Sidewalk Café

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.

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Without the Swelling of the Heart, No Story Is Worth Telling

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.

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.

The Toltecs Were Not a Race Nor a Nation.

The word Toltec was the name given in this continent to a group, otherwise unnamed, of seekers that decided to live and work in conscious communities throughout the Mesoamerican region between what we call now North America and Central America.

They were not an empire; they were not a religion; they were not a system. They were simply a grouping of different hives that had something in common. What they had in common is that they were all working to master themselves, to master the way they acted, to master the way they perceived the world.

These Toltecs truly became masters of perception. As such, the term Toltec became synonymous with artists, with builders, with temple makers, and bringers of civilizations. Many people have confused the Toltecs with a race, with a tribe, with a country, even with a civilization. In truth, they were none of these things. They were independent, revolutionary thinkers who explored the limits and the laws of consciousness; who learned to live by their own rules; and who learned to master, first and foremost, their own perception.

Their technologies, developed over millennia, allowed the Nahuas to achieve great heights of technological and spiritual development. The Nahuas was the name the people of Mesoamerica called themselves, the people the Toltecs served and guided. The Nahuas developed many civilizations: Olmec, Mayan, Aztec, and Quiché. They witnessed the unfolding of an alchemical technology that gave them the city of gold, El Dorado, a fountain of youth, and the ability to create pyramids and sacred cities designed to transform ordinary human consciousness into god consciousness.

From The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor.


If you want to learn more about the history and achievements of the Toltecs, check out the periodical Tolteca (3 out of 9 issues currently available).

A Seed Carried and Nourished by a Lineage Willed to Germinate (a book review by Viento de Octubre)

The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor is like an ancient recording of Koyote on some level, one one may play and pause at will and even share with others nearby. Like everything ancient, it resurfaces through what it survives.

A seed carried and nourished by a lineage willed to germinate. For a Nahual, it was his call. The clever genius of this book is that it isn’t just a book. It carries a call. The Teller masterfully instals filters into the consciousness of the reader, awakening something. The reader becomes a voyager. There is a playing field that only few will enter. Koyote will continue to speak to every reader, and he will be specifically sending instructions to an intelligence that is beyond what is being experienced while engaging with the book. It is in this playing field that The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor opens as the seed; and there, in that moment, the call is transmitted.

His canvas is the Tonal. Koyote placed detailed attention into being heard by the reader. The voice of the Teller is present. Throughout the writing you will find ways and alleys, methods and formulas, doors, hacks and triggers into an inner journey the ancients call a voyage. Open the book to any page, any chapter, and the writing in any phrase will invite you in. The writing is a key to the reading. His teachings allow you to follow, daring you to know and be guided to turn on. Ancient, deeply buried mechanisms of transformation and evolution are contained within the organic human host as you read and allow yourself to follow. Alchemical furnaces internalize a heating of change-causing agents within an alchemical laboratory known as a temple by simply following along. The act of reading itself becomes the conduit through which Koyote reaches the voyager essential navigational instruction.

He Tells in magick the story teller within, the one writing your story, in a way that allows for the awakening of something deep. Contact is essentially maintained with attention. Guided through by an inner voice that sometimes becomes Koyote, sometimes your higher self, sometimes something else speaking in tones devastating to the ordinary field of thought and meaning. All that remains then is whatever you muster to gather about yourself for a quick reality check, and the book again holds your self gravitationally attracted and electromagnetically attached to whichever reality Koyote is presently presenting your presence as you read. The words proceed again to guide you into an inner world where the voice resonates, and you engage deeper and deeper with the Teachings until, again, you come to realize, as if materializing into something sacred he has already constructed elsewhere in a time long ago forgotten, that Koyote just took you there again. As you read so you voyage.

His art is the Telling, and The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor is an expression of that. It isn’t the Telling itself—not an invocation as such. It is, instead, a sculpture of the artist using elements of his artistry. On his palette one sees magick, lineage, School, Teachings, Toltec, the Telling, Tantra, Yoga, shamanism, comedy, intent, philosophy, story-telling, gaming and more. Will, Nahual, and The Great Work are impressions now left inside your eternal coding as a way to manifest just that. This is his masterpiece.”

By Viento de Octubre

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My Sacred Prayer

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.

(Click here to receive a free ebook on Shamanic Voyaging and Lucid Dreaming)

What Is a Toltec Survivor

The word Survivor in The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor is not just about me. Yes, I have survived war, exile, two massacres, death squads, shots, magical attacks, tuberculosis, and the bubonic plague. But that’s not really why the term appears in the title. It is not because I am still alive; because, while my beloved death can be evaded today, she will one day succeed. Death is the most relentless of hunters.

These teachings are of a Toltec survivor because the Tolteca in me has survived, though the world has tried to bury him with lies and cover him in the illusion of self-involved problems. The Teachings have also survived. They have survived genocide and the night of forgetfulness.

It has been five hundred years since the light of this continent, this American continent, was covered by the European invasion. The conquest and colonization tried to eliminate the cultures, the language, the religions, the way of life; and more than anything, the identity of the inhabitants of this American continent.

For over five hundred years, what we were has been obscured, covered and forgot. And yet, through this long night of five hundred years, I’ve survived. If you are reading this, that same ineffable and unexplainable something may also survive in you.

Check out my book here: The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor

The Futures that Were.

The future used to be so much better before it got so mangled in recent pasts.

I’ve been shopping around for a better future. I might have to make one myself. I can probably put something together from a couple of futures I used to have that never got used.

Or perhaps I will just drop them all, stop looking in the past for all the futures I might one day want and the ones I might come to fear, leave the future in all its styles way behind and let it vanish into the distant past like my shadow with the coming of the night.

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