Dead Souls & Live Poets - Chronicles of A False Awakening, Part 3 - Auticulture

1/27/2018 Dead Souls & Live Poets: Chronicles of a False Awakening, Part 3 | Auticulture
AUTICULTURE HOME ABOUT THIS BLOG
A JOURNAL OF EXTRA-CONSENSUAL PERCEPTIONS
Dead Souls & Live Poets: Chronicles of a False PHOTOS
Awakening, Part 3
BY JASUN HORSLEY JANUARY 20, 2018
The following is a blend of passages from Answer to Lucifer (2007) and my journal from the time (2002); as such, it does not
represent my current point of view.
Accompanying podcast, “Lucifer’s Ladder.”
“As the blood turns a ter the virus, so does the World succumb to my irresistible Will.” (Book of the Adversary)
My arrival in England was completely unannounced, just the way I liked it. For all anyone knew until the moment I
appeared, I was still in Guatemala. For the rst few weeks, while I sorted out what I was going to do, I stayed with my
sister and her daughter, who was about to turn ve. I slept on the couch in the living room, then later in my niece’s
room.
During the two weeks I had spent in Bogota, and the preceding weeks in Panama, I had, no doubt as a consequence
of all that intense shamanic activity, been undergoing nocturnal visions. I had also, while in ordinary waking
consciousness, been receiving certain “messages.” Whether these messages came from an external source or from
my own unconscious makes little di ference, in the end, only that the messages themselves, the reader will not be
surprised to hear, were profoundly apocalyptic in nature. Naturally, I had been writing these messages down, and
had found them wholly consistent with my own weltanschauung, developed over the past several years, regarding
the nature of God, reality, and everything in between.
These messages were not experienced unequivocally by me as such, however. I was not, like Philip K. Dick, being
zapped by a pink laser beam or having signals beamed down into my brain from some intergalactic control center
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outside the Earth’s orbit (or if I was, I didn’t know it). No, what I was experiencing was considerably subtler in its
manifestation. I was simply being seized by trains of thought that appeared to come out of nowhere and to run
along very precise, previously laid tracks, leading in a speci c direction and to a preordained destination or
conclusion. They were like small but complete packets of information that, although not alien to my consciousness,
seemed to come from somewhere outside of it, as if from a more fully informed part of myself. The e fect was that
one small “package”—when inserted whole into my consciousness—would throw everything I knew until then into
a new perspective.
It was similar to the kind of Ah-ha! feeling that psychedelics generally provide—all-too brie ly—but instead of being
a visceral, intuitive kind of thing, it was more a rational process, like things were suddenly clicking into place in my
brain, without my even thinking about them. Another way to put this would be to say that, unlike the non-rational,
visionary Ah-ha! of psychedelics, these experiences were wholly dependent on thoughts, on words. In other words, I
was being given (or tapping into) information expressly in order to write it down. In fact, only by writing could I fully
access the information, for until I began to put it into phrases and sentences, it remained abstract, condensed. Once I
began to write, it was like decoding a stream of essentially non-verbal information that was suddenly, and for no
apparent reason, coming through me. So naturally, I wrote. I was on the verge of something, some kind of personal
“apotheosis” of knowledge, a purer understanding of things that had until then eluded me. In consequence, I began
to attempt a more conscious, active participation in the process.
[Much of this became Homo Serpiens, a book I would withdraw from circulation and replace with a very di ferent
version, if only I could. Editor, 2018.]
On arriving in England, my dream life continued and, if anything, became even more vivid and startling. Just a few
days a ter arriving (late August 2002), while sleeping on my sister’s couch, I had the following dream. It began with
Mitch, who had been out of touch with me for a long time (he didn’t really do email) and who also owed me money,
or so I viewed it at the time. I was in another place in a state of hypnogogic trance; as I silenced my thoughts I realized
I could hear Mitch’s voice in my head, distant, like a radio band which I was slowly tuning in. I listened for a long time
(Mitch loved to talk) and only a ter a while did I fully realize what was happening. I thought something like, “Wow,
telepathy!” Mitch made a sardonic but happy sound, “Yeaaaah.” I then encountered Mitch visually, face to face, and I
berated him for cutting o f communications with me when he owed me money. He conscientiously explained his
situation and it was exactly as I had imagined it to be. There was someone else with us, a third person, but I didn’t
know who. I had never experienced anything quite like that. It was almost like a telephone conversation, but not
quite; it took place in darkness and silence, like two lines or psyches overlapping.
This dream then led into a terrifying and fantastic period during which I was lying in a strange bed with my eyes
closed, both seeing and feeling brilliant colors and energies and realizing something profound. The realization led to
terror; it was a terror that related to consciousness itself and not to any external threat. Yet there was also some
presence, as of my “allies.” I was lying on my front with head down, aware of presences around me, suddenly
remembering Carlos’ description of the ally tapping him endlessly on the back of his neck while he was curled up (as
I was also) on the ground in terror. As soon as I had the thought, my body (I was de nitely in a body, but not my
normal one) started to shake and shudder violently, as if in some sort of t. The e fect was a bit like being pounded
repeatedly on the back. As I emerged from this weird state, I found myself in another world, a lot like this one but not
the same. I was in a double bed, in a largish room, and everything was very brightly colored. There was something
wrong with my feet. I felt awe and terror in equal proportions; I knew that it was not a dream. It was way beyond
lucidity, in which one knows one is dreaming and acts accordingly. I was conscious but never for a second did I take it
for a dream: I was somewhere else, and what was even more shocking, I seemed to be someone else, too. I was not a
totally di ferent person, however, but rather a di ferent aspect of my “self.”
My legs were up in the air and I was naked from the waist down. My toes were all tangled up and the pain was
extremely unpleasant. I untangled my toes and noticed that the wall of the room was made of glass and that people
were passing by outside, looking in, laughing at me. I saw a woman with child. I got up and shouted at the people
outside to go away and stop nosing into my world. Suddenly the room was full of them. They were real people, I
knew that. They were horribly persistent, relentless, like zombies. Their skin was an odd shade of gray. Some of them
were old, others children (I recall a naked hag outside the window, re lecting my own nakedness).
These people (I realize only later) are dead people, ghosts, and they are all locking around me, clinging, demanding
something, but indirectly; ostensibly they are hounding me, almost mocking me, trying to impede or thwart me,
which leads to my ercely disciplining them, and this seems to be what they really want. I confront them verbally,
physically pushing them out of the room, furious with them. I even wind up hitting some of the children as it seems a
necessary means to discipline them.
As I am pushing the last ones out of the room, one of them tells me, with great urgency, “Your family is in danger!”
“I know,” is all I say, and push him out quickly before he can say anything else. I do not want to know any more, it is
imperative, in fact, that I do not, since I already know enough to act upon.
About then was when I “woke,” only it was nothing of the kind. It was like returning through some kind of bright
tunnel, and for a while this tunnel was open and I could remember everything that had just happened, a whole
other life, another self. It was like a doorway or opening in the Soul, a tube through which a vast, seemingly in nite
low of information/memory came pouring. Two sides of the brain were being fused into a single organ. I cannot
describe it, but the truth was viscerally, palpably there with me: I am not one but two! And the hidden side of my life
—the doors of which had nally swung open—was immeasurably stranger, deeper, vaster, and brighter than
anything I had ever seen before.
I was nearing the centering of the spheres, the full engagement of the Other, the overlapping of right and le t
hemispheres of the brain: body of matter, meet body of light. The two Selves exist in separate, hermetically sealed
universes: once the seal is broken it is like the chrysalis that opens, or the egg that cracks, that the True Self be born.
The next time I dreamed a similar dream, I was again fully aware of being in two places at once. I was able to open my
eyes and register the ordinary reality (my niece’s bedroom) in which the physical body was, while simultaneously
existing in a di ferent sphere, another “dream” bed, in the other “body,” the other self. I could feel the electrons of this
other body spinning with accelerating intensity. It was ecstasy verging on agony without ceasing to be ecstasy. Each
passing second seemed like a year of my future unfolding. I could “see” the process of my life as it hurtled onward to
In nity. Apotheosis. And it was possible, unavoidable, to bring this ecstatic awareness (I was aware of everything, it
seemed) to the physical body. At that point, I began to attempt levitating in the bed, but so far as I know, I did not
succeed.
These experiences, of which I have described but the barest rudiments, took me into a state of gnosis that was new to
me. It was a state that cannot be said to pertain to the ordinary parameters of “human.” It was “superhuman,” if I may
be forgiven the term. I was not afraid or confused, however. It seemed to be my natural state of being.
Some nights later I entered into a similar state in which I was not merely human, but rather some superhuman force
or entity. The humans that surrounded me in this vision, not dead ones but ordinary humans, were all babbling
ceaselessly, and their senseless chatter was driving me insane. I lew upward into the sky, but somehow they
followed me. I went higher, where at least the multiple human voices would merge into a single, incoherent babble.
But even though I could no longer understand any of the words, the relentless pressure of human babble continued
to ll my head and to oppress me. I realized that I would never be free this way, and so I changed direction, lying
downward, into the Earth.
I entered a chasm and began hurtling directly down, sheer black walls of stone on either side of me. As I descended,
the babble of humans faded and I heard instead a deep, resonating OM sound. Somehow I knew that the rock walls
were alive, that they were taking me into their care, and that when I reached the bottom, I would be with the Old
Gods. I wondered if I would have to stay there, at the Earth center, like Prometheus? It didn’t matter. I felt a sense of
relief, peace, of homecoming laced with excitement. Down, down, down I went, until nally, I reached the bottom.
There I remained for an inde nite time.
In October, 2001, I moved into my own apartment in Hampstead, thanks to rent subsidization by the government. I
embarked on a brief and doomed love a fair while becoming irrationally infatuated with the movie star Helena
Bonham-Carter, whom I met brie ly on the Heath, while she was lming Heart of Me. I took up Wing Chung in Gospel
Oak and began reading poetry at The Poetry Cafe in the West End and other venues (Poetry Unplugged, hosted by
one Carl Dhiman, pronounced . . . aw, you guessed it!].
Here’s an example from my journal, November 2001:
“Good evening my fellow humans,” I began, “Do not adjust your set. Can you guess who I am?” There was a
lack of attention/concentration from the audience, however, so I went spontaneously into the Namasté (I
honor the place in you where the entire universe resides. I honor the place in you of truth, love, and light. I
honor the place in you where if you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, there is but one of
us. . . ) It was the perfect opening, and a ter that I had their attention. We were aligned. I asked if there were
any virgins in the audience. “No? Guess I’m all alone up here.” I had my button: “Born Again Virgin,” and this
was how I introduced myself. “Here are your instructions,” I began. “Express your lesh!” At that point my
mind went blank and I said, “That’s all.” There was laughter, and I was o f and running. My cigarette kept
going out. I was totally relaxed on stage. (I think I will become an on-stage-only smoker.) When I got to The
Message, in the middle of it, two gals started whispering, so I stopped, hissed at them and said, “Hey! Don’t
you want to know the secret of salvation?” It gave it the perfect emphasis, and me someone to address,
directly (and sexually): “Sex will save the world!” I said, and winked at her. The room cheered, or at least parts
of it. Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison.
A ter the sexual address was done, I asked Jell to go into Muddy Waters’ “Hoochy Coochy Man,” and sung a
couple of verses of Elvis’ “Trouble,” with my own variation: “I was raised by the devil and that’s a fact!” Hip
shaking and all. I wound it up and everyone clapped and catcalled, and Peggy came up and said, “Have you
EVER seen anything like that before?” There was only one voice of dissent, and I reckon it was Jason’s (and
there be the Wangus!): “Yes,” he grumbled. [Another poet, named Jason King, see below.]
Author in 2002/3, Glastonbury
In January 2002, I began walking my neighbors’ dogs for some extra pocket money, and took up acting classes at
CityLit. This is from a journal entry from that time:
It is through dreaming that [apotheosis] is accomplished, but not only through dreaming. Since this life we think we
know and which we call reality is also a dream within the greater Dream, there is a parallel task, one which Juan
Matus termed “stalking”; since I have not yet come up with a better term I will stick with this one for now. Stalking is
essentially similar to the task of the lucid dreamer, only applied to so-called waking life: instead of controlling one’s
dreams, one controls reality. Control is perhaps an even less felicitous term than stalking, however, so let us say
SHAPE, instead. As with dreaming, this shaping begins with one’s own actions. If one can control and direct one’s
actions to a ne point, one can in turn shape one’s surroundings. This is the meaning of stalking: to get the utmost
out of any given situation. The term stalking is used because what one is doing e fectively is tracking energy, starting
with one’s own thoughts and feelings, fears, doubts, desires, and so forth, nabbing each one of them, either in order
to throw it in the re, devour it, train it, ride it, or whatever, all according to its nature (one destroys parasitical entities,
for example, while harnessing merely unruly ones; a mosquito is to be swatted, a jackal is to be tamed). What all this
comes down to is hunting and gathering at an energetic level. In dreams one seeks and creates situations and
environments that a ford the maximum degree of intensity, knowledge, power. Ditto in life, albeit with a di ferent
M.O., since unlike in dreaming one is restricted by known laws, such as time and space (there are laws in the
Dreaming, but they are as yet unknown to us; they are Laws of God rather than of Nature).
Yesterday I went to my second improv acting class and had an exhilarating time. I have become quickly known as a
Man of Mystery there, simply for being myself and not being shy to speak up (I suppose introducing myself as Jake
the Snake, “from my father’s scrotum,” may have helped). Last week we did Anger; this week we did Fear. I did my
piece with a girl named Tara (name of British Earth Goddess). I suggested we do a plane crash; she didn’t fancy being
on the plane (I think she feared it would be too hard to act such terror), so I suggested she be at home and I (her
husband) would call her on my cell phone and tell her the bad news. That was how we did it; I gave her the name
Stacy, a ter a girl I was in love with, she gave me the name Tom, a ter her brother. The skit a fected people quite
deeply. I got su ciently into it that I felt myself almost at the point of tears for a moment; it was very hard to focus on
Tara/Stacy, I was so wrapped up in my death scenario. I had planned to whimper and moan, but I realized that I had
to be brave for her, to die with some dignity. Tara was brilliant, and it wasn’t until I had ended the skit by throwing my
arms out and making the sound of an explosion, everyone had applauded, and Tara was still weeping, that I realized
she was genuinely upset. I think others in the audience were likewise a fected; of all the skits, though ours wasn’t
necessarily the best or the best-acted, it was the only one that really got to people. I even felt slightly guilty about
putting Tara through it; but she’s a tough cookie and doubtless it was good therapy. This is stalking.
A stalker, or magician, uses any given set of circumstances in order to manifest the Wangus, to put on a show for
Spirit. And at a certain point, if he’s good enough, as last night, the Wangus or Spirit takes over, and he becomes a
witness to it as much as a participant (it’s like dislodging a rock on a mountain and standing back and watching the
avalanche: you have to know exactly which rock to move and where to direct it, but a ter that it’s out of your hands).
A terwards, we went to the pub and I played the snake, lirting with the girls and so forth. The group looks upon me
with fascination but also a fection; I have struck up the right balance and in turn feel at home with them. Before the
improv began the teacher asked us about fears and stu f and brought up a Hammer Dracula movie with Christopher
Lee he’d seen at 14 and which had given him nightmares (possibly Prince of Darkness). He said of course that vampires
were all nonsense, and so forth, and wondered aloud why we were scared by such things. I begged to di fer. For a
moment, it was as if he had handed over the teacher’s baton to me, and I was presiding over the group. I explained
that vampire myths were thousands of years old and that, regardless of whether they were actually real, our fears
made them real. I added that it is useless to tell a child who is afraid of monsters that there are no such things as
monsters, since the child’s fear has created the monsters; as such, they indeed exist for him. (It is not monsters that
create fear but fear that creates monsters.) I mention all this because it is relevant to the second phase of my night,
the dreaming phase.
That night, I dreamed of a virus that was transforming the world. This virus rst emerged, over a hundred years ago,
via the acts of Jack the Ripper. During that time, at every location where a woman was murdered, there was found a
lower growing, incongruously, in the concrete. This lower, rather than “the Ripper” (a ctional entity, nally), was
the real culprit of the crimes. A viral intelligence manifested, or traveled, through these lowers, as spores travel,
unbound by ordinary limitations of space or time. The lower possessed individuals and caused them to commit
hideous crimes. “Jack the Ripper” did not exist, as such, and never had. Only this viral entity exists, using a growing
number of di ferent hosts.
I was told that the virus was a natural and necessary agent of global transformation, and we could make its work
easy, or we could make its work hard. In the latter case, the route we have in fact chosen, the virus causes grisly
scenarios of murder and mutilation as a means to propagate itself and gradually take control of human
consciousness. Being taken over by the viral hive mind was NOT the desired end of this sinister process, however. This
was the dark side of the agenda, and to be avoided at any cost. I experienced this “possession” in the course of the
vision, and can recall palpably the sensation of being swallowed up by the organic green energy (green as in moss or
algae rather than like an ordinary plant: a sort of parasitic green) of the strange alien spore.
In the dream, I explained what I learned from the experience to a group of teenagers, gothic types. My realization
concerned the “Last Vampire” (the title of a Whitley Strieber book, not at that time released). Dracula, Nosferatu, the
Immortal, I explained, was basically the same Force as Lucifer-Satan. This force, entity, call it what you will, was here
on a nal mission, hence the “last of his kind.” The mission involved global transformation. I explained the scenario
as I saw it to the kids. It was very precise; the Jack the Ripper thing was a subplot within a subplot within a subplot,
the lowest level of a huge and complex global drama that seemed to partake of another Reality altogether. Though it
made perfect sense at the time, it did not translate coherently into ordinary awareness when I awoke. It was as if this
Universe was not big enough to accommodate such a scenario, at least not as “reality.” In fact, as someone in the
dream remarked, the whole scenario was a lot like something out of a recent Anne Rice vampire book. “Indeed,” I
reply. “The Fallen Angel has taken refuge in works of ction. These fantasies and ctions are real to the collective
unconscious, and Lucifer continues to exist through them. In fact,” I add with a smile, “since ideas last longer than
physical forms, they might be seen as more real than mere facts.”
I added on a terthought that Hollywood was busy with its dark, imitative agenda, and that this was a distortion of
the true archetypes, to be avoided at all costs. “The unhallowed holograms of Hollywood,” I quipped.
We were walking down a street, myself and these gothic teens, and the kids were eager to learn more from me. They
wanted me to visit them and teach them, but they also o fered to answer any questions I might have, since they were
more up on the fantasy angle than I am. I told them forcefully that we had to work together, and fast, that WE may
be able to live forever but that the Earth had only got teen years—and I raised my hand three times, 5,5,5—before it
came to pass [2017]. But what is “it”? Whatever “it” is, it involves Lucifer-Nosferatu in the central role.
I took to the sky, and called down to them, to the girls particularly. They were just mortals, and I was Nosferatu, but I
knew they could join me if they wanted to. Nobody did, and then I was alone. I was over a large town, seeing it clearly,
low buildings, like a Labyrinth, genteel and clean, lots of trees, parks, and small, low houses, all similar and all very
nicely built. I called to the crows, my allies, to come. I was halfway between dreaming and reality, between right and
le t spheres, between the self and the Other.
On the one hand, this was a dream and I could do anything at all, I was God of my World, all I had to do was will the
crows to manifest; on the other hand, it was all real, and I was embodying Lucifer, which was to say, only a demi-god;
and though I could do many marvels, there were de nite limits. In this capacity I was not simply manifesting the
crows but calling them, and it was a question not merely of will but also of faith: I could only do my bit to summon
them, and God would do the rest (and the crows, of course).
Little by little, the sky lled with crows, until they were everywhere. The sky was black with them and the town was
literally covered. I knew I had seen or done this before; it was a tradition, almost, to herald His coming. Everyone
would now know, beyond any doubt, that I was here, and Who I am. It was a scary feeling; the “Who” wiped out the
“I.” “I” became entirely subservient to a vast and awesome agenda of which I knew little: only and exactly what I
needed to know, in order to play my role.
In February, 2002, I dreamed of a painting of a red-haired goat jumping o f a sandy colored cli f into the abyss. I
worked very carefully on the goat, which was pinkish red and took up large part of the picture, lunging downward
head rst so that its features are hidden, only the side of the face and horns are visible. I was trying very hard to get
the proportions and the angle right to make it clear what it was. It morphed as I looked at it: sometimes it looked like
a goat, sometime it didn’t, depending on how you looked at it. As the goat (that proverbial scapegoat) plunged
headlong into the abyss, various human forms followed a ter, as if dragged by the goat’s momentum, its “orbit.”
There was a large space still in the painting that I needed to ll; I knew that whatever I did should be green.
I then had a vision of a small child being killed, by means unknown or unseen (or forgotten). The child was male,
perhaps three or four years old, with light brown hair. I went and picked up the child and saw that he was bleeding,
and that his blood was green.
The child was a sacri ce of God. The pain and sorrow I felt for the death of the child was immense, indescribable. It
was as if the whole world had died. I knew then that to God there was no di ference; the death of one child was the
death of all life. Especially a child, of course (and perhaps speci cally a male child?). The sorrow I felt was like a surge
of energy-emotion, like a tidal wave pouring into the world, a tide of green/love, somehow transforming it,
redeeming it. It was as if the death of the child and the corresponding sorrow caused a rent or tear in the fabric of
existence, through which God’s love could enter. I saw that the “tear” and the tear of God were basically the same: the
means by which God’s love looded the world.
The goat, being red, was Satan; the child with the green blood was Christ. The one must be cast into the pit and take
all His “followers” with Him; the other must be sacri ced in an alternate fashion, as a man-child, to awaken God
consciousness within us. The vision was clear as crystal, and almost by the book.
Such were the kind of dreams and visions that I was experiencing on a regular basis and which seemed to be
nudging me ever further away from an ordinary, “rational” perception of both myself and the world. Something was
trying to get through to me, or out of me, and there seemed little doubt that sooner or later, it would have its way.
Finally, without ever actually “deciding” upon this course of action (but rather gradually acquiescing to it), I resolved
to try an experiment.
My birthday was coming up, and thence also the three-day anniversary of the writing of The Book of the Law. If I was
opening up to transmissions from the Beyond, be they Intergalactic or Divine, Collective Unconscious or my own
“Higher Self”—what better time, then, to put this to the test? I decided to make an appointment with those obscure
Forces of the Unconscious, to see what, if anything, They had to say to me. Thus I would prepare myself, in an
appropriate fashion over the days preceding my birthday, as a “channel,” and see what came through. Since I had
already established what I rmly believed to be a psychic connection to Crowley—and to whatever Intelligence had
selected him as Its spokesperson—I would proceed along the precise same tracks le t in space-time by that bygone
operation. At noon exactly on the 8th, 9th, and 10th of April, I would sit on my glassed terrace with a view of the Sun
and sky, a pencil in my hand and a pad in front of me, and write down whatever came to me over the next hour. This
was how The Book of the Adversary came about.
[Editor 2018: This is a good example of how legend supplants fact, in this case in my own mind. Having listened to
audios from that time, I now know that BOA actually began as a poem, written in early March, which the above-
mentioned Jason King accepted for a Poets’ mag. This then became the rst chapter of BOA, written March 7. Part 2
(the Christ-transmission) was written a couple of weeks later; Part 3, the Astarius/Abraxas chapter, on those three
days, perhaps as described above. I then proceeded to forget about the more organic nature of its creation, and came
up with the above version.]
I cannot claim (without lying) that, like Crowley, I heard a voice in my ear dictating words to me. What I wrote down
over the next three hours and three days was, to all appearances, my own thought processes. And yet. The words as I
wrote them—and later transcribed them, and whenever I have read them since—struck me as having the nature of
a revelation, that is, they come as news to me. For the most part, the things that I wrote down were not things that I
had previously thought or been aware of, except dimly. Wisdom or folly, the words were not entirely mine, and like
Crowley, though it was my hand and pen that wrote, I neither wished nor felt able to take credit or claim authorship
for them. This is not to say that I believe they came from anywhere but my own unconscious, or that they weren’t
passed through my conscious mind and so stamped with my personality in the process. I was not in trance when I
wrote the words down, and was fully aware of what I was writing. Yet I was also conscious of attempting to convey a
communication, a message that was coming from somewhere besides my own conscious mind, and of the need to
do justice to that, whatever it was. The message that is conveyed by The Book of the Adversary—though anything but
intact or pure—is still, I believe, one that exists independently of its “author.” In other words, it is a message from
Beyond.
Whatever the case—and in the end the only “proof” is in the pudding—there could be no doubt that I was becoming
gradually more involved, intertwined at a conscious level, with those Powers that I had become fully cognizant of a
full ten years previously. And in response, these Powers were taking a more active role in the events and
circumstances of my life. I had been preparing myself—sometimes consciously but mostly not—for this my whole
life. Now the Intelligence that I had so faithfully and fondly courted, in my innocence and desire—Lucifer or whatever
It was—was moving closer. I felt a mix of fear and excitement at the thought. I was like the blushing virgin bride,
whose unwitting yet provocative smiles, her playful glances and lirtatious motions, had nally, inexorably, brought
the inevitable moment of truth upon her. And there I lay, enveloped by sweetest anticipation of love and desire
mixed with profoundest terror and dread for this dark and mysterious presence, both bestial and godly, that was
descending—both lovingly and lasciviously—upon me. But it was too late for doubts or fears (or coyness) now. The
marriage had been consecrated, the consummation was at hand. What could I do but open wide and embrace Him?
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7 thoughts on “Dead Souls & Live Poets: Chronicles of a False Awakening, Part 3”
Matt
JANUARY 22, 2018 AT 12:15 PM REPLY
Hi Jasun….
was reading PK : “Let’s say that Palmer Eldritch is evil to the extent of being an evil deity. He is not just an evil man, an evil
human being. He is like a deity; he is the evil being. And he is defeated by a very ordinary, somewhat vulgar human being.
He is not defeated by some noble human superman. I regard this as a very pleasant thing, as a very enjoyable thing, that the
evil deity is not defeated by man’s nest examples; human beings rising. The standard way that this would be handled
would be if an evil being invades the earth and some kind of Flash Gordon-like personage emerges who is the embodiment
of all that is noble in human beings. But in my book what emerges to defeat this is some kind of bumbling, coarse,
garrulous, low-class person who you would expect to be a loan-shark or something like that; some disreputable, virtually
disreputable person.”
to see what I have to say…… in a vulgar way asserting my substance…..like you, and unlike you are here…..in both ways Christ
and Antichrist……and yet also, thats what friends ( ends!) are for……their is something discovered , a personal unique
substance ……it is that vulgar aspect, self aware and unveri able , that is both personal and yet may covertly transcend every
other personal structure in existence……personally….which is in my experience, to me, currently, the most essential
course…….being yourself…..
In my life the most extreme beings are the most helpful…..and I am unlike them all…..at least in the particular ingredients
that make up myself as food for existence….. both devil and christ can nd something new in me and I think thats very
important……because they are also evolving as beings within and without…
stick it to the Man…..
Peace (and War)
Matt
Jasun Horsley
hi Matt…. that which is eternal does not evolve…. ergo we can’t evolve into eternity but only return to it…. do we bring
memory of our estrangement as course and garrulous schleps driven to be the center of creation but doomed to feel like
supporting characters in a dime store sci- novel? the thought experiment of not-being-God ends when we want it to, I
guess.
Matt
Hi Jasun…..the Eternal evolves when it is seen and recognized and appreciated by the eternal….like us! Eternity is not
xed…it is dynamic and alive…this is the loop….fed back , relationship….there is no God in eternity, as Eternity is god… it
has already evolved into its fullness…..we are the ones that have this eternity in us to met that Eternity…..no need to
return as we become from within, to outside….eternity is fully aware and developed,,,,it is a mystery to us a
o fspring….eternity is living poetry
Matt
Nightingale, your voice of dark honey,go on lamenting

Only your reckless ecstasy can pierce the rock’s hard heart
Love seems easy in a circle of friends,
But it’s di cult, di cult.
Morning air through the window, the taste of it,

with every moment camel bells leaving the caravanserai.
This is how we wake, with winespills

On the prayer rug, and even the tavernmaster
is loading up. My life has gone
From willfullness to disrepute,
And I won’t conceal, either, the joy
That led me out toward laughter.
Mountainous ocean, a moon hidden behind clouds,

The terror of being drawn under.
How can someone with a light shoulder-pack

Walking the beach know how a night sea-journey is?
Stay in the dangerous life that’s yours.

THERE you’ll meet the face
That dissolves fear.
Travis
JANUARY 23, 2018 AT 8:29 AM REPLY
Very interesting about the “people” that were crowding in on you in the rst described experience.
Not sure if you recall my experience of being sick and sucked into some strange ‘other’ line of being.
The “people” reminded me of another experience I had a ter being sick (yes being sick and poping into weird states is my
thing. Been happening as long as I can remember.) anyways. I was in my sons room where I was sleeping in a sort of
quarantine from the rest of the family, so as not to get them sick.
Terrible night of broken sleep riddled with the strange disjointed dreams of sickness.
I had been laying for hours in some sort of semi sleep. It was about 6am in June. Sunny summer morning. Suddenly I crossed
the threshold to sleep.
I was then immediatly outside the bedroom window in the yard. Just like your experiance of it being not a dream but some
how a wholly real yet di frent reality. (Perhaps I should add that we lived in an old farm house from the 1800’s, that had
many families and many things (some very intense with even a little murder) happen at it.)
Anyways back to the yard; It was lled with people, and they were blasting o f straight up into the air (without sound or
lames) it was so vivid it couldnt of been a dream. I was actually somehow outside my window in my yard on that brilliant
sunny summer morning.
This instantly shot me “awake” in my bed.
Moments later I feel quickly “asleep” again. At that same moments hordes of “people” (presumably the same from outside)
came bounding into the room as if a deluge set free from a bursted dam.
They came straight to me (straight to my stomach area to be excact) they had sort of crazy smiles and were sort of tikling or
jaming their ngers into my stomach. I could feel it as real as if it were happening in waking consciousness. I can still
remember the faces of the ones in front.
This shot me “awake” again. I then walked out the the yard and let out my chickens and walk around trying not to lose my
mind.
I havent read this whole piece yet, but so far it’s great. Brought that memory out when you were describing the “people”.
I’ve bought your books, but i need to really get you some money ‘donated’ to your work. Not to belittle it. It is pricless in ways
you may or may not know.
Thanks
Travis
Jasun Horsley
Thanks Travis – very generous of you and timed as a stitch in time that saves nine, seeing as how dis-couraged I have been
feeling about my creative status.
Travis
Build it
And they will
Come
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Dead Souls & Live Poets - Chronicles of A False Awakening, Part 3 - Auticulture

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1/27/2018 Dead Souls & Live Poets: Chronicles of a False Awakening, Part 3 | Auticulture

AUTICULTURE HOME ABOUT THIS BLOG

A JOURNAL OF EXTRA-CONSENSUAL PERCEPTIONS

Dead Souls & Live Poets: Chronicles of a False PHOTOS

Accompanying podcast, “Lucifer’s Ladder.”

Here’s an example from my journal, November 2001:

Author in 2002/3, Glastonbury

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stick it to the Man…..

Peace (and War)

Nightingale, your voice of dark honey,go on lamenting

Morning air through the window, the taste of it,

This is how we wake, with winespills

Mountainous ocean, a moon hidden behind clouds,

How can someone with a light shoulder-pack

Stay in the dangerous life that’s yours.

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