Why is a Salvadoran writing Haiku?

It is El Salvador the place where I learned my first and most enduring lessons, where life first met me and revealed shadows and mysteries, joys and miseries. It was in the jungle and the volcano, not in the snowy peak of gentle Japanese mountains, that nature surrounded me with the song of birds, the scorching heat of the sun, the clear dark of starry nights. It was here that the unknown rained from vast darkness unto the panic beauty of nights without electricity an the perennial presence of the Duende, the voyeuristic games of the Cipitio, and the dreadful curse of the Cihuanaba. In its cities I smelled blood, touched death, and tasted static mystery. It wasn’t the profound calm of zen but the torrid emotions of the human and tropical jungle that forged my joy for life, my avid desire for experience, and my sense of self.

More than anything, it is here in the war and the full beauty of that valley of hammocks that I came first to sense the seed of self that exists before I was born and that shall endure well after this body and that country are long dissolved and forgot. That place is then my origin and therefore my end (as an Aristotelean telos, not as a tomb). In stories as in mathematics, the end is contained in the beginning. The egg contains the potentiality of the being, and in the being is the solution to the puzzle of evolution.

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Gentle is the breath of death

The little twelve-year-old boy is kneeling, looking at his future: that calm, restful corpse who used to be his playmate. Who used to laugh like a train whistles. Who used to play pranks. Who used to sing and dance. Who used to like to climb trees and fall.

Now, he emits no heat, no laughter, no sound, no play.

Yet, he emits something: an extremely subtle, light, almost cold, touch. It’s almost like the spray of mist an orange emits when cut by the knife. It’s the sensation of that spray on the face, touching as a caress that almost did not happen. This breath, emanating from the body of the corpse is so subtle that it’s almost imperceptible to the senses.

Yet, perceived it is. With the impression of this emanation, the last breath of that corpse touching the heart of this little twelve year old boy about to be executed.

Aka Dua

Unity uttermost showed,
I adore the might of Thy breath,
Supreme and terrible God,
Who makest the gods and death
to tremble before Thee––
I, I adore Thee.

This is the translation Crowley gives of a poem found in the back of the Stele of Revele––an artifact he found in a museum in Cairo. This stele was the basis of his invocation of Aiwass, from where the Book of the Law (Liber Al) was created.

The poem accurately describes the force behind the Ring of Power, and it is the reason I called the energy given to the world in 2007, the Aka Dua.

Here is the transliteration of the poem in its original language:

A ka dua
Tuf ur biu
Bi a’a chefu
Dudu ner af an nuteru.

Meditation

I sit here.

I see shadows.

I sit here.

I hear words.

I hear the humming sound of electricity. If I close my eyes and hear deeper than my heart, I hear the high pitch noise that serves as a memory of that one moment after the fall. It reminds me what is waiting when the dream is over.