January 14, 2024

January 14, 2024

It's so strange how I entered this world, a world has sprung around me and around all this, I found a place, but at the same time I'm living inside my nightmare: tethered spiritually to a man who doesn't want me like I want him, to a man who has rejected me already, and yet nevertheless he was the way into my real life, or into a real life that is material and spiritual combined. It only is so combined because I'm in this dreamlike state, because the trauma and strain of it puts me into this dreamlike condition. It was not so different when I was living at my dad's house and walking to my mom's house every day the summer after senior year and writing rather easily. It's the mechanism of pain to reach altered or even divine states. It's more effective (on me) than any psychedelic, which I fear could fry my brain. This only squeezes my heart.

I do have some sort of guardian, some ghost or watcher, some initiator. How is it otherwise that I arrive in New England and settle in, and begin to feel and see glimpses of this Northern Kingdom irrefutable to me? And then, a couple days later, from a completely different angle, after listening to an episode of M's podcast with a woman named U discussing medieval history, theology, angels and demons... I eventually, by looking up various sources – Simone Weil – oh, no, it was a thread from Unconscious Abyss that had caught my eye on the occult origins of the present-day UFO cults, and eventually led to Joscelyn Godwin, who talks of the occult approach to understanding Atlantic... and of the cradle of civilization in a northern kingdom at the Arctic that flowed south.

What makes sense to me, what I've thought, realized, about all the psyops and demons and geopolitical bullshit of our age, all the forced control, is that it's simple: Atlantis vs Hyperborea. The Atlantean race, the “red race”, the Egyptians and Jews and even Irish and north African, who received the remnants of Atlantis, refused to accept defeat; meanwhile the Northern Kingdom had come into its time, and has a more beautiful spirit, less materialist; this coincided with the time of Jesus. His supremacy and victory was over those demonic/spiritual entities that the Atlanteans had worshiped: the Egyptian gods, and the many other forms they have come through as. Their present continuation in doing so is due to the remnants of Atlantis (“Brits”/”Jews” in their coalition, and whoever else allies with them) having preserved the knowledge of their magic, of channeling them and “using” them, or rather making a deal with them. It's mutually beneficial [to each party]. Those entities of power have been suppressed (by Jesus). Simultaneously the Atlantean remnants seek dominance over the relics of the Northern Kingdom. The spiritual war mirrors the material war. I think this is a specific meaning of “As above, so below”. It is not an order or law; it is an explanation, a secret, handed down in an environment in which secrecy (the occult) has been made the norm by the very same people, the primary mechanism for world organization, the organizing principle of the ruling traditions, the basis of the transmission of Atlantean knowledge in order to preserve their rule, prevent them from being eradicated by the stronger new (and war-based) race. Of course there has been intermingling among the two traditions; the other had to study this spycraft as well, to learn the same mysteries, so that now they are operating, at least materially, on the same level, in the same occult sphere. But also now I am finally able to distinguish between the two flavors of civilization and their fruits. The fruits and themes of one are always around power and dominance. Even self-power, self-mastery! is an idea of the old order. Power over one's self. The other is characterized by beauty; not a beauty of wealth and abundance, but a beauty of self-sacrifice, such as is found in (of course) the winter landscapes, beauty in humility, in many other living virtues thriving in the higher spiritual world (itself a world of beauty). I don't know how exactly (this is an interesting question of DNA) but somehow this realm became the providence, the foundation, of this race. Their mentality readily accepts it, this higher realm. Perhaps simply because they are Christian, because, somehow, the Northern Kingdom flourished through Christ, had him as their King (perhaps this is what Narnia is about). I don't know how the mentality is formed.

It is embarrassing to be in New England and not have read the whole Bible. It is unthinkable to be from here and do this. There is simply a very strong tradition.

In fact... it is not nothing that the Thanksgiving holiday is called that. Is that the holiday of the last supper, in actuality? It's a Christian holiday, not a secular holiday between natives and colonists. The entire history of the colonists seems to be a lie. The people on ТНТ Танцы look too much like the people here. Maybe Thanksgiving was converted to a secular holiday because, while being about the last supper, it had no pagan equivalent holiday to map it onto.

If they tried to wipe the Christian holidays out – Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving – and celebrate instead something like May Day, Solstices, other “natural” rhythms (which, as our entire world was engineered anyway and the flood, I think, came after the construction of the moon or the tile of the Earth onto the axis it has now (advanced technology. Advanced technology in the time of Christ.

Or before Christ....) I would be intuitively very deeply and strongly opposed to it. I wouldn't celebrate. But I don't know why. I'd feel like 'm aligning myself with the wrong thing. But again, why? Does that mean I'm already aligned? If so, how? Would I have been opposed in, say, middle school? Or did something happen? Some discrete event? Spiritual events are a reality, but I don't remember which moments precisely aligned me with this. There was a time when I could've been, or was, aligned with pagan/Wiccan rituals and spells, in middle school. But events that align you with Christiandom (the Kingdom of Heaven is real, spiritually, a real spiritual realm. I think it is more natural than the rhythms of Earth, the seasons and tilt, the moon, the time cycles we have been chained to. The Kingdom of Heaven is always there, always reachable.

I've changed my attitude completely (just by being here a few weeks): if I had a child I'd encourage the development of their intellectual life, not pragmatism at the cost of the former, because the intellectual sphere is eternal, and there should be continuity. There wasn't continuity for me.

I think the music of Bach can put you in touch with Christ. Some others too, but his really is like a direct trolley into that realm. I think learning to play a couple Inventions had an outsized effect on my life).

~

More minds I've met, people I also meet. Maybe it's just because I love my life now, or love being here, and am slowly but surely assimilating into life at last; maybe it's because I'm in the same places all the time now, and things have time to develop. As ever, I want to link every element and persona together, but I must loosen my grip on it a bit, and simply record what I see.

I enjoy sitting here in my place, just thinking and writing. My thinking, concentrating on all this, is like a generator that keeps a world alive, and some people are intrigued. There is always a reason for my talking to those people (sometimes the reason probably isn't to be automatically trusted (every thought goes from this accidental real world. Like the Jewish man named Paul sitting next to me yesterday, teaching his young toddler son Russian).

Today I spoke to a middle aged man with a long face and black spiky hair, a wizard type, whom I complimented on his pencil drawing of a woman's face, who was a musician and working on a song on his laptop. I'd seen him at the cafe before; he gave me a list of music clubs, pubs, and radio stations. We discussed out approach to making music briefly.

I fear I'm collecting people, but I must let them all go after every contact and sight. They'll come to me again and again. There are some I must go to. I must find them.

I love this. I love my life.

There was a beautiful girl who came into the cafe yesterday, in a dark green flared peacoat, leggings with thick winter socks poking out, long, long shining, healthy dirty blonde hair, an Anglo face like --'s. -- actually is just like this and I do believe she's from here. And there's another one, young, tallish and very slim, with pale pale skin, wide curious dark eyes, dark brown wavy hair up in a ponytail, engrossed quizzically in her laptop. A winter wonderland full of slim princesses and tall, statuesque, intellectually gifted princes. And I am a weirdo waltzing through it, confusing many, intriguing some, with glasses, a bohemian, slightly messy set of accouterments, and wavy metallic-colored hair.

My ghost lover is liberated when he loses his face, too, when we move yet deeper into darkness once again and dance no longer in images and stories but in simple darkness, now in what they call Is-ness. We are still together; before you asked me if I knew who you were, and I said of course: you're me. And you asked if I knew who I was, and the little thimble of my wooden doll face fell off in silence like a frozen wart. That was the stage before, the day before. Today I don't know who “you” or “I” are anymore. We are just the words “I' and “you”, and energy, living presences, attached to them.

It's very difficult for formlessness to manifest without destroying that space. This is the true art.

~

All my thoughts and explanations here are dependent on this context, which grows meaning eternally, gives eternal wealth.... Without this context, all meaning is lost and all my words and thoughts become worthless. I become nothing.

~

Our truest feelings and states are personalityless. Personality is only for the entertainment of the world, or rather, for the public world. Therefore my hatred I've felt toward performance and performativeness is a lack of understanding of the place of drama, stage, performance in humanity (the fact that it is an inextricable part of humanity).

(I think what bothers me is when the performative aspect is overemphasized and eats the sincere – then you have real loss. Or perhaps the performance loses touch with sincerity. By necessity one is removed from one's role – one goes from authentic self to role, and, in an arc, the role can come back to full sincerity if the actor loses himself in it completely, forgets they are acting, lives it. I think O, inclined to write plays, understands performance better than I do and lives it more, it's more a part of his life. Roman Mikhailov also loves actors and Отпуск в Октябре is about.. if you meditate well enough on someone, you connect to them – you can know everything they know. Doing is the difficult part.

~

I let N go, gracefully. I must let all that enters go, all these impressions of New England.

There is a time to take in – which happens very quickly.

A time to process and write – thoroughly.

In doing so you digest all you took in and it becomes mental mush – unusable, but we make the mistake of continuing to try and leech sustenance out of it, out of our favorites and beloveds, for fear of being left with nothing.

So we must relax into the “nothing” or almost-nothing, the depletion.

I can never quite catch up to his mind. It's superior to mine. I fling and flail this whole story – the summit of what I can accomplish – and he [perceives this and] thinks to himself, oops, I better be more careful, and withdraws into his ongoing realm of expertise, and his fine understanding of the sleights of the invisible hand, and I cannot see anything. I'm left with fiction[, cut off from the source of grounding], and then I must see the fiction through because it is my duty on my level. So I think.

In regards to the higher calling, I barely think about sex now. I'm not interested in any other man. Any I meet only pass through, but he grows and grows in my mind. I try to throw him away, let him go; it's like trying to throw out the background upon which my cohesiveness rests.

When I first drove up here – well, after Christmas – and before – I felt it was bad practice, masochism, to go into the misery of being in a place where a man who rejected me lives. That was when I was still outside it, in New Jersey or New York, and could see the storm I was stepping into ahead of me – and there in Jersey I had stopped at a rest station for an hour and watched through the window the image of a car outside driving straight into the torso of a man behind me at a table, these two images melting into one new one of new meaning, in an unreal plane, a fourth place, allowing one to visualize and capture the nowhere world.

[when I write something like that line and reflect for a moment on its context, it in fact loses its context to me ear and only the pure meaning of the words remains, to be fitted into and decoded in any context. Or perhaps it can stand up context-less. It's context-generating. Context, inquiry, thought, beguilement, can spring up from such a koan-like phrase, загадочный.]

But when I got to NE – I was then inside the sphere that, rightly from the outside was a bad idea for my mental health and self-worth. I had to adjust, calibrate myself to the parameters of the world that contains his physical presence, and this proceeds of its own accord [once you physically enter the sphere]. Then what from the outside looks like masochism just becomes the normal sky. My living in the realm of the man who rejected me becomes the background – part of the foundational myth [of this life]. A foundational myth is neither good nor bad. It is merely a necessary foundation. In my old town I could find no foundation, no way in, [because I found no man], thus no way to assimilate into its world, and remained an outsider in it. [A man pulls a woman into a world. While she loves no man, a woman remains behind the glass, and when she falls in love with a denizen of a place she becomes its native; the grasses, leaves, buildings, and people, all become incorporated into her cells. But without this she remains a ghost there, never finding her way in, or else, because she is still a body, the grasses, rather than becoming her, eat her alive, and she becomes them – dirt, destined to death and waste. Hence, the Biblical sayings about women are true: a woman knows God through a man, while a man is made in the image of God].

The first two nights after training ended I stayed in a hostel, and I felt like I was reliving it all, like I was an invading enemy, like I had to hide.

Now it's fine if I never see him again. I would love to live with him, or near him, have him within reach, each of us in our own interior ongoing worlds side by side. Being constantly near him, relatively, in his orbit (as long as I imagine it's so) is enough to sustain me, sustain this world.

I'm happy being further from my family and feeling like I've found my place here, that I, independently, would settle here.