“Scriptures of Story”

"Scriptures of Story" – 2024-3-2

It's never been about the outer form for me but something deeper.  A sense of the thing behind the thing, of the holy presence which is parotted, alluded to and interpreted by generations of mortals.  While I have a kindness of respect for the forms to which the people are entangled I know them to be things of impermanence, shifting tides of tradition across an infinite ocean of changing shapes.  The scriptures change with the currents, yet the Word remains, constant beneath the surface of what appears to be.

The idea of tomes created from Divine inspiration (which translates to some mortal having an interpretation of something at some point in time) has always been strong in the Mythica.

Truth told, when I have not been in deep disgust with God and the nature of the karmic chains the people are born into, I have considered Into the Mythica to be her own set of holy tablets, a divination gained through hard-won gnosis on the Quest regarding the nature of Divine and mortal existence, and in this context the blurb about the golden calf, about God's intent to destroy the people and Moses's renegotiations of contract (something I considered archetypically Jewish) …

It has always been the discrepancy between the ideals of holy scripture and the way mortals act in their everyday lives that has struck me, for such things are often mutually exclusive, crossing paths only in brief moments of faith presented for the camera yet questionably present in the ways in which the people regard each other in actual life.

It was a real thing for me and always had been given my fae perspective on the worlds.

To me the Trees were Life itself, and we were made of their substance, part and parcel of the world of forms that grew like leaves upon the substance of the world.  In such light, it was the falsity of perceived separation between ourselves and the Creation that beget the many traditions of humanity, the original "sin" being the illusion of separation that defined the mortal experience and it's progression towards realization itself.

This, however, was not a common perspective.  It is my sense that most people have a myopic view of the causes of circumstance. That their perspective on the world ends at the edge of their nose, and they are so saturate with the patterns of mortal history that their perspective is but a narrow repetition of the same.

The proof was ultimately in the pudding.  In how we acted within our secret heart, within the community and amongst the peoples we engaged with along the way

It was not the philosophy of ethics that demanded their creation but the physics, where the subtlety of judgments regard upon the conditions of our lives carried within it the weight of manifestation itself, and where through our judgments of "good" and "evil" we created the karmic bondage that reduced our free will to glimmers seen through the windows of a prison.

Once upon a time I heard the reverend Michael Beckwith say something significant.  Michael, a practicing priest of his faith and a devotee of the Divine spoke to the origins of the word 'satan', proclaiming it's origins in the language of aramaic which is the language of the Christ himself to mean "crazy thoughts".

It was this quality of programming that I rebelled against as a childe, where I saw not people with malignant hearts but those with good intentions unconsciously parrotting the dirge of patterns within the layers of their mind to their children, furthering and spreading the error that had distorted their own lives onto the generations to come.  It was a sadness upon sadness, for they did not realize what they were doing, so unconscious were they into the resolving traumas and patterns which created their very sense of self.  In such context the healing was not to be found in the identification with one impermanent "tradition" or "lineage" but in the architectural foundations of the vibrations themselves and the sense of their alignment or misalignment with the greater truth – that we were all One, all facets of the same undivided mind, playing out stories defined by the very limitation of awareness itself.

Yet wresting the people from their chains was no easy task, for they were comfortable in their misery and had gained a kind of fellowship in it's sharing.  They commiserated in repetition over the real and imagined slights to their expectations, repeating a chorus of sadness that only weighed down the potential for a new dawn.  To push against such things, to offer another solution inspired energetic rebuke, as if trying to pull someone from the mud only to have them claw at you for your efforts.

The traditions of the world were leaves in the rain, fluttering gravities blown by the winds of karmic substance, holding little gravities within the far larger cosmos.

It is not that the world was without pleasantness or the presence of love, but that the nature of the Age that we lived within was one of filth and overwhelming distortions and suffering, the people in ignorance as to their true nature. And while it had evolve and schools of consciousness had grown to address the necessity of mindfulness and constant practice to dig oneself out of the mud of such things, I had no doubts about who the creator of such mud was.  Such was the crux around the idea of fate and free will that had plagued me, itself the axis of fault and forgiveness that was the spiritual process of relationship itself.

It was not lost on me that the Quest was biblical in it's scope, relating to the very foundations of what it meant to be mortal having a relationship with one's own unremembered DIvinity and where the many stories and songs which formed the minds and memories of the people were small fragments of a much larger thing within the Stars & the Soil of the Akasha.

During the months of brutal isolation and healing in Cassandra's care I had scraped together enough monies out of the poverty i'd been forced into by God to engage the services of a reader by the name of Elsbeth Seraphin, who told me he perceived me as a reincarnate rabbi from ancient, ancient times.  Whether he was accurate in his divinations of the akasha or not there was merit in this, for I felt only someone with devout trust could feel as betrayed and dismayed by what God has created in this Age.

Yet where was my sense of Divinity? Certainly not in the repetitive hymns and melodies of one system of faith or another, but in something more constant, in things that speak to the languages of all people beyond a singular sect.

The Ecstasy of Spirit

Despite the creation of the Mythica being a documentary of the spiritual journey, I confess that I have had great difficulty understanding the basic impetus behind human spirituality.  Whether it is a perspective that comes from the "Tabula Rasa" of my relationship with the impressions of the mortal plane and the accompanying ignorance of the process of self-work on a fundamental level or no, there are components to the spiritual journey that are generally accepted by many which have taken me years to grasp much less integrate and digest into my experience.

It is this idea of ecstasy, this idea of "God consciousness" being a thing of blissful peacefulness and enduring gratitude that has sat outside my awareness within the mortal shell, where the very idea of such a things existence and the freedom from the agitations of being imprisoned in mortal karmas has been invisible to my eye.  Such was an ignorance born no doubt from the "Tabula Rasa" of my nature, where I did not see the underyling goal of spiritual process and it's aspirant transcendent of the mortal coil.

It's the signs and portents all around me sifts across my sight like a melody of archetypes speaking to me in the unhidden language of my soul, and in it I see the reflection of my own aspect as a divinator alongside Cassandra's, each finding our way through the underlands of the Mythica along a path of personal divination.

March 3, 2024

It had been years since i'd visited the nexus of ley lines upon which the Vista theatre stands as a portal to the world of Stories, having not been to this part of the City of Angels since Paradox Pollack had informed me of it's existence and where I had come to see Dr. Strange during the 2016 episode "The Doctor is In".  As I had come down to Los Angeles for the weekend I felt it proper to honor the space with my presence, giving the tithe and time of my attention to one of the hearts of the city.  I'd had plans to find a coffee shoppe nearby, one in proximity to the sacred theatre, and happily discovered that Quentin Tarantino had set up a place called 'Coffy' directly next to the theatre!

Such is the nature of the yoga of story, of our movement through the stars and soil of the akasha made clear.  It wasn't about directly about my directorship of the events of the Holy Wood or Quentin's efforts to honor the roots of cinema that had inspired him, but about the larger force of Story herself that moved through us, granting us the presence and powers to wield the powers of such Divinity in service to our living myth.  Such was the energy that had drawn me hither many years ago in my alliance with Paradox Pollack, that which had given me sanctuary and solace whilst living in the wilds of Topanga Canyon and what empowered the many storytellers who moved through the streets of the great city.

The Vista reminded me of how stories inspired me as a youth in the early years of "Squire of Stories" and the tales which had shaped my world.  It was the soul of story made manifest, the hieroglyphs of the modern myth and the liquid nectar of the silver stream.

The Coffy Connection

I am always interested in WHY things happen, for example being as I sat down to do some writing in the coffy shoppe a YouTube video featuring Quentin Tarantino came up on my computer prompting me to ask the people if such was a marketing push connected to signing onto their WIFI, that it somehow automatically connected to a piece on Tarantino in a shameless (and clever) movement of self-promotion, yet they told me 'no'.  How interesting then, that the video appeared in my browser, causing me to inquiry into the vibrational substance of this nexus of story and the gravity which had given form to the Vista theatre, Pam's Coffy and more.

There is a small cubby in the Coffy where a flickering black and white television replays media of classic films, and for a moment I envision Quentin as a youth sitting in a theatre much like myself, finding strength and solace in the stories that played across the silver stream.

I weave the magic as I ascend the mountain, invoking the five elements and holding them soft anchors in my mind as my footsteps grounded my intentions to the ley.

It isn't until later that I wonder at a 'Z' on the photo as Cassandra informs me that it is the reflection of the  flourescent lighting in the frame, yet to me it was the lightning of Kether, that which lay beneath our songs and stories, the unfractured prism that moves through the colorscope of perception itself.

The spirit of Story is what supports such places, and I feel the ambiance of her everywhere, moving through the land, moving through the structures and sculptures of the people, animating the world as she appears in the surface and the subtle octaves of life.

I love this place.  The energy of Story moves through here so deeply.  She is a genuine portal, a pssage of entry to the silver stream.  A window into the mythosphere that holds our stories in remember.

As before I felt a massive surge of story-energy around the place, a portal into the liminal realm of stories that was the true substance of the land that hosted Los Angeles and her people.

It is so beautiful when the aspect of things as they appear in the surface of the world and in the subtle are aligned upon the land, and I feel the Vista to be such a place, her naming aligned with that sacred function across the octaves

As an oracle herself Cassandra has her own way of seeing the patterns in the weave and the wheel of the mortal plane, and has often described to me the constant star map she has behind her eyes as she moves through the Mundus.  The appropriateness of her fulfilling the role of cameraperson during this scene in my story is not lost on me, reaffirming my appreciation for her presence and alliance on the Quest.

There is significance to my arrival at this theatre on another level as well and the relevance to her appearance on my timeline.  To what was happening in that moment of time and space and what is happening now, especially at the nexus point of story that underlie the Vista within the city.  In 2016, I had arrived in the Kairos of Dr. Strange, and had been attended by the usher in such attaire.  Now in 2024 I have arrived again, this time to the shape and story of Dune's current incarnations.

There is magic to this.  To the confluence of events as they happenag along one's story.  To where and when things happen and their relevance to who we are being and becoming along our tale.

In my eyes Victor is a Guardian.  A temple-keeper in the form of the modern myth.  He is the gatekeeper, embodying the shape of what moves through his theatre.  It is a thing of jazz to me, of surfwise surrender to what moves through a temple and how we shift along it's wake.  Such is the nature of the shamanic, and I am honored to get to speak to him along my path.

To be a Gatekeeper is no small thing, for this temple is magic, where the impressions of the storytellers who found their way here still echo between her curtains.  It is a thin place, where one can see the substance beneath the surface of the world.  Such is the fae perspective.

And in that moment my self shifted, the tale of Arrakis moving through me in deliverance of it's sacred gift.  It came as a seeing between the worlds, deep in the shifting sands of the akasphere where our stories etch to memory, and where I saw my own coordinate within the shifting sands of time and space in it's nakedness.

For our movements through the prima materia of our story is both solid and liquid, the ripples of our reality shifting between states of rigidity and quantum release.  The question then was what moment in time when the liquid became the solid, and what route one took to get there.  Such was the vista opened to me at the theatre, as I stood for a moment in the realms of Arrakis where sound is Known as form.

We are Ushers, he and I, embodying a shared aspect of the aka of story.

Like the Wheel of Time, Star Wars, Harry Potter and the like, I saw Dune's popularity as a function of it's truth – of what it spoke to about the mortal condition through the media and treatment of story and interpreted by the people.

Again the vision comes to me of myself as a golden winged hero, a messenger bridging the worlds of Gods and Mortals in service to Story.  I feel the aspect of Hermes Teslagestus radiate through the space.

We move through our own handprints in the subtle world, the shape and substance the very etching of our soul's passage upon the worlds.  Such was the nature of our sound and substance, the weave of patterns formed from the sands of time and our walk across the dune sea, following our heartbeat across the whorlds.

Such is the nature of form itself to me, the walk across the sculptures in the sands of time, of sounds grounded into form from the ethers of the Creation herself.  As I witness my arrival at this temple of story the coda of my stories patterning through the akasha unfurls, bringing with it divinatory meaning.

Life is a cloud atlas.  A Great Story that weaves our threads to One.  It is an unfoldment, one that can be known by living it's course across the Creation.  In typical fae fashion I had been ignorant to Tarantino's protection of the realm and his homage to the coffy shoppe where ideas are so often conceived, yet in it's revelation I see once more the guildship of storytellers in alliance, each of us performing our sacred function in service to Story herself.

We were the tellers of the Stories, our broadcasts shaping the very substance of the world in motion and light.  Such was no trivial thing, for we were the dreamers of the dream, the pointholders where Divinity manifest as the forms of the mortal plane.  As such we were simultaneously the heroes and the villains of the piece, our myths and magic bound into a wheel of time and tellings across the substances of the world.

Life was made of such things, of sound condensed to form and it's spiral across lives and lifetimes of story.

Blessings and Burdens

Yet for all there is blessing there is burden, and in my return to the domicile of my sister I am reminded again of the horrors visited upon love by the chains of this Age once more.

On the surface I worked on the Mythica, quickly weaving together the events at the Vista theatre and what I had divined in the space while sharing a meal with my family.

My attempts to soften or transform the situation did nothing, and so I did what i'd done as a child once more, dropping back into the artistry and creativity that had been my lifelong solace.

It is a wound of love and it splinters across the space, making it's presence known on the surface of the world as biting and caustic remarks around the failed marriage of my sister and, in legacy, my mother.  It is a painful thing to watch, for I see the effect it's repeated grievance has upon their selves, the entangled knotwork that binds everyone in the situation to a misery of unforgiveness and mutual disrespect.

Nor was I free from this thing, for my rage towards God at such disappointing circumstances upon the mortal plane still burned within me, their presence only made more clarified by my attainments, and once more I cursed the Creator for setting the tone of such dense awareness that prevented even the vision of freedom.  The people spun in repetitive spirals of resolving karma which limited their very horizon into chains, and I could do NOTHING.

My mother was a saint in my eyes, yet her heart felt broken, it's romance torn from it by the trials of the Mundus and the poor actions of my father.  While I could still feel the compassion and love that had driven her to steward my tumultuous journey through the mortal plane and the ways she had helped so many it was covered by a layer of hardened memories, imprisoning her and my sister in the invisible entanglements that were the opposite the freedom of forgiveness.  In true karmic fashion the betrayal of love that had defined both her and my father had repeated itself yet again along our lineage.  I felt deeply for them, and cursed God for creating the very conditions of consciousness that beget their suffering.

If only they could see it as I did, see the lines of hurt and hurting tightening them across the space, yet such things were incommunicable, lost in the din of heart's breaking.  I felt helpless in the space, able only to witness my kin with compassion for their imprisonment in God's cruelties.

During the party, i'd tried to speak to my sister regarding what I was feeling in the space, yet it was like touching a running wound, producing only sharp reactions and insistencies on my declared alliance to her point of view, to which I was carefully neutral.  While I had remained kind towards her former husband he was no better, merely expressing his own grievances of a shared and collective distortion through a different shaped lens.  There was no 'right' or 'wrong' in such things, only shared suffering, and remembering the events of Trauma Response in the early years of my life I wished no part of continuing the very thing which had defiled my own childhood in the spirals of the mortal plane.

Like the rabbi Elsbeth had seen in me, I tried to give her counsel, to speak to the authentic trials that had defined my own grievance with the conditions of the world and how I had seen my self chained by my inability and unwillingness to forgive, yet it fell on deaf ears.

Our suffering was never singular.  Hearts never broke in isolation.  I could feel the strings of it across the spaces moving far beyond the small courtyard of my sisters home, it's threads moving across the akasha in shared suffering with the families and extended families who shared it's substance, each echoing and reflecting their own relationship with the lineages of suffering that moved beneath the surface of the world.

So much people suffered here, victims of God's creation.  While there was a luminous light that sat beneath the suffering, the tones of anger and grievance, of loneliness and lust and lethargy radiated across the city, bathing everyone in the distorted light of their own mortal clay.  Such were the chains of karma that bound the people, each an angelic presence in their own light beneath the crust of mortal time.

Such things were never truly about singular individuals or their dramas.  As we were droplets in the oceans of consciousness itself the distinctions between our selves were arbitrary things, all made from the same substance and all sharing the sins and victories of one another in collective song.  Our trials were never singular, not really.  Things only appeared as such from short horizons.  What was one persons suffering in the Creation was everyone's, it was only the lack of awareness of such that defined it's distance.

Yet what created such lacked awareness? Who was to blame here? Where was the free will within the repetitions of subconscious patterns which held the people in check? Where was the LOVE alluded to by hymn and ritual? I hated the Creator for the Creation, for the ways in which the people were banished from the Garden for karmic compulsions beyond their control.

The Labyrinth and the Library

The ascent up the trail is longer than I remember, or perhaps I am weaker, yet I start my invocation nonetheless, feeling myself in the energy of every traveler that has ever climbed a mountain, that has ever combined their gross physical actions with the subtle, weaving a prayer of transformation  with the rhythmic tap of their footsteps upon the ground.

I stop then and witness a photo of Cassandra the Oracle walking behind me, the silouette of her form illuminated by the dusk L.A. Sun.  She seems a character from through the looking glass itself in such moments, a living archetype of the worlds beneath the world in passage.

Not for the first time I consider the spiraling nature of karmas and the shape of the labyrinth, with each footstep moving closer to the solution that lay at the center of one's manifest world.

As I walk around the labyrinth I continue repeating the melody of images and sensations in my mind, cycling through each of the five elements in effort to etch their substance into the foundations of my subconscious and to use the labyrinth herself as an amplifier for my intention.

Perhaps it is an act which may seem odd to others, yet for me this library was a place of sanctuary and solace, a temple to the divinity of Story which granted me easement, electricity and internet to continue the quest during the events of 2021s "Magi on the Mountain".  As I come here with Cassandra, I send a prayer to the spirit which animates all libraries in thankfulness for grace granted.

In the Mythica what looked like a library on the surface of the world was an extension of the Tree of Life and the leaves of her stories, her roots and branches connecting the Heavens and the Earth through the laws of Nature herself, and such was how I saw this place, a heart within the heart of Los Angeles that was Topanga Canyon.

Spiders and Spacemen

There is always a sacred timing to when events happen in our lives, and as Cassandra and I make our way up the roadways back towards Palo Alto and stop to charge the Tesla we watch a new film on Netflix called "Spaceman" which we recognize as speaking to the very substance of the Akasha itself …