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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte: pages 85- 89

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 18, 2025| Leave a Comment »

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

When I wanted to go I noticed that a few steps behind
me was a lean, white-haired, very stately and upright peasant,
who looked at me with a less than friendly and piercing look.
“I suppose the gentleman is coming to see us?” he said
lurkingly. “I will show him the way to the inn.”
And with that he walked beside me.
The village mutt, which wanted to come at me with loud
barking, gave way with retracted tail before his hard look. The
people before the houses pulled their caps before him.
“Here it is.”
The peasant pointed to the door of a large house, in front
of which a couple of fellows stood chatting quietly.
“Enter.”
That sounded like an order and gave me a jolt.
“Ei, is this the only inn in the big town?” I turned
mockingly to my companion. “And how do you know that I
want to enter this one?”
He looked me sharply in the face with his cold, blue eyes
and replied only briefly:
“It is best for the Lord to enter here!”
I complied with the strange compulsion, entered and sat
down at a table on the wall under the deer antlers. The old man
sat down with me, had wine brought, set fire to a short silver-
beaten burl pipe and said:
“You look like a man of status in spite of your rather
scuffed clothes. The question is how you have come to so
lonely a wandering?”
“Aren’t you being a bit too curious, Herr Mayor,” I
replied. This was the title he had been given by the little girl
when she had poured the wine.
“Curiosity, as you call it, is the right of the established
against strangers. Besides, here I am the authority. So you want
to tell me something about your status, name and what you are
doing. Its better speaking over a glass than on the bench in the
basement, if one is the judge and the other is the indicted.”
This sounded like a threat, and I would certainly have
responded sharply if there had not been something special in
the man’s nature and especially in the look of the man, there
was something that I did not want to resist. The mayor also
knew how to get answers to the questions that he addressed to
me so cleverly and forcefully that I, not knowing why myself,
shared my entire life to him with the greatest frankness. I
admitted that I had deserted from the army of the great king,
not out of cowardice, but to flee the cruelty of a state that
seemed to me to be an excess of servitude and annihilation of
free will which had become abhorrent to me.
“Young Herr,” said the old man thoughtfully. “In such a
way it can still take a good course with you. As I hear from
your speeches, you have had pity on the poor man, and that is a
great and precious rarity among people. To what extent your
unprotected youth pushed you into ruin, I cannot judge for the
time being. But I hope that a suspicion which distresses me and
which is very threatening to you, will prove to be false.”
“What suspicion?” I asked, astonished.
“Be patient,” said the mayor. “Where will your
wanderings take you?”
“To my homeland,” I answered.
“Tell me,” he continued, again looking sharply at me.
“Why did you stand so long in the snow looking at the wayside
shrine?”
Gradually, his imperious way of asking put me in harness,
and I briefly asked him whether he thought of himself as a
judge who had a poor rascal before him.
“That is what I think.”
He laid his hand firmly on my arm.
“You know that I am the mayor of this village and as
such I ask you: Do you have anything to tell me about the
welfare of the village?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Your village is threatened by a
grave danger.”
It was as if a kindly glow flitted across his weathered
face. But it became immediately serious again, and he said,
apparently indifferently:
“Gee up! Who told you that fairy tale?”
“It’s not a fairy tale,” I said, glad to bring in my nearly
almost committed grave omission. “Believe me, you are in
danger!”
“Go ahead and speak, Squire.”
“There are certain signs,” I said, “by which the murderers
and the marauders announce their wickedness to each other. I
found such signs on your wayside shrine. Now you know why I
stopped in the snow.”
He made a movement as if he wanted to reach out his
hand to me, but dropped it and asked dryly, where I got such
dubious knowledge. I reminded him that I had already told him
about my time with the gypsies, who understood such things
well.
The old man laughed briefly and his wrinkled face came
near.
“Perhaps it true that I also know something about such
things?” he murmured.
“You?”
I shook my head doubtfully.
“We could try it out,” he said and poured me some wine.
“Describe the signs to me, and then let’s interpret them together
like the old magicians of whom we read in the scriptures.”
“Very well,” I said. “There were on the Wayside Shrine: a
full moon, a one, three houses, the first two of which are
crossed out, and the third not, a comb with teeth, a snake or a
viper, two dice with five on top, three crosses, each in a square,
two of which are crossed out and one of which is not, a knife,
two shoes, a rooster and the letter F.”
“Quite so.”
The old man nodded and took a thoughtful sip from his
glass, “Now let’s divide ourselves in the work. You, valiant
squire, point out to me the rogue’s signs up to the two fives of
the dice, and then I will explain the rest of the drawings that
have been on the Wayside Shrine since yesterday.”
“We could leave the interpreting for later. Better to take
precautions now -“
“Don’t be concerned,” he rebuffed. “It will be on my, the
village mayor’s cap, if something is missed, you are in no way
to blame. And now off with your gypsy wisdom!”
“So listen,” I began. “The signs are thus to read: On the
first day of the full moon we gather. The target is for the third
house in the village. This all means the moon, the one and the
not crossed out third house. A comb with teeth indicates: a
sharp dog is on guard. Then the snake means a lump of poison,
to make the watch dog dumb.”
“It’s my house,” nodded the white-haired man, “which
they have in mind, and my Packan, who admittedly will not
take a lump from a stranger’s hand. You have interpreted well.
Now it is my turn.”
“Better let me.”
“Chamber. Two fives on the dice: that is ten o’clock at
night, because the moon is in front; three crosses, each in a
square, two painted: get in at the third window. A knife:
murders quickly and safely. The shoes: then make haste away
with the loot, but first put the red rooster on the roof as it is
shown, so that the fire will erase all the evidence. And F? What
does that mean?”
He looked at me with a smile.
“That’s a name sign,” I replied quickly. “You can’t get the
name itself from it. Certainly it is the captain, whom the others
obey.”
“The F means Frieder,” said the old man, “and this devil
of a fellow is the leader of five journeymen murderers who
have drawn themselves from the Spessart region and call
themselves the Red Hat, as Frieder likes to wear a fox-red cap.
Now you also know the name sign.”
“A good guess,” I admitted.
“Now I may trust you, young Herr.”
The mayor extended his hand to me, which he had
previously refused to do.
“Even though it stinks that you know how to read tines.
You know that earlier I took you for one of their henchmen and
spies, when you were at the wayside shrine and looked at the
signs so devoutly. Hey, Hannes, Matz, and Kilian!” he shouted
loudly.
In an instant the door opened, and three tree-strong
fellows with rifles, sabers and two huge gray shepherds’ or
catchers’ dogs came straight towards me with ropes in their
hands.
“Leave the gentleman!” the mayor waved them off. “Go
back to the others and tell them that this one is a righteous man
and no one may harm him. Make it very clear, as I have shown
you. Veit and Leberecht at the sloe bush, old Knolb and Heger’s
boy on the roof of the first house, four in the ditch, two behind
the dung heap, ten in Heger’s stable and the others, as the case
may be. Let them come right on in, don’t bother taking
prisoners. The five helpers may kiss the snow, Frieder, the one
with the red cap, we want alive.”
The strong fellows looked at me and laughed.
“So we would have soon sent the wrong man on his way
to heaven,” said one of them, nudging the two others, who
burst out with their boorish laughter. The dogs growled and
pulled their chops from their white teeth.
“Now go again!” the old man instructed them, and
immediately they stomped heavily out the door.
Outside the last light lay blue and darkening on the white
land.
The old man ordered me not to leave the inn for the time
being.
Later, the taciturn tavern maid, who answered all my
questions with a “Don’t know.” brought me a chicken roasted
on a spit and a jug of red wine.
Once, when I felt the urge to go out, one of the dogs
struck close to me. So I had to stay and wait until everything
was over, and tired from the long way and sleepy from eating
and drinking, I fell into a half slumber.

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Hermetic Mysteries: Table Talk, Part 5

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 18, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Appendix: Table Talk and Memorabilia of Mary Anne Atwood, Part 5

Introduction: Mary Anne Atwood’s reflections unveil the Hermetic art’s transformative essence, guiding the soul to divine unity through the interplay of light and will. This section explores the regeneration of consciousness, navigating the universal spirit to eternal truth.

The Protean Nature of Life

Atwood describes the Hermetic art as an interrogation of the “Proteus” of life, the ever-changing First Matter, as Virgil’s advice to Aristaeus suggests. The adept, by dissolving the soul’s sensuous medium, opens consciousness to the “multiplicity of being,” aligning it with divine light. This process, as St. Paul’s “letter killeth” implies, requires a sacrificial humility to transcend the self-will, uniting the soul with the Universal Spirit, as Boehme’s Signature Rerum illustrates.

The art’s transformative power, seen in the Golden Treatise, reverses the soul’s linear path into a circular eternity, revealing the “golden matter” of divine wisdom within.

The Alchemy of Divine Regeneration

The Hermetic process, as Atwood notes, is a “war” between self-will and divine will, where the adept’s rational light overcomes sensory chaos, as the Chaldaic Oracles suggest: “All possibilities are brought before the seer.” Mesmerism, initiating this motion, dissolves the sensuous veil, aligning with your life force energy interests (September 7, 2025). The soul, purified through contrition, becomes a vessel for the “aurific seed,” the divine light that transforms life into a radiant essence.

This regeneration, as Synesius’ “two pairs of eyes” metaphor indicates, shifts consciousness from earthly to divine perception, mirroring OAK’s meditative unity (October 2, 2025).

The Universal Path to Truth

Atwood emphasizes that true knowledge is an “experimental contact” with the divine, where the soul, freed from its “vaporous vehicle,” merges with the Universal Spirit. The adept, as Proclus’ analysis of time suggests, perceives life’s causal root, transcending modern metaphysics. This path, requiring faith and humility, aligns with the Christian scheme of redemption, as St. Martin’s teachings affirm, offering a holistic truth that resonates with OAK’s vision of soul resonance.

Closing: This appendix unveils the Hermetic art’s transformative essence, guiding the soul to divine truth. The journey into further reflections deepens, unveiling more secrets of this sacred art.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte: pages 80- 84

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

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

And when I thought of it, it shook me coldly. I quickly
went up to the sleeping mortuary attendant, grabbed him by the
shoulder and called out:
“Wake up, man! Robbers are outside –“
The peasant, who was wearing a coarse shillelagh,
jumped up and looked at me in alarm.
“Where?” he slurred.
“Outside,” I said again and closed the door behind me. I
heard him quickly slam the heavy latch shut.
As soon as I stood outside in the breeze, crooked fingers
clawed at my tattered coat, two eyes shone like brass, and from
a black gaping mouth he bleated:
“Throw them away; throw them away from you all at
once!”
“What do you mean, cursed one, that I should throw
them away?” I shouted in his face.
“Our Lord Christ’s cross -?”
Fangerle bent back as if I had struck him in the face,
twisted and turned like a worm and began to run, cross-country.
The wind raced behind him, whistling and whirled up his
coattails, and as he was carried away into the twilight, it
seemed to me as if instead of him a giant bird with black wings
soared over the furrows, just as owls fly. I stood without money,
abandoned and damp from the dew on the lonely road.
But then I remembered the satchel with the soul mice.
Who was screaming so miserably in the hunting bag of the evil
one -? The evil one!
A paralyzing fright crept into my legs. Calling on the
name of God a hundred times, I went towards the next place
and did not dare to look around.

The gypsies, with whom I had long been walking, the
brown Romi, as they called themselves, had wandered back
across the border, and I had to separate from them, if I did not
want to be married by the provost to the rope maker’s daughter.
My misery was boundless. Here and there I found some
work and food in the farms, I even received a damaged piece of
clothing that was even better than my rags, but most of the time
I was starving and freezing to death. One day I was lucky and
found half a loaf of bread on a country lane, which had been
lost from a cart. And when I saw the ruins of a castle on a
mighty, wooded hill, I decided to light a fire in a hidden place
in the walls, so that I would not have to spend the icy winter
night without the comfort of close warmth.
After some climbing around in the rocks I soon found a
still fairly preserved vault, on the whitewashed wall of which
still the remains of Al Fresco paintings could be seen. Among
other paintings also the wedding of Cana was depicted (as I
could see from the remains of clothing and heads, as well as
the large, ancient wine jugs), and when I saw the mural, which
was in a bad state of disrepair, I noticed that one of the wine
jugs bore the barely legible inscription:
“Hic jacet”, or “Here it lies”.
Perhaps it was a joke that the painter made for himself,
telling the thoughtful observers that in these jugs and in the
wine that fills them, in fact something lies and rests, namely
the spirit that enters into the body of man with the drink and
gradually unleashes all passions, which overwhelms and rapes
the mind, through intoxication; but perhaps it was also said that
all gaiety slumbers in the round belly of the pitcher and after
drinking the drink, it would froth up in laughter, cheerfulness
and songs. About this and the like, I pondered until the lack of
the warming fire made itself violently known and forced me to
tramp up and down in the spacious vault for a while, in order to
warm myself and to let my stiff hands be used for starting the
fire.
When passing the unfortunately only painted brown jug,
I could not help but tap the thick belly of the vessel with a bent
forefinger, even though its rounded appearance was only the
skill of the painter, who through the distribution of light and
color had achieved a high degree of plasticity. But when I
playfully tapped at the seemingly round curvature of the
drinking vessel, I felt as if it had a dull, wooden, and hollow
space. I knocked again, and two or three more times. The
sound gave way at the place where the Latin words were
written; it differed from the sound of the walled environment.
Following a sudden impulse, I peeled off the paint and
the lime with my blunt knife, dug a little and immediately came
to a wide, rotten storage cache. I increased my efforts, and soon
the old wood was crumbling away in brown flour and damp
splinters, exposing a small niche in which lay a round,
greenish-white mold covered sphere.
After some hesitation, in which I saw that the object was
a decomposed human head, I plucked up my courage, reached
in and pulled out a completely decomposed leather sack, which
made a fine sound when I lifted it out. It was heavy with
metallic contents.
Then I made a fire, probably also for this reason, to calm
my hammering heart by doing an indifferent work. When the
little fire was burning and flickering merrily, I proceeded to
examine the leather container, which the inscription on the
wine urn had advised. Those, to whom this sign had once been
made because of the danger of forgetfulness, had been dead
and gone for many years, perhaps buried under the rubble of
the castle.
The bag offered little resistance. It fell apart as I carried it
to my fire, and its contents rolled ringing on the damaged stone
floor.
My breath was taken away by the sheer joy of it.
Doubloons, sun-crowns, guilders rolled out of the greasy,
wet bag and flashed in the glow of the dancing flames.
I laughed, shouted, and leapt around the fire. I let the
blessing run through my unwashed fingers, shook the coins
into my hat, stroked them, and twisted individual pieces
between thumb and forefinger so that they reflected the embers,
paving the floor with them and throwing ducats in the air to
catch them again or to search for the unrolled ones among the
debris.
But then reason prevailed. How easily the firelight, my
foolish shouting and stamping could attract passersby and
betray me and my refuge! In great haste and yet cautiously I
tore my sweat-glued shirt and produced by knotting and
folding a kind of money bag in which I concealed the not
inconsiderable number of gold pieces and hid them on my bare
body. When I was finished with everything, I pulled the
smoldering wood apart and thoughtfully descended the hill of
ruins to reach the next town in broad daylight. This I succeeded
in doing and after a short time of sneaking, searching and
cautious questioning, I found the store of a junk dealer.
I told him that I was a runaway soldier and that I needed
clothes, linen, shoes and a warm coat. Fortune demanded that I
had come across a reasonably honest man, who, though not
cheaply, did not cheat me for inordinate profit, and even had a
bath prepared for me against good money and an ointment that
freed me from the torment of the vermin. The only thing that
bothered me was the hurry, with which all this had to proceed,
and the visibly growing restlessness of the man, as daylight
gradually began to fade.
At last, however, his insistence became tiresome to me,
and I asked him gruffly whether the chosen people practiced
hospitality in such a way, and how he seemed to hold it in low
esteem that I had willingly let him earn a nice piece of money.
For I was well aware of the price at which worn clothes and
worn linen and clothes were traded. Nevertheless, I would have
paid what I had received without question as if it had just come
out of the workshop of the tailor and garment maker. Then the
Jew laughed and said:
“The gentleman has probably also been rendered a
service so that he may have cleaned and equipped himself in all
secrecy, so that the bailiff does not even look after him, when
he crosses the street. If the gentleman were a Ben Yisroel, one
of my people, it would be a pleasure for me to house him. But
because the gentleman is from the others, it must not be so.
Because it is Friday evening, which we Jews call Eref Shabbiss
and it is against our custom, to suffer strangers in our festive
house. May the Lord forgive; I know well that he is a Purez, a
distinguished man, who has suffered from the Balmachomim,
and may he go his way in peace and forgive that it cannot be
otherwise!”
Thereby with a deep bow he tore open the iron door of
his store and politely beckoned me to leave.
Only when I was standing outside on the street did it
occur to me that in his way he had acted honestly toward me.
For it would have been easy for him to keep me in his house
and betray me to the king’s troops lying not far away in their
winter quarters. Despite the armistice, they could have picked
me out and abducted me, and with some skill the Jew would
have not only had a reward, but also the money hidden on my
person, which would have not gone unnoticed to his quick eyes.
Thus it was not by my cleverness, but by my good fortune, that
I had escaped the greatest danger to my life.
For the sake of safety, I decided to wander deeper into
the country and far away from the border to make use of a mail
coach.
So I trudged on my way in the thick snow and strove
towards a village in which I intended to spend the night.
At the entrance of the respectable and, judging by the
clean houses that were spared from the war, prosperous
location stood an artwork, the sorrowful mother with her son in
her lap. The base of the sandstone had been freshly plastered,
and so I immediately noticed a few figures and strokes on the
white surface drawn with charcoal which I knew as “marks”, as
the country and traveling thieves call their secret signs. When I
was with the gypsies I had learned such science, which is
useful for everyone to understand.
But these signs on the wayside shrine were about murder
and burning and I shuddered when I deciphered their meaning.
Undecided what to do with them, by no means to
carelessly disregard the threatening message for other people I
stopped.

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Hermetic Mysteries: Table Talk, Part 4

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

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Appendix: Table Talk and Memorabilia of Mary Anne Atwood, Part 4

Introduction: Mary Anne Atwood’s reflections illuminate the Hermetic art’s transformative power, guiding the soul to divine unity through the interplay of will and light. This section explores the alchemical regeneration of consciousness, unveiling the path to universal truth.

The Dynamics of Divine Regeneration

Atwood describes the Hermetic art as a process of regenerating the soul by dissolving its “self-willed” forms, as St. Martin suggests, aligning it with the Universal Will. The “Corascene dog” and “Armenian bitch” symbolize opposing wills—self and divine—merging into a “sky-colored” essence, as Ripley notes, reflecting divine harmony. This transformation, requiring the adept to avoid selfish haste, elevates consciousness to the “Chief Corner Stone,” akin to Christ’s redemptive unity.

The process, as Boehme’s Signature Rerum illustrates, involves a “central action” where the soul’s light, freed from its “petrifaction,” shines forth, uniting microcosmic centers (head, heart, lumbar) with the Universal Spirit.

The Alchemy of Will and Motion

The Hermetic art, as Atwood explains, is a “mechanical and alchemical” process, using the body’s members—eyes, hands—as instruments to stir the “Vulcan” of motion. This motion, unlike the halting linear life, returns the soul to its circular, eternal source, as the Chaldaic Oracles suggest: “The reins of fire stretch to the unfashioned soul.” Mesmerism, as a preliminary step, initiates this motion, dissolving sensory bonds to awaken divine light, aligning with your life force energy interests (September 7, 2025).

The adept’s will, purified of “false sulphurs,” becomes a vessel for the “Proteus” of universal life, as Sendivogius notes, unlocking the soul’s creative potential through divine alignment.

The Universal Quest for Truth

Atwood emphasizes that true knowledge is an “experimental contact” with the divine, where the soul, as Fichte and Boehme experienced, merges with the Universal Spirit. The Hermetic process, an “inquisition into life,” dissolves doubts through light, as St. Martin’s broad inquiries illustrate. This path, requiring humility and faith, transcends modern metaphysics, offering a holistic truth that resonates with OAK’s meditative unity (October 2, 2025).

Closing: This appendix unveils the Hermetic art’s regenerative dynamics, transforming the soul into divine light. The journey into further reflections deepens in our next post, unveiling more secrets of this sacred art.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte: pages 75- 79

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

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

Nevertheless no one seemed to pay any attention
to the ugly one but I. And sometimes it seemed to me, as if a
chirping and whistling sound as of mice came out from his
bulging satchel. Not infrequently he rolled his squinty eyes
toward me and laughed impudently at me, as if we were old
acquaintances. I racked my brains, in fact, to find out where I
might have seen this mask before, but as hard as I tried, I could
not think of it.
After a while, a beautiful carriage stopped in front of the
inn, and several handsome merchants entered the drinking
room, and were very courteously welcomed by the innkeeper’s
wife and the barmaid.
Then I thought that it was now time for me to go, and
crept out of the door.
But when I found myself on the wet street in the roaring
dew wind, I held my fluttering rags with my hands to cover the
worst of the bare spots, there was such a shrill laugh right next
to me, that I collapsed. The man with the hunter’s hat walked
next to me, as if he had been my companion all his life, and
looked at me piercingly from the side.
“Well, your Baronial Grace,” he grumbled, “what
peculiar garb I must find you in again. The new, lavender-gray
little coat suited you better that day, when you were watching
with your strict father, as the magistrate cracked Heiner’s rough
bones.”
I looked up, now I knew where I had seen him. It was at
Zotenbock, where he had been hanging around in the linden
trees, eavesdropping at the market place.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Me? I’m just Fangerle,” he replied, suddenly quite
humble. “I’m glad when, with much toil and trouble I fill my
blue satchel so that my master, who is called the Highest-
Lowest, can be content. I now have an extremely annoying job
and would be really happy if someone wants to take some of
the work off my hands. It is nice money to be earned. Don’t
you feel like it, your Baronial Grace?”
“Listen,” I said, raising my ash stick. “I am in great
distress, but if you have come with your gallows face to mock
me, then I will show you that even in rags I can still be a
gentleman, if need be.”
He ducked his head as if he were afraid, and asked me
not to be rude. He was a joker by trade, he said, and as such
earned a lot of money at peasant weddings and funeral
banquets. And whether I got angry if he said it now – it is a
disgrace that one of the house of Dronte is in such an outfit,
when it would have been no trouble to earn a bare hundred
thalers in a few moments. And before I could reply he reached
into his satchel with his crooked fingers and pulled out a
handsome canvas pouch, in which it clinked.
“A full hundred,” he whispered in my ear. “Hihi – hoho!”
he laughed, and it was as if an echo came down from the skies.
But it was only a great train of crows and Jackdaws,
which moved with Krah and Kjak in the sky, and when I
looked up, a crow detached itself from the flock, swooped
down and fluttered very low above our heads, so that I saw
how it moved its cunning, black ball eyes. At that the thin man
straightened up and called out to it:
“Black Dove, go and tell the Highest – Lowest, that
Fangerle is on the way and to take the quiet one his
consolation!”
“Krah – Krag!” cried the bird and shot after the others.
“What are you chattering about?”
I prevailed over my uninvited companion, who was
jingling his money bag.
“What are you talking about?”
“This?” he gave in reply. “One of my jokes, nothing else.
Remember: If you’re riding in a wagon and there is a barking
mutt, like your master father’s black Diana, following behind,
you need only turn and tell the animal where to go. Then it will
leave you immediately. This and nothing else I have done with
the raven. Otherwise Master Hämmerlein’s songbird would fly
with us.”
My eyes were glued to the clinking money bag, and I
thought of how I could equip myself with a hundred thalers and
become a human being again.
There was another strange squeaking in his satchel.
“What do you have in it?” I asked, pointing with my
finger, “that it squeaks like that?”
“There in the blue satchel?” The merchant made a face.
“It’s little animals that I’ve caught and bring them to their
place.”
“What kind of little animals?” I pressed him.
“Soul mice, tiny soul mice that I’ve been gathering
around there.”
“Soul mice?”
“It’s just a word,” he laughed, reaching into the sack and
quickly pulled out a small, shadowy-gray thing that wriggled
and screamed. Quickly he hid it again, and although I had not
been able to see what it had actually been, a violent shudder
ran through my body.
Then came a howling gust of wind and almost pulled me
down. The money bag fell out of the old man’s hand. Flashing,
brand-new thaler pieces rolled out. He quickly picked them up
from the ground and threw them back in with the others, and
once again my desire for all that money awoke.
“What must I do to make the money mine?”
He stopped, rolled his eyes, and muzzled his mouth.
“In a moment, my boy, my brave boy, just be patient until
we reach the two Ka- Ka -“
A fit of coughing almost tore his throat.
I followed the direction of his outstretched hand and saw
a chapel by the road, not far from the village I was walking
toward. I hurriedly strode and the merchant, who suddenly
seemed to get sour from walking, only followed with difficulty.
When we came to the little church, he stopped, bent over
and scratched himself with his nails behind his pointed ears,
with his mouth hanging down.
“Now you will tell me,” I said angrily, “or do you think
you can continue to mock me?”
Then he became completely submissive, bowed to me
and said softly and almost shyly:
“Baron Dronte, I am a coward, and I am afraid of many
things that a brave soldier does not fear. There is one lying in
there, and he’s dead, so he can’t bite. In his hands are two
wooden sticks, one long and a shorter one, which I must take
from him for all the world. It is only a handle and a hitch, so he
must leave them.”
“That would be robbing a corpse,” I stammered, startled.
“That would be the gallows.”
“Many names exist for the businesses in which there is
much to earn. And there are many gallows, but most stand
empty.”
Under his broad hat, his eyes glistened like St. John’s
beetles.
“I’d love to,” he croaked hoarsely, “but I can’t touch such
sticks. Everyone has their own characteristics. Like, for
example, many a man would rather die than touch a toad with
his bare hand. “
“What kind of sticks are they, for which you have such a
great desire?”
“Don’t need them,” he hissed crossly. “Only that the one
in there shall be free of them.”
Again there was a clang and a sound. My wound hurt.
The water stood in my pierced shoes and bit open my frostbite.
“I’ll do it,” I said, and reached for the door handle. He
looked at me like a hawk. It dawned heavily. The wind rumbled
over the steep roof of the chapel. The trees rustled.
I entered.
In the middle of the whitewashed room, in the corners of
which the darkness was already eerily stretching, there was a
coffin in front of the altar on the collar. A single light flickered
at its head end. A guard sat on the floor and slept. Next to him
glittered an empty bottle.
In the open coffin, however, lay an old, distinguished
man with a face in which life had drawn furrows and wrinkles.
He was dressed in a new coat made of black, watered silk; also
the vest, the leggings and the stockings were black. A white,
well coiffed state wig framed the wax-yellow, smartly pinched
face. In his folded hands he held a small wooden cross.
I had seen many dead people and even had to help bury
them. I didn’t feel much at the sight of lifeless bodies that were
left to decay. But this old man with his wise and so unmoving
face, in which countless joys and sufferings had been marked,
this defenseless man, whose guardian lay there in deep
drunkenness and left him defenseless and exposed to
everything that might befall the lonely church. I took pity on
him. And what was I supposed to steal from him?
Then I recognized it: It was the death cross, which his
hands were holding tightly. I was supposed to snatch it from
him.
This should not be difficult. I took hold of the cross. Who
sighed there? I almost fell to the ground from fright. But then I
got hold of myself, remembered that the dead are dead forever,
and reached out my hand again.
But I lowered it. What did it matter to the merchant with
his disgusting eyes of a bitch, whether this deceased was
brought under the lawn with or without his cross? And now he
would give me a talking to, the barnacle-eyed fellow with his
thalers.
I went toward the door. It was only two steps, but I
looked back at the dead man. He was lying quietly and
peacefully, and as if in great fear, the pale fingers closed
around the cross.
I had to think of the despicable guy who had hired me.
How could this madman or villain think that I would take the
cross of a lifeless man away from him?
What had he been chattering about, how the ravens
flew over us?
“To take the silent man’s comfort -?”

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Hermetic Mysteries: Table Talk, Part 3

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

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Appendix: Table Talk and Memorabilia of Mary Anne Atwood, Part 3

Introduction: Mary Anne Atwood’s reflections illuminate the Hermetic art’s regenerative power, guiding the soul to divine unity through will and light. This section explores the alchemical transformation of consciousness, unveiling the path to universal wisdom.

The Regeneration of Consciousness

Atwood describes the Hermetic art as a process of regenerating the soul’s “third life” (mineral) through the celestial, aligning it with divine wisdom, as Eirenaeus’ metaphor of the “bottomless Mercury” suggests. The adept, by purifying the will, dissolves the “Great Salt Sea” of selfish desires, allowing the “Solar Tincture” of divine light to shine, as St. Martin’s teachings echo. This transformation, akin to Christ’s redemptive work, elevates consciousness to the “Paradisaical life,” free from sensory chains.

The process, requiring contrition and love, reverses the soul’s linear path into a circular eternity, as Boehme’s Signature Rerum illustrates: “The soul perceives the Divine through its essence.”

The Alchemy of Divine Will

The Hermetic art, as Atwood notes, is a “magnetism of Light,” where the Universal Will dissolves false forms, like the “Walls of Troy,” to reveal the divine essence. The adept, through disciplined inquiry, navigates three microcosmic centers—head (animal), heart (vegetable), lumbar (mineral)—to align with the divine, as the Chaldaic Oracles suggest: “The reins of fire stretch to the unfashioned soul.” This process, avoiding self-willed haste, ensures purity, as Norton warns: “Haste is the Devil’s part.”

Mesmerism, as a preliminary step, dissolves the sensuous medium, opening the soul to divine light, but requires a pure will to avoid corruption, resonating with your life force energy interests (September 7, 2025).

The Universal Truth of Creation

Atwood emphasizes that true knowledge is an “experimental contact” with the divine, where the soul, purified of “false sulphurs,” becomes a vessel for the Universal Spirit. The Golden Treatise and Boehme’s ontology describe this as a return to the “Nothing” that is everything, where will and love unite to manifest divine creation. The adept, like Oken, sees nature’s virtues through divine wisdom, transcending modern metaphysics to achieve a holistic truth, as OAK’s meditations aspire to (October 2, 2025).

Closing: This appendix unveils the Hermetic art’s regenerative principles, transforming consciousness into divine light. The journey into further reflections deepens in our next post, unveiling more secrets of this sacred art.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte: pages 70- 74

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

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

He fell silent, exhausted, breathing heavily.
“Not everything he says is a lie,” murmured Repke.
“You too?” roared Zulkov, spitting on the ground. “Oh,
about you Germans! You misjudge what alone is necessary for
the salvation of the German nation, the army and the wise hand
to guide it.”
“Germans are over here and over there. Have always
been a poor, betrayed people,” said Repke.
“It’s a pity that I’ve shot my powder outside, Fritze
Zulkow,” sneered Wetzlaff. “Otherwise maybe you would like
a warm plaster glued to your mouth with all the strength of
your body, you foot stinker, you are the miserable archetype
and symbol of the subservient subject. Decomposing even in a
living body and still singing the praises of the one whose furies
flay us and torment us until death. But you just wait until they
put me on outposts again. I’ll cross over; I’ll cross over, so help
me God… O hell, filth and Satan — it overcomes me again –!”
With a staggering leap he was up, and again we heard his
blood gurgling outside.
“He has a bad fever!” waved Repke at the enraged
Zulkov angrily. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about
in his pain.”
Then Kühlemiek raised his nasally trembling voice and
began to sing from his book, so that we all shuddered:
“The abomination in the darkness,
The stigma in the conscience
The hand that is full of blood
The eye full of adulteries,
The naughty mouth full of curses,
The heart of the scoundrel is revealed.”
“Oh my God -!”
It was I who cried out thus.
Then a loud trumpet blared. – “Alarm!”
Zulkov shouted, squeezing his sore feet into his frozen
shoes. “Alarm!”
At the glow of the extinguishing fire, we gathered
everything together.
Distant shots.
The trumpets began to scream all around.
Wetzlaff stumbled in.
“Up, brothers, up! We want to light up the royal bastard’s
home. Vivat Fridericus!”
That was Wetzlaff.
Bent with body ache, he took up his rifle. Zulkov moaned
softly with every step. All around there was noise, horses
neighing, clanking. But in all the raving, running, shouting
orders and muffled noise of the shooting in front swung
mewling and horrible the merciless voice of the pietist, who
sang his song to the end.
Dreadful fear descended from the tones. The fear of what
would happen after death. The drums were beating.
Heavy smoke rolled in thick clouds, dissipated, came in
new blue-white balls, and dissipated again. Fog and stink lay
over everything. Dull roaring thuds, crashes, whipping bang,
chirping of bullets. I stood with the others in lines and ranks,
bit off the bullet twisted in rancid paper, kept it in my mouth,
poured the black powder into the hot barrel, ran my fingers
between my teeth and pushed the cobbled lump of lead down
with the ramrod until it rested firmly and the iron rod jumped.
Just as it had been drilled into me. Then powder on the pan,
with the thumb on the cock, aimed it horizontally, and into the
wall of fog in front of me, in which shadows were moving.
The stone gave off sparks and it flared up before my eyes, and
then came the rough recoil against my sore shoulder.
The lieutenant on the wing waved the halberd and
shouted.
“Geg – geg – geg,” was heard, not understanding a word.
A big iron ball rolled and danced across the frozen snow,
then a second one. A third bounced along beneath us and
smashed Kühlemiek’s feet out from under him.
“O Jesus Christ!” he cried out, crawling a little on his
hands in his own blood. Then he fell with his face in the snow,
became silent.
“Flü – flü – flüdeldideldi,” lured the pipes.
“Plum – plum – plum.” The drummers worked with
sweaty faces. The legs lifted and lowered in time with the beat,
one was sitting there, with his head between his spread legs.
The blister on my heel was burning, the lice were
crawling restlessly on my scratched skin, and there was a
rumbling in my guts. I looked around… rows, rows of blue
coats, skinny faces with small mustaches, white bandoliers, and
bare barrels.
“Kühlemiek – Kühlemiek – miekeliekeliek”, trilled from
the lips of the pipers.
In front of us a row of red lights flashed. A cloud of gray
smoke rose behind it.
Repke roared and grasped with both hands between his
thighs. A tall soldier leaped like a carp and drove with his head
into a snowdrift, his feet stretched upwards. Next to me, one
screamed like a frog. I could still see the blood pouring out of
his ear, before he collapsed to his knees. Zulkov suddenly had
no head anymore, walked next to me and sprayed me with hot
blood. Then he fell down. The squire was knocked backwards
as if he had been hit by an axe.
Wetzlaff sat down first, screamed, “I can’t,” and then lay
down.
In front of me crawled a man who was blind-shot, and
Ramler had his right hand twisted and hanging out of his sleeve.
He looked at it in amazement and stayed behind. His rifle fell
to the ground.
Large shapes came swaying out of the haze, and quickly
became clear.
White coats, black cuirasses. Broad blades stabbed at us,
horses’ heads snorted, fled to the side startled. A horse stood on
its hind legs in front of me. I saw the rider, who was holding
the hand with the broadsword hilt in front of his face, with his
left hand clasping the saddle horn. I saw the whiteness of his
coat under the edge of the dark armor and hastily thrust with
the bayonet. It was soft. He fell forward onto the horse’s neck,
glared in my face, and cried out.
“You-!”
It was Phoebus Merentheim…
He rattled down. I no longer saw him. But another one
came, lifted himself in the stirrups and hit me on the head with
lightning speed, so that I staggered around. The edge of the tin
hood cut my forehead, warm and thick water flowed into my
eyes. My feet went on. My arms pushed the barrel forward
with the bayonet. I tore it from the neck of a brown man. The
horsemen were gone all at once, vanished.
“No rest – no rest – no rest,” the drums murmured.
I slept while walking.
We were suddenly among houses.
A woman cried out in fear; fell on her face with her arms
outstretched. A pig ran between us. Then there was a small
forest in front of us. People stepped on bodies, on guns. A dog,
skinny and with its tail between its legs, crept past. A peasant
lay there with his body open – without intestines. The dog came
from him.
There were bushes, white-ripe, dense, and impenetrable.
I crawled into them. Moss lay there on a pile as if
someone had gathered it together. A bed, a bed. I burrowed into
it. No one saw me. Wonderful, warm, soft moss.
Somewhere in the snowy forest lay the rifle with the
bayonet, with Phoebus’ blood on it, the tin hood and the
bandolier with the sidearm.

I had been wandering about the border for many days. I
had found the torn coat in a shot-up house, the pants on a
hanged man. The right leg had received a weeping wound from
frost and vermin, which bit and hurt me, my nose and lips were
etched from the running sniffles. I had slept in barns and
haystacks, teeth chattering, and the previous years frozen and
woody rotten beets had to fill my stomach.
In this inn on the country road it was the first time that
the landlady gave for God’s sake a bowl of warm food to me
and allowed me to sit at the back by the warm stove. If,
however, distinguished guests came, I should generally trot
myself out and not be begging for something around the tables,
she said.
The barmaid also took pity on me and secretly slipped
me a large wedge of bread, and just as stealthily she poured my
empty glass full of thin beer.
I, the baron Melchior von Dronte, had lived the life of the
despised and the poor, the outcast and the lawless. And with the
most miserable of them, I had sometimes found more Christian
charity than among those who were sitting in their own chair in
the church.
But how hard people had been against me in the last days!
Of course, these were the times that no one should open the
door to a stranger in bad clothes without necessity. War and
terror all around, victory and parley, robbing, plundering,
desecrating and burning without end. So it was like a miracle to
me that the landlady said:
“Come and eat and warm yourself. You look like the
death of Basel.”
Not far from me at a small table sat a merchant or
cattleman in a light, thick fleece, a large Hessian peasant hat
next to him on the bench and a satchel over his shoulder, the
leather flap of which was inlaid with all kinds of brass figures.
The face of this skinny person was the most disgusting, that I
had ever encountered in my life. Soon he pulled his wide
mouth into a gap that reached from one of his pointed ears to
the other, and then he stretched it out like a pig’s trunk to drink
from the glass. His vulture nose lowered against the upwardly
curved chin, and his yellow wolf’s eyes, in which the black was
transverse and elongated like those of a goat, squinted
pathetically.

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Hermetic Mysteries: Table Talk, Part 2

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

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Appendix: Table Talk and Memorabilia of Mary Anne Atwood, Part 2

Introduction: Mary Anne Atwood’s reflections deepen the Hermetic art’s spiritual essence, guiding the soul to divine unity through alchemical transformation. This section explores the interplay of will, light, and regeneration, unveiling the path to universal wisdom.

The Threefold Life and Divine Regeneration

Atwood describes three modes of consciousness—sensible (animal), perceptive (vegetable), and powerful (mineral)—within humanity, with the Hermetic art perfecting the lowest, mineral life to mirror Christ’s divine unity, as Khunrath suggests. This process reverses the soul’s “inversion,” raising it through the celestial life to divine consciousness, as Boehme’s Signature Rerum illustrates: “The soul perceives the Universal through its essence.”

The adept, through disciplined fermentation, transforms the “dark vapour” of the mineral life into a radiant essence, purifying the will to align with divine love, as seen in the Golden Treatise’s cyclical process.

The Alchemy of Will and Light

The Hermetic art, as Atwood explains, is a “magnetism of Light,” where the will, the “Universal Loadstone,” becomes a creative force when aligned with divine wisdom. The “Walls of Troy,” built by Apollo’s harmony, symbolize the soul’s lower life, dissolved through alchemical processes to release the “Mercurius” of divine sound. This transformation, as Haly notes, involves a “terrible sound” of liberation, aligning the soul with its eternal source.

The adept’s will, purified of “false sulphurs” (selfish desires), becomes a vessel for the “Philosophic Matter,” a radiant light born through contrition and divine alignment, as St. Martin’s teachings echo.

The Path to Universal Truth

Atwood emphasizes that true knowledge is an “experimental contact” with the divine, where the soul, freed from sensory chains, merges with the Universal Spirit. The Chaldaic Oracles and Boehme’s descriptions of emanation—where will transforms from “Nothing” to “Something”—mirror this process, as the adept’s consciousness returns to its “First Cause.” This sacred art, requiring purity and reverence, transcends physical science, offering a path to immortality through divine unity, as OAK’s meditations suggest.

Closing: This appendix unveils the Hermetic art’s transformation of will and light into divine unity. The journey into further insights deepens in our next post, unveiling more secrets of this sacred art.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte: pages 65- 69

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 14, 2025| Leave a Comment »

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

Ronde came.
Kregel had been missing for a week, and no one knew
more than that he had received a letter from home, about which
he was visibly offended and upset. He was one of the
abandoned Germans who lived in the stolen land of the area of
Kolmar.
One day a royal forester came to the Colonel and
reported that children had found a soldier hanging in a tree.
They had however, immediately ran away in fright and now no
longer knew where the place was. And so he thought one or
two companies should search the forest so that the dead man
could be buried in the ground.
So we went in search of Kregel and roamed through the
large pine forest. As we slipped through the thickets and sticks
it happened to me that I got completely lost from the others and
when I shouted for the others as commanded in such cases
received no answer.
When I was so alone with myself, I had to think about
Kregel, who was now freed from all torture and torment. How,
was it not most clever, to put this dog’s life behind him? I
thought how yesterday an eighteen-year-old boy, the Squire
von Denwitz, had stabbed me with a rapier, the tip of which
had lead embedded in it, because there was a chalk stain on my
coat from cleaning the white stuff; how the corporals beat us to
their hearts’ content, how miserable the food was that was served
to us like sows in large tin buckets; how the bread crunched
with sand when it was cut. All this would have been bearable.
But that no hope showed itself, how and when it could ever get
better, that one day after another was filled with curses and
sorrow, to allow another, just as gruesome, to rise, that was the
bad thing. For man must have some hope, if he is not to wither
and wilt.
In this hard school, which God’s hand had thrust me into,
I learned to force myself. I didn’t make a face when my breast
ached from burning pity for the unjustly mistreated, and I kept
silent about the most severe insults which I received by anyone
who was elevated by a braid or finer cloth. Perhaps it was a
punishment that had come to me. But then it could also be an
eternal justice, but how was that possible when far worse than I
could live in joy and glory until the end of their lives. So why
did this burden of suffering fall on me? What purpose could
higher powers, if there were any, have pursued with me by
placing on me burdens of my own and other people’s torment,
to endow me with the finest sensibility for every injustice that
happened to others and gave me more sensitive feelings than
probably all my comrades? They cracked their jokes even when
the worst and most unbearable of arbitrariness had happened to
them, and found full consolation with a glass of schnapps and
in the arms of their soldier’s wives.
I was mad at everything that had hitherto been upright
and consoling of my being and I could not believe what was
happening in front of me day in and day out, I could not
believe in a divine meaning of all these events. What does a
person do who lives in a chamber with hostile, crude, violent,
bad, cowardly, false, and evil people and sees no one in the
whole circle, who wants to create order and justice and has the
ability to do so? One leaves such a chamber. He closes the door
behind him and rejoices, to have escaped the abominable
existence in such a room.
So I now thought to act. Kregel, the poor lad from Alsace,
had shown me the way. And there were enough trees all around;
I wanted to attach my trouser belt to some branch.
I prepared to walk across the small sunlit clearing to
finish my last deed in the deciduous wood when I had to stop,
because in the middle of the open space sat someone, and I was
not alone.
It was the man in the robe with the black turban. He was
resting on a tree stump and his walking stick lay beside him in
the forest moss. His noble hands held the string with amber
beads. It was Ewli.
Once again the strange man, whose small image was
under the high glass dome in my children’s room, stepped in
my path in an intangible way. How did the stranger in his
unusual dress get everywhere? Unmolested, and not even
noticed by the children, he had been sitting at the wayside
shrine, when the Prussian recruiters came for me and my
companions of fate, until the recruiters took me and my
comrades away on their wagon.
At that time I could not connect him with myself any
more than I could about his mysterious interest with my person
in the prayer-filled church. And just as I did not find him in
front of the church anymore, he had disappeared from my view
at the lime trees of Distelsbruck. This time, however, he was to
speak to me before I started the work of self-destruction.
Nevertheless, I could not put one foot in front of the other.
Because the man from the Orient was not alone. In front of him
stood a deer, which rubbed its narrow head flatteringly against
Ewli’s knees. In his hand, which held a birdcage, perched a jay
with a pinkish-grey head and blue wing feathers, and in the
bramble bush to his right chirped uncounted colorful balls of
feathers. Two squirrels, chasing each other, a reddish-brown
one and a black one, went up onto his body, hiding themselves
in the folds of his robe, rolling and chattering, and to my horror
the reddish brown one suddenly disappeared into his robe, as if
it had melted into the same color of the coarse fabric, while the
second one crawled onto the black turban, lost its outline and
did not appear again. I looked at the face of Ewli, overcome by
the radiance of his eyes. Was he looking at me? Were the dark
stars directed into the far distance? I did not know, I just felt
how warm, divine love enveloped me.
Slowly, however, he stood up, walked across the clearing
and disappeared between the tall trees.
Then I came to and was able to move. I ran. Where were
the animals? Not a bird, not a deer was to be seen. Where was
Ewli? I ran into the middle of the high wood and suddenly
stood among my comrades. They had just found Kregel and cut
him down. Horrible to look at, black-blue and green spots on
his face, the swollen ink-colored tongue stretched out, with
open, complaining eyes, he lay on the ground, the rope in the
furrow of his neck. Nobody paid any attention to me.
They had spades with them and dug in the deep, soft
forest soil, where the mouse tunnels ran crisscross and root
snakes crawled.
It was late when we were finished.
In the evening-red sky an endless train of crows flew
silently.
“That means war!” said Wetzlaff and looked at me.

How long had we been in the field? Nobody reckoned
anymore, nobody knew.
I was camped with four comrades in bitter winter. We
had found makeshift quarters in a burned-down farmhouse. All
we had were two piles of rotten, damp straw and a blanket
singed by campfires. And this miserable property we had to
protect and guard, so that not even more miserable ones stole it.
The rifles had to be constantly cleaned without stopping.
After a day they were red again with rust. Zulkov had frozen
the toes of both feet. They were black and stank like the plague.
I had to treat Repke with gun powder and a residue of brandy
to wash out a graze on his back because no one else would do it,
and he screamed so loudly that I took pity on him. Wetzlaff had
gotten severe diarrhea and every five minutes he walked on
wobbly legs in front of the house. Where he had squatted the
snow was bloody all around from his stool. In the night he
moaned so much, that no one could sleep. And although we all
endured, they threw everything at him in the dark that they
could grab with their hands. Then he limped out again to
relieve himself with convulsions. The quietest of us all, a
gloomy person named Kühlemiek, read in a small, tattered
hymnal next to the fire and sometimes murmured:
“O Lord, have mercy on me a sinner!”
Repke was happy when I had bandaged his back again
with old rags, and put dry nut leaves in his pipe.
“The king has said -” he wanted to begin.
But Wetzlaff interrupted him snorting:
“He has said! He has said! If the King lets one go, you
miserable wretches are blissful with doglike awe. Oh, you
starving ribs, you cannon fodder! What is it then that makes
such a king so great?”
“Fridericus Rex is the greatest war hero of all time, you
poisonous toad!” roared Zulkov. “Dare not to insult His
Majesty!”
“Dear brothers in Christ,” pleaded Kühlemiek, “turn your
thoughts to the One who has entrusted all of our lives in His
grace-giving hands!”
“Shut up, old pietist!” Repke shouted at him, “Let
Wetzlaff speak!”
“Oooh!” he groaned, and hurriedly ran out again. We
heard the sound of his discharges and his groaning all the way
into the house. Then he came back again, white as lime, and let
himself fall on the straw.
“As I say, a man must edify and revive himself in the
Lord and King,” Zulkov said after a while. “But there are some
who forget the oath…”
“Do you mean me?” asked Wetzlaff, straightening up
with difficulty. “Refresh yourself, as much as you can with that
cold fire that you have on your hind claws. Yes, you sheep’s
head, so that Friederich can be a great war hero, you must keep
your toes in your shoes, my intestines have to bleed out, a
thousand have to be shoveled into the pits. I ask one, when all
around, with the Austrians over there and us over there, if there
were such guys as me, there would be no more king and
empress, but also no war and no people-beating. But you are in
general too stupid to understand such things. And from this
stupidity of yours all kings and generals, princes and counts
and barons down to our squire with the ass face live equally in
glory and joy and sit enthroned like peacocks in all majesty,
while we are kept as cattle and are driven to the slaughter with
the trilling of pipes and the beating of drums. O you damned,
thick-skinned fool, you horse-apple brains…”

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Hermetic Mysteries: Table Talk, Part 1

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 14, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Appendix: Table Talk and Memorabilia of Mary Anne Atwood, Part 1

Introduction: Mary Anne Atwood’s reflections unveil the Hermetic art’s spiritual essence, guiding the soul to divine wisdom through alchemical transformation. This appendix distills key principles, offering insights into the sacred process of awakening the light within.

The Alchemy of the Will

Atwood reveals that the Hermetic art, or “Holy Alchemy,” ferments the human spirit to awaken its divine potential. By aligning the will with God’s law, as seen in Moses’ righteous power versus the Egyptians’ self-willed magic, the adept transforms the soul’s essence into a radiant “Philosopher’s Stone,” the true form of divine light. This process, reversing the soul’s natural flow, connects it to the “Universal Loadstone,” the creative force of existence.

The art’s power lies in its ability to draw the Universal Spirit into the individual, as Atwood notes: “The mind becomes related to the Universal Vitalising Power.” This mirrors the fermentation of life, where the soul, freed from bodily chains, achieves immortality through divine unity.

The Threefold Life and Divine Order

Atwood describes three lives—terrestrial (animal), celestial (vegetable), and infernal (mineral)—each dominant in its natural kingdom and residing in humanity’s head, heart, and lumbar regions. The Hermetic art reverses their order, raising the infernal life through the celestial to receive divine light. This aligns with Boehme’s principles, where the “third life” becomes a medium for perceiving the divine, purified by a contrite will.

The adept, through disciplined fermentation, as Basil Valentine’s Keys illustrate, transforms the vital force’s magnetic attraction, creating a “heavenly body” from an earthly one, as the soul merges with its eternal source.

The Sacred Process of Transformation

The Hermetic process, as Atwood explains, involves a “vital chemistry” that dissolves the soul’s natural bonds, regenerating it under a divine law. The “Golden Fleece” symbolizes the radiant light enveloping the adept in this third life, while the “Caput Mortuum” preserves the body’s essence for restoration. This art, guided by love and faith, ensures the soul’s purity, avoiding the demonic pitfalls of self-will, as seen in ancient idolatry.

Closing: This appendix unveils the Hermetic art’s spiritual principles, transforming the soul into divine light. The journey into further reflections deepens in our next post, unveiling more secrets of this sacred art.

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