Are They Still There?

Today, there is no volcano in my view.
No people.
No path.
No city.
No hum.

Today it’s just the fog
holding and dissolving billions of worlds.
They have become more clear and solid.
They exist within me, and without.

The word showing an external reality is no longer dead.
It’s the gate keeper who is dead.

Who, then, punishes the archangels?
Or do they exist inside me in caravans?
Do they exist in my grandmother’s room,
collecting dust and gathering consciousness of little children?
Does the manticore fly?
Does the unicorn travel on solar paths?

Is the man in the cross still there,
looking at me with those eyes,
asking me if I know that I am there
nailed to the same cross,
to this creation of my mind,
unable to move and going everywhere at once?

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The Weapons of Humanity (pt. 4: The Coin)

The coin is what has been perverted the most, hacked to make our understanding obfuscated and our power unseen. We have been duped with respect to the coin.

The coin of the tarot is the wealth of the world. It is the hidden gem, the hidden secret that awakens the power of the heart. It is the transformed soul, and its radiance the richness of the world.

We have been lied to, however. We have been told that the true coin is this thing that passes for money. Money, paper money, electronic money–it’s a false thing that is used instead of real wealth. The belief that we have put on it makes us believe that the true wealth is there, and that currency is the real coin. That is not the real coin. It’s a fake program. It’s a program that has been introduced into our consciousness through the artifice of civilization.

The whole civilization has been an expansion pack in the evolutionary program we are playing in this virtual reality world called Earth. And the coin was introduced as a form of exchange and of creation. Basically, it has become the code for the ability to upgrade your experience. We can use the currency to put walls around us and to make our house bigger or prettier; to change the quality of the food you eat; to change this table for another one. That’s the magic that is channeled through the coin–and currency is a visible, exchangeable token of the power of the true coin.

Now, the coin is something that is free to everyone. It is inherent in being human. Ah! But this idea is anathema to everyone in modernity. “That won’t work,” they say. “You have to have a limit; and you have to accumulate it and work for it, fight for it, kill for it, destroy populations for it, and to hoard it.”

But what if the true coin is the transformed heart resplandecent with the light of creation? And what if we all have access to it and not just humans but all my relations–that is to say, All Beings Everywhere? All beings everywhere have the supreme consciousness of the universe shining its golden light from within, and all have the right to exist and the right to use the resources of the planet. In fact, we all have the right to exist and use the resources not just in this planet, but anywhere in the cosmos. To see this and know this comes with knowing the coin within, and to hold this true coin is the future of humanity.

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Don’t Let the Driver of your Vehicle Fall Asleep

The main reason your instrument, your carriage, your human biological machine does not get into the waking state is because it is deathly afraid of it. When everything is working properly, the Master expresses his wishes, the driver knows the direction and controls the horses, the horses have the strength to go wherever the Master indicates, and the carriage simply follows. When everything is working in harmony, the Master gets to where he wills to go. If something goes wrong, then he might not get to where he wants to go. If the wheels are not attached correctly, the carriage will go nowhere. If the horses are not well trained, the carriage could go anywhere. If the horses are going crazy, berserk, they will not go anywhere. If the driver is drunk or asleep, it can’t get anywhere either. The nature of our sleep refers a lot to the driver falling asleep. The driver falls asleep and the horses go to where they want to go according to their preferences, their instincts.

Who are the horses, the driver, the cart? The horses represent your desires and your fears; or more properly said, your seductions and your aversions. When the driver is asleep, you are on autopilot and you move in accordance to your instincts. You are driven by the winds of karma. Some of the words I use here, you might be familiar with, but I will be using them in different ways. Here, I’m not using karma to mean “you do something good, you get something good.” That’s the soap-opera version of karma. Think of karma as a wind that moves the leaves of the tree sometimes here, sometimes there. We are like those leaves, and we’re moved by our desires and the circumstances around us.

Rarely do we have a driver that can direct our vehicle wherever we want to go. The driver is our conscious self, the thinking part of us that can plan, strategize, and make thoughtful decisions. A driver that is pulled and repelled by sensual or emotional attractions, is a driver that has given control of the vehicle to the horses. The driver is asleep, or otherwise merely witnessing the car being pulled by the horses of emotional identification. The driver might know where the master wishes to go, but he is incapable of directing the carriage.

The influence of the Master is very subtle. He has no direct influence over the cart. All he can do is talk and send a voice to the driver. But if the driver is drunk and asleep, he won’t listen. If there is a racket going on outside, he might get a distorted notion. All he has is that voice coming from somewhere behind him: “Take me to the park.” But the driver has to interpret, apply the command, and go. You have to listen to the voice while awake. If you are asleep, who knows what you’re listening to.

From The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor

The Elusive I Am

The being who says “I am”, implied in every sentence, the being that observes, that hears, that sees color and light, sits in the shadows between the worlds.

If I look within the source of attention, trying to find the I Am, the I Am retreats even further. When I think I’ve grappled it, when I think I have surrounded the I Am in a web craftily and carefully constructed with meaning and concerns, when I say “Ah! Here I Am!,” the I Am becomes smaller, more remote, more in shadow.

I look for the I Am, realizing that the one who searches is also the I Am, forever retreating yet always at the center of the experience.

This Room Called Reality

I felt as if I had just woken up from a long, long dream in which I had been many, many beings: man, woman, criminal, judge. Where I had been a saint and a sinner. A fish. I had seen myself as daughter and mother. Lover. I was the betraying one and the one who cried in desperation after being betrayed.

I had had many dreams and I had seen myself lost in all those dreams, in all those worlds. I remember myself collecting pieces of me, calling them my companions. Members of a group that searched for an idea, an illusion that we called reality. Futile enterprise. For nothing in that dream could be called reality.

There is only this room. Only this chair. Only me and no other. I am where I have always been and there is no one else. I have always remained in the here and now, even throughout all those changes of form and vision, immersing myself into the hellish vistas of pain and unending suffering with the hope of forgetting the real world, searching for heavenly spheres of life and peace and happiness–eternal happiness–only to be able to forget the stark reality of the here and now. That here I was again, all alone. Nowhere to go in this room called Reality.

I Am a Figment of Your Imagination

The one who speaks and the one listens, that is the “I” and the “you” implied in a sentence, are theoretical entities. That is, they may be actual beings as, for example, the person who wrote this and the person who is reading it, but the sentence itself exists even when no one is reading it and when no one is saying it any more.

This writing stays there somewhere without any real being saying it and no one reading it. It reads as if there is an author and an audience, even if no one witnesses it, but the author and the audience become actual only when someone reads it. It is the reader, then, that gives life to the writing, making the author and the reader actual, real.

And even then, the one who writes when this paragraph is being read is not the person who wrote it, but the theoretical entity implied in the mind of the person who reads it. I, the writer, am only an entity implied by these words you read. I am a figment of your imagination, only part of you created by you through the mechanism of this language, by the magick of these words you read. “I” am only implied by these words.

Your mind creates me in your mind, yet I could not exist in your mind as the author of these words without the existence of these words, these words that never really existed until someone read them, these words that were not real until now, when you are.

You Are a Manifestation of the Egregore of Humanity

We are constantly negotiating with one another the limits of reality and you’re constantly negotiating who you are. But, that’s not the real you. That is only the avatar that you are picking up for interacting in this simulation, in this game.

You’re really not this particular instantiation of the self. The human mind exists way beyond the limit of your awareness, and even beyond the limits of your lifetime. It is shared with all humanity. You are truly the manifestation of human history.

Like every living creature, the egregore of humanity is growing, it is learning, it is adapting. It is making decisions at a collective level.

The human mind is a vast depository of knowledge, theories, strategies and historical data. Anything that any human being has done, experienced, thought and created is recorded in this mind. There is no action that you can ever take, no thought that you can have that is not part of the collective mind. We can keep secrets from one another because the knowledge of each person is limited to their personal history and their erroneous conceptions about reality, but the mind is aware of all this. It’s seen through each and every human being.

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Be the Author of your Story

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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The Birth of a Poet

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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