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 path you see in front of you is not the path the others see. We all see the same moon, but the path of light reflected in the moving, living waters touch each one of us individually.
You see a path of light leading from your feet to the moon. Your companion sees the light touching her feet, not yours. So it is for everyone. So it is with the truth. It is clear, undeniable, and objective, yet unique to each one who stands in front of it.”
— Tolteca 3
Pregnant with your light,
my soul lies in plenitude
crying for a child.
I see myself through ancient eyes.
An immensity of sound and movement behind me,
I see the odd alien old man sitting alone.
His face, unmoveable.
His eyes dead,
reflecting the distant light of far away stars.
In the silence between word and word, between day and day… in the silence between dream and dream, between knowledge and understanding, between thoughts and emotions… in that silence that exists before thought and feeling become one… in that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundations for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.
It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted; seeking who knows what;moving where they’re being pulled.
Without the swelling of those waters, without the emanation of that light, no story is worth telling.
Click here to listen to this Telling of the Oceanic Tryptic.
How is it then that speech flows out?
Sound shaped by intent;
behind the sound, a silence.
Here and there perhaps a vision,
What flows out in words
reaches the soil of perceptions
from where, irrigated by time and memory,
new and different crops will sprout in the complexities of the mind.
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 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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The aim of the Teachings is to give you the tools, and facilitate the conditions, for a transformation. What kind of transformation is this? Every human being has the potential for changing their perception, their nervous system even, to the point where they become receptors of the divine. You have the potential to attune yourself to the infinite, and become a chariot of divine consciousness.
The Teachings are designed to give you the tools and the know-how to accomplish this lofty goal. This is the meaning behind the name of the Toltec city of Teotihuacan: “the place where gods are born.” The city itself was an artifact designed to create the necessary shocks and adjustments in the initiate’s perceptions, thoughts, and nervous system that connected each one with the cosmic consciousness, producing in effect gods walking the Earth in human form.
My books are such artifacts.
To do the work they are meant to do, we need to take into account the hermetic law of rhythm. Everything in nature moves with rhythm, and no change is possible without it. The reading of these books take rhythm into account. They have been carefully designed using effective esoteric principles of magick and mysticism to produce in you a psychic system capable of connecting to the source of all knowledge and all evolution.
In the end, you will come to realize that what this Teaching, as with any knowledge that comes from outside yourself, is only a reflection of what is already inside yourself.
Nothing new can be taught from the outside; all real teaching emanates from the one true source, and that true source lies within the innermost recesses of your heart. My writing can be a facilitator at best, and if you apply it with sincerity and assiduity you will connect with the eternal, infinite consciousness from which all is created. That is your true teacher, and to that source is that my books are meant to help you connect.
To accomplish this end, therefore, we must proceed in harmony with the law of nature, with science and with art, to produce true and lasting harmonious glory.
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What you consider to be your personal history is, in reality, an artistic creation. It is the story you are making up in this dream. It is possible to put the plot, narrative, and message of your life the way a scientist designs a blueprint, or you can design your life as an artist puts things together.
You may systematically, and using data, design your manifestation in this world. You can also be an artist and not only design it for a utility standpoint, but grab a seed from the vast unconscious and create a work of art.
When you think of your lifeline, you are not only remembering what happened. You are connecting events, impressions, intents, and doings. You are making decisions of what to leave out, what to emphasize, and how to see what happened.
More importantly, when you look at your life story, you thread these events with an invisible, hidden thread. This thread that unifies and arrange the memories in patterns create a story full of meaning and significance, an artistic array made of life.
Tell your story. Use it to discover the hidden threads of destiny. Tell it, even, to uncover that most elusive of beings: the author of your story. The narrative of your story implies the story teller, the narrator, the artist who creates patterns of meaning and sense and, in so doing, emerges as the unifying force in this work of art called life.
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