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Opposition: ever since I started the quest for the Grail, the quest to restore the Roundtable, things have gone wrong more than usual—children have sworn in my face, women driving cars past me stick their tongues out at me, my dog got sick, and various other catastrophes (minor catastrophes, but catastrophes nonetheless) have occurred; for example, a relative called the police on me and claimed I was psychotic—I’m not, I’m completely cognisant as regards consensus reality, even if I say peculiar things at times.


Further, really sketchy people, such as greying New Age traveller types who hang out in parks, have started to give me really dirty looks—like I’m “the enemy”. I feel these forces have been sent against me because I seek the Grail.


If I recall correctly, I seem to remember that this is quite usual with quests—I seem to remember a story, perhaps from Alan Watts, where a man announces his intention to seek enlightenment, to go on a quest, and all at once everything around him goes wrong (relatives die, his business goes bankrupt, and so on); to even announce the quest puts you in a position wherein you face disaster—or serious opposition.


Is that not “Satan”—the adversary? Um, yes. It definitely feels like there’s some countervailing force that is in opposition to me, is trying to stop me—perhaps not “by any means necessary” but by “some means” certainly. I can only take that as an indication that I’m on the right track—besides, I subscribe to the “it’ll all turn out in the wash” philosophy and agree with Leibniz that “all’s for the best in the best of possible worlds” (contra Voltaire, the snide one, I actually think this is the best of possible worlds—hence I never feel that anything is fundamentally wrong with the world, only locally wrong).


With reference to poetic intuition, so mentioned in today’s other post, this is obscured in most people quite young by incidents like so: when I was a toddler I had a stuffed toy of Spot the dog—but one day, at Athens Airport, I lost Spot the dog. I cried and cried and cried—as only a young child can cry who is separated from his beloved dog but does not understand why; and, more to the point, has never experienced that loss before—eventually, I was given another Spot; he was identical, but even now I can remember the sensation that this just isn’t the same.


It’s events like these—that all people experience—that build the carapace. It’s like a rotten tooth that is allowed to ache and ache—just like I cried and cried—until the nerve finally goes dead. Then you feel nothing at all, you just have this blackened monument in your mouth.


Of course, to lose the toy dog is just the start of a number of losses you will experience—and, as you will discover, these other losses, given man’s competitive and war-like nature, will often involve events where someone takes “Spot” from you in a calculated and malicious action. Then you will learn a new type of pain.


To cope with these events you will develop splitting, introjection, projection and so on—often humour is used to deflect from the raw pain, the raw loss. A poet, in this regard, is just someone who has developed fewer defence mechanisms or, in extreme cases, none at all—and so experiences events raw.


This explains the melancholy and the madness of the poet—they are still like a three-year-old who howls for his lost stuffed animal, even at thirty-six. Yet it also explains their uncanny insights—because most adults are so defended, so protected by the efficient suit of armour they’ve created to negotiate the psychic terrain, that they often can no longer see completely obvious things (God).


It’s related to the schizoid position, because schizoids also have poor boundaries—you don’t see what they see because you protect yourself too much. But these insights don’t have to involve madness—although poets often are driven mad, partly by the pain (which is like a constant toothache across the whole dental topology—but the nerves never go dead).


There are techniques whereby you can restore this insight in a controlled manner. The painting above was by Marjorie Cameron, who was a witch and the scarlet woman to the rocket scientist Jack Parsons. Within her was instantiated “Babalon”—the spirit of Crowley’s “Aeon of Horus”, an age of war and dissolution and homosexuality and the liberation of women and ambiguity (an age of strong emotions—an age that coincides with our Aquarian Age, we live in dissolution).


Parsons died in an accident with explosives at his home laboratory (which I looked into and discovered was caused by some spirit he was in communication with shortly before—perhaps I’ll relate the details sometime). Cameron lived on.


She was the spirit of the age. You may recall this Chinese idea, spoken of by Confucius, that if one man sat in his room and contemplated—drew symbols every day—that he could change the world. That’s actionless action or wu-wei—and it’s real. Crowley understood that, and so did Cameron—Cameron didn’t do much in life, just lived off welfare and painted a lot (often destroyed her paintings—incomprehensible to her friends but actually a magical act).


I think she was engaged in an internal purification that changed the world through subtle action to usher in the Age of Horus. “One woman alone in a room can change the world”—you don’t think that’s so because you’re modern, but it’s completely so; hence, travelling without moving.


Essentially, Cameron’s withdrawal and purification returned her to that more exposed and naked psychological state whereby she was more in contact with the spiritual forces around us—that is what some poets, often born slightly mad, have naturally and what magicians and mystics seek to obtain through the Great Work.

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