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.

Advertisements

I’d Gone to Another Place Again

I was very young. I must have been about seven years of age or five. I can’t remember right now. I had gone to the zoo with some aunts and cousins. After the zoo, we were going to the bus—this was in El Salvador. I was following my sister and cousin. Both were six years older than me. They were walking in front of me. I noticed they had begun to walk in a different way, to swing their hips more. I thought they were doing that because boys like it. I thought it was part of the human game. See, I didn’t realize then that I kept looking at the adults as someone would look at animals in the zoo: “These are their mating habits. These are the things they do when they lie. These are the things they do when they want to be liked.” Then, the girls turned a corner, and I followed them. On the sidewalk, there were two tables used by street vendors to offer such goodies as sweet breads and drinks. They were still setting up. My sister and cousin walked between the two tables, and I followed. I pulled myself up with my hands on the tables, and I swung myself playfully, and I came down. And when I came down, the people were not there. The street seemed the same, but no one was at the tables, and there was no food on them. All was quiet. There was an absence of smell, and everything had a buzz to it. And I turned around. There were very few people, and I ran to the corner to catch up with my cousins and aunt, but they were not there. There were some very old cars, not the type I used to see. And then I returned to the tables and I tried to do the same thing again; and, no, I was stuck there.

Something in me thought, I’m lost. I’ve gone to another place again. I looked at the street, and it went on and on for a while, and I said to myself, this is the way back home; if I walk down this path, I will get home, if don’t deviate from it.

I started walking on that strange street. Then, I saw a police officer; and when you are in those spaces in that world, uniformed personnel give you directions. He was standing in the middle of the street, but it didn’t seem odd. “Excuse me. I’m lost,” I told him.

He said, “You are not lost; if you were lost, you would be panicking and crying.”

“Well, I’m lost because I don’t know how to get back home.”

“Where is home?” he asked.

I said, “I live with the humans in Colonia Zacamil.”

So he smiled and said, “Come with me.” He took me to a bus; the door of the bus was opened. This bus was like in England, on the wrong side of the street, but I still entered through the right side from the street. He said to the driver, “This boy needs to get back home to the humans. Can you tell him when he’s there?”

He said, “Sure.” He didn’t ask where. He just drove. The scenery began to change. Slowly there was more dirt, sun, and more noise. The smells came back.

He asked, “You know how to get home from here?,” stoping the bus in front of the bus stop down the path to my house.

I said, “Yes, I do,” and I did. That was the first time I got lost, and then I started to get lost very often. I shifted the assemblage point by mistake at first.

When I got home, I told my mom what happened, and then I hid when my aunt showed up. My aunt was pale. She was worried. She reported we were all together, we were crossing the street, and then everyone crossed the street and I was not on the other side. She looked everywhere and couldn’t find me. Eventually she went home and told my mom. As she was telling my mom and my mom was calmly telling her, “Well, I don’t know, but you’re going to have to go back and find him,” and my aunt realized by my mother’s calm and dismissive demeanor that I was actually there and not lost, I sprung from behind the couch and pounced at her happily, hearing the bells of her happy laugh and cuddled in the warmth of her embrace under the all touching love of my mother’s smile.

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.

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

Check out Viento de Octubre on FaceBook

In this Center of Life

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?

(SUBSCRIBE TO MY EMAIL LIST FOR ANNOUNCEMENTS AND GET A FREE BOOK)

How The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor Was Conceived

It took me seven years to accomplish the task my benefactor gave me in 1998. Once the connection to the Ally was stablished, I found myself inside a hotel room in Chicago, talking with my benefactor as he impressed the next mission on my mind: use this opening to access the sacred book of the Nahuas, the legendary Teomoxtli.

To accomplish this, I needed the assistance of 30 people and the permission of another Nahual: E.J. Gold. After Cachora’s body of light vanished from the room, I saw the light on the night stand signaling it was 3:00 a.m. Filled with the intent of this flash of destiny, I did not hesitate. I grabbed the phone and called E.J. He gave his blessing. He wanted to know if I was also going to teach the teachings from Peyote. “For that, you need Dru’s permission,” he said. Dru Kristel was dead, however. “I will ask him,” assured me E.J.

A few months later, after an adventure in Bardo Town with E.J. and his school, a rescue mission in the hell dimension, and a feat of high magick, Dru gave his consent too. We were ready.

The 30 students were recruited, and the esoteric course took place. We met twice a week for 8 weeks. That was the number necessary to create the conditions to open the door; and once the door was opened, the Teachings flowed. The higher entity was assembled, and we voyaged.

Several treasures were gained. The Aka Dua was presented to the world. The ability to voyage with a group to other worlds and planes of existence was acquired. The technology for the blueprint of intensives was codified. The shifting of timelines was mastered. The esoteric school was established. Finally, after the course had ended and the window sealed, the Book of Divinity was revealed by one of the ancient Toltecas in the pyramids of Teotihuacan, and the manifestation of artifacts containing the Teachings became possible.

(Read more in The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor)

The Gift of Old Shadow of Bats

These were the times of darkness, before the coming of the sun.

These were the times when the old witch, Shadow of Bats, emerged from the City of Xibalbá. She emerged to see the coming of the dawn.

Shadow of Bats saw the human sacrifices and the slavery of the tribes of men.

She spoke to the tribe of the free humans, the ones who had refused to be enslaved.

“Don’t open your bodies,” she told them. “Do not enslave yourselves, and do not give your hearts to the gods,” she said. “I will give you fire and teach you to use it.”

From the heart of chaos she brought fire, keeping it alive in the abomination of her sensual dance.

Against the slave gods, she danced, and in her act of rebellion old Shadow of Bats imprinted in the free humans the knowledge of fire in their hearts, and the source of fire in their solar plexus.

The human beings awaited, now, the coming of the sun. Some enslaved and afraid of the dark, and a few free in the reveling of the dance of the eternal flame.

(JOIN MY EMAIL LIST AND DOWNLOAD A FREE BOOK ON SHAMANIC VOYAGING)

For Lack of Mastery, Humanity Became Enslaved

One day, the gods came together and reflected on the power humans had over creation, and how they were growing in wisdom and knowledge under the light of fire.

These were the times before the first dawn. These were the times before the sun first appeared to light the expanse of heaven.

The fire was the companion of humans in that long, long night before the first dawn.

But the humans did not know the secrets of fire; how to light it, how to keep it, how to control it.

One day, the humans let the cold of the night to kill their fire. They were now powerless and hungry, and the cold of night was slowly erasing the future of the human beings. They were to die like the darkness before the coming of dawn.

The gods of that time knew that the age of humans was coming, and that humans were going to govern the earth as the sun will govern the heavens.

The gods conspired.

They exchanged words.

They became of one mind.

The gods decided to enslave the human race. They send to the humans the fire breather, and eater of fire.

She who forges fire in her womb came to men, with a message from the gods.

She told them to open their bodies, at the solar plexus, and take their hearts out. To offer their hearts to the gods, in exchange for fire.

For as long as they open their bodies, and offer their hearts to the gods, the humans will have fire.

The tribes of men agreed, because they were cold, hungry, and afraid.

This was the beginning of the Slave Gods, and the demand for sacrifice.

(Join my email list and receive a free ebook on astral projection and lucid dreaming)

Out of the Dancer Came the Fire

From within the dark abyss came forth the swirling fires of creation.

“Let there be light” was the word heard, reverberating over the entire cosmos; but it was the dancer who captured the divine command, holding the bright light and making it swirl and circle, flame and shine, creating fire and the circles of time.

Fire was born such, as the beauty of creation, the heat of love, and the joy of existence.

The Dancer of Light created in her dance the cosmic circles, called time and pace.

Out of the Voice came the Light.

Out of the Dancer came the Fire.

From fire, the creatures got experience and life.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow were born in the swirling patterns of the dance; the cosmic cycles of the seasons and the days, the cycles of life, and the measure of things.

To the human being, fire was life. Fire was light. Fire was warmth. Fire was the power over the darkness of night.

 

(SIGN UP FOR MY EMAIL LIST TO GET A FREE BOOK ON DREAMING AND SHAMANIC VOYAGING)