stick beside him.

“What kind of fury do you have at the door?” Schuh asked, still furious.

“Oh,” Severin chuckled, “she’s got hair on her teeth!”

“Take us to Father,” Hermine pleaded.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »