Surge el torbellino desde las últimas consecuencias del contacto de tu dedo con mi consciencia, determinado e imparable como la sombra de tus alas que al final todo lo cubre.
Satisfecho y exhausto en la plenitud del vivir me deslizo en la dulce entrega a la radiante muerte, y nada sino el torbellino queda. De ahí, nada.
As a child in El Salvador, I would stare at the ocean in this picture, vast and loud.
In El Espino, this almost infinite amount of water expanded from horizon to horizon, flooding the consciousness of the observer. As far as the eye can see, ocean all the way to the sides. Just imagine that vast ocean pulling at your consciousness, stretching your vision as much as it can be stretched.
I sat there just watching, trying to encompass such vastness with my eyes. It pulls on the mind. It pulls with that moving uniformity, always changing and always staying the same. Nothing to break that moving monotony.
Behind me, the jungle. Which is to say, a vast nothingness. Only a hint of something behind me, also watching this ocean. And as the ocean keeps trying to penetrate my consciousness, as it almost drowns me with its almost behemoth presence.
I try to get a little bit bigger than it, to a be able to hold it. But my vision can no longer stretch. That rumbling comes from in front of me at first, but very soon that tremor of sound is encompassing me from all sides until I don’t know what is pulling at me more: the sight or the sound.
After a while there’s no difference. There is just the ocean. Vast. And the little me that was there is subsumed by that roaring waters coming at me through my eyes and ears. Now, every little thought that tried to come up and say something, whisper something, was drowned.
I had been irrevocably swallowed by that monster. Dissolved. Even the sun who was shining harsh, hot, unbelievably hot on me, no longer seems to have a presence. Even the heat itself had become just part of that roar, part of that rumble and rolling of consciousness.
The regular movement of that vibration has by now become every sensation outside of me, and inside.
The Witches Sabbath, the second book of the Spiritual Technologies series is available for preorder on Kindle.
The Witches’ Sabbath is an act of freedom, and a call to awakening to all spiritual warriors.
This is the Tantra of the New World. It adds to the existing technologies of the East and West the shape-shifting dreaming technologies of the Nagual.
The shamanism of the people of the Nahuas (the Toltec enlightened past of this American continent) has awakened, and it comes as a catalyst that will fuse the Eastern and Western traditions into a new Dharma, one that liberates not only men and not only women, but our true essence as beings who exist beyond bodies, beyond gender, beyond the programs of our past.
This is the tantra of the gender fluid, the religious experience of the variety of human expression.
This is the sexual alchemy of the queer, the transgender, the gender fluid, the asexual, the female, the male, the neutral, and anyone who is a divine star acting through the veil of human existence.
Preorder your Kindle copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VNTLQDQ/
The Kindle book will be available on August 28 of this year. You can preorder it now, and it will be delivered to your device on the day or release. I will let you know when the paperback copy is released.
Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter?
Or does she descend like the gentle starlight: flowing down the empty void to fill up this vessel?
Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops, like the high pitched electrical vibration?
Does she come to me as ambrosia, sweet nectar from above touching the tongue, filling the heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?
Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon?
Is it just this silly mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling, that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?
The four pillars of the world had been corrupted and turned into evil.
The sword, the coin, the wand, and the cup have been co-opted by the power elites of the world and taken from humanity to make a few people rich and powerful and to make the masses enslaved, ignorant, and powerless.
I would say now with all that I am and all that I know that these weapons belong to every single person in the world. That they are the irrevocable and rightful inheritance of every person in this world. That every person alive in the world has the inherent right to use them, just because each person is a direct descendant of the living omnipotent consciousness that encompasses the world.
We are the rightful wielders of the coin, of the sword, of the wand, and of the cup. Which means that every person in this world has the inalienable right to the pursuit of eternal happiness. That means we all have the right to know God, to not be denied access to the fountain of bliss. That’s the cup, always open to the immensity of the heavens. The one who holds the cup, that’s the heart in its maximum potential and expression which is the cup that opens to the blessful waters of infinity.
That’s the cup. And this opening to the blessings of God has been closed off by the religions of this world and it has been denied to humanity by those who have found the secrets of magick and science and have tried to decide that only a few are worthy of it and most are not. So that if you ever want to connect to that source of enlightenment you have to pay them. You have to obey them. You have to work for them. You have to do this and that. You have to be of a certain race or of a certain class, otherwise you can’t do it.
But if you are truly the king (and you are! For you are no other than the direct expression of Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu in human form), then the cup and the knowledge of the love of God is for you. It is yours and no one has the right to keep you from it. No one.
Click here for a talk on the path of direct attainment for all, without dogma or exploitation.
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 one who reads a poem is also creating it.
The poem the writer wrote is trying to push through words and meanings
meshing in the reader’s mind.
The reader, gatekeeper, judge, and creator
brings to life a poem born from the seeds found on the page.
The poem the writer saw died long ago;
written words stay the remains of its death.
The poem was born from the moment of death,
as thunder from light,
as life out of love’s climatic height.
The reader takes the words as lover’s seeds.
Nurturing with awareness,
dissolving them to liberate meaning;
hidden treasures from beyond the words!
Twin words inside his head:
nursing maids, young, supple breasted
full of milky light of consciousness.
They catch the hidden treasures from the death of the poem.
They bring the poem back to life
into new incarnations, one for every mind;
each read, a creative act.
Yet, each reader as it births a poem creates
in her mind’s eye another god,
creator of poems,
existing also in the mind,
interpreted into existence,
clothed with the splendor and awe
with which the goddess muse covers Her love.
She witnesses her poem child,
and imagining the creator outside Her Self,
gives Him life when She declares Him
Poet.
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There’s a place, old and musky…
up on a green hill, where the witches go.
There, under the full moon,
they dance, sing, and take out their brooms.
Their existence was forbidden,
so they had to learn to go to this place in the dreaming,
from the earliest intents of creation,
to unite with God in sexual surrender.
Here, in the true church of the living flesh.
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Intent is an actionable manifestation of Will. Intent is a reflection or refraction of Will. One Will, a series of intents. It takes a lot to accept your own Will. You have spent a lifetime covering it up, trying to not accomplish it, saying, “Not yet, not yet, not yet.”
Will is not synonymous with desire. Desire belongs to the law of accidents. You come to desire in accordance to the programming that was given to you. Will is more connected with destiny than to the desires of the ego. In fact, when under the light of pure Will, the desires of the ego become nullified, like the light of a tiny candle before the glory of the Sun.
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