Thus what is here written is the beginnings of my personal experience with the Emerald Formula. What is stated is profane and whom ever shall read thereof of a background in Hermetic Philosophy shall understand its being as written to pave the road for whom may find one self traveling a similar road... as a student of Hermes. And for others I hope to bring light to a strange exsitence called by some "lunacy."
Doorway to the October Moon
Introduction
Quietly, and the veil doth not disclose the intensity of the warning, and whence it came, too shall it return. Hence in the beginning, madness can be likened to that of curiosity, and thus how true it is that curiosity is the end of the cat, however in this case, it is the nature of the cats’ disease, which brings his undoing. A parable, how sadly we are unaware of in the beginning. It is the question, which brings one to the secrets of true madness. And hidden within this ailment, is the key to our liberation from our deepest fear, which is the question. It is the most profound of dreams, and becomes the deepest hidden and obscure nightmare. It can be likened to a sword with two edges, employed to ward off intruders, and to draw our own blood, should we decide to attempt escape, or break our coda, which keeps us safe. Such a blessing is twofold, reality and the dream, though we are unaware of where reality ends and the dream begins. This is the danger behind the tale, which I have set myself aside to write down, never to be lost to those seeking liberation from, and within madness.
Chapter I
1
Mother always said that curiosity killed the cat, what was failed to be mentioned, is that the cat finds liberation in its curiosity. Behind every shadow is something splendid, however terrifying. And lurking in every page of the story are the blank pages, and black cryptic ink, according to our liking.
The cat defines its existence in fantasy, subject to a law it cannot define, although this law is of its own creation. The cat is the Royal King and his loyal subject. In the midst of his kingdom, there are the hidden assassins to his crown. However no assassin in his kingdom knows the secret law, to bring his fall and take the crown, hence the only assassin to the cat, is the cat himself.
Assassins of this breed however, lie hidden in the channels and canals in the depths of the mind, where no person is quite sure of their own intensity. The assassin spills his own blood, the fall of the crown, and he is dead, lying in his broken bones, and pools of blood. And in accordance to his own law, in a book of perverse comedy, he then walks amongst the tyrants’ land, the fools and the jugglers of his mind. The moon slowly takes shape in this mind of the diseased, and there is no turning back at this point, his new kingdom now has its root, and he has been duly initiated into his own madness. Perhaps a lovely poem to brighten this passage…
Off with your head, bleeding in red, now thou art dead, nothing was said.
To describe the pain, the horror, and the feelings of loss, would almost be in vain. In this state there is nowhere to escape to, lost in this land of the tyrants, and self-inflicted pain. There is no return, after crossing this point one is lost in oblivion. There is however a light at the end of the pain, and I assure you, it is there. However, this chapter is on the methods one might use, in order to enter the true secrets of madness, though not suggested for personal use.
Back to the story of the cat.
As the cat creates his new kingdom and law, he does not know that it is he who exacts the punishment of the law. Thus he shall end up with an assortment of scars, of which the physical scars are the least painful, however they always remind us of the truly wicked scars, those, which reside within.
The punishments reflect the deepest fears we face, and as we exact the law, we exact our fear thus hidden, and deaden the pain. Nothing quite like a shot of morphine to deaden the intensity of fear. A cat lost on the scales of madness knows the law of self inflicted wounds, the bodies’ defense mechanism to siring flesh is a splendid shot of morphine. A good old fashioned, home grown drug.
And behind every physical scar is a blissful story of agony and triumph. And we exact our stories, however one must wonder. Where does reality end, and the dream begin in such stories? For the cat, it is a quest for the purity of the dream, and the more real it becomes, he finds himself atop a mountain, locked within a cage of his own doing. Mother always said that curiosity killed the cat, however it was failed to be mentioned that cats have nine lives, and in the walkways of the moon, lost from society, the cat will seek its own death. It becomes the only hope for escape, for in the labyrinth of the moon, our stories grow old, though never seem to decay.
Those who live within the confines of a reality that does not exist find it of priority to build a wall, and atop the watchtowers are the guardians of our madness. They wield the sword to ward off intruders, and to draw our own blood should we try and escape. This takes place to protect our nightmare, to purify our dream. How sad it is when we become lost, losing focus, and as we are brought to our dreams, we crawl in torment through the blood of our spines, and the crack of our skull, to the whips of our tyrants, and the leash of our demons. Thus the importance of the wall is displayed. It keeps out intruders, who may poison our dream, and encompasses the chessboard of our nightmare. For here we can posses ourselves in livelihood, and partake in the feast of our broken legs. And here, no one can find us, however it is truly sad that here, no one can save us.
2
Encompassing the chessboard of our deepest fears and desires, are the voices in grand fashion, and the music, beautiful flashing lights, and flowering blood upon the chessmen, which peel our eyelids back in fear and wonder. In this anomaly our fate is decided, the line is drawn, so too, is our blood, should we fail in error. The etchings of paranoia, are the books of our abstractions, and sad it is that we are oblivious to the reality of this anomaly, it lives in the cells of our brain…
“You do not understand,” they speak. “Watching from within the clocks on the wall, bleed the hidden masters of this reality. Who are the builders of the dream, and the gentle rain drops spilling from the eyes.”
“The armies are the builders of the scales I wander,” we find ourselves in conversation, “watching every step I take, and if the square of this chessboard, for which I find my ground, be the square for which I die, then let it be. The rook has spoken with valiant power, and the knight reins in force by sword and blood.”
“And in the day of death,” we find ourselves reasoning, “once upon a time was my birth, and in death it has been that I have wandered this chessboard. Hence, I shall merely laugh in the general direction of my oncoming slaughter.”
…And if none have done so yet, I shall take the honor in offering you a cigar, and welcoming you to the abodes of insanity. A little advice for our new arrival and friend, never forget the golden rule, “We are watching you.”
Perhaps this is too much, perhaps you feel I have gone to far, and perhaps it is only that you have crossed the line in questioning the reasons. A suggested book of rules follows. It is the very coda, and law, which all persons of madness abide.
1. Ten people on top of the steeple without any faces or names. 2. They can be anyone, anywhere, at any time. 3. Never look them in the face. 4. And never let anyone know what you know about how this works. 5. Always answer the riddles with questions, or merely cut your arm open, this redirects the pain. 6. You can only speak to them if no one is present. 7. Never call 911. 8. And remember you are of key importance, and no one can know of your involvement. 9. Above all, remember that we are watching.
3
The coda for those who wander the scales of the madness of obscurity and reality, is an extant law for which to abide in fear and loyalty. The definitions of this book of rules are as follows.
1. Ten people on top of the steeple without any faces or names.
The ten people are the secret benefactors who are the roots of our abstracted reality. Whom of which, are the characters of our story, although being of veritable obscurity. The steeple is the representation of religion or belief, which has significance to the story. These people are without faces and names because we are never to know their actual identity.
2. They can be anyone, anywhere at anytime.
Amidst the halls of the sanitarium, we so often find ourselves, or the maze of the world, we so often roam, are the agents of our reality. These agents take the form, often times as demons or angels, devils or gods. They can also take the form of persons of the government, fictional or real, and of the conspiracy, which we are at its central focus, i.e. experiments, mind control, or a religious war in which we are at its center, etc. This is often the root of the paranoia, which is both powerful and baffling
3. Never look them in the face.
The characters of our stories are the voices in our ears, the hallucinations of our thoughts, and the faces haunting our dreams, and building our stories. Sadly, they are the people atop the steeple, therefore you can never look them in the face.
4. And never let anyone know what you know about how this works.
If anyone were to find out about these people, or the conspiracy in general, it could be damaging. For it is the great secret, which none are to know about. And on a practical level, we end up in places like sanitariums, and mental wards, if we talk about these things.
5. Always answer the riddles in questions, or merely cut your arm open, this redirects the pain.
The voices are often times filled with wonder, prophecy, and confusion. And often times they are direct attacks, agonizing, and tormenting. In order to solve our problem we look to the ten people and the voices for answers. The problem is that their storybook is a riddle we cannot decipher, thus we answer them with questions, looking to them to solve the puzzle. And when this does not work, we are known to physically torment ourselves at times. This redirects the pain and confusion of the problem.
6. You can only speak to them if no one is present.
This rule usually only applies to the more sophisticated of mad people, who are often times the more lost, imbedded deeply in madness. These people know that if they speak to a voice, which only they can hear, while other people are present, then they would probably think quite oddly of them. Hence the rule of speaking to the voices, or whomever, is in order of being discrete.
7. Never call 911.
When the shit hits the fan – which for people in a state of lunacy this happens quite often, and hell creeps into the mind with eyes of blood, an iron rod, and silhouettes walk in the shadows as beasts screaming for the agony of the diseased – an operator on the other end of the phone can do nothing, often times the operator may call for an ambulance, then you end up in a sanitarium. This is not acceptable.
8. And remember you are of key importance, and no one can know of your involvement.
Without regard to where one might find himself or herself, wandering about in a puzzle of their creation, and the labyrinth of their confusion, there is a grand reason for what they are doing there. Everything from what is spoken of, to the people involved with the conspiracy, experiment, etc. is a network of grand illusion, and a chessboard nightmare of grand delusion. And it is a secret of deep importance, as often times we ourselves do not even know the story in its entirety.
9. Above all, remember that we are watching.
This is a major key of importance to the secret, and madness alike. Wherever one may go, too there one may find themselves. There is no escape from this. In the Tibetan sense, this is a statement of bondage to be transcended, to persons who have gone mad, this is the bondage to their nightmare. We, the keepers of madness, live in this nightmare, and they riddle our minds with their ability to watch our progress in the story, little do we really understand that it is we who are watching ourselves, and are exacting our stories, which is our agonizing torture, and blissful ecstasy.
4
For a person to wander into this nightmare of fantasy and dreams, the extant reality is to change this reality. To change reality at will is a dangerous endeavor, for in the constants of this change, it is easy to lose control, and find it taking control of our minds. The dream becomes itself, and is manifest in our reality, hence, now things are what they seem, no this is no bad dream. A bridge is constructed from the real world to the dream world, and there is no deciphering one from the other. In a sense, this is how madness begins to form.
The endeavor to escape reality, often times is based on the pondering of a profound question. What is reality? With the confusion based on the answer to this question, often times a person builds their own answers, they will build their own reality, conform to their own laws, and fight in vain and despair to protect their dream. This human condition is sad when it becomes more than the endeavor of reality, and becomes the wrench of madness. We become lost, and our pseudo-reality is reality, the seed is planted, and the nightmare begins.
In the beginning it is mere confusion, and it builds as the plots begin, as we are the central focus of our imagined story. Within this confusion, we find ourselves hopelessly lost, though we haven’t any idea at this point that we are lost. It could be said that this is the point of no return. And having no idea that we have created the dream, a pseudo-reality, we wander deeper and deeper through the dark passageways of madness. Likened to Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, we venture to a land of strange proportions, a land of inverted characters, and even jugglers and entertainers and laughter.
The hopelessness is in the case of this world becoming more tolerable than reality, for whatever reason once a person has tumbled to the heart of a self-proclaimed reality, it seems to hold more merit and realism than the reality we ventured away from. In becomes, in a word, real. The laws and rules of society no longer apply, we now have a new set of rules, and we are the monarchs of this domain, our domain, and our reality.
5
I shall now tell a tale of a poetic fashion, in that it shall strike the note of obscurity, oblivion, and the light therein. It is of a tale as such that will illustrate the mechanics of the mind, which has gone mad. And it follows as such.
There was a beautiful scent, almost a vibratory smell which drew its prey to the abodes of its fleeting life. Pondering upon, and inquiring into its essence I heard a peculiar sound, that of grief and anguish. Looking within this peculiarity, I noted that it was a dying rose blossom. As if listening to a choir of angels, the words it spoke were of an undying nature. Belittling in curiosity I rested awhile beside this rose and listened to its song.
The passages were those of beauty and mystery, utmost kindness and loyalty to the abodes of the direction of the winds of life, its course and reality. I listened carefully, for nothing could be missed.
That was some time ago, ages passed which barred no time. The messages were clearly an invitation, one accepted on the promise of keeping to the guidelines of a world indescribable. A place were the walls of every walkway were inverted, and the ceilings were in actuality the floor.
I remember dearly and fondly, walking through these walkways in torment and fear. As walking slowly through a pool of blood covering the wooden legs plaguing my disease, for I had taken a hatchet to them in hopes of stagnating the evolution to the following rooms in which I needed dearly to find.
The windows as I recall were beautiful stained glass pictorial renditions of my oncoming demise, stained with the pigmentation of my own blood. As it often occurred that it was the head of my thinking capacities were to explode in beautiful musical orchestration, as tiny shards of glass, which were stained in my blood, were the creating factors of these windows. I found myself though peering through these windows waiting for the glimpse of that rose, to explain the wonders of this land of obscurity, though it was that it never appeared.
It was indeed a sad evening when I happened upon a window unstained, though as like a black glass, the rose appeared in its state of bliss and triumph, for it had been dead quite some time. And it occurred to me, that it was that which brought me to this place, and it was dead, and I was lost with no guide. In that it had given birth to my perception, I had given it birth to its death, its end, and left with nothing to answer the questions of this reality. Nothing that is, except the reflections in the blood stained glass windows.
It happened upon the glassy midnight hour, called that of green, I peered before my bewildered eyes upon a stained glass door. This was unlike any door I’d happened upon before, for the scent of the stale crimson blood was that of a rose, thereupon the midnight black emblem of a name familiar somehow, ‘twas a name of a man, which perhaps I’d known before, or not. This door had no knob, and no lock, and very much so did I feel the pounding pulse of my heart feeding the life emblem of this door. And upon uttering the name etched thereupon, it opened as like the floodgates of lightning deprived of ejaculation for aeons.
Could this be the room, I pondered so many nights in delightful fear upon, and it was so, that it was. I could hear the reverberation of my thoughts echoing, as does a deaf bat on its own mind, throughout this room. It was dark, save only a white candle with a strange illuminesent red light, painting the walls with its madness.
Sitting quite still in a wooden chair, stained in the dew of the morning sun, was the etching of an old man, pale skin with a touch of sun spots, with hair and beard it seemed once pale white, now stained in blood. This man motioned me closer, that he might answer the question plaguing and infesting my thoughts as a disease working its way to the in door from the outside. Perhaps this was an old man of wisdom from the ages of the dawn of the first sun, and perhaps he was only a fool amused by jugglers, and even still, perhaps these two personas are the oxymoron of one and the same.
To the left and the right of him, respectively were two articles as aged as time, being that of a rustic looking black book, and a wooden bowl, molded by food gone rotten, with a simplistic silver spoon. I was reminded, in quite an uncanny fashion, of a song I’d once heard, the words being something of the manner as such, ”nothing on the top, but a bucket and a mop, and an illustrated book about birds, see a lot up there but don’t be scared, ‘cause who needs action when you’ve got words.”
And he spoke, ”the title of his sun, breathe as he said, inquiries thus done, off with his head.” Inasmuch, quite so in a confounded manner, as my heart nearly quieted itself, and my lungs nearly forgot how to breathe, I asked, “yes my head is gone, though how is it you know and speak of such things, perhaps thy know of the rose, which bled its life to build this madness?”
And he spoke, “your thought does allude as does a kings, from the corpus of the rose, which is through, I give you these articles, from which comes many things, you nor I exist, and I know this, for I am you.” Inasmuch as a circus of a comic enlightenment, which perhaps the clowns were clothed in monks robes, and surrounded in music which spilled like blood into a glass of water, I proclaimed. “It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here, and I must oblige to you for making it clear that I’m not here. And I never knew the moon could be so big, and I never knew the moon could be so blue, and I’m grateful that you threw away my old shoes, and brought me here instead, dressed in red.”
6
This was merely a poetic rendition of a condition, which fills the mind with surrealistic dream states that have no end. Once crossing the line, into a land of the mind where all becomes obscured through reality, there is no return.
A person of this condition can look at black and see white, it’s rather as much a blessing as it is a curse. One can decipher the impossible, though is quite much so in danger of losing their mind. The danger in this is that, one can piece together a puzzle, which does not even exist. And upon gazing into the picture, one can find the meaning of it all, the question remains though of its realism. Even if it happens to be some actual obscure reality, one can literally go mad in their findings, and completely lose themselves.
Walking through the door to such a distant reality, is a one way trip. Perception of all that exists is tainted in the residue of a place that is painted in blood. “And the tearing open of the demons chest yields the power to attain the illumination of gazing into the abyss of splendor and madness, finding that it is the abyss which is gazing into you.”
This is the thin line, truly, between genius and insanity. There is an endless spectrum of the kinds of maddened hells and heavens one may find him or herself in. I can tell you that my own story took me to the edge of reality, where heaven was composed of the barking dogs of hell, black in their nightshade red dripping blood from the mouth of God, protecting His throne, and watching me paint the walls in my little room with blood, and tears…
…”How did I appear in such a state… black and white, beautiful squares they are. Who does that blood belong to… why is my hair wet? Hell? Yes… perhaps. Why? No… such is a forbidden question. The pictures on the wall… pictorial images… this is the life, which I ponder? Yes… but whose life? Mine? Yes… perhaps. And perhaps it is only a dream you have had, or even perhaps are having. Why? You know the answer… ‘tis a forbidden question. Because I made it so? Yes… perhaps. You have created this dream… nightmare. A moment please. Yes. You or me? Fuck if I know…”
Confused? Welcome to wonderland.
Chapter II
Is there an quaint statement to state, in finding a silver dollar, at a beggars rate, found only yellow candles, and a silver spoon, upon the staircase, a dying yellow rose, and a quarter moon. At depth the valley, two mountains aside, a rope bridge extends aflame, with laws to abide, volatile shell, a bridge over hell, the chosen never fell, waxing in the crescent reflection of the sun… well, it’s quite a spell.
1
In having found the staircase which leads so beautiful in terror and bliss, to the lunacy within the moon, the towers all crash down in red flashes of lightning across a sky now only midnight black; the sun lurking in the shadow of the forgotten realities of a place called earth.
This is the terrible form in bliss, which is bestowed upon the candidate who has wandered to the region of the darkest night and the brightest day. Upon reaching this state, one is known as “the Roman candle.” Nothing is as it seems, though it makes perfect sense, “In fear I shall laugh, and in laughter I shall fear.” As the Roman candle, the candidate has a twofold choice: to seek enlightenment in a land which is inverted: to become lost in the insanity. There is a third choice, although it is completely inevitable, regardless of whom it is one may be… and that choice shall be left for ones own contemplation.
What shall follow is of the state of absence, and illustrates the essence of an extant concept of the reality beyond reason, and how its inner clockwork is the reality beyond reason. For it is within the state of obscurity, where obscurity can be reasoned with. Inasmuch as what can be understood within a state of madness, makes little to no sense whatsoever in the absence of this madness.
Henceforth shall it be understood in that which follows, is that veritable reality beyond reason. These passages are written in such a fashion where little sense can be extracted, however one must ponder if any sense whatsoever can be extracted from a mind which has “gone south.”
2
In the house of reality, all things are relative, and in the house of reason, all things can be a reality. Like the cycle of life and death, the beginning and the end, reason justifies any given reality. If one believes it so, then so it is. Such is a formula handed to those who are cursed and blessed. Some can use such a formula for constructive endeavors, others destructive endeavors; upon oneself or otherwise. This house of reality exists on the premise of “that which is real” and as stated, such is relative. In one sense it is relative to that, which is not real, however to understand this one must define “real” or even more difficult, “reality.”
From the standpoint of obscurity, being a state of insanity, reality is a faraway dream, and from the standpoint of reason, reality is as it is; no less, nothing more. Such is real, that which is. And by comprehending what is, one comprehends reality. The real mind fuck comes into suggestion in the question of “what is it that is comprehending?”
I shall begin with obscurity; that which is beyond the scope of “conventional reason”, though not beyond the scope of a natural reason. For in a state of obscurity one can reason with obscurity, to some degree through natural reason. Outside of this state, “conventional reason” can only speculate. Natural reason being that, which rationality of being, and the essence of a feeling may communicate to ones nature. “Conventional reason,” being the textbook definitions given to those learned in the state of an “accepted” state of realism.
Obscurity knows obscurity, and its rationales are the laws given within its being, or essence. Hence within a state of total and complete madness, that which is being perceived is real, and conventional theories on that which is real mean nothing in such a state. Obscurity knows obscurity, thus reasoning with or comprehending obscurity can only be done so through obscurity; such is quite the same formula in comprehending reality, with a few amendments.
This brings us to the question of “what is it that is comprehending?” In the realm of the mind, which lives inside of itself, inquiring into the mechanics of such a question is a perilous endeavor. Perhaps the Zen of this question would lead one on the path of enlightenment, however for the madman it is the question that only leads one deeper into the rabbit hole. This question shall be dealt with throughout this chapter, suffice for the moment; that which is comprehending is that which is comprehending.
3
The point being pointed at here is the ever-burning fire of riddles and rhymes, puzzles of the mind. The many puzzles will most assuredly be different depending on the person. However the underlying factor remains, ‘tis the questions that have no answer which brings one to the footsteps of lunacy, and it is the questions that fill every cup of tea, keeping one there.
The tale of the dying rose blossom illustrates the story of someone with an undying question, burning within, the illuminating lamp that guides this person through the dark tunnels of their corroded mind. A question based on a story with answers pertaining to the story itself, nothing is their, which I can ponder being more complex than answering a question that does not exist, except perhaps where the answer will lead one.
In such a state a person can wander lands and palaces of extreme proportions, a wondrous state of oblivion where dandy lions sprout and dance around kings and queens to chase off the sun. The silver moon luminescent fires spring forth to offer you a dance, ‘tis the chance of a lifetime as you meld into the song, ring around roses now placed around your finger, as the sunlit sparks are born within, now they light the way, and the rivers cease to believe in broken dreams of distant realities.
Frater Occultum Spiritus
occultum_spiritus@lycos.com
