BEYOND THE BEYOND
ORIGINAL ORGASMIC STILLPOINT OF CREATION
AKASHIC’S CORE ORIGIN
TOUCHSTONE OF ALL
HELD IN THE
Be willing to be an instrument through which Truth reveals Itself,
but do not attempt to use God.
Never try to use God, Truth.
If you understood the nature of God,
never would you pray to God for any thing.”
― Joel S. Goldsmith, The Art of Spiritual Healing
You all know how to light a fire.
First you put down a little paper,
on top of which you place some dry twigs.
And on top of this,
you add some larger pieces of wood.
Finally, you strike a match and set fire to the paper.
The paper sets fire to the twigs,
and the twigs set fire to the branches.
with their different bodies:
physical, astral, mental and causal.
The flame of the match corresponds to the causal plane,
the world of spirit,
which is the source of all phenomena in the universe.
which sets fire to the twigs (the astral plane, the heart)
which in turn sets fire to the larger pieces of wood (the physical plane).
Therefore, everything begins on high with spirit,
and then, from body to body,
the fire finally reaches the physical plane.
unless you began by working with spirit which,
from its place on high,
provides the impetus.
Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov
and above all if you don’t pull it off, something departs from you.
And the rest of you yearns to depart also.”
Hostage to the Devil
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More Re: the toll of exorcism...quoted here
are deep, down and gritty.... MAJOR MAJOR factors re:
this life and part of how it has been survived...
HOSTAGE TO THE DEVIL
The name was obvious, now he knew it.
The twisted smile was back on her mouth. Now, he realized, he had to deal with the most ancient of man’s tempters and enemies:
the hater who deceived you with a smile and a joke and a promise.
The cleverness of it.
How could you suspect or attack someone called Smiler?
And if they just smile at anything you do, what can you do?
The whole thing-God, heaven, earth, Jesus, holiness, good, evil-becomes
a mere farce.
And by the evil alchemy of that farce,
everything becomes an ugly joke,
a cosmic joke on little men who in their turns are only puny little jokes.
And, and, and . . . the utter banality of all existence,
the wish for nothing.
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The Smiler Archetype-Exorcism
Peter fought off the instinct to step back or to look around or, most of all, to run far and fast. “Freeze yer moind,” had been Conor’s advice.
“Freeze it in luv. Shtick there, lad.” But, Holy Jesus! how?
The Presence was all over him, inside him, outside him.
A total trap of cloying ropes he couldn’t see.
He heard no word, saw no vision, smelled no odor.
But his skin was no longer the protective shell of his mortality.
His skin didn’t work!
It was now a porous interface that let the invisible filth of the Presence ooze in.
Worst of all was the silence of it.
It was soundless.
Suddenly he had been attacked and caught;
and he knew his adversary was superior and ruthless,
that it had invaded deep into the self he always hid from others
and hoped only God did know and would never show him
until he was strong enough to bear the sight.
He could not discern where the struggle lay.
His confusion of mind was like molasses oozing over spiders,
paralyzing every effort at control and every natural movement.
Sometimes it seemed his will was made of rubber twisted this way and that
and cruelly snapping back at his mind
like a wet towel smacking the face.
Sometimes his mind was a sieve through which
stinging particles tumbled, each one tabbed with a jeering name:
Despair! Dirt! Smell!
Puny! Mush! Misery!
. . . There was no end to them.
At other times, he realized, his mind and will were only exits, sewage pipes;
and his imagination was the recipient of what they vomited.
Out through them were pouring the shapes of the real struggle
that lay in another dimension of himself.
Deep down? High up?
Conscious? Unconscious? Subconscious?
He did not know
But certainly somewhere in the depths of the self he was.
All the hidden valleys of that self were red with his agony.
Every high peak was a sharp slope of tumbling confusion.
Each plain and corner was crammed with pressure and weight and sorrow.
His imagination was now a cesspool swelling
with gobs of repulsive images and twisted fears.
utter and undiluted superiority.
It didn’t hit the emotions, but the mind, freezing it with a realization
that there was no possibility and could never be any possibility of besting it;
that its owner knew this, and that he knew you also knew;
and that this superiority was neither sweetened by compassion
nor softened by an ounce of love nor eased by a grain of condescension
nor restrained by one whit of benignity toward one of lesser stature.
“If sound can be evil, with no human good in it all,” said Peter, “that was it.”
It brought him up to the thin edge of nothingness
and face to face with the anus mundi,
the ultimate in excretion of self-aggrandizing sin.
Peter glanced at her face. The name was obvious, now he knew it. The twisted smile was back on her mouth. Now, he realized, he had to deal with the most ancient of man’s tempters and enemies: the hater who deceived you with a smile and a joke and a promise.
The cleverness of it. How could you suspect or attack someone called Smiler? And if they just smile at anything you do, what can you do? The whole thing-God, heaven, earth, Jesus, holiness, good, evil-becomes a mere farce. And by the evil alchemy of that farce, everything becomes an ugly joke, a cosmic joke on little men who in their turns are only puny little jokes. And, and, and . . . the utter banality of all existence, the wish for nothing.
He wrenched his mind away from this dead blanket of depression and concentrated again. This was the meeting point with Marianne.
“You, Smiler, you will leave, you shall leave this creature of God ...”
Smiler, the cosmic joker, smears and tears at everything,
At that instant the Presence launched its hate again. Like a physical thing, it attacked him. It sent stinging talons into his mind and will, stabbing deep at the root of his determination, at some inner sensitive, delicate part of him where all his pain and all his pleasure lived.
Peter was thinking to himself, as he ruminated and groped toward his next step.
Smiler, who turns memories to dirt and chokes you with them.
But then he’s not subtle. And he’s not clever.
Peter thought: This is either a trap for us, or we have Smiler trapped. Which?
He found himself reacting by instinct:
“Silence! Smiler! Silence in the name of Jesus!
I command you to desist, to leave her.
Tell me that you will obey, that you will leave her.
The other men in the room glanced at Peter, surprised at the force in his voice.
The verbal assault had left them raw, ashamed of something vague,
with a feeling that they had been filthied.
They had expected Peter to wilt, to have been crushed.
They had been willing to lose hope.
But now they took something from him.
They sensed what he knew, saw it on his face, and almost heard him telling them:
“I may be engaged in this to my own humiliation.
But Smiler is equally engaged in it and there is no escape for him.
Just hold on.”
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