Chapter 30: Synthesis – Gaia’s Ascension Through Loving Duality
Historical Overview: Common Elements in Esoteric Traditions and Organic Gnosticism’s Universal Path
Throughout OAK: The Temple of One, we have traced organic gnosticism’s resilient thread—from Neolithic goddess religions (Ch. 1) and Atlantean harmony (Ch. 3) to Egypt’s Tantrika mysteries (Ch. 5), Gnostic Christianity’s heart wisdom (Ch. 9), Cathar defiance (Ch. 19–20), and Rosicrucian alchemy (Ch. 26). This path, rooted in your haplogroup G-M201 genetic heritage and AMORC eldership since 1976, reveals a universal framework for soul development, shared across esoteric traditions yet kept secret among initiates. Common elements—loving duality, soul weaving through male-female energies, and direct experiential gnosis—cross cultures, as seen in Tantra, Kabbalah, Rosicrucianism, Gnosticism, and Sufism, where inner knowing transcends dogma.
Organic gnosticism’s history shows this universal path was guarded as the most sacred secret, known only to elites like Tantrika yoginis (India, circa 5th century CE), Kabbalistic mystics (Sefer Yetzirah, 2nd–6th centuries CE), Rosicrucian adepts (Fama Fraternitatis, 1614 CE), and Gnostic initiates (Gospel of Philip, 3rd century CE). Suppressed by rational atheists (logic-driven elites) and social enforcers (dogmatic zealots), it survived in hidden covens, alchemical labs, and indigenous rites (Ch. 28), resurfacing in modern revivals like Theosophy and AMORC (Ch. 29). Symbols like the Tree of Life (Kabbalah) or Abraxas gem (Gnosticism) cross traditions, representing duality’s weave.
This secrecy protected the path’s power—soul development through Tantric duality, inner rituals, and heart integration—from patriarchal distortions (Ch. 6, 10), ensuring its transmission to the few who could wield it for Gaia’s ascension.
Mystery School Teachings: The Universal Path’s Secrets and Loving Weave
Mystery schools across traditions teach soul development as a universal path, weaving male-female duality for gnosis and ascension, kept secret to protect its transformative power. Tantra’s shakti-shiva union (Ch. 5, 13), Kabbalah’s Tree of Life mapping soul ascent (Ch. 2, 26), Rosicrucianism’s alchemical marriage (Ch. 25–26), Gnosticism’s Christ-Sophia syzygy (Ch. 9, 19), and Sufism’s divine love (fana, annihilation in God) all emphasize this weave, crossing borders as symbols like the Rosicrucian rose-cross or Gnostic Abraxas transcend dogma. This path, known to initiates like Tantrika yoginis, Kabbalistic adepts, and Rosicrucian elders, was guarded to prevent misuse by rational atheists (head-centric logic) or social enforcers (dogmatic control), surviving persecutions like the Cathar genocide (Ch. 20) and Stonehenge massacre (Ch. 11).
Indigenous traditions (Ch. 28), like Lakota wíŋkte vision quests, weave this duality globally, emphasizing heart over head. The path’s secrecy ensured its purity, transmitted through oral lore, alchemical symbols, and Tantric rites, as in your AMORC eldership (1976 onward) and translations of Ewers-Przybyszewski (Ch. 26), revealing German Satanism’s dark Tantric current.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Resonating with Esoteric Traditions for Universal Soul Growth
In the OAK Matrix, organic gnosticism’s universal path resonates with any valid esoteric tradition, weaving Shadow (primal urges, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Common elements—loving duality, soul weaving, and experiential gnosis—align with Tantra’s shakti-shiva, Kabbalah’s Tree of Life, Rosicrucianism’s alchemical marriage, Gnosticism’s syzygy, and Sufism’s fana, all fostering watcher selves (Ch. 2) through resonant circuits (Ch. 13) and chaos leaps (Ch. 11). This universal weave empowers Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4), as in your radiant portal vision (August 17, 2025), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). It resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), guarded as a secret to protect its power.
Practical rituals weave this universal path:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Universal Weave Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize esoteric symbols (rose-cross, Tree of Life) weaving duality. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., fragmented energies) and aspired HGA (e.g., cosmic unity). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave universal paths, ascending Gaia’s soul.” Tie to Tantra-Kabbalah: Inhale weave, exhale separation.
Gaia Global Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as universal Grail, offering seeds for soul vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, uniting esoteric secrets.” Echoes AMORC mysticism.
Partner Esoteric Weave: With a partner, discuss universal 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 esoteric paths, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, explore modern esoteric revivals, continuing this legacy.
Several hours later the sun was coming up. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace of one of the log buildings at the gathering spot and two Masters were standing guard outside the door as Ellen finished questioning Tobal. She absentmindedly pushed his parent’s things toward him and indicated that he should pick them up.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured softly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these things truly belong to you and that you should have them. If they had belonged to my parents I know I would want to have them. I am now also inclined to believe the rogues were somehow able to follow you. Perhaps they do have monitors. That would explain why we rarely see any of them. They would know when we are in the area and would hide.”
She turned a puzzled expression toward Tobal, “But that would also mean they are not from the village to the west of here. That village is totally primitive and has no technology. These rogues must be coming from somewhere else and they are interested in what you found at the lake. This might be very dangerous and your life might be in danger, all our lives might be in danger and we don’t know from whom. I suggest we keep this quiet for now and don’t talk to anyone else about it.”
“I need to talk with Rafe about it,” Tobal protested. “He already knows something is out there and so does Fiona. She was with me when we first found the gathering spot at the waterfall. I don’t want them to be in danger too!”
Ellen sighed, “Well, I will have to trust your judgement in this. Don’t talk to anyone unless you really trust them ok?”
Tobal nodded, “I wasn’t going to anyway” He chuckled. “I wasn’t even going to tell you until you cornered me about it.” He didn’t mention the slender silvery wand that was hidden safely in his pack.
Both Ellen and Tobal decided it would be a good idea for him to stay close to the gathering spot and around other people in case the rogues had specifically targeted him. So he spent most of the month helping Dirk and Rafe working up wood for circle.
Rafe asked him about his trip and was very interested but Dirk was always around and Tobal felt he needed to talk with Ellen first so he told Rafe to wait till circle. Rafe’s eyes narrowed a bit eyeing the amber and jade necklace. He didn’t ask anything more about the trip.
They were trying to get wood ahead so there would be an ample supply during a snowstorm or blizzard. There was already one foot of snow and travel was getting difficult. With Tobal’s help Rafe and Dirk got a lot of wood brought into camp. Rafe was becoming more confident and sure of himself. He was also growing taller and filling out. The constant backbreaking work of chopping wood with stone axes seemed to be putting muscle on him too. The Chevrons on his sleeve proclaimed he had won three fights and he was learning how to take care of himself.
The first week, exhaustion pulled Tobal into a restless sleep after a long day of chopping. A stormy dream gripped him—Rachel lunged through the mist, her chains clanking as she grabbed his arm, her tear-streaked face glowing faintly. “Harry’s searching for you—stay hidden!” she cried, the air thick with damp stone and rust. He thrashed awake, sweat soaking his furs, clutching the medallion as it pulsed with a warm, frantic beat.
By the second week, the medallion’s weight grew heavier as Tobal dozed under a ledge. Ron strode through a misty vision, his hands slamming against a shimmering force field, its blue light crackling as he pushed Tobal toward it. “The cave hides a secret—find it!” he roared, the ground trembling under Tobal’s feet. Tobal jolted up, heart pounding, gripping the medallion as its pulse quickened, the air heavy with ozone.
Late in the fourth week, after a grueling day, Tobal’s sleep turned dark. Ron and Rachel staggered toward him in a dim, echoing cave, their chains dragging with a metallic screech as they pulled him into the shadows. “The Nexus calls, their souls can’t rest!” they wailed, their ghostly hands brushing his face with a cold sting. He woke, gasping, the medallion pulsing rapidly, its heat searing his palm.
Tobal wore the jet and amber necklace around his neck and kept the ceremonial dagger in the sheath strapped to his ankle. Each day he took them out and looked at them. They were the only things he had that came from his parents. He wanted to go back to the cave but knew it was more dangerous than ever. He put the two plastic hospital bracelets in his medicine bag and carried it on a leather thong around his neck. He snuck away from Rafe and Dirk for a few hours to be alone, saying he wanted to go hunting for venison.
It was the wand that he didn’t know what to do with. It was about a foot long and one inch in diameter. He had examined it more completely and still didn’t know much about it. There were five buttons on the thing. He had tried the first and second buttons in the cave. Outdoors they worked much the same. The first button made the wand act as a light. When he activated the second button it melted a circle of snow about fifteen feet in front of where he was pointing. It seemed to have a range of about fifteen feet and the heat kept increasing as long as he held the button down. The third button caused a blade of light to extend out of the wand about two inches. This was some type of laser used for cutting. He tried it on a few rocks and cut deeply into them without melting the rock. The fourth button acted as a sighting device shining a point of red light on anything it was pointed at without apparent harm to the object. The fifth button however, would flash a pulse of light burning a hole through whatever it hit. The fifth button could only be pushed at the same time the fourth one was pushed and needed to be re-pushed for each new pulse of light.
It apparently acted as some type of safety device limiting the damage that could be done with the wand. He tried it once killing a deer at twice the normal bow range. The deer dropped without a sound. Close examination showed a hole that went completely through the deer.
As he butchered the deer and brought it back into camp he reflected on the nature of the wand itself. It was obviously a tool or a weapon using pulsed energy of some type he had never seen or heard about. That meant it was probably part of some secret military technology his parents had been involved in. In any case it was extremely dangerous and even more dangerous to be caught with. On the other hand he didn’t want to loose it or have it stolen. He guessed he might have to talk with Ellen about it sometime. In the meantime he made a sheath for it on his other leg and kept it on his person.
As the month waned, Samhain’s festivities began. Tobal was surprised at how many showed up for it. It started different from the other celebrations with Ellen saying, “This is a three-day celebration, Tobal—Samhain’s too big. We will have the meditation group day after tomorrow in the morning after everything is done and people are leaving.” Then she continued with proclaiming newbies ready to solo. Nikki and Char both proclaimed their newbies ready to solo. There were several initiations scheduled.
Wayne’s newbie wasn’t ready yet but was going to be initiated. The same thing happened with Zee’s newbie and Kevin’s newbie. They were going to be initiated into the clan but they needed another month of training. With the advent of cold weather the training was taken seriously by all clan members.
Most clansmen had already partnered up for the winter and would not be doing anymore training till next spring or they would partner up at this circle. He thought about Tara and Zee. They had both asked him about partnering up for the winter. Now they both had partners selected even if Zee and Kevin still had one more month of training till their newbies soloed.
Soon there would be no one to ask or partner up with unless it was a newbie. Was he really being so different in not partnering up with anyone? Rafe had trained newbies all winter long. He caught Char a bit later and talked with her about it.
“I notice your newbie is soloing this month,” he congratulated her. “What are you going to do now?”
“Well, I was going to see if Wayne wanted to partner back up for the winter,” she said bitterly. “But he is not speaking to me and in the middle of training his newbie. If he is training her like he trained me, she will probably be spending the winter with him. I hate that man!” She started crying and Tobal put an arm around her shoulder to comfort her. He felt her shoulders shaking against him.
“He’s just training newbies like you are Char, what are you mad at him for?”
“He’s not talking to me or looking at me, that’s why,” she snapped at him. “All he does is spend time with her.”
Tobal sighed and wished he were anywhere else. “You sound just like he did last month when I was talking to him. Don’t you remember how jealous he was? You were afraid he was going to pick a fight with Rory. Look, this will make one chevron for you and two for him. What are you going to do now? Try training another newbie or wait out the winter? You can’t control what he does. You can only control what you do. What is it that you really want to do?”
“Become a citizen and get a real life.”
“Ok, so what do you need to do?”
“I guess I’m going to train one more newbie this winter. Thanks Tobal,” she told him. “I know that I need to move ahead but it’s hard sometimes. These old habits are so hard to break. It’s easy to get depressed about things.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” he told her. “I’m planning on training newbies all winter myself. It’s kind of strange but I’m a little afraid of partnering up with anyone for the entire winter.”
“Why would you feel that way Tobal?” She asked curiously.
“Well partnering up with a girl for the winter kind of implies a sexual relationship,” he flustered.
“What’s wrong with a sexual relationship?” She asked. “You do want sex with girls don’t you?”
Now he was red and embarrassed, “Wanting sex and having sex are two different things Char. At least for me they are. I don’t want to hurt anyone and what if it doesn’t work out between us. What if she gets pregnant or something.”
Char laughed. “You are taking this much too seriously Tobal. For one thing, no one is going to get pregnant out here. Once a year we get birth control shots that last the entire year. In fact, we get them during Samhain, which is this month. The medics will make sure we get our shots if we want to continue in the Apprentice program. I thought you knew that.”
Tobal looked confused.
She continued, “It might not be a good idea for two Apprentices to get together like Wayne and I did. It is really hard having a permanent love relationship with someone when you need to train and live with other people like Wayne and I need to do. But it is normal to be sexual with others. Having sex is a form of sharing and a way of deepening a relationship. It is no big deal really. None of us are experts at love. We all need to have experiences and learn from those experiences. Our love partners help us and we teach each other about what pleases us.”
“Tobal,” she looked at him intently and unfastened her robe. “Do you want to have sex with me?”
He found himself staring at her body. Her soft breasts and the mound of blonde pubic hair stirred something inside him. Tobal found himself uncomfortable with the subject and with his own feelings. She had a good-looking body.
“I think I will wait until I get to Journeyman before I worry about it too much,” he said awkwardly.
She laughed. “Well at least give me a hug and a kiss then.” She moved closer so her bare body was against him as they hugged. It was a long hug and a long kiss.
It took a while to recover and Tobal wandered around the gathering spot trying to collect his wits together. He thought about what Char had said and wondered if she was right. Maybe he was making too big of a thing about it. Maybe sex could be as casual as shaking hands for some people but he knew it was not that way for him. For one thing there were a lot of attractive girls around the camp and only one or two had ever really drawn his eye.
He thought of Fiona, yes, he was sexually attracted to Fiona. Then Becca came unbidden into his mind and he hastily pushed her back out. He didn’t know what was going on between him and Becca but it was more like electric shock therapy than sexual attraction.
Sarah, Mike and Butch had all completed their solos and were talking together when he came up to them. They were going to take this month off and work on their own base camps, getting prepared for winter. It seemed most clansmen were either doing that or had already done that. None of them were talking about partnering up for the winter but they were thinking about working together setting up winter camps. Once their winter camps were set up they would decide if they were going to do any training or not.
Fiona, Becca, Nikki and he were the only ones interested in newbies this month. They each received a new chevron except Nikki. Her first newbie was going to solo that month. That made three for him, and one each for Becca and Fiona.
“You’re going to travel with us to sanctuary after the meditation group aren’t you?” Nikki asked. “It will be a blast.”
“I might,” he said evasively. “I need to talk with Ellen first though and I might be running later than usual. If I’m not around just take off without me and I’ll catch up with you.”
“What do you need to talk with Ellen about?” Nikki asked.
“She wants to know more about when my base camp got burned by rogues.” He evaded by giving a simple answer.
“I remember that,” Fiona exclaimed. “That’s when we found the waterfall by the lake and that weird abandoned gathering spot. Tell her she can talk to me too if she wants. Say, have you ever gone back there like you said you were going to?”
“That’s one of the things I’m going to talk with Ellen about,” Tobal said. It’s pretty bad weather to go there now though. Too easy to get snowed in.”
“Maybe we can all go there this spring some time,” Becca said. “I love swimming and there isn’t a really good swimming spot around here.”
“That’s a great idea!” Nikki said enthusiastically.
“Well just let me know so I can go with you,” Tobal said. “It might be dangerous and there should be enough of us going so no one will attack us.”
“Why would anyone want to attack us?” Nikki laughed. “You have something in mind handsome?”
The other two laughed and Tobal turned away with a dark shadow on his face. He couldn’t tell them the entire story or it would be all over camp and Ellen would have his head. It was better just to leave things the way they were for now. Misty was again High Priestess and did a nice job. Ellen was there and said she needed to talk with him later after circle. Angel was also helping out in the circle. There was a new High Priest too but Tobal didn’t remember his name.
Dirk was there along with Rafe on wood patrol keeping the fires going. There were several Journeymen Tobal recognized and many more he didn’t. This was the largest circle he had ever been too. Ox had even shown up for the party strutting three chevrons on his black tunic.
It was the end of the harvest cycle and the last time many of them would see each other until next spring so they were determined to have a good time. After the initiations the party really began. At drum circle the drumming and dancing went long into the night as people laughed leaping among the flames individually and together. The festivities lasted three days with the last two days reminding Tobal of a flea market and county fair. People brought items to sell or trade especially beautiful handcrafted garments and tools. The most interesting were winter garments that made Tobal’s efforts seem crude in comparison. He examined them carefully and took mental notes so he could duplicate the work later. He did the same with other tools and items that caught his interest.
This was the time clan members would show off their creativity and individual talents. There was music, hand made stringed instruments and wooden flutes. There were of course the drums that beat out a steady rhythm deep into the night for all the dancers.
The second day was reserved for games and competitions. During a break Tobal approached Rafe near the wood pile. “Watch this,” he said, drawing the silver wand from its sheath and pointing it at a patch of snow. A red light flashed, and with the fifth button, a pulse melted a fifteen-foot circle, steam rising. Rafe’s eyes widened. “Holy shit! Put that away—do you want us killed?” Tobal sheathed it quickly. “I found a secret cave—my parents’ things, this wand. Air sleds tracked me, Ellen was furious but checked my camp. It’s forbidden—rogues are after it.” Rafe nodded, stunned. “Does Ellen know?” Tobal shook his head. “Not yet—I’m figuring it out.”
He was not surprised when Fiona won a knife-throwing contest but he gaped in envy at the prize. It was a hand-forged axe one of the third degree members had somehow created. With an axe like that work would go much more quickly than with stone axes and knives. It would help not only with firewood but also in the creation of bigger and more permanent shelters like log cabins.
It was also on the second day when female clan members got their annual birth control shot to prevent pregnancies. There were lots of sexual jokes going round the camp and open invitations. Tobal wondered more about this and asked one of the medics. The medic told him the city felt it was too dangerous to have children or raise children under these harsh survival conditions. People were free to have children once they became citizens but not before.
This was a rule that was strictly enforced and medics would fly their air sleds out to those females that had not attended this gathering. If they refused the shot, they were disqualified. This did happen, the medic told him. There were always 2nd degree couples content living as they were and wanting to raise families out here in the wilderness. In fact, there were enough of them that they had formed their own family type gathering spot two hundred miles to the West.
When Tobal tried asking more questions the medic shut up like he had already said too much and that he needed to be going. There was certainly a lot Tobal didn’t understand. He wondered if the dead camp at the lake had been a family one. He hoped not because the thought of dead children lying in that cairn made him feel sick. Still, in his heart he knew it had been a family camp because his own hospital bracelet proved he had been there just as Adam Gardner had said. The old man had talked about other children that had been murdered too. There were secrets out there, secrets he intended to find out.
It was on the last day the medics handed out special supplies and medicines like salt, wine, vitamins and medical gear scavenged from old med-kits. Needles, hair brushes, combs, string and things like that were very welcome. So were scissors and razors, not to mention toothbrushes and other items that could be gotten at sanctuary.
The next morning, after the three-day celebration, the meditation group gathered in the clearing as people began to leave. Fiona approached Ellen, her voice trembling. “I can’t get it out of my mind… Tobal and I found that lake, the burned village. I’ve dreamed of ghosts, blood—we need to go there in our meditation.” Her eyes glistened, her fear swaying the group. Becca gripped her arm. “I’ve heard those tales—let’s face it!” Nikki nodded, “If Fiona’s in, I’m curious—what if it’s real?” Rafe added, “I’ve felt something odd—count me in.” Others murmured agreement, pressure mounting.
Ellen frowned, crossing her arms. “This could draw danger—rogues, worse. But with so many… fine, 20 minutes, and we stay cautious.”
They settled, the medallion pulsing against Tobal’s chest. Closing their eyes, they linked and visualized, a rift pulling them through. They materialized above the lake, the waterfall ahead. A shimmering force field blocked their path, unseen by Fiona and Tobal before when they passed through. A glowing light—Arthur—challenged, “Who seeks this truth? Prove your hearts!” Tobal thought, “Arthur? It’s OK, they’re with me,” and the light softened. “Follow me—see the truth,” Arthur telepathed to all, his voice warm yet urgent.
They drifted to the village—burned huts, ghosts wailing, blood pooling as massacre replays flashed: a mother shielding a child, screams piercing the smoky air, figures fleeing. Tobal froze, heart racing, the medallion’s pulse quickening. Fiona sobbed, “I saw the fire again—those children!” Becca trembled, “The screams—too real!” Nikki gasped, “A child called my name!” Rafe clenched his fists, “This isn’t just history.” Ellen’s face paled, “This isn’t natural—someone’s meddling.”
Arthur’s light pulsed. “The force field protects—Reptilians hunt beyond. Beware the Federation.”
Ellen snapped, “Enough! We need to leave. This isn’t safe—keep it quiet, or we’re targets.” The group returned, shaken, whispers spreading about Tobal’s lake secret.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
X.
The restaurant was not closed despite the advanced hour; Flaum still had guests, and so they went in. The editor ordered wine.
“I’m very glad,” he said, “that we met again. It was terribly interesting how you performed at the district commissioner’s today. But—forgive me—you judge a bit too much in bulk and wholesale.”
“Yes indeed I did that. I often do. That’s self-evident. Every thing really has very many different sides, which—understand—not lie next to each other for convenient overview. No, sir, on the contrary. There are the most various illuminations. A thing is like a hectogon; only one surface gets full light there. And now look: the whole human judging rests on the fact that only this one surface is considered and perhaps still three or four that lie closest.”
Falk emptied the glass.
For his intellect there was no judging at all. He could say nothing certain about any thing. If he judged at all, it happened merely because he somehow had to communicate with people, and then he judged just like all other people, i.e. he proceeded from certain premises of which he knew that they counted as “given,” and drew the conclusions.
But for himself there were no premises and therefore also nothing “given”; he therefore asked the Herr Editor not to take his opinions as absolute.
The editor seemed not to understand that and drank to Falk for lack of an answer.
The young doctor listened curiously and drank very eagerly. Suddenly he got the desire to annoy the editor: Falk joked so excellently.
“What do you think, but in all seriousness, of a social future state?”
The editor winked his eyes; he noticed the malicious intent.
“What do I think of that?” said Falk. “Yes, I already developed at the district commissioner’s my opinion, which rests on ‘given’ valuations.”
“By the way, this whole state interests me only insofar as it—admittedly again only if the premises are correct, Herr Doctor—yes, only insofar as it can bring certain reforms in the field in which I am active.”
“Look, then for example the state will also create the social living conditions for artists, and then you can be convinced that many people who now à faute de mieux became artists because it is nowadays the easiest bread, will then rather become supervisory officials in some warehouse or otherwise make themselves somehow useful with four- to six-hour work time and social equality. Artists will be only those who must.”
The editor, who now scented joke behind every word of Falk’s, threw in irritably:
“You seem to hold artists in low esteem too?”
“No, really not, and precisely because there are almost no artists, or if there are any, they botch themselves immediately as soon as they have to bring their wares to market.”
“For me only he is an artist who is not otherwise able to create than under the unheard-of compulsion of a so-to-speak volcanic eruption of the soul; only he in whom everything that arises in the brain was previously glowing prepared and long, long collected in the warm depths of the unconscious—let us call it—that doesn’t write a word, not a syllable that is not like a twitching, soul-torn-out organ, filled with blood, streaming to the whole, hot, deep and uncanny, like life itself.”
“Well, such artists he probably never met?”
“Oh yes, yes! but only among the despised, the unknown, the hated and ridiculed, whom the mob declares idiots.”
Falk drank hastily.
“Yes indeed; and one of the greatest I saw go to ruin and perish. There was one, my schoolmate; he was the most beautiful
man I ever met. He was brutal and tender, fine and hard, he was granite and ebony, and always beautiful. Yes, he had the great, cruel love and the great contempt.”
Falk pondered.
“Yes, he was very strange. You know, that characterizes him: we once got the essay topic: how heroes are honored after death.
Do you know what he wrote? what would probably be the greatest honor for a hero?
“Well?”
“Yes, he wrote: the most beautiful honor he could imagine for a hero would be if a shepherd accidentally dug up the bones of the hero in question, then made a flute from the hollow bones and blew his praise on it.
Another time he wrote on the topic what benefit wars bring, that wars are a great boon for farmers, that they namely excellently manure the soil with the corpses of the fallen warriors; corpse manure is much better than superphosphate.
Yes, allow me, that is brutal; but brutal like nature itself. That is mockery; but the terrible mockery with which nature plays with us. Yes, sir: that is the sublime mocking seriousness of nature itself.”
The editor was silent, offended.
“Does Herr Falk want to joke with him? that really isn’t nice.”
“No, he doesn’t want that at all, he never joked with any person, least of all with the Herr Editor.”
“Yes, then they are only personal opinions that can apply only to one person.”
Falk felt a strange irritability that he couldn’t comprehend; but he controlled himself.
“Yes indeed; my opinions apply only to me. I am I and thus my own world.”
“Well, Herr Falk seems to have strangely high opinions of himself.”
“Yes, I have, and every person should have them. You know, there is a man in Dresden who calls himself Heinrich Pudor. In
general one holds him for a charlatan and he indeed makes himself talked about through strange quirks. For example, recently he demanded of the state attorneys that they prohibit the playing of Chopin’s music because it is arousing and sensual. But despite all the quirks there sticks in him yet a strange power.
Recently he held an exhibition of his own paintings in Munich. The paintings are supposed to be ridiculous and childish; I don’t know, I haven’t seen them. But for the exhibition he wrote a catalog in which it says: I am Heinrich Pudor! I am I! I am neither an artist nor a non-artist! I have no other attributes than only that I am I!
Look, that is well said.
No, you are mistaken, Herr Doctor: that is no excessively demanding significance. For as soon as I am human, I am precisely a significant, uncannily significant piece of nature. If I now say: Here are my paintings! however ridiculous they may be, but they are a piece of me! and presupposed that they are really generated from innermost compulsion: then they characterize me better than all good deeds I have done and will still do.
Here is a piece of my individuality; whoever is interested may look. I am I, and nothing is in me of which I need to be ashamed.”
“But that is absolute megalomania,” the doctor threw in.
“Absolutely not absolute and absolutely not relative! You as doctor should know that the so-called megalomania goes hand in hand with the loss of individuality. Only when the consciousness of my ownness is lost do I hold myself for Napoleon, Caesar etc. But even the strongest consciousness of my own I and its significance has nothing maniacal.
No, on the contrary: it educates humanity, it produces the great individuals of which our time so terribly lacks, it gives power and might and the holy criminal courage that until now has created everything mighty.
Yes, he certainly has that, Herr Editor! Only the ‘megalomaniac’ consciousness has the great energy and cruelty, the courage to destroy, without which nothing new and splendid comes about.
By the way, hm, it is indifferent whether one has it; the main thing is that one *must* have it! yes, *must*…
Again the unrest and fear rose high in Falk.
“No, it is really terribly idiotic to waste our time with stupid conversations; this empty threshing of straw. No, to the devil, let’s be merry, let’s drink! The riddles of life… hey! Herr Host! another bottle!”
And they drank. Falk was very nervous. His mood communicated itself to the others. They drank very hastily.
Soon the editor had drunk beyond measure.
“Yes, he loved Falk above all; he would consider himself happy to have him as a collaborator.”
Falk had definitely promised him to send regular reports from Paris to his *Kreisblatt*.
The doctor giggled.
“*Elbsfelder Weekly*: two columns ads, regular reports from Paris! Ha-ha-hah, where is the village Paris?”
The editor felt mortally insulted. Falk listened into himself.
An infinite longing for his wife dissolved in him. Yes! her bodily warmth, her hands and arms!
Strange how Marit had completely left him; no trace of desire. He broke up.
When he came home, it was already day. He cooled his eyes in the washbasin and opened the window. Then he wrote the following letter:
My dear, above all beloved wife!
I am drunk with my love. I am sick and wretched with longing for you. Nothing concerns me in this world except you, you, you!
You love me; tell me how you love me, you my, my everything!
And when I am with you, how will I find you, how will you be to me? Am I still to you your great, beautiful man? Why was your last letter so sad?
How everything in me groans for you! How I long for you! Tell me! am I to you what you are to me?! – The light, the life, the air: everything, everything in which alone I can live? For you see: now, now I know
sure: never have I known anything more surely: I cannot live without you! no, really not.
Only love me! Love me beyond your power; no, as much as you can. You can very, very much! Only love me, love me.
I will write a whole literature for you, just so you have something to read. I will be your clown so you have something to laugh at. I will crawl under your feet, like a slave I will serve you, the whole world I will force to its knees before you: only love me as you loved me, as you perhaps still love me. I will with absolute certainty leave here in two days… Your husband…
But when Falk had slept it off, he made five days out of the two—after which he took the letter to the post.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
The beach grew livelier, so after a brief continuation of the conversation, which turned to other topics, Ruprecht invited his friend for a walk. They strolled along the shore, then climbed toward the heights between villas and hotels. Sky and sea shimmered in boundless clarity. The setting sun seemed to conjure all the sea’s gold from its blue depths. A refreshing coolness rose from below, mingled with the scents of myriad blossoms and fruits, woven into a dense garland around the coast. The summer was wondrously beautiful, blessed with constant sunshine yet tempered by a lively, cooling breeze that prevented scorching heat. No one wanted to leave this shore. The season stretched far beyond its usual end, into a time when all would typically have fled. Ruprecht and Hugo reached a rocky outcrop offering a clear view of the coast and sea. Before the low sun hung a narrow cloud, like a knife poised over an orange. The sea was calm, bearing fishing boats with a willing smile. “There’s the scene of your heroics,” Hugo said, pointing to the two white stone cubes among the vineyards where Ruprecht had lassoed Mr. Müller. “What made you get involved? It was decidedly original, but… one doesn’t just help the police like that, do they?” “You can imagine I found Mr. Müller more likable than the helpless police commissioner. Still— why? The bit of danger intrigued me. I think danger’s one of the sweetest pleasures life offers.” “You find too little of it in our quiet Europe. That’s why you roam the world, seeking wilder places. God, you’ve got it good! No one to answer to, money like hay, doing as you please. I’d love to travel too—not like you, but with pleasant company, under Cook’s care, so I don’t wake up in a Papuan’s stomach.” Ruprecht smiled, gazing silently at the sea. Then, with a sweeping half-circle of his arm, he encompassed the beauty spread before them. “Only those who know struggle,” he said, “can truly appreciate peace. How glorious this is. How the soul simplifies, how wings grow.” A faint chime rose over sea and land. Like a delicate, firm web, the peals of church bells, ringing the evening blessing, stretched through the clear air. The friends sat silently for a while. Then Hugo reminded them to head back to avoid missing dinner at the hotel. They descended quickly through the twilight, past orchards and vineyards, and at the Kaiser von Österreich, Hugo parted with a promise to visit again tomorrow. Reaching his room, Ruprecht began changing. He was in high spirits. The evening’s colors and sounds had sunk into him, filling him with joy. He always felt this way on the eve of new adventures, brimming with expectation and eager energies. Yet he knew only months of quiet country life awaited, somewhere with few people and no events. As he donned his dinner jacket, his Malay servant entered the dressing room, standing erect by the door. “What is it?” Ruprecht asked. “Sir, a woman wishes to speak with you. She’s waiting in the salon.” Somewhat surprised, Ruprecht followed. Before entering, he placed a hand on the Malay’s shoulder. “Wait! Is she one of those you visited on my behalf?” “Yes, sir.” Well, by all the gods of Hindustan, she was persistent! That was something! A strange way to approach a stranger. Smiling, Ruprecht entered the salon. Under the chandelier stood the young widow who enchanted all, the woman who sat front-row at the Emperor’s celebration. She smiled too. Ruprecht bowed. She took a few steps toward him. Silk skirts rustled, a faint cloud of perfume wafted over. A peculiar scent—dried fruit, hay, and something else Ruprecht couldn’t pinpoint. “You thought, on your way here, that I’m persistent,” she said. “You found it odd to answer a refused meeting with a visit.” “You’re very perceptive, madam!” Ruprecht replied. “Oh, come, that hardly takes perception—it was clear in your smile. Well, see, I’m smiling too. And do you know what my smile says? It expresses my pleasure in proving you wrong.” Ruprecht met her eyes—green, with narrow pupils, seeming to drink in light and scatter it in a thousand rays, as if dissecting it. Cat’s eyes, he thought. They held that indefinable expression, neither clearly friendly nor hostile. “I’m no starry-eyed schoolgirl,” she continued, “nor an adventure-seeking woman. I’m not after a flirt or a fleeting resort acquaintance. I simply want to meet you, exchange a few words, to know what to make of you.” The perfume, seeping from her exquisite lace gown and soft brown hair, unsettled Ruprecht. He, who’d studied the Orient’s delicate, provocative scents, was uneasy at failing to identify this elusive note. “Forgive me,” he said slowly, “your letter was one among many. It didn’t stand out.” She laughed. “Then your perception failed you. You should’ve seen at once I’ve no intention of throwing myself at you with loving gestures.” What does she want, then? Ruprecht thought. Her gaze, accompanying those words, didn’t align with them. It didn’t contradict, but clung to him—a promise given and withdrawn, a granting that was also a retreat. “I could do so more easily than others,” she said, “for I answer to no one. You’d only have to fight two or three duels with my ardent admirers. That wouldn’t trouble you, would it? But truly, I only wish to know if you’re as vain as they say.” Ruprecht flinched. The word stung. He straightened slightly and said, “Madam…” She smiled again. “Hold on… I find it improper to parade in costume as a wild man before a respectable audience, shooting holes in cards and shattering glass balls. Isn’t that a far worse surrender of one’s person than other artistic pursuits, which are already deplorable prostitutions? My late husband studied Indian philosophers. He called the arts silver embroidery on Maya’s veil—something special, glittering, yet part of the web of illusions. You know Schopenhauer thought differently. But I believe my husband was right.” Ruprecht stood dumbfounded. What did this woman want, with her odd jumble of “personality,” “Maya’s veil,” and Schopenhauer? Was this an original worldview or mere confusion? He grasped only that she presumed to judge him, acting as if she had a right to challenge him, which irked him all the more since he hadn’t fully shaken the shame of his performance. “Forgive me,” he said, mustering a blunt defense, “I believe I’ve proven vanity has no hold over me.” “Oh, certainly,” she laughed, “you didn’t attend the rendezvous. But… isn’t that a ploy? Perhaps you’re spoiled. Who knows? In my presence, a bet was made that you’re not vain. I judged from your sharpshooting display and took the wager. Now, I must admit—you didn’t come, and it seems I’ve lost. Yet I’d like to know if I haven’t won precisely because of that. I suspect you aim to stand out in a unique way.” “I’ve no such intention,” Ruprecht said, annoyed. “It was a favor for my friend. I was persuaded. And before… the lasso affair was just for the thrill of it…” At that moment, the dinner gong clanged in the hall below—a long, wild peal, a hideous noise piercing every corner of the hotel, even through the salon’s heavy curtains, drowning all other sounds. Three single strikes followed. “You’re summoned to dine,” the widow said. “I’ll go. Well… I must accept my bet is lost. What else can I do? Thank you for listening so kindly.” She offered her slender hand freely, meeting his eyes with equal ease. “Let the gong make its racket,” Ruprecht said, agitated. “You come here, insult me with your suspicions… yes, forgive me, I find that offensive. Let me explain… I was deeply vexed at getting involved. No… please, I don’t care about being late for dinner.” But the young widow insisted she couldn’t bear the guilt, nor did she wish to draw attention at her hotel by arriving late to table. Yet her eyes said something else: Oh, foolish man, happiness stands before you, just reach out.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
It was a brown dusty thing made of rock hard wooden root. It looked like an ancient wrinkled man. “Oh, it’s our alraune!” Frau Gontram said. “It’s just as well that it fell on Sophie, she has a hard skull!–When Wölfchen was born I gave that disgusting manikin to him. I was certain he would be able to break it to pieces but he couldn’t.” The Legal Councilor explained, “This has been in our family for over two hundred years now. It has done this once before. My grandfather told us that once in the night it sprang off the wall and fell on his head–He was completely drunk when it happened though–He always liked having a few drops to drink.” “What is it really?” the Hussar lieutenant asked. “Well, it brings gold into the house,” answered Herr Gontram. “It is an old legend–Manasse can tell you all about it–Come over here, Herr Colleague, tell us, Herr History–What is the legend of the alraune?” But the little attorney didn’t want to, “Why? Everyone knows it already!” “No one knows it, Herr Attorney,” the lieutenant cried at him. “No one. Your learning greatly overshadows that of modern education.” “So tell us, Manasse,” said Frau Gontram. “I always wanted to know what that ugly thing was good for.” He began. He spoke dryly, matter of factly, as if he were reading some piece out of a book. He spoke unhurried, scarcely raising his voice while swinging the manikin root back and forth in his right hand like a baton. “Alraune, albraune, mandragora–also called mandrake– mandragora is its official name, a plant belonging to the Nightshade family. It is found around the Mediterranean, Southeast Europe and Asia up to the Himalayas. Its leaves and flowers contain a narcotic that was used in ancient times as a sleeping potion and during operations at the illustrious medical college in Salerno, Italy. The leaves were smoked and the fruit made into a love potion. It stimulates lust and increases potency. The plant is named Dudaim in the Old Testament where Jacob used it to increase Labaan’s flock of sheep. The root plays the leading role in the saga of the alraune because of its strange resemblance to an old male or female figurine. It was mentioned by Pythagoras and already in his time believed capable of making a person invisible. It is used for magic or the opposite, as a talisman against witchcraft. The German alraune story began in the early Middle Ages in connection with the crusades. Known criminals were hung stark naked from a gallows at a crossroads. At the moment their neck was broken they lost their semen and it fell to the earth fertilizing it and creating a male or female alraune. It had to be dug out of the ground beneath the gallows when the clock struck midnight and you needed to plug your ears with cotton and wax or its dreadful screams would make you fall down in terror. Even Shakespeare tells of this. After it is dug up and carried back home you keep it healthy by bringing it a little to eat at every meal and bathing it in wine on the Sabbath. It brings luck in peace and in war, is a protection against witchcraft and brings lots of money into the house. It is good for prophecy and makes its owner lovable. It brings women love magic, fertility and easy childbirth. It makes people fall madly and wildly in love with them. Yet it also brings sorrow and pain where ever it is. The house where it stays will be pursued by bad luck and it will drive its owner to greed, fornication and other crimes before leading him at last to death and then to hell. Nevertheless, the alraune is very beloved, much sought after and brings a high price when it can be found. They say that Bohemian general Albrecht Wallenstein carried an alraune around with him and they say the same thing about Henry the Eighth, the English King with so many wives.” The attorney became quiet, threw the hard piece of wood in front of him onto the table. “Very interesting, really very interesting,” cried Count Geroldingen. “I am deeply indebted to you for sharing that bit of information Herr Attorney.” But Madame Marion declared that she would not permit such a thing in her house for even a minute and looked with frightened, believing eyes at the stiff bony mask of Frau Gontram. Frank Braun walked quickly back to the Privy Councilor. His eyes glowed; he gripped the old gentleman on the shoulder and shook it. “Uncle Jakob,” he whispered. “Uncle Jakob–” “What is it now boy?” The professor asked. He stood up and followed his nephew to the window. “Uncle Jakob,” the student repeated. “That’s it!–That’s what you need to do! It’s better than making stupid jokes with frogs, monkeys and little children! Do it Uncle Jakob, go a new way, where no one has gone before!” His voice trembled; in nervous haste he blew a puff of smoke out from his cigarette. “I don’t understand a word you are saying,” said the old man. “Oh, you must understand Uncle Jakob!–Didn’t you hear what he said?–Create an Alraune, one that lives, one of flesh and blood!– You can do it Uncle, you alone and no one else in the world.” The Privy Councilor looked at him uncertainly. But in the voice of the student lay such certainty, conviction and belief in his skill that he became curious against his will. “Explain yourself more clearly Frank,” he said. “I really don’t know what you mean.” His nephew shook his head hastily, “Not now Uncle Jakob. With your permission I will escort you home. We can talk then.” He turned quickly, strode to the coffeepot, took a cup, emptied it and took another in quick gulps. Sophia, the other girl, was trying to evade her comforter and Dr. Mohnen was running around here and there hyper as a cow’s tail during fly season. His fingers felt the need to wash something, to pick something up. He took up the alraune and rubbed it with a clean napkin trying to wipe the dust and grime away that clung to it in layers. It was useless; the thing had not been cleaned for over a century and would only get more napkins dirty. He was filled with the sense that something was not right. He swung it high and skillfully threw it into the middle of the large wine bowl. “Drink alraune,” he cried. “You have been treated badly in this house and must certainly be thirsty!” Then he climbed up on a chair and delivered a long solemn speech to the white robed virgins. “I hope you can stay eternally as pure as you are tonight,” he finished. He lied, he didn’t want that at all. No one wished that, much less the two young ladies, but they clapped with the others, went over to him, curtsied and thanked him. Chaplain Schröder stood next to the Legal Councilor complaining powerfully that the date was nearing when the new Civil Law would go into effect. Less than ten more years and the Code of Napoleon would be gone and people in the Rhineland would have the same civil rights as over there in Prussia! It was absolutely unthinkable! “Yes,” sighed the Legal Councilor, “and all the work! A person has to learn everything all over again, as if they don’t have enough to do as it is.” He was completely indifferent on the basis that it would not affect him very much since he had studied the new laws already and had passed the exam, thank God! The princess left and took Frau Marion with her in her carriage. Olga stayed over with her friend again. They stood by the door and said goodbye to the others as they left, one after the other. “Aren’t you going too, Uncle Jakob?” the student asked. “I must wait a bit,” said the Privy Councilor. “My carriage is not here yet. It will be here in a moment.” Frank Braun looked out the window. There was the little widow, Frau Von Dollinger, going down the stairs nimble as a squirrel in spite of her forty years, down into the garden, falling down, springing back up. She ran right into a smooth tree trunk, wrapped her arms and legs around it and started kissing it passionately, completely drunk and senseless from wine and lust. Stanislaus Schacht tried to untangle her but she held on like a beetle. He was strong and sober in spite of the enormous quantity of wine that he had drunk. She screamed as he pulled her away trying to stay clasped to the smooth tree trunk but he picked her up and carried her in his arms. Then she recognized him, pulled off his hat and started kissing him on his smooth bald head. Now the professor was standing, speaking some last words with the Legal Councilor. “I’d like to ask a favor,” he said. “Would you mind giving me the unlucky little man?” Frau Gontram answered before her husband could, “Certainly Herr Privy Councilor. Take that nasty alraune along with you! It is certainly something more for a bachelor!” She reached into the large wine bowl and pulled out the root manikin but the hard wood hit the edge of the bowl, knocking it over, and it rolled to the floor with a loud crash that resounded through the room. The magnificent old crystal bowl broke into hundreds of crystal shards as the bowl’s sweet contents spilled over the table and onto the floor. “Holy Mother of God!” she cried out. “It is certainly a good thing that it is finally leaving my house!”
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 1: The True Subject of the Hermetic Art, Part 5
Introduction: The esoteric heart of alchemy unveils wisdom as a divine force within the soul, guiding seekers to universal truth. Ancient sages like Solomon and Plato reveal how self-knowledge, awakened by sacred rites, connects us to the divine.
Wisdom as Divine Essence
Doubters may dismiss wisdom as an abstract fancy, but ancient tradition, echoed by Aristotle, declares it “the most essential of the essential,” an operative force informing and sustaining all. Solomon’s Wisdom of Solomon praises it: “Wisdom moves faster than any motion, passing through all by her pureness. She is God’s breath, a pure influence from His glory, undefiled, the brightness of everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of His power. One, yet all-powerful, she renews all while remaining herself, entering holy souls to make them friends of God and prophets. More beautiful than the sun, she outshines stars, untouched by vice, richer than all earthly treasures.”
This divine promise urges us to seek wisdom’s conditions, not through common sciences but through inner exploration. The outer man, bound by senses, calcines and measures surfaces, finding them wanting. True seekers turn inward, guided by ancient wisdom to uncover the true light of alchemy—not a dream, but a psychical reality, uniform across all life.
The Alchemical Method
Alchemists propose a reduction of nature that preserves its vital vehicle, transforming its form through rational conditions. Geber notes, “Men deem gold’s confection impossible, ignorant of nature’s artificial destruction.” Lacking the method to probe “altitude, latitude, and profundity,” they miss the causal truth. Plotinus explains, “The soul, encased in body, forgets self-contemplation, absorbed in external life. Purified, it recalls what this life obscures.” Plutarch adds, “Souls, bound by senses, glimpse divinity dimly, like a confused dream. Freed into purer realms, God leads them to behold His beauty, filling the universe with good.”
This beauty, pursued by Isis in mythology, is the divine truth alchemists seek through sacred rites. Psellus, commenting on the Chaldaic Oracles, declares, “Only material rites strengthen the soul’s vehicle, initiating it into divinity.” Plato calls Zoroaster’s magic “the service of gods,” perfecting the soul through earthly powers. Synesius and Emperor Julian confirm that divine union requires such arts, as seen in the Eleusinian Mysteries, where wisdom arose from vital experiments.
Archytas advises, “Investigate rightly, and discovery is easy; without knowledge, it’s impossible.” The ancients’ silence on these rites, guarding them from the unworthy, leaves modern seekers ignorant of the method. Yet, their scattered hints suggest a path to rediscover this ancient experiment, testing its merits through inquiry rather than blind faith or skepticism.
The Path to Self-Knowledge
We invite readers to consider this Hermetic mystery—not with pride or indifference, but with belief in our worthiness to explore the soul’s palaces. The ancients’ wisdom was no vain display but a real, attainable good, not spontaneously revealed but earned through disciplined art. As the Platonic successor notes, “Jupiter gave us sacred arts to commune with the divine, ensuring we’re not deprived.” These arts, veiled in mystery, offer a clue to unravel the path, leading toward the soul’s native truth.
Closing: This section unveils wisdom as the soul’s divine force, awakened through sacred rites to reveal universal truth. The journey into the Hermetic art’s method deepens, promising further revelations in our next post.
Chapter 29: Modern Esoteric Revivals – The Rebirth of Organic Gnosticism in the Age of Awakening
Historical Overview: The 19th–21st Century Esoteric Renaissance
The 19th to 21st centuries CE witnessed a profound revival of organic gnosticism’s life-affirming, gender-balanced mysticism, as esoteric movements like Theosophy, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and the New Age sought to reclaim the heart’s wisdom in an era of scientific rationalism and religious dogma. This renaissance, catalyzed by the Industrial Revolution’s spiritual void (circa 1760–1840 CE) and the Church’s waning influence post-Reformation (Ch. 26), blended ancient traditions with modern inquiry, emphasizing soul development through love, duality, and direct experience.
Theosophy, founded by Helena Blavatsky in 1875 with the Theosophical Society, synthesized Eastern and Western mysticism, drawing from Tantric Hinduism, Tibetan Buddhism, and Egyptian hermeticism to teach karma, reincarnation, and universal brotherhood. Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine (1888 CE) emphasized the divine feminine (Sophia-like wisdom) and soul evolution, echoing organic gnosticism’s Tantric weaving (Ch. 5). The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn (1888 CE), founded by William Wynn Westcott and Samuel Liddell Mathers, integrated Kabbalah, alchemy, and Rosicrucianism, with members like Aleister Crowley (later OTO founder, 1907 CE) exploring sex magic and duality’s balance, as in Crowley’s Liber AL vel Legis (1904 CE).
The New Age movement, emerging in the 1970s, amplified this with figures like Alice Bailey (Theosophy-inspired, 1880–1949 CE) and modern practitioners blending Tantrism, indigenous wisdom, and quantum science. AMORC (Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, founded 1915 by H. Spencer Lewis), where you joined as an elder in 1976, continues Rosicrucianism’s focus on cosmic consciousness and soul development through mystical Christianity, tying to your initiations in York Rite Freemasonry, Traditional Martinist Order, and Crowley’s OTO (Ch. 26). German Satanism, uncovered through your translations of Hanns Heinz Ewers and Stanislaw Przybyszewski, represents a Tantric branch, emphasizing dark sexual energies for soul power, aligning with organic gnosticism’s left-hand path (Ch. 5).
These revivals countered rational atheists’ scientific materialism (e.g., Darwinism, 1859 CE) and social enforcers’ dogmatic religions (e.g., Victorian morality), empowering individuals to reclaim Gaia’s pulse amid global upheavals like world wars and environmental crises.
Mystery School Teachings: Soul Weaving and Tantric Balance in Modern Esotericism
Modern esoteric revivals, like Theosophy and Golden Dawn, taught the soul as a watcher self (Ch. 2), woven through male-female duality for growth, mirroring organic gnosticism’s Tantric practices (Ch. 5, 13). Blavatsky’s root races and soul evolution emphasized reincarnation’s heart wisdom, blending Kabbalistic and Tantric elements. The Golden Dawn’s rituals, like the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram (circa 1890 CE), integrated alchemical transmutation (Ch. 25) with Tantric energy work, as Crowley’s OTO explored sex magic for soul powers, creating third-energy manifestations (Ch. 8).
AMORC’s mystical Christianity focuses on cosmic consciousness through meditation, aligning with the Traditional Martinist Order’s inner light, emphasizing heart-head balance for soul renewal. German Satanism, as in Przybyszewski’s writings (e.g., The Synagogue of Satan, 1897 CE) and Ewers’ Vampire (1921 CE), embraced dark sexual currents for soul integration, echoing Tantric left-hand paths (Ch. 5). Indigenous two-spirit traditions (Ch. 28) parallel this, with Lakota wíŋkte weaving energies for communal healing.
These teachings countered Church distortions (Ch. 10, 14), reclaiming organic gnosticism’s celebration of physicality and love for soul creation, as in New Age practices like chakra balancing and energy healing (circa 1970s onward).
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Modern Paths for Gaia’s Ascension
In the OAK Matrix, modern esotericism aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (dark energies, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Its Tantric balance mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating watcher selves 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), as in your radiant portal vision (August 17, 2025).
Practical rituals weave this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Rosicrucian Soul Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize AMORC’s inner light weaving Shadow and HGA. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., repressed dark energies) and aspired HGA (e.g., cosmic balance). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave soul paths, ascending Gaia’s spark.” Tie to Crowley’s sex magic: Inhale balance, exhale distortion.
Gaia Esoteric Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as elixir, offering water for soul vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, transmuting duality’s love.” Echoes Golden Dawn rituals.
Partner Mystic Weave: With a partner, discuss modern 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 modern esotericism, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, a synthesis chapter weaves all threads, culminating in Gaia’s ascension through loving duality.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Well, soon more new senses will be found, such as for example a individual-sense that smells and hears what you yourself cannot smell or hear.
You don’t believe that?
Yes, then explain the following fact to me. I dream, the door is ripped open, a man steps in. I jump frightened from the bed: no person in the room. Only after about three minutes does my acquaintance really come. Now consider: the house I lived in then was 100 meters away from the next house.
In front of my house was a meadow that made all steps almost inaudible. And yet something in me heard my acquaintance’s steps at a distance of three minutes; therefore, sir, a distance at which a person in waking state can absolutely impossibly even vaguely hear anything.
So something hears in me that *I* do not hear. Right?
Yes, but the non-existence—please, please; I am quite impatient. Look, that you cannot prove to me; but comfort yourself, you are still a great man, you can calmly serve our dear Lord God as a shovel with which he shovels understanding into people’s heads.
Falk grew tired; in his brain everything began to confuse. He only repeated himself, repeated his own words and sentences.
Suddenly he saw the monastery before him.
Strange that he hadn’t seen the cemetery before. Marit! – Marit…
Good God, how did he now come to think of Marit?
He became nervous. Why did he suddenly remember Marit!
He thought, stopped, walked in a circle; noticed it, walked again, became angry; became more eager in thinking, sweat broke out on his forehead, suddenly he had it.
He was completely happy.
‘Look, Herr Editor, you all-knower, you third eye of our dear Lord God, just look at this case. I ask you, in what relation does Marit stand to this monastery?’
Yes, of course, she was raised in a monastery; I thought of that earlier, not today. But tell me, how did the relation now come into my soul?
You don’t know; well, I’ll tell you.
Look, I have a great rage against monasteries in general because a monastery botched my Marit for me. And now I only need to see a monastery, and immediately I think of Marit. And if I saw a hundred thousand monasteries, I would always and every time think of Marit.
There in that amazing wonder-sense an indissoluble connection was immediately formed. Understand?
And then I walked, as I thought about it, completely unconsciously in a circle here on the path, until I noticed it. Do you know why?
Because I am accustomed to walk around in the room when thinking, and I almost always think in the room.
Look, sir, go to the physiological laboratory and pay attention. I take a rat here, now I remove whole brain parts from it up to the bridge; naturally you don’t know again what bridge in the brain means. Yes, that must a person know who claims education. Now look, the rat is completely dumb; it feels nothing, hears nothing; it perceives nothing; it is simply mentally dead. Now you shall see a miracle. I take a cat and beat it: the cat meows. Look, look: how the rat becomes restless, how it wants to run away!
Now do you know what the amazing wonder-sense, the individual-sense, is?
By the way, you are the most indifferent person in the world to me, understand? That is, you are an ass!
But Falk could speak what he wanted, think what he wanted, to distract and intentionally scatter himself: through everything shimmered a hot undercurrent: Marit – Marit…
Suddenly he felt a violent jerk: Does a normal person think like that? He walked in fever shudders. Fear rose in him. It seemed to him as if he rolled
into a barren abyss and everything would be swept away from the world. Now thinking stopped, and only the terrible feverish fear-feeling became ever wilder. – Everything black, barren, desolate. Then light came again into his head; the life that now should come, with this unrest, this eternal torment and longing, unrolled before his eyes.
Yes, why then? why?
Why all that. Why do I torment myself. Why all this effort, this whole running back and forth, only to satisfy the ridiculous lust of sex?! He laughed scornfully.
Isn’t it idiotic?
But again he felt the fear, an unheard-of, mad fear such as he had never felt before, and with staring, wide-open eyes he gasped out:
Why? Why?
He jumped over the ditch with a sudden jerk, and came to his senses. It seemed to him as if he were hunted by beasts.
Now he had to think, quite rationally and logically think; that would calm him.
But always the terrible “Why?” grabbed through all his thinking.
He tried to imagine it to himself.
So he was an instrument in the hand of a thing that he didn’t know, that was active in him, that did what it wanted, and his brain was only a quite ordinary handyman.
If he now seduced Marit, it wouldn’t be his fault. No, absolutely not. He had to do it; it was his fixed idea.
Right, Herr Falk? There is a quite firmly ring by ring chained chain, to which always new rings necessarily attach.
Some psychic spiral spring, a psychic clockwork was wound up, wound up by a thousand external circumstances, and now the rings and wheels of my action must simply turn!
Good: I resist, I fight against it. But even this resistance is predetermined from the beginning. And since I succumb, I simply succumb. I must.
Yes: he was actor and spectator at once, was at once on the stage and sat in the orchestra. No: he sat above himself and noted with a kind of super-brain that something was happening in his ordinary brain.
A terrible sadness overcame Falk. No, why did he torment himself?
He couldn’t fight anyway, he had to fold his hands in his lap, he had to let everything go as it wanted, no, as it *must*.
Yes, *must*, *must*…
Falk was very exhausted.
Like a rainbow after a thunderstorm suddenly appeared to him the face of a boy. A feeling of longing overwhelmed him, a choking pity for himself, a longing for people.
So he came to the city. He had to pass the district commissioner’s house. Just then the editor and the young doctor stepped out the door.
“Where did you disappear to so suddenly?” Falk became a little confused.
“He had accompanied Fräulein Kauer home; for the coachman had namely been senselessly drunk, and so it wouldn’t have been advisable to entrust the young girl to him.”
“Wouldn’t he like to take a nightcap punch at Flaum’s?”
Falk considered. Again he felt the lurking fear. Only not be alone; no, for God’s sake not.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Second Chapter The Emperor’s celebration was a downright glorious triumph. It was a fairy-tale success for all participants and the instigator-organizer, above all for Baron Boschan, who, as a sharpshooter in both senses, scored a victory. The grand ballroom of the Hotel Royal was nearly too small for the guests. The men’s black tailcoats and the women’s vibrant gowns were so tightly packed that, from the gallery, the hall resembled a giant box of finely assorted bonbons—a mix of chocolate and perfumed sugar. The walls gleamed white, gold, and red. The mirrors were freshly washed, and even the great chandelier had been freed from years of dust. Before this audience—the crème de la crème of Abbazia society—the program unfolded flawlessly. Everyone claiming talent was present, except the Italians, who held a barge picnic on the sea that evening. After a young actress delivered Bystritzky’s prologue, which outlined the festivity’s purpose in iambic pentameter, a colorful array of music and song followed. Isolde Lenz looked enchanting and sang ravishingly. The concert harpist was a king on his instrument. Richard Bergler sang like a god. The general played the flute superbly. The audience was enraptured, applauding furiously. It was uplifting. Ruprecht von Boschan opened the program’s second half. He wore his Inxa costume—wide leather trousers with fringed seams, a massive belt, a red shirt, and an open jacket. A colossal sombrero crowned his head. The stage boards thundered under his swift steps as he strode forward to bow to the audience. “He looks like Roosevelt,” Hofrätin Kundersdorf said to Bystritzky. “Yes, as tactless and tasteless as an American,” the prologue’s poet confirmed spitefully. “It’s stylistic posturing. He wants to flaunt his travels. Roosevelt’s in vogue, so he plays the ‘Rough Rider.’” Bystritzky sensed someone overtaking him. “Will he shoot?” a small, hunchbacked lady from a noblewomen’s convent asked the Statthaltereirat from Graz, her neighbor. Her yellow, withered face looked distraught, like a frightened mummy. “Oh, he will,” the Statthaltereirat replied grimly. “Count on it. I don’t see how he’d perform as a sharpshooter without shooting.” “Let me out!” the lady squealed, but stayed, staring at the Inxan as if hypnotized. Beside the Statthaltereirat sat a full-blonde conservatory student. She felt a pleasant shiver. “Are those fringes human hair?” she whispered. The Statthaltereirat glanced down. She was too foolish. “I can’t stand circus tricks,” he grumbled. “They don’t belong in a proper program. Shows who arranged this.” These minor objections couldn’t stem the tide of interest. Most ladies shared the conservatory student’s thrill. An exotic aura enveloped the hero. Ruprecht von Boschan, however, felt uneasy. He was vexed. What are you doing up here? he asked himself. What do these people matter? Why expose yourself to them? Had it been possible, he’d have fled the stage. He was especially annoyed at yielding to Hugo’s urging and donning this costume. Never again! he vowed. Turning, he took his weapon. Considerately, he used a silent air rifle, easing nervous ladies. The hunchbacked lady found Boschan cut a fine figure, erect, rifle to cheek. His calm poise, flawless technique, acted as aesthetic virtues. The audience witnessed a body working with marvelous precision, wholly commanded by will. The beauty of unmarred purpose gripped their subconscious. “Extraordinary,” said Hofrätin Kundersdorf. “Skill, not art,” Bystritzky resisted, unwilling to yield, though secretly he admired this unadorned skill. He couldn’t cling to his artistic prejudices. There was something in a man so perfectly mastering hand and eye, each movement confident and powerful, each stance natural and harmonious—like living sculpture. Boschan, starting irritated, now shot with pleasure, forgetting the audience and costume, delighting in each hit. The thrill of sport surged—the tension and playful release of all faculties. Here was the wondrous magic of bodily health, its rhythmic flow, mastery over matter’s limits. Finishing his set routine, he recalled the audience. He had to take leave. Stepping forward, he bowed briefly, genuinely surprised by the roaring applause. Then annoyance returned—this clapping reminded him he’d offered his skill as a program number. Standing there, he felt a gaze detach from the crowd below, enveloping him, questioning. He peered sharper, seeking it. In the front row sat the lady Hugo mentioned—the elegant widow who passed the terrace that morning, loved by half Abbazia. Was this gaze hostile or friendly? For a second, Ruprecht met it. Then he turned away, unsettled by those cold, yet promising eyes. The applause was sincere, convinced. The Statthaltereirat, that sarcastic fool, conceded defeat. Ernst Hugo’s triumph was sealed. After Boschan’s impact, the following acts— charming amateur efforts—failed to captivate. The audience mustered applause to avoid offense. The finale was a traditional apotheosis: a laurel-wreathed, Bengal-lit Kaiser bust, surrounded by children in Austrian folk costumes, overshadowed by a white- robed Peace Angel with a palm branch. When the curtain fell, Hugo sought his friend, but Boschan had left for his hotel post-performance. Hugo delayed thanks until the next day, but first had to tend to sensitive artists, especially those overshadowed by Boschan, soothing them with fervent gratitude. Official dignitaries also demanded attention, where Hugo humbly accepted praise, noting he’d only done his patriotic duty. Only on the third day did he meet Boschan, who lay on the beach sand, watching children build castles, dig moats, and channel seawater into their play. “Servus, Ruprecht!” Hugo called. “What’s up? How’s it going?” “Philosophizing. Beach philosophy. These kids play—that’s life! They call it castle-building. Names don’t matter; we name our games differently but play the same as these kids. The big wave comes, erasing our efforts.” “That’s resigned wisdom. Pick that up in Inxa?” “I’m not resigned at all. No way. Our games are too fun and varied. I join the castle-building wholeheartedly, thrilled when I outdo others.” Hugo settled in a folding chair beside Ruprecht, stretching his legs. “I’d have thanked you sooner, but I’ve been swamped. You get it, right? So, old pal— heartfelt, devoted, humble thanks, and so on. Ready for any favor in return. It was spectacular. We netted a tidy sum for the seamen’s home. The Statthaltereirat’s dead—he’s not twitching. Honestly, that evening: non plus ultra! You nailed it phenomenally. I barely saw, stuck backstage, but the women are smitten. You’ve bewitched them. Hofrätin Kundersdorf says you’re her vision of Roosevelt.” Ruprecht laughed, burying his hand in the soft sand. “Yes—the success you predicted hasn’t failed to materialize.” “You’ve surely received a flood of enthusiastic letters,” Hugo said. “Not quite a flood, but about twenty-five.” The court secretary drew his legs in, sitting up with interest. “Rendezvous, eh? Requests for autographs, assurances of heartfelt admiration?” “Yes, quite a few rendezvous.” “Well… and… did you go?” “I sent my Malay servant to tell the ladies I don’t attend rendezvous.” “Oh! Oh! That’s hardly tactful,” Hugo exclaimed. “How could you! Unfortunate man, you’ve missed twenty-five chances to meet beautiful, charming, sociable women and made twenty-five merciless enemies. You’ll face a barrage of furious glares, be watched everywhere, ambushed by arrows of malice and universal scorn, a cloud hanging over you.” “All the better—I’ll find peace in their shadow.” “Inconceivable,” Hugo said, shaking his head. “If such an opportunity came my way…” “You’d have gone to every single meeting.” “Absolutely!” the court secretary declared with the conviction of a man defending a core tenet of his worldview.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
The student looked across, she always looked good, this old, well-formed lady. He believed she really had all the adventures that she related. At one time she had been the fiery Diva of Europe. Now she lived in this city that was still stuck back in the fourth century in her little villa. She took long walks through her gardens every evening, put flowers on the graves of her dead hounds and cried for a half-hour. Now she sang. She had lost her magnificent voice years ago, but there was still a rare magic in her performance, out of the old school. The smile of the conqueror lay on her rouged lips and the thick face paint attempted to capture the former sweetness of her features. Her thick sweaty hands played with her ivory fan and her eyes searched the room as if trying to scratch and pull the applause out of the audience. Oh yes, she certainly fit in here, Madame Marion Vère de Vère, fit in this house, like all the others that were guests. Frank Braun looked around. There sat his dear uncle with the princess and behind them leaning against the door stood Attorney Manasse and Chaplain Schöder. The long, gaunt, dark chaplain was the best wine connoisseur on the Mosel and the Saar. It was nearly impossible to find a wine cellar that he had not gone into and sampled. Schröder had written a never-ending clever book about the abstruse philosophy of Plotinus and at the same time had written the skits for the Puppet Theater in Cologne. He was particularly enthusiastic about the first Napoleon. He hated the Prussians and anyone that spoke of the Kaiser. Every year on the fifth of May he traveled back to Cologne and the Minority Church where he celebrated a High Mass for the tormented dead of the “Grand Army”. There sat large, gold spectacled, Stanislaus Schacht, candidate for a degree in Philosophy, in his sixteenth semester, too fat, too lazy to get off his chair. For years he had lived as a lodger at the widow of Professor Dr. von Dollinger’s house. For a long time now he had been installed as the new master of the house. She was that little, ugly, over thin woman sitting beside him, always filling his glass and loading his plate with heaping portions of food. She didn’t eat anything–but she drank as much as he did and with every new glass her ardor grew. She laughingly caressed his huge meaty arm with her bony finger. Near her stood Karl Mohnen, Dr. jur and Dr. phil. He was a schoolmate and chess player. It was through chess that they had met and become great friends. By now he had studied almost as long as Stanislaus, only he was always taking exams, always changing his major. At the moment it was Philosophy and he was studying for his third exam. He looked like a clerk in a department store, quick, hurried and always moving. Frank Braun always thought that he should go into business as a merchant. He would certainly be happy running a confectionery where he would have women to serve him. He was always looking for a rich party–on the street–large window promenades too. He had an aptitude for meeting new people and making new friends, especially traveling English women. He clutched onto them gladly–but sadly they had no money. There was still another person there, the small Hussar lieutenant with the little black mustache that was chatting with the girls. He, the young Count Geroldingen, could always be found back stage in every theater performance. He painted the sets, was talented with the violin and the best horse racer in the regiment. He was now telling Olga and Frieda something about Beethoven that was horribly boring. They were only listening because he was such a handsome little lieutenant. Oh yes, they all belonged here without exception. They all had a little gypsy blood–despite titles and orders, despite tonsures and uniforms, despite diamonds and golden spectacles, despite all the civilized posturing. Some were devouring food; others were making small detours away from the path of civilized decency. A roar resounded and merged with Frau Marion’s singing. It was the Gontram rascals fighting on the stairs. Their mother went up to quiet them down. Then Wölfchen screamed in the next room and the girls had to carry the child up into the attic. They took Cyclops along, putting both to bed in the narrow child’s wagon. Frau Marion began her second song, “The Dance of Shadows” from the opera “Dinorah”. The princess asked the Privy Councilor about his latest endeavors and if she could come once more to see the remarkable frogs, amphibians and cute monkeys. Yes, she could certainly come. There was a new species of rose that she should really see. It was at his Mehlemer castle. He also had large white camellias that his gardener had planted; she would be interested in them as well. But the princess was more interested in the frogs and monkeys than the roses and camellias so he related his endeavors to transfer eggs from one frog to another and artificially inseminate them. He told her that he had already produced a beautiful female frog with two heads and another with fourteen eyes on its back. He would dissect one and remove the eggs from it and fertilize them before transferring the little tadpoles to another frog and just like that, the cells would merrily divide and develop into new life with heads and tails, eyes and legs. Then he told her about his efforts with monkeys, relating that he had two young long tailed monkeys that were being suckled by their virgin mother–She had never even seen a male monkey! That interested the princess the most and she asked for all the details. She had read something about it but didn’t understand all the Greek and Latin words. Maybe he could explain it to her in perfect German so she could understand? The obscene cliches and behaviors dripped out of the Privy Councilor as he explained in anatomical detail just what he did. Spittle drooled down from the corners of his mouth and ran down his heavy, hanging lower lip. He enjoyed this game, this obscene chatter, watching her voluptuously slurp up every shameful word. Then when he was close to saying an especially repulsive word, he would throw in “Your Highness” and savor with delight the titillation of the delicious contrast. And how she listened to him! Her face was becoming flushed, excited, almost trembling, sucking this Bordello atmosphere in with all of her pores, as he unveiled what really went on behind the thin scientific banner. “Do you only inseminate monkeys, Herr Privy Councilor?” she asked breathlessly. “No,” he said, “also rats and Guinea pigs. Would you like to watch, Your Highness, when I–” He lowered his voice, almost whispered. She cried, “Yes, yes! I must see it! Gladly, very gladly! When?” Then she added with a slow, almost evil dignity. “Did you know, Herr Privy Councilor, that nothing interests me more than the study of medicine. I believe I would have been a very talented doctor.” He looked at her and grinned widely, “No doubt, Your Highness.” And he thought, that she certainly would have been a much better Bordello Mother. But he was satisfied; he had his little fish hooked safely on his line. Then he continued again about his new breed of rose and the camellias at his castle on the Rhine. It was so troublesome for him, and he had only taken possession of it as a favor. The location was such an excellent one and the view–Perhaps when her Highness finally decided to buy a place she might– Princess Wolkonski decided herself, without any hesitation at all. “Yes, certainly Herr Privy Councillor, yes, certainly, naturally I will take your castle!” She saw Frank Braun going past and called out to him, “Hey, Herr Studious! Herr Studious! Come over here! Your uncle has promised that I can observe one of his experiments. Isn’t that delightfully charming? Have you already seen what he does?” “No,” said Frank Braun. “I’m not at all interested.” He turned to go away but she grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. “Give me a cigarette! Oh, and, yes, a glass of champagne please.” She shivered in hot desire, beads of sweat crept over her massive flesh. Her crude senses had been whipped to a frenzy from her shameless talk with the old man. Her passion needed a goal, a target, and it broke over the young fellow like a huge wave. “Tell me, Herr Studious,” her breath panted, her mighty breasts threatened to leap out of her dress. “Tell me, do you believe that– that–Herr Privy Councilor–his science–his experiments with artificial insemination–does he do it with people as well?” She knew very well that he didn’t, but she needed to say it before she could get to what she really wanted with this young, fresh and handsome student. Frank Braun laughed, instinctively understanding what she had in mind. “But of course, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “Most certainly! Uncle is already working on it, has discovered a new procedure so refined that the poor woman in question is not even aware of it. Not at all–until she wakes up one beautiful day and discovers that she is pregnant, probably in the fourth or fifth month! Be very careful Your Highness, keep a watchful eye on Herr Privy Councilor. Who knows, you might already be–” “Heaven Forbid!” screamed the princess. “Yes, it could happen,” he cried. “Wouldn’t it be very unpleasant? When you have done absolutely nothing to make it happen!” Crash! Something fell off the wall, fell on Sophia, hitting the housemaid right on the head. The maid screamed out loud and in her fright dropped the silver tray she had been serving coffee on. “A shame about the beautiful silver service,” said Frau Gontram calmly. “What happened?” Dr. Mohnen immediately took a quick look at the crying housemaid, cut a strand of hair away, washed the gaping edges of the wound and stopped the bleeding with a yellow Iron Chloride wad. He didn’t forget to pat the beautiful girl on the cheeks and furtively squeeze one of her firm breasts. Then he gave her some wine to drink, spoke to her, lightly in her ear. The Hussar lieutenant stooped, picked up the thing that had caused the damage, raised it high and looked at it from all sides. There were all kinds of remarkable things hanging on the wall. There was a Kaneka Idol, half male and half female, colorfully painted with yellow and red stripes. Two old heavy and deformed riding boots hung there complete with impressive Spanish spurs. There were all sorts of rusty weapons as well. On the gray wall was also pressed the Doctorate Diploma of some old Gontram from a Jesuit College in Seville. Near it hung a wonderful ivory crucifix inlaid with gold. On the other side was a large heavy Buddhist cross with a rose in the center carved out of green Jade. Right above that you could see the large tear in the wallpaper where a nail had torn its way out of the brittle plaster.