Читать книгу The Abramelin Diaries - Ramsey Dukes - Страница 10
ОглавлениеPHASE ONE
The first two moons
I had built my oratory: a six-foot by three-foot pine shed concealed in the shrubbery. It had the specified windows to east and south and a door opening onto a level space for a sandy forecourt, as required. It was about thirty yards from the cottage where I had arranged my sleeping chamber. The cottage was shared by an old college friend.
The instructions begin thus:
Having carefully washed one's whole body and having put on fresh clothing: precisely a quarter of an hour before Sunrise ye shall enter into your Oratory, open the window, and place yourselves upon your knees before the Altar, turning your faces towards the window; and devoutly and with boldness ye shall invoke the Name of the Lord, thanking Him for all the grace which He hath given and granted unto you from your infancy until now; then with humility shall ye humble yourselves unto Him, and confess unto Him entirely all your sins; supplicating Him to be willing to pardon you and remit them. Ye shall also supplicate Him that in the time to come He may be willing and pleased to regard you with pity and grant you His grace and goodness to send unto you His Holy Angel, who shall serve unto you as a Guide, and lead you ever in His Holy Way and Will; so that ye fall not into sin through inadvertence, through ignorance, or through human frailty. In this manner shall ye commence your Oration, and continue thus every morning during the first two Moons or Months…
When ye shall have performed your orations, close the window, and go forth from the Oratory; so that no one may be able therein to enter; and ye shall not yourselves enter again until the evening when the Sun shall be set. Then shall ye enter therein afresh, and shall perform your prayers in the same manner as in the morning…
You shall set apart two hours each day after having dined, during the which you shall read with care the Holy Scripture and other Holy Books, because they will teach you to be good at praying, and how to fear the Lord; and thus day by day shall ye better know your Creator.
A fuller account of the final form of my oration is given on 13 August. I followed it with an extended meditation as described under “The meditations” in Chapter Four.
Easter Monday, 11 April 1977
Desperate rising, alarm went off 4.30, not 5.30. Felt a wreck. All seemed like a dream. Half hour or so, saw sun rising a few degrees. Breath rose in steam. Sweated after penitence. Used T's collect.1
Returned about 6.40 am to tea, washing up, tidying. Breakfast 8.30. Huge sweep out and cushion/carpet beating for dining room and kitchen to clear my sawdust, etc. 10 am I offered instant coffee to Mrs Smith—cocoa for me—and had welcome rest for half an hour plus. Then started on spare room [to be my “Chamber”]. Cleaning and leaving heaps of stuff elsewhere. Swept tons of dust and rubbish. Took out mattress into lovely sun (with cold North Wind). I had washed my pillow too. 12 pm I too reclined in sun and rested and read Hymn of Jesus before going to 1 pm lunch at Biker J's. Delicious vegetarian meal. Chatted. Clouds came. Back via SA to say I'd made altar myself.2 Home 3-ish. Dusting and washing room. Made bed, set incense to consecrate room. Tea 6-ish and writing this diary since Friday. Dilemma: should I change for evening ceremony? Decide to try not to, but will shake clothes to save me from laziness. Beans are cooking; I've started soya sprouts too. Must put on some alfalfa to grow.
Aware of noisy traffic in evening, roar of motorway. Scared of dark after.3 Lateish bed as I ate after evening session.
Tuesday 12 April
Much fresher. A warmer morning. Washed up and had toast for breakfast (no eggs or cheese in house). Read chapter on circulation of the light in Taoism and Creativity and dozed slightly. Actually the dreaded drop-off4—on my second day! Oh help! Just for a flash, but I did feel different for it. Shopping on the High Street 10–11.30, about. Took along lots of dry cleaning and bought tons of food. My case had come and gone at antique shop. Looked at books. Some loss of awareness but I remained alert right across Redbourn Common on way back (slipping, bulging shopping bags probably helped). Noon I had scrambled eggs and Swiss chard. Read Secret of the Golden Flower. Put lime on garden, moved cloche to the peas. Re-planted onions and helped Mrs Smith with her boiler and clock. Read magazine after tea and somehow day seems short of achievement though I have done some necessary clearing jobs and now have a table in my “chamber”. 9 pm, cloudy day, no sun.
MUST: make altar floor, lamp. Write up official diary.
Wednesday 13 April
Damp, dark morning. Dream of Dobro player visiting me and me having a go. Later, dream of telling N about dream of Dobro player. Dream of returning to Eton: I'd asked to go back and was told to apply in normal way for the job. Another dream of [my recent work boss] coming round for a drink—he seemed to come in a sort of pleading way. My dwelling was very grand and he was impressed and honoured. Another dream of C giving birth to a third child.
Morning operation: traffic loud, although morning. Better concentration, sat in meditation and withdrew through choice and not because of getting fidgety. Scratching on roof surprised me, but I was unshaken. 6.40 am.
Brek after washing up. 7.50. I read till N got up. 8.30 sat to write my Abramelin Diary. Wrote till 10.
Late lunch (1.45) as I spent morning making a lamp. Simple, but the result is surprisingly attractive. I hangs beside me in my chamber. Tonight I will fix a hook for it, but not take it in.
Large lunch: ersatz [soya mince] bolognese with nettles. Tasted grapefruity. Sun had appeared and after lunch it was sunny enough to lie out to read. Removed my jeans. It would have been good sunbathing except for cold when occasional clouds came. Cut wood for altar floor, planted out rest of potatoes. Made pea soup. Was washing up at 5.45 when N returned. Chatted over tea. Now 6.45 and writing up as sun sinks low. This room [my chamber] is good as a study. I like the view.
9.15 to bed after large welsh rarebit.
MUST: Wash some clothes, shorts. Take down floor. Get cream. Put in beans?
Start of dedicated Abramelin diary
Wednesday 13 April, 8.30 am
This morning I rose at 5.50, washed and put on my thermal underwear and judo suit and went to my oratory about a quarter of an hour before an invisible sunrise. It was a warmer morning than of late, but completely overcast and about to drizzle.
Kneeling before my altar I prayed as directed and also sat in silence, as in the Taoist meditation, to be receptive. I made use of the prayer that T had provided. All this will be the normal routine from now on. Half hour.
Today it was better, in that I stopped because I felt enough had been said, not because I felt ashamed of my deteriorating concentration. A sudden scratching on the roof surprised me, but did not shake me. Seeing the young green buds through my window, I made a special reference to nature and my country upbringing.
This is the first morning I have not been alone. N returned last night. The need to avoid clashing with him helped to structure my morning—I still need such props—so I have come up to write after a short reading about Taoist meditation after breakfast. Alas, two days have already gone without my writing up.
The idea of attempting this operation arose before Christmas. It might not have arisen at all but for K, who had contacted me out of the blue last autumn to ask my advice about doing the operation herself.
This left me with insufficient time for preparation, and I did not hurry even then! Lateness has been the hallmark so far: I did not read the book thoroughly until late, letting myself in for some shocks. The silver censer I ordered will not be ready till May or June. The order I'd placed with SA for an altar was too late to give him enough warning, so I had to bodge mine own at the last minute. The oratory is unfinished in detail. My wand is uncut. My lamp has yet to be made. No talismans are drawn and my robes are unfinished.
All this adequately mirrors my soul!
Why then am I doing it? Especially as Redbourn is anything but my ideal site, being suburban, rather noisy and overlooked.
My thought was this: I am old enough to look for a really satisfying career, and once set on that career it will not be easy to spare six months. So it should be soon.
At Christmas I decided to investigate the omens, and my heart. I struggled with the astrological I Ching.5 So wearisome was the process that I said to myself: “If it makes out that 1976 was a good year I'll read no further”. As it turned out, the previous years were adequately described.
1977 is “the well”. The yearly hexagram interpretation revealed that it was not time to teach until I had learnt myself, “the well needs relining”. This seemed very relevant to my present situation; SSOTBME has produced a few questions from interested readers. It was also a good year to “sink a well or dig a mine”; a reasonable metaphorical description.
By way of contrast, 1978 will be a year of dreams coming true—and of success. Should I not therefore wait until next year? No, because my present dreams are worldly and their coming true would hinder such an operation. The operation itself should refine my wishes.
In January, T came to supper and we discussed the operation. In subsequent letters, long and helpful, he showed considerable understanding and gave me much support. He raised doubts about the authenticity of the book, about its lack of connection with existing traditions. We discussed I Ching readings. But just before Easter he sent me a card, a picture of Tobias and the Angel. On the back was a collect for the Feast of the Guardian Angels (2 October).
Was this his own invention? Or is it indeed a part of the church ritual? If so, it is thrilling! It gives a direct link with tradition, for I finish on the week before.
I did not commit myself till very late—indeed I have yet to write my vow! I wanted to avoid the stupidity of making a vow before I had fully explored its practicability. Giving notice was a wrench, and required two rushed I Ching questions. Here I witnessed the general law that it is not good to consult oracles when too involved and worried about a question.
Only on Good Friday were my parents told I'd left work! B found out earlier, as she had stayed overnight the weekend before.
M was amused, but a bit upset about my life as a hermit. She sees introspection as “unhealthy”. She does not realise that solitude charges me up so that I can discharge in company. (I think it is company that charges her up so she can discharge in solitude.) My worst fear was that the admirable and hard-working RM, whose cottage this is, would misunderstand and feel that his idle, spoilt, dilettante stepson had grown bored with work and had suddenly decided on a holiday. But as I left, he said that he “admired my courage”, wished me luck and warned that “the devil would be after me”. This was evidence of such understanding that I left weeping with joy. He even offered to withdraw rent, but I resisted for, after all, I had planned my spending around paying the rent in advance.
Wednesday 13 April, 9.30 am
I vow that, subject to conditions mentioned below, I will endeavour to keep to the Abramelin operation for six months starting on Easter Monday. As stated in the book, severe illness will be recognised as a God-sent hindrance. However, in the case of great danger to my immediate family, who have been such a support, I would also consider suspending the operation. Also, if I am the victim of bureaucratic intervention, and can find no way of delaying or buying time, then I will be forced to step down. In all such cases, or in any unforeseen mishap, I will consider very carefully and calmly and make my decision in the light of advice from the I Ching.
I cannot see how I can obtain and use a child as instructed in the text, so I plan to do without—unless a suitable child conveniently makes himself known to me in time for training for the part.
Signed,
Lionel Snell April 24th ’77
One of my early dilemmas was the extent to which I should make my own stuff. To an outsider the answer is obvious; all magicians should make their own stuff. To me it was less clear; I wanted to do my best, and I knew, being a poor handyman, that everything I made would be shoddy. On the other hand I am a good buyer. I know that sounds funny, but it is not meant as a joke. When I buy it is not a matter of convenience, it is quite an art—and an effort. I look long and hard to buy the best. Accordingly, I studied sheds.6 I asked SA, the organ maker, to make an oaken altar. I searched long and hard for a silversmith with whom I could discuss the design of a censer. I bought silk for K to make robes (I had planned for Turnbull and Asser7 to do my robes, for Abramelin does specify “properly made sleeves”! However, their minimum order increased from three to six shirts). I bought the extra three shirts and had already bought the oil—for Crowley says you cannot make it just by mixing the raw ingredients. I bought an almond tree, rather than steal a branch! Had my Canary Isle money come, I might have been more lavish, but it did not. So I ordered wood and, with help from K, built an oratory. This is my most positive work so far. It fits snugly into the shrubbery and is in no-one's way. It is rough, but a joy to me. My first big adventure in carpentry! The altar is even rougher, a last-minute panic. The censer is still being made and should be beautiful. Today I must try to make a lamp. K is making the robes. I think I get the point of making things, but still it took some convincing.
7 pm. Less convinced now! Before lunch I made a very simple lamp from some aluminium I found in the garage. I must request permission to be proud of it, it does look really nice and I long to see it in situ. The only pity is that the lamp is seldom lit. Shame.
I have also prepared a floor for the altar. I hope it fits.
After the last-minute, late-night altar-building panic on Sunday I was bleary on Monday morning. It was very cold, so I was thankful for my Norwegian underwear suit. I noticed the steam of my breath ascending to the window as I prayed. Tried some cross-legged meditation but since then I have remained kneeling.
There is a sense of unreality about the operation. The oratory looks like a sauna inside—only freezing. Until today I always stopped when the fidgeting started.
Dilemma: should I consecrate the oratory with only the best-quality prayers, or should I try to improve myself with the struggle to lengthen them? As the book stipulates that they should be extended in the second two months, I have decided on the former. I must not go too fast only to deteriorate later, it is quite enough to instil regularity. Half an hour seems to be about right; in fact, I really should consider an upper limit if I find I can do much more.
Trying too hard at this stage could curdle my routine into a cycle of supreme efforts surrounded by collapsing relief. Actually, I feel that I should extend my prayer gradually to fill the whole day, with the time in the oratory as merely a focus of the prayer.
Accordingly, I have been “watching the watcher”.8
As I lunched with Biker J on Monday, I saw quite a bit of the world. I was aware of my desire to impress strangers: “I say, I'm no ordinary drop-out; I'm really quite a posh mystic, you know”. This idea is embarrassingly persistent. Even more persistent is the “teacher” habit; as I do things I mentally give directions to imaginary pupils, or compose essays on the subject. Perhaps writing this down will exhaust that one.
I ate after evening prayer—after finding that I was too agonisingly hungry during prayer—and it made for a late night. I'm ashamed to say I was slightly afraid of the dark.
On Tuesday it was a dull morning, but much warmer. As I was not bleary, things went much better.
After breakfast I read about Taoist meditation and, horror of horrors, I dropped off! It's only my second day and I've broken a basic law, even if only for a second. I must get a bed of nails.
I did some shopping in the High Street, and wasted time looking at books. On my way back across the common I remembered myself non-stop! The awkward, slipping and about-to-burst shopping bag helped me to maintain awareness; I must remember that arcanum. However, come evening prayer, I felt disappointed in myself for lack of achievement or work done—hence my vow to start writing today and to make the lamps, etc.
Ate before evening prayer. This caused my gut to bulge with chilli bean soup and it was not satisfactory. I must work on that one. I must take either a very early supper or a quick snack straight after.
I have not yet adjusted to vegetarian food; the fish stall looked like a mirage of the holy grail, and at Hall's butchers I jokingly ordered a whole fillet for October. My farts ascend like incense smoke.
Today I pulled myself together a bit. Having to avoid clashing with N helped. I made a lovely lamp and prepared the altar floor. After (or between) the rain it was a sunny day and I managed to sunbathe as I read my Gnostic Anthology. Must confess I was very attracted by the antinomianist heretics.
My bible reading kicked off with John's Gospel and, I must say, I was stunned to find it so readable and so packed full of gags. It looks as though the Bible might prove to be my light relief to dilute the Zohar, etc. rather than vice versa.
Tunes run unnecessarily through my head—I wonder whether I can replace them with mantra?
Saw N as he returned this evening. Chatted over tea.
Now the shadows lengthen—but I wish the busy world would hush—and I must get ready for evening prayer. Not much red in the sky. 7.40 pm.
9.15 pm. I felt very detached and pure as I meditated, and probably could have continued for a much longer time, but found that I had left early!
N and I coincided as I ate after prayer. Sorry to see my old ridiculous irritation at his kitchen methods, but I was glad to note that a greater distance from them enabled me to avoid clinging to them so much. This is important as it is my first clear sign of a change. I showed him my lamp; pride diluted with sociability.
Alas, my altar floor did not fit, so I'll have to take it down a bit.
Thursday 14 April
Exciting dream: my house was large, I lived in one half and in the other half there was someone else. The basement was large and stuffed with rubbish—old wood, etc. (A woman came seeking her lost hamsters in it.) Part of my side were the offices of some sinister firm. They planned to kill the neighbour—a doctor (played by Jack Nicholson). In time, he infiltrated them disguised as a Rolling Stone—Charlie Watts (the corpse-like one)—but he failed to kill the two ringleaders and the alarm was raised. The firm was something a bit showbizzy.
Did this symbolize my conscious soul? There is half a house, littered with junk below and corrupted with the evil firm's office above, then there is the Saviour disguising himself as a corpse to gain admittance and then transforming into a young woman for victory. Oh well, it was great entertainment.
Lovely clear cold morning that later turned to cloud and irritating high wind. Hung my lamp this morning. Making an early and efficient start enabled me to sow beans and carrots before cycling to St. Albans. The return was a real test, which saw me slaving against high wind and cold. How will it compare with later tests? It nearly broke me.
Rather rushed and ungrateful today. Did some washing and small chores. Irritation at N's kitchen habits tried to get me again. After evening meditation I was being efficient when a lengthy phone call from PF ruined it and put me on edge. It is now 10.20. Oh dear.
Friday 15 April
Dream of two conjurors. Before the show they took great care to make the stage symmetrical—for instance, they were worried that one had fewer Chinese rings than the other, and so on—but the act itself was quite asymmetrical. The right-hand one (who was known for his thesis on the psychology of cookery) left the stage and then came back on wearing long underwear. Unfortunately, his tool was hanging out. This produced a mixture of amusement and shock in the audience, but it turned to outrage when he made it clear that it was deliberate. M and G thought him rather offensive as the whole of the first half of their act consisted of a radical sociological diatribe. I was backstage and went round to the front to watch. By the time I'd got there the second half had begun. The right-hand conjuror was now looking very smart in a suit and they were both doing tricks, which seemed to consist entirely of them producing cakes. Everyone (including M) was impressed. I tried one of the cakes and it was delicious.
This seems like a parody of my operation. I would have liked to see the left-hand conjuror play an equal part. In yesterday's dream it was the left-hand side of the house that was not mine, and did not feature in the story.
Naughty untaxed ride on Bloaters to Harpenden—this was due to having prepared the seeds for sowing and then finding that Redbourn had sold out of peat pots. It felt unusual, even after only four days abstention.
Clumsiness was in evidence today: doing things in a rush without concentration and…crash!
I was aware of two demonic pacts: sitting, lazing, over lunch, I began to think wrathfully about the civil service. As my anger mounted I leapt to my feet and busied myself—i.e. I used the anger to combat my inertia. Similarly, in the evening I was working at seed-sowing too late—when I should have been making supper—but the desire to show off how well I was eating to N (and to shame his efforts) reminded me to start supper before he went out.
In a way it was clever to play off demons but, a) will I become enslaved by the process, and, b) does the fact that there are low-grade demons encouraging me in my work augur well for its effect on me?
I fitted a padlock on the oratory door and am preparing beeswax for polish.
Saturday 16 April
Saw no significance in forgotten dream.
The wretched alarm woke me at about 4, so I was late and bleary for the sunrise. Very sharp frost—coldest morning yet. Lovely and clear till 11, when it clouded over.
After break, I read the chapter on Abramelin in The Tree of Life. It was very good, and reminded me of some important psychological points. I'm concentrating more on finding a routine than on putting a lot of pressure on, which could be all right provided I monitor my prayers carefully.
K rang a.m. She is okay, but she's had more trouble rising than me.
I'd been chatting with N immediately before “evenmed” and so kicked off with a silent meditation to cool valves.
Did some gardening (hoeing), cleaning of sitting room, fixing up warm electric propagator, and work in the oratory. It's been a good day, but not a great day.
At time of solar return I was hoeing garden.
Horror of horrors! On going to bed I glanced at Abramelin and saw that I'd misunderstood the cleaning and perfuming bit: I'd taken it for Sunday instead of Saturday. Of course, I can see now that the oratory must be cleaned before the holy day. This is so obvious that it led me to seek for the meaning of my absurd oversight. Yes, it typifies what has been wrong in much of my work: while I'm spending my time daydreaming and planning the wonderful completion of the work, I forget the most elementary beginning steps.
Late last night I hastily swept and perfumed the chamber, changed the linen and then had bath. Oh dear, what a hell of a lot of laundry! I resolved on an early start tomorrow morning so I can sweep the oratory before sunrise.
Sunday 17 April
Interesting dream: I was at some sort of gathering or conference. I can't remember much about the early incidents except that they relate to my pride and snobbery. Amongst the names of those attending was an extraordinary one: “Therese” (as it were) d'LionelSnell of…I was intrigued to find my name within another, and tried to locate her.
When she was pointed out to me I saw a rather black-haired, dusky-skinned (i.e. Spanish or Southern Italian) girl standing with another. I introduced myself and commented on our names, but she did not seem impressed. “What was that about your name?” her friend asked. (They both had nice foreign accents.) “Oh, it's just that it's made from an English name,” she replied. They were a bit giggly, like girls together. She said something polite, like: “How interesting, nice to have met you,” and they went back to their seats. I had been told they were from a nunnery (convent school).
Although I was a bit disappointed, I forgot about it, but was then surprised when she came up to me again and greeted me. In view of her background and earlier behaviour, even this modest greeting struck me as very forward. Interested, I suggested we meet again, to which she agreed and said we could have a chat. By now I was feeling a bit shy myself, so I said, “Perhaps I can buy you a meal”. She laughed and said, “I hope we have more than a meal together!”
This parting remark embarrassed me and awoke old fears of inadequacy; she did seem a bit hot to handle! But very sweet about it.
Then she came for me. “Quickly,” she said. “Follow me! We must not be seen together too much, because we are a party of schoolgirls and the rest will be jealous and spiteful.”
I recall assuming that, being from a convent, she would not be on the pill; fortunately I had a (blue) contraceptive left over. Surprised at my confidence, I got under her clothes and we had a great time.
It struck me as all too good to be true; a sort of temptation for the Abramelin operation.
After that I became divided into the “observer” and “Lionel Snell” who became more glamorous and dashing. We had a happy time together and LS made some toast, holding the bread with his bare hands and deftly tossing it over. She laughed in admiration, saying, “You can do anything! I bet you can't interpret dreams though!”
LS said he could, but was a little uncertain. She described a dream of an old abbey in Nailsworth. “Nailsworth?” asked LS. “Write it,” said she. “Ah yes, that was it, ‘Nailsworth’.” In this abbey's graveyard was a tomb with a de LionelSnell inscription.
Excited at the hope of solving the mystery of her name, LS and she went to “Nailsworth”. She led him into a vast mausoleum, of the “these of our fellows who died in the Great War” type, with rows and rows of little plaques.
We searched in vain, though there were some near-misses. She tried to recall where.
An amusing sideline was provided by two smartly dressed men—lawyer types—who were also in the mausoleum and were evidently freemasons for, with exaggerated secrecy, they whispered together in urgent tones, “I say, did you notice the names on that row added up to ninety-nine?” “Yes, I bet there are ninety-nine of them too.”
Suddenly she became excited and said, “Follow me.” We dashed up some marble stairs and into a sort of library, where she rushed over to a bench and sat beside some young boys. “Look!” she said, and smiled at them while they, in turn, looked up and smiled back. There was a strong resemblance; I can't think how, for the boys were blond.
They were called “Snell-Thompson”. The oldest had to leave to be beaten, and as we followed them the girl, excited to be on the trail, turned and said, “They went to Eton!”
As we waited outside the room, we heard the swish of cane. What had he done wrong? He'd carved some Latin nonsense on a form, which had included the word “Snell”. She got excited and asked LS to write in my own writing, “Lionel Snell cometh” (or something like that). We compared it with the boy's crude carving and realised that it could be read as that.
This was the clue we needed for the rest of the truth to come out! Near the old abbey was an old pool with a notice saying that in times of invasion the bell would summon all the young men, and any who did not come at once would be denounced as traitors.
Years ago, one “Lionel Snell” had received this summons, and he had been supposedly slain in battle. The bodies were put on a great tip and burnt with chemicals—quicklime presumably. These chemicals would kill anything, so Lionel Snell could not have survived.
Here, young Snell-Thompson spoke up: “See that dog?”—it was a wretched, maimed and limping white mongrel amongst the debris—“a short while ago that dog was as stiff as a board. I kicked him there.”
So that was it! Lionel Snell had not died, but had revived and got away.
The lad pointed to a tree that was supposed to be a silver birch, but was hideously deformed by the chemicals. One branch struggled off sideways like a pointing arm. “You see that tree? They say that when there is just one deformed tree like that it is Jesus Christ pointing the way for the dead souls to depart.” The tree pointed downstream to the sea. So Lionel Snell of old had risen from the dead and struggled downstream to the ocean and, presumably, across it to another land where he had founded the family de LionelSnell…
I recall thinking that the last section was bad cinema: the part about the dog was a bit overdone and, although the tree was grotesquely hideous, it was by no means the only tree that was deformed. But LS and Therese were happy that they were able to solve the enigma, and they left in a lover's state of bliss.
“Will you marry me then?” said she.
“You really are very forward for a nun!” laughed he. “Of course I will!”
I wondered how she would stand up to the test. After all, marrying a girl like this is all very well, but it would not help Abramelin. I went up to her, but to my surprise she cringed.
“You say you went to a nunnery,” said I. “In that case you'll have no trouble reciting the Lord's Prayer with me, will you?”
She cringed and struggled as I recited it, and under her cloak she seemed to shrivel.
“Show me your face!” I cried repeatedly, though I half regretted it, expecting some awful Alfred Hitchcock type revelation! Eventually the hooded head rose black before me. I said it once more, but as I did so it occurred to me: “Hold on! Isn't this the face that turns men to stone?” and I woke up.
This dream was very exciting, but also a bit disturbing. It was a nice example of temptation refuted by devotion (well-aimed at my attraction to physically beautiful girls—and she was great—and my snobbery, or rather, my desire to be a bit posher).
But with my Taoist hat firmly on the other foot (as it were) I do realise the need to cool it morality-wise, lest all future nights are disturbed by this sort of “good versus evil” playacting. Just as, in the cold light of day, this paragraph is “cooling it morality-wise” playacting.
In penitence, I was up before sunrise to sweep the oratory, burn incense, and light the lamp. I took my beeswax polish, but did not use it. The damp atmosphere made the morning feel very cold.
After break I read Abramelin—very necessary—and the first fifty psalms. They were not much better than Genesis, which I read yesterday and which almost bored me to tears, except for the amusing little “Jewish” touches, like Abraham “doing business” with God as to how many good souls there needed to be in Sodom in order for it to be spared! So far, The Gospel of John is by far the best.
Today I committed adultery (on my old bed, so I had to bathe afterwards). Abramelin will really love me for that. But, could there almost be a possibility of classifying it under “charitable work”? I did dedicate the operation to the Earth Mother (whom I've been very lax in thanking for my good food) because fecundity was its object. It was this latter fact that finally moved me—I would not have been so happy about a fuck just for fucking's sake! So my conscience is not so much troubled by that (perhaps it should be), but it is troubled by my inability to remain composed. Seven days is not enough to fortify oneself against seven hours of “female” chatter (“I do understand what you are doing, really I do; and I really admire you for it…”) like the Mistral unceasingly blowing sand against my rickety foundations. I slowly collapsed. Outwardly, I did not change a lot, but inwardly, composure and calm desiccated to aridity and numbness. Women fear to see men set out on projects because they fear the projects will change the men, whereas they would rather make the changes themselves.
Monday 18 April
Dreamed of a tornado racing across a field towards R and me. Did not feel scared as it seemed slow in the distance, but as it approached me I could see how fast it was. It gouged a channel in the field and would have struck me but for a tree that broke its force (and was itself damaged by the suction). Later I was trying to do my evening oration but without success as I had chosen a place right outside the front door and was disturbed by the family next door coming and going, and felt particularly idiotic kneeling in B's sight.
Frosty morning—not very inspiring. Hard to get up.
Further thoughts on last week: the greatest benefit of “sin” is the stimulus it gives to my sanctity. My most humble orations have followed my worst misdemeanours. I suppose this is another example of a low-grade “pact”.
My “circulating the light” seems to have built up something I was unaware of until yesterday, prior to screwing. I felt a ball of fire in my inner belly quite distinct from the usual sexual feeling. I'm not sure I handled it correctly.
This morning's meditation was slightly feeble.
After break, I read St. Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises (up to the first week). I think I must lend them to K.
The trip to see K was excellent. I took some tools, books, and vegetables along with my lamp, on which I had done some early work beforehand. She welcomed me and we shared her delicious lunch. It was a real joy that she thought the lamp looked good. I stayed and chatted awhile before a nice cycle back.
I was haunted by Majesty today. Read about the Hellfire Club during my morning cocoa, and have been drinking odd glasses of sparkling Rheingold to test my champagne stopper. At K's I read about the amazing private car collection of some eccentric Alsatian industrialists, who have an enormous number of Bugattis. Majesty, akin to nostalgia, is a powerful and neutral spirit that I must come to terms with.
Tuesday 19 April
Did some good reading today: Crowley's Tao Te King for an hour after break and after lunch while sunbathing for the first time this year—the shade of the shrubbery kept off the cool wind. Read Exodus for an hour, and found it all rather good. Also The Magical Ritual of the Sanctum Regnum by Eliphas Levi—the format of this clearly inspired Book 4, part two.
Wednesday 20 April
I dreamt of going to the gym, then later had a dream about sleeping with “Mary” and screwing over and over again. I notice that since becoming celibate my sex dreams have improved: in the past most of them were of frustrated or incompetent screwing; now they are wildly successful. This dream ended with my being dissuaded from going to morning orison by “Mary”. As I did not manage to go until six, it seems the succubus was fairly successful. A dull, damp (thank heaven) morning so I escaped the humiliation of witnessing a sun that had already risen.
When I oversleep, should I give priority to orison, and so rush through or even skip my getting up routine? I chose not, to save the situation that develops with work: once I allow myself to skip my routine, I will tend to rise later and still be too late. Instead I will do the full routine and face up fully to the consequences of my lateness.
This rain will save me watering.
In the last two meditations I was more successful at centring consciousness in my belly.
What a weather contrast! Drizzles and darkness all day. A kerfuffle about Bloaters let the drizzle and darkness into my soul, and I was faced with a testing day at last. Although I failed pretty well, I did have odd bids at “plodding on through the gloom”, and it did aid my introspection—making evenmed one of the best.
I plan to go to Ben's funeral tomorrow; hence my attempt to get Bloaters a little more legal.
Thomas Vaughan's short tract on “light” gave me some light to compensate for dull sky. I always try to “transcend” symbolic interpretation of alchemy and return to a more literal meaning, as it was more difficult fixing the volatile than vice versa. When I visualised clipping a bird's wings so it fell back to the nest and had to brood, my thoughts became much quieter.
Thursday 21 April
Moist and warm morning. Earlier on I noticed that the oil in the lamp was frozen in the morning and liquid in the evening, but over the last two days it has remained liquid.
Today is a day of distinction. 7.30 am and N is already up (his car is at the garage so he is bussing today). Must go to see the Social Whatsit people, and I think I will go to Ben's funeral and visit S on the way back. I hope that by concentrating all trips into one day I can avoid too much mental distraction.
Sure enough, Abramelin was far from my mind for most of the day—so was everything else. I spent the day cheering M and, above all, long distance motorcycling as I also went to Stroud where they fixed the speedo cable. As they did so I had an interesting chat with Vernon Gadd.
Got back to slightly late evenmed of poor quality.
Friday 22 April
This morning's lateness was worse—and less forgivable. I was wracked by lust in the night, and lightness of sleep seemed to be induced by high winds outside despite the room's good insulation from the elements. Not sure of source of lust and there were no obvious astrological transits. Was it a by-product of the whirl of travelling? Or was it implanted by S at suppertime?
It made the morning's meditation “interesting”, but not very good.
Attempted to be efficient and clear up some small items like putting up the shelf for the altar, fixing the door lintel, and washing and pressing my tunic. After a large lunch I was outrageously sleepy, but lying on my back for a short while and then sitting in an upright chair enabled me even to read the boring old Bible for two hours without dozing. Made effort not to be distracted by buffeting of wind outside.
Fixed the lintel and put a shelf inside the altar for small goods. Did all this just before evenmed.
As I was digging the ground where the greenhouse is to go I came across two large mandrakes—King and Queen. They were so large I could not dig them up whole. They did not scream, but the whole air twittered with sounds of wind. A strange flesh-like smell—veal?—came from the broken root and made me feel a bit hazy. I replanted the two pieces alongside even bigger ones beneath the elder. I am fascinated by those tuberous rooted climbers.
At evenmed a single star-like white flower9 faced me on a branch close to the window; it was a perfect five-fold shape like an upright pentagram dead centre in the window. I wish it could stay there as it is a lovely object on which to meditate.
Saturday 23 April
“Celibacy” justifies itself by producing a vast improvement in one's sex dreams. After the alarm woke me I dozed and was tempted by a really lovely succubus. She looked just right and said all the most flattering things, and I even “got it in” before I insisted on waking up. Never has the real thing been that promising.
Reading George Chevalier's memoir makes me feel a little small; after two weeks he had already been visited by malevolent entities. “Does ‘the enemy’ see so little opposition in me that he does not need to try?” I wondered. This succubus gives me hope; it suggests that the sunrise timing is important if two attempts have been made to confound it.
Bearing in mind Lambspring's “two fish in our sea”, and remarks in Secret of the Golden Flower,10 I have attempted today not so much to seat consciousness in the belly as to sift it into two parts, “male” and “female”; one resting in the head and the other in the belly. That is progress. Although theoretically understanding the four worlds division, I'd not often clearly realised it.
A day of physical labour preparing greenhouse site. My desire to prepare the site today was goaded on by the idea that not doing hard physical work would be a semi-observance of the sabbath. Read Pernety11 and sunbathed after lunch. The sun was lovely.
I wrote jokey, send-up letter to the local paper, but having to give my name and address made me anxious about possible repercussions. The I Ching message for the day was most appropriate, referring to the need to put a “headboard on the young bull”. O.K.
Evening bungle: after cleaning my room, changing and perfuming everything, I was undecided about when to do the oratory. I could not after evenmed as I needed the light, but I was keen to do it as late as possible so that Sunday would dawn on an oratory that was fresh as possible. So I did it before evenmed, which I left a bit late. Waxed floor and east wall with beeswax and sanded altar, so I was puffing, sweaty, late and in a flap with an obstinate charcoal block. In trying to be economical, I used only a small piece, but the incense kept falling off it. Also, because the censer is still on order, I placed the block on a piece of flint, but was terrified that the flint would burst with the heat. A right old shambles! So was brief and fled.
I must make a temporary censer that I can bury in the real one for continuity. Perhaps I will try a lamp-lid at the same time to keep the dust out.
Sunday 24 April
Simply overslept—who needs succubi? A lovely clear (cold) morning turned again to shrieking, cold wind with “bright intervals”—the sun warming the earth under my greenhouse.
Went to morning service and felt rather “pagan” during it. My decision to “observe” Sunday to some extent has been uninspiring. Had intended to write letters, but too much time has fizzled. Long, bumbling and inaudible phone call from CF and a long and interesting call from SD helped to kill the time, alas. General feeling is nonsville. However I think I will continue this form of observance as an item of discipline.
Monday 25 April
Very bleary and late. Dreams of bother and confusion with telephones (R had rung after I'd gone to bed and rang again at 7.15 today). Dull, overcast day with less wind.
Read for two hours after break in case CF arrives this afternoon. The Book of Samuel is better, spending less time in begetting and lawmaking and more action. Story of David was rather good, but I couldn't see point of Ruth.
Got some tasks completed a.m. and feel drowsy after lunch. No word from CF.
Have just read my first fortnight. Though not getting much done I am a little less shakeable and less inclined to be irritated by N's kitchen habits. Now in my meditation I am more often deliberately leaving in order to sacrifice my bliss rather than needing effort to maintain it.12 The greenhouse is a big advance: now there is somewhere to put my seeds, which would otherwise be in danger of being blown over. The latest black cloud is the need to write letters. How about completing today's garden and “craft” jobs to leave tomorrow as letter-writing day?
8 pm. No, there was an earlier black cloud: I had difficulty facing up to pricking out seedlings. Tried to analyse why. It was associated with earlier horrors of (a) jobs done half-heartedly and in a rush (b) without adequate seed boxes (c) causing a mess around the house, and (d) often with little outcome. I realised that these problems were largely due to my having to fit gardening between a nine-to-five schedule; so this time I could, and did, do it properly.
This week's test seems to be about coping with my sociability. In fact, CF did not come this afternoon, but as I was making supper there was a surprise visit from D and A. N made the tea (for a change!), leaving me to get on with the supper without being too rude. I tell people about sunrise and sunset meditation; I think this is necessary in order to limit “visiting hours”. Was a bit “malignant” about N in the kitchen.
Tuesday 26 April
Woke early—and hungry—after dreams of roast beef, so the timing this morning was better, but still not ideal.
After an hour of Pernety, I was out weeding alongside the path. Tried a small bit in order to experiment with severe methods, e.g. sieving all the topsoil. What a job! Couch grass thunderer! Despairingly detailed work, so two hours saw about one square yard done. I made an analogy with rooting out unnecessary thoughts or, if you like, “sin”. Every tiny piece of couch grass root could start a whole new plant, and even sieving let some pieces through. But that does not entirely negate the work for there is a big difference between a thriving colony of weed, and scattered fragments when it comes to later maintenance. Without continuing vigilance it is true that a big effort at eradicating thoughts or weeds over a limited time produces no long-term improvement. But such an effort is well worth it if a little everyday maintenance can follow it. Also; where do you stop? Do you, like N, dig around plants and leave colonies of couch grass in their roots? No, I am prepared to make sacrifices so I dug up, separated, and replanted all garden plants. But I was not prepared to really shift my ground (the paving stones). I could see some roots going under, but felt they could be ignored as dead ends; until I lifted one stone! It was a mat of roots beneath, all raring to leap out. My heart sank, but turned to joy as I resolved to accept this new challenge. For, under paving stones roots, do not go deep but skim the surface seeking outlets. So I had an orgy of couch bashing.
Couch grass root tea is said to be so strengthening. Lovely sympathetic magic. I need the virtues of couch (persistence, strength, vigour, purposefulness) so much that I'd do better to drink couch tea than lazy old lion's blood! I noted the difference between couch and bindweed under the paving: couch wasted no time and went in straight lines, bindweed squiggled and struggled in all directions forever trying to bud. (However, the predictability of couch grass in this circumstance made it more vulnerable.)
Sermons under stones.
2.30 pm, and alas it is pouring. So the awful job that became a crusade must be postponed.
Wrote one letter…a beginning! Personal discipline bad this afternoon. This tends to happen when my plans are inadequate and get messed up. (I'd not allowed for rain.)
Wednesday 27 April
Dream: a party at the M household. A asks RM if she can take C away for a fuck. RM says yes, but later says she couldn't stand the “tomato sauce” way A asked! For some reason A expects me to come too. I am wistful for it is clear she has no intention of being fucked by me as well, so I reckon it's a bit insensitive of her.
C shows me an item from his booklist, an original documentation of the veracity of the Jekyll and Hyde story! I see my childish signature on it and recognise it as an old family possession. It is kept in a beautiful wooden scythe, but C wants to chuck that away as it is no good for a “book” list. Excited at this relic of my past I try to show M, and she recalls it (I think). My father appears and I try to get him interested. He's a bit offhand, but shows me some old photos. I'm interested to compare him and me, but am embarrassed by their bad taste…Fancy making a tree wear a g-string, even if it is a rather humanoid shape.
Puzzling over this dream delayed me a bit. Alas, I reached oratory with thoughts buzzing. I'd gazed at Saturn as I went to sleep (I think it is important to me in this operation).
Did quite a bit today; completed the strip alongside the path, cut the lawn, washed lots at launderette, sowed brassicas, etc. But it was not a day of well-made plans. Cold, but with quite a lot of sun (just able to sunbathe). Very cold morning. I'd slept with window open for the first time in ages.
Thursday 28 April
Cold, wet day. Bloatered to St Albans after late start and spent the morning there visiting Mrs. L. It rained from noon onwards so I stayed indoors. Very dozy reading, skipped most of Chronicles—a boring rehash. Braved the bedroom shambles and tidied up a bit after tea. Read papers after supper.
Friday 29 April
Another cold day, but the sun tempted me to sunbathe after lunch. Visited K early and did lots of small seed planting and potting jobs, but did none of the big jobs, e.g. cleaning, weeding or letters, so now (8.05 pm) I feel a bit unsatisfied. Was not very “good” today. The operation slipped my mind quite a lot. I was either caught up in feelings of exultation that made me want to rush about, or dominated by thoughts that were a bit hysterical. The morning meditation was disturbed by many thoughts. Recently I've found that centering in the belly reduces verbal thoughts, but I had less success with this today. Efficiency has improved a bit with less time wasted on unnecessary journeys. Made a little temporary censer.
There was a curious difference in the style of the evening oration; it was more torrential and humble. It also felt as though someone else was doing it, but it merged into the meditation without clear distinction. Cold. For first time my room did not smell nice when I entered it.
Saturday 30 April
Worst ever lateness. I woke up in the night, hungry and worrying about crocodile suitcases(!). My mind was in slight fizz about work that I had to do, but the little censer was fine. I have a new routine that works much better: a.m., I clean out the oratory after the oration, and p.m., I do the chamber and take a bath before the evening oration.
Efficient morning: read for two hours, did kitchen, swept the old bedroom floor and beat the carpets, and removed the double-glazing. That was really foul. I also did some digging in the sun. I was in a slight dither this p.m. as I know I am going out with N to the Flamstead craft show.
Very late evening oration, late bathing, etc., so it was almost dusk. Felt exposed, burning my lamp in the semi-dark, and imagined people smelling the incense and thinking there was a fire. I was also afraid that N would come to ask where the matches were (must get another box). Such humdrum demons are sufficient to make me waver. As I came away I realised that my meditations were very calming and clearing; Taoist, but not awesome and terrifying—i.e. magical. First days were a little terrifying (my fear of the dark). I realise that N's presence has protected me from awe, as has Redbourn itself to a much lesser extent. I only have to go back to the cottage and there are food smells, music and all is mundane and everyday. Without N, a THING would build up.
Yet Abramelin does not insist on this THING. Why else would he have allowed his wife to live with him?
Perhaps it's the Christian influence in my life that makes me feel this ought to be more difficult in a purely blood and thunder sense. There was I, nearly ten minutes late—so why did not hellfire consume me? Answer: in order to encourage me to feel that ten minutes late does not matter—nor twenty minutes, nor one hour, nor doing it every day…
Sunday 1 May
The oil was frozen this morning. I've taken to adopting the western devotional mudra in my orations13 (as in illustration in Pernety). It does engender a contrite heart it seems.
“Did” the psalms in one and three-quarter hours this morning! Go for it tyger! I'm warming to them, trying to follow K's system of doing them all on Sunday and thirty a day during the rest of the week (with one day of blessed relief!). No church, for SD might come at any time.
What an ordeal! Non-stop barrage of esoteric conversation. I think that those interrogators who place a tin bucket over the prisoner's head and hammer it for hours on end are struggling to achieve a similar effect.
Dreams recalled: some conversation with Hon K, who came to visit. Also, there were two mice in my helmet. I was rather revolted and tried to chuck them out. Finnegan ate one, the other turned into a book I cannot remember.
Monday 2 May
Dream in which I was explaining why, though clever, I did not do well in Maths Tripos.
Fed up with bumbling thoughts, so I expelled them and felt ecstatic this morning. But it was all in my head and it was an exertion to maintain the belly bit. Felt randy later as I read the Aurora.14 For me the subtlest pornography is to read theological rants of flesh and lust.
Vast washing dominated the day. A lot of it was old stuff cleared from old bedroom. I now have curtains in my bedroom.
Wracked by lust today; this has not happened for a long time. It can't have been due to sunbathing because that had been much earlier in the day. Hard to believe it could be Boehme, though I do associate him with sex phantasies, e.g. while reading the Bible it rested on my crotch and I longed to wrap its soft pages round my prick and jack off. (Ideally, a whole class of sexually precocious kids should do it uncontrollably as the Victorian spinsterish Sunday school mistress swoons with horror.) Writing the idea down has not totally earthed it…don't tell me I've got to actually do it!
During evenmed, the gentle pattering of rain sounded lovely on my “felt” roof. It reminded me of Easter Sunday.
It is now 9.20 pm and I have that burnt-out pelvis feeling that I associate with resisted lust. I found the following to be the best method of control: when the vision of sexy flesh came to mind, I accelerated time (Saturn on skates) and saw the flesh age and wrinkle, then decay with maggots and then fall stinking from the bones. I'm not kinky enough to get a kick out of that!
Tuesday 3 May
I don't seem able to crack the 5.30 am getting-up barrier yet. I'll have to try guerrilla tactics, e.g. a thermos of hot drink by the bedside.
It is terrible how malignant thoughts flourish in me. It is as though there was some grain of truth in the psychologist's claptrap when they say that the outwardly meek tend to be inwardly spiky.
As I meditate, a corny range of attractive thoughts assail me: (a) sheer pleasure (e.g. dreams of nice possessions); then, more subtly, (b) dutiful thoughts (e.g. plans for the day—but why make them now?); and (c) observation of the process itself—either comparing my attempts with the written word, or else the preparation of “lecture notes” for teaching other people.
It was such a dreary day that I was reduced to letter writing, tidying correspondence, papers and magazines, and other such indoor jobs. So awful are such jobs that I felt a joyous righteous ebullient feeling which is hardly justified. Chatted with N to cheer him up—that's my excuse.
