When I Can No Longer Remember

What is this, penetrating me over and over again?

What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?

Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.

More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.

This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.

 

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The Formation of a Soul in The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor

What is the message of The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor? The Gnostic Church of L.V.X. offers a clear perspective on this question. The alchemical formation of a soul as a central point of the esoteric teachings, much neglected by most modern currents, begins to be addressed in chapter 4. This point is further elucidated in the next chapter, which we will address on Thursday, August 15, 2019 during our live class discussion.

Here is the analysis from the Gnostic Church of L.V.X.:

The central teaching of this chapter is as much the central teaching of this book. And if I dare be critical, this is covered in subtext throughout the book, but really needs to be brought out; not just in the future writings of the Koyote, but in the ideas of the spiritual community, as a whole. And in the latter, it is almost completely non-existent.

The Theosophists once spoke of it and the GD and Thelemic/Rosicrucian communities have all but completely ignored it. And that idea is simply that immortality is conditional and not an integral part of your being by right of birth.

The most marvelous quote for the central teaching in this book is: “You came in as an essence. I do not call it a soul because one of the great lies that was told is that you already have a soul. Religions run by the Great Magician, do not want you to make any efforts to make a soul. They want you to be a prisoner. If you believe you already have a soul, you will note make the necessary efforts to create one.”

Indeed modern Christianity has stopped recognizing any difference between your spirit and your soul. And Aleister Crowley, who seems to recognize the importance of creating this soul, merely pays a passing homage to it, by saying in his main theoretical book on Magick that one has to create the ‘body of light.’

Even worse, these New Age groups; themselves, descendants of the foul betrayal that came to Blavatsky’s Theosophical movement, constantly preach that you have to give up your ego (soul…ego sitting at the center of the Ruach) in order to get to that essence, where they correctly assert you are already immortal. But it’s not the immortality of the created soul and the evolved individual. For any evolved individual, these pseudo-Theosophical teachings are the teachings of death; fully condoned by the Great Magician––Gnostic Church of L.V.X.

Watch the class discussion of Chapter 4 here: https://youtu.be/7Wy4oCBHv9M

To purchase The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor, click here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RMK9D4C/

From Where I Pretend this Game

I let myself sink.

As I sink into the cold embrace of sand and earth, I feel I’m being pulled by the call of the stars above. I move up and down, in and out, both at the same time. I panic for a moment. I grab on to the earth, trying to hold on––no longer to a vestige of humanity, of memory, of purpose. I just try to hang on to any remnant of sensation–even if just of my fingers trying to crack.

Even what used to be strength of hands have become simple waves of electrical pathways, electrical storm all around; the pathway of lightning strike flowing through an empty body, no longer resisting sound or light; a pure vessel no longer existing, no longer present.

I pretend now for the sake of argument that I remember being some thing, some one, perhaps. I pretend for the sake of the game that I sit on a chair, that a body contains me, that the ocean before me does not inundate the space a mind used to occupy.

I pretend for the sake of the semblance of sanity that it is my voice that I hear, that the ocean I observe is an ocean like any other, that one day I will no longer fight the eternal presence of the naked reality.

I pretend that I forgot the empty space without. I pretend that I move in a world round, made of mud and fire; that I walk upon its surface in a body created from the ocean’s salty waters that contains life, movement, purpose.

I pretend that I have a life. I immerse myself no longer in the memory of the beloved but in the dreaming, in the flow of illusions. I realize that I do not need to lose myself in a completely created constructed reality. It is perhaps enough to grab a tiny piece of a memory… a sound… a word; maybe her eyes; maybe a fight; maybe the pretension that I cared about what was happening to me at some point or another in a lifetime that no longer concerns me, or you, or anyone else.

I pretend that I’ve forgotten, that I care about what happens to this illusion of self and memory.

I pretend that I become fascinated with the shiny lights below, reflecting those other stars lost in the immensity of darkness. I look at the grains of sand. I make them important. I turn them into light, into fire, into sensation. The sensation gives way to a form of hand, of arm, of movement, of once space following the other.

Logic, flowing. Language, forming. Yes, no. Dark, light. Good, bad. Male, female. Up and down. Nice and pain. I make it into a game, pretending that the shadows do follow the movement of the body.

There is an Ocean…

There is an ocean I see with eyes of ancient memories, an ocean of a deep blue. The depth of the ocean feels exactly like the depth of my soul. The sound of the ocean comes hesitant at first, as if wanting to become present, real.

The gentle reverberations in the surface of the ocean are seen with the eyes and felt with the skin. It moves in soft rhythmic jumps. I sit at its shore feeling sand and pebbles under my feet, and every minuscule portion of sand appears to be complete unto itself; as if every particle of sand creates a unique sensation that travels through my body; as if I could get lost in every single sensation, and all of them are felt at once.

There is an ocean of deep blue. Its depth can be touched by the proximity of my hands. The closer I move my hands to my sightless eyes, the deeper I touch the profound stillness of this ocean. I sit as if waiting, but I don’t know what I wait for. I sit at the shores of this ocean. I hear the crashing of the waves, and each reverberation of the waves sounds as if it is my voice talking and moving and reverberating through the skin of my back.

I sit. For a moment, I do not know if I see the dark waters at the edge of time and creation or if, perhaps, I simply stand at the face of the abyss at the end of a life that I can no longer remember as being mine.

For a brief moment, the terrible thought begins to form that perhaps I do not know where I sit; that there is no ocean blue, no peaceful movement of waves; that perhaps all that is happening is the projection of my illusion of safety onto the immense, incomprehensible chaos––a non-existing nightmare that moves and reverberates, a darkness darker than black, a void, an emptiness that moves, an immensity such that the more I stare at it the more it looks towards me.

That look comes at me as a stream of sound, of words being thought by something flowing through me. I no longer know if these thoughts, these words, are flowing out of me or into me.

A Whisper of Silence, this Self.

I do not have a name for myself. I simply exist without tag or form, moving without comparing any one moment with any other moment.

There is just a presence in the liquid movement all around, the flowing of the fields of light, the forgetting the words and their meanings. There is just the peaceful communion with the reality that extinguishes all illusions.

Abiding in this state I forget that there was such a thing as the world. I forget the mere possibility of existence, of sound, of light, of movement, of time. I forget, living in this eternal space, that there is a word for that space. I forget the opposite of what is. I forget the distinction between self and it.

In that forgetfulness, a slight vibration surprisingly comes. It happened, and it went. I almost missed it, almost feel that it did not happen at all. Maybe it did not happen. Maybe that slight stirring comes only from within to put a tiny mark on the perfection of that infinite silence. Maybe it’s just a habit that I have accumulated over countless dreams of existence––a slight distortion of the darkness.

It comes. It goes. It’s a whisper of silence.

This Impertinent Moment

This moment, it is pertinent to say, has been waiting its turn from the beginning of creation. When the sleeper stirred first and uttered a tiny vibration, unaware of it––just a single movement creating the beginning of a dream––this moment of time has been waiting, waiting to appear.

Before this moment, there were many other moments––movements, thoughts, words, actions, concerns, fights, death, life, survival, history, planetary events, starlight floating about in the heavens.

Before this moment, there is an ocean of time. After this moment, another equally infinite ocean of time.

This moment is here; empty and meaningless, surrounded by oceans of time and possibility. There will be a time when this moment is not; and whatever is here now, will not be. When this moment is over, the lights will be no more and the the path trail of light that comes into the eyes and makes its way into an unknown jungle of electrical fires inside a mass of liquid and brilliance called the brain will no longer mark a path.

This moment will then be complete, without a trail, without breath, without movement, without a present.

The Love of the Father

When the times bring you to that place where you feel unworthy of love and divine grace, think about the love parents have experienced for their child.

When immersed in remorse for past deeds, or when feeling weakened by the chains of habit in the sleeping state, think about the love present when you see a child you love. You do not love him for his strength, his power, or his abilities. You love him for the essence in him. If he is sleeping, you love him the same as when he is awake.

So is the light of your heart; worthy of love divine even when you are trapped in the sleeping state.

The mother sings to the child, though in his sleep the child knows it not, and his small breath is enough for the mother to feel all her loving care rewarded. That divine breath in you, makes your heart love, and that love comes from the infinite in you, and that awakens the love of the supreme consciousness witnessing your heart of hearts.

In the source of that love, no merit or deed is needed to justify it. Its existence is its reason to be loved.

My Sacred Prayer

One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.

Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.

It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.

May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.

May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.

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In this Center of Life

In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.

In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.

In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?

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We Are the Prehistory of the Human Being

Having a human body and a human nervous system, we share on the collective karma of humanity. All humanity shares one mind, and this mind has done all the things humanity has done. Sometimes, we can remember having inhabited the beings performing all things. We have been killers and have been killed. And that’s such a minute part of what is possible.

We are babes in a cosmic womb. We haven’t been born yet. We are not real yet. We are here in this egg we call planetary existence and one day we will hatch, grow wings, and take the cosmic flight in wings of cosmic radiance. One day, we will become true human beings, sharing on the cosmic awareness of the eternal.

Right now, we are not done with your evolution. Right now, we are not yet complete human beings. This is still the sixth day of biblical creation. The human being is being created in the image of Ometeotl, the supreme entity. We are not real human beings yet. We are the prehistory of the Human Being.

We are the remote past of Hueman, the Nahual in human mold, Old Grandfather, the Avatar of the Absolute.

Click here to check out my upcoming book: Teachings of a Toltec Survivor.