Her Loving Kiss

But 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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Consecrated

In the magickal tradition, to consecrate an item is to change an ordinary object into a magical weapon. The transformation happens by ceremonially dedicating the object to a single task, rendering the object unavailable and useless to all other uses.

This way, a regular knife can become the magical dagger that represents and channels the intellect of the magician; a cup becomes the holder of the lustral waters emanating from above; the disc becomes the representative of the physical plane; a wand becomes the weapon that directs the intent and will of the magician; the lamp, the symbol of the higher assemblage point emanating astral light to be worked and molded by the magician; and a simple vial of oil is now an external representation of the most sacred aspiration behind the heart of the magician.

The process of consecrating an item can be quite simple. A dagger can be consecrated by etching on it a word that represents the true self of the magician. Then, the holy oil is used to bless and consecrate the dagger formally. Rubbing the oil while saying the magical word or phrase etched on the blade, ceremonially seals the consecration. For the Cup, etch a number that magically represents the vibration of your true self—various forms of numerology can guide the magician on this. For the Wand, the will in infused into it from the pure intent that flows from the solar plexus, in silence, but with intense concentration on the force that has been with you since you were born. All the other items of the temple are consecrated with this magical oil, full attention, and with the intent to use the item for the purpose of representing one specific part of your being.

The real transformation happens in the mind of the magician, but once an item has been consecrated, is crucial that the magical weapon is only used for the purpose it was designed, and nothing else. The Wand can only be used in magical workings to direct the force of will, and the Dagger can never be used to cut butter or to fight. Each item is consecrated to be used in the temple, and to represent different aspects of the magician’s consciousness.

In the end, the temple becomes your universe and the holder of your magical persona. The more you work in your temple, the more your mind, body, and spirit become aware of the parts of your being and how they work together to form the magician, and thus become the conduits of the magical essence inside the magician.

This, then is the greatest and truest consecration, to offer up my own being to be used for one purpose only, as the magical weapon to be used for the Will of the Infinite. All consecrations performed have shown how to consecrate each part of myself to my pure Will, and then I go further and consecrate the totality of me as a weapon with a single purpose, to be used for the manifestation of Cosmic Intent. After this, the magician is consecrated and free to accomplish the Great Work, the pure will now freed from restrictions and all other distractions eliminated .

The dictum of the Book of the Law is thus accessible to the consecrated magician:

“Let it be that state of manyhood bound and loathing. So with thy all, thou hast no right but to do thy will. Do that, and no other shall say nay.” (Liber Al: I-42, 43)

Lost Days

The thunder and clouds brought a herald of paradise. They penetrated the veil of night and arrived playing with the dawn. Behind stayed the oppressive heat of the last days. They stay almost in the oblivion while the sky plays with lights and stentor, teases with rain, and caresses my body with fresh breezes of lost days.

Could these be the lost days, the ones I didn’t live, the days of exile? Could this be why these lightnings smell like remembered oblivion? Could this be why this rain comes without being here, and wets the earth without falling? Could it be why this day I live without being here, remembering what I never lived, and I hug you welcomed in the absence that never was and in the void that fills me in plenitude?

Dias Perdidos

El trueno y las nubes trajeron un aviso de paraíso. Atravesaron el velo de la noche y llegaron jugando con el alba. Atrás quedó el calor opresivo de los últimos días. Se quedan casi en el olvido mientras el cielo juega con luces y estruendos, coquetea con llover, y acaricia mi cuerpo con brisas frescas de días perdidos.

¿Acaso serán estos los días perdidos, los que no viví, los del exilio? ¿Será por por esto que estos relámpagos huelen a olvido recordado? ¿Será por esto que esta lluvia viene sin estar, y humedece la tierra sin caer? ¿Será por eso que en este día vivo sin estar aquí, recuerdo lo que no viví, y te abrazo bienvenido en la ausencia que nunca fue y en el vacío que me llena a plenitud?

The Four Pillars

These are the Four Pillars of Ego:

In the light of day,
ego casts a long shadow
that grows into night.

Such is my ego,
standing up to greet the light
of the Morning Star.

Faithful companion,
will serve until the last breath
for love’s sake alone..

Despised pestilence,
condemned by all holy writ,
guarding the most high.

(Herein is the secret for controlling the Four Princes of Evil under the sacred authority of your Holy Guardian Angel)

These Were the Times

These were the times of heresy and discovery.

These were the days Ivan (first from the right) introduced me to a Rosicrucian Order, and challenged my faith and dogma.

These were the days our maid took me to gnostic masses and challenged me to see my privilege.

These were the days of attempting to extract nutrient from flowers to feed the hungry, of seeing specters appear and glide, of exploring abandoned scientific instruments in a University closed by the army.

These were the days before the girlfriends and the bullets, before the depression and suicidal thoughts. These were the days before the hanging by my ankles over a four story building to make me panic. These were the days before the finding of my true strength.

These were my Zacamil days, when that funny looking boy, second from the right, saw the world open up and the storm of time showed him infinity and the eternal power of not being.

Was I ever truly him? How did he know to survive by becoming me?

Do Not Waste Time

Here is the third and last commandment left by Ce Acatl Topilttzin Quetzalcoatl to his four high priests:

“Do not waste the time given to you by Ometeotl, the divine dual-trinity, on this world. Labor day and night towards the good without wasting time, for you shall not know if you will live again, if you shall know your true visage there in the world of true existence. Take prudent advantage of your lifetime.”

We Toltecas learn to use death as an advisor. This doesn’t mean we brood over the certainty of death, nor that we adopt metaphysical views about it. We simply use the certainty of the end of all things, including the end of this dream of life, to help us know that this moment is of extreme importance.

More in Tolteca 3:

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This Impulse to Know

My mother ocean, maybe she’s hoping one day to have swelled so much that one tip of her womb would breach the infinite ocean above and become one.

One with what? It does not know. It only knows that one day long, long ago it must have come down from that big, big, big heaven. One day it, the ocean, was only a drop that came down from that roaring, infinite vastness of which the sun and the moon are just two tiny creatures that play with her, that penetrate and pull her, making her give birth over and over again.

One day––and this is for sure to happen one day––she will also die and become one once again with the oceans whence she came. Then she will forget herself as the waters above swallow her whole, and her consciousness and vision become stretched way beyond her capacity to know, to think, to remember, and to be.

And so, every star, and every galaxy, and every God one day too will dissolve into the vast, vast ocean-void whence they came.

That part I know. That part I remember.

What I don’t know and cannot know is why that vast ocean of mother Binah swells once again and sets me forth into this harsh and vast light. Why again am I down here where I forget, where all I know is to yearn, and to love, and to desire?

Not even having the memory of what it was, I only have the pain of the yearning; and out of my soul, the depth of my being that has no name, no memory, no ego, nothing… but out of the depth of this pain, the memory of my origin pulls me, and the presence of God penetrates me day and night. In thought and in silence it pulls me. And out of me comes, now as a thought, then as a whisper, this little impulse to go back.

Go back… Go back… This impulse… This thing in my heart of hearts that wants to swell up, flutter up, and become and know what is there outside myself.