Inner silence works from the moment you begin to accrue it. The desired result is what the old sorcerers called stopping the world, the moment when everything around us ceases to be what it's been.

It is this moment when wo/man, the slave, becomes wo/man, the free being; capable of feats of perception that defy our linear imagination.

The Active Side Of Infinity, Carlos Castaneda

 

 

There are many flavors of inner Silence.

Only one gets you past the Eagle, which not an eagle at all, but a kind of singing FireBird that eats Snakes.

This 'songFireBird' basically 'parses' your cognitive nature, or the shape of your shell.

If you're food-shaped, you're 'eaten' - but this eating is not the destruction of your natures and being, but rather, the re-particulation of your wholeNess. This re-particulation means simply this; you're re-woven backward and forward in time/space/location...as seed-particles for future uniqueness, complexity, and diversity.

This could easily be called 'entering the kingdom of heaven and becomming One with God'.

The Eagle has the natures of the Trinity, and its characters, preserved and elaborated within it - in fact, all beings do, in cognitive form as well as physical.

So, in a very real sense, the worst thing that can happen to most of what you are at the moment of what we call death, is admission to paradise.

But the lands beyond the Eagle are vast. And more, they are our birthrights. They are, in a very real sense, the presents meant to be found under the tree at christmas; with the exception that they are not objects, but cognitive aspects of our own structure in relation to our sources.

The mysteries of the Naguals were codified and secretive becuase they lived in times of danger and competition.

But they keys they used? These keys are used by human children all over the world, all day long.

Every Day. Animals and plants are made of these keys. They are, in fact, so obvious, that only a person with a working visual system could miss them.

The truth is this: when the blind lead the blind, in scalar co-operation, they arrive at their destination before the sighted have gotten their shoes on.

This is the real gift of the Nagual. And of the indiginous dreamPeoples of the world.

It is a gift alike with its sources - which means - the whole system elaborates and changes character - according to the needs of the times, and the beings who are soft enough to take the occasional punishemnts doled out by the path without shattering.

At the end, it always turns out those punishments were flowers. If we can see this en-route...blind beings...begin leading blind beings, in scales, toward the goal of the nameless heroes - to save the unityBeing, and to free all prisoners... because, in the ordinary world which is never ordinary... there is only one being to imprison...

Living in Infinity, sevenLamb

 

This Dream came at a time of intense hope, and great dejection. The paths and goals of the Nagual were clearly beyond my person. I continued whining to the uniVerse to send the teacher
that I felt certain would confirm and awaken me. I felt a horrifying lonliness, and terror at the prospects that faced me in the Path, and was certain that I was a brilliant, if completely incapable
student. Whenever something that really implied alien-ness showed up in dreams (which is not that uncommon for me) I'd pretty much drop a load in my diaper and leap for the window. Meaning: I could only accept little pieces.

Little did I know that the teacher I sought was: A: Living in my bedroom as a kind of trapped angel. B: The owner of the hand I used to shave my own face once in a while. C: My futureSelf.

Knowing those things now, only makes one thing clear.

I will not rest until all of the prisoners, are free - and until all of them have their birthrights returned. There simply is no other path with heart. After all, the maiHeart is really everywhere/when at once, and since all forms partake...the hearts inPrisoned can only belong...to me...and...my gentle readers... This text is transpsygenic. It's also free of copyrights. It probably won't change rapidly like most of the material on this site, because it is a dreambook that is stable. This is called, a key.

-whiteRabbit

 

Last known Edit: December 29, 1996, could be date of origin, or not..uncertain.

Recorded After an Unusual Dream

The Indians

The wooden fence surrounding the property could not be said to have invited inquiry. In fact, the fence gave the whole area into a hole, which caused it to be extremely difficult to notice. I think that the day I went in was simply the first time I had managed to see that the place existed. We often heard strange sounds, laughing and sobbing, or yelling in the late night, but were never able to determine their source. When I saw the fence I knew that there were crazy Mexicans inside, and that I was going to have to go in there and meet them and find out what was going on behind the fence.

The fence itself was made of what looked like roughhewn redwood bark. It was a hairy, rust-colored wood, and each slat was cut to a different height, but none of them were less than nine feet tall. It was not straight-the line of the fence meandered crazily along, it seemed to leap from the nowhere zone between my house and the neighbors' all of which were semi-Victorian flats. Clearly it never belonged there, and that, perhaps is part of what made it so nearly impossible to see, even though the face of the fence was at least a hundred yards long.

I went in alone, but knew that someone had come with me the moment I crossed the threshold of the large gate. It swung shut of its own accord, and I knew that I had crossed into something stranger than what I had first thought because I could see redwood trees all around, and the earth was hilly and uneven. Those trees couldn't be seen from outside, even over the tops of the fence.

"Muy Buenos," I said. "I'm practicing my Spanish."

I realized that I had just said 'Very Good' and I hoped that nobody would actually attempt to communicate with me in Spanish. On the ground and a couple of nearby stumps, with certainly a few of them hidden from view, there sat perhaps eight apparently Mexican men, of varying ages and in various stages of dirtiness. I was being scrutinized. There was a general air of dirtiness about the place, like you'd find in a refugee camp. Garbage was strewn haphazardly around the forest floor. Beer cans and tissue paper and such. The men seemed unwashed and scruffy, though there was an air of friendliness about them, but it was a trickster vein, the kind where you were never certain that they were not simply playing an elaborate joke upon a naive young gringo.

One of the men was laughing. "Muy Buenos" he repeated. His teeth were a mixture of bright white and dull yellow and his face was wrinkling with the laughter, His skin was very deep red, almost brown, and very weathered. He just kept laughing. All of the others were looking at me, mostly with expressionless faces, except for the oldest one, who must have been about seventy; his gaze seemed slightly expectant, as though he was waiting to see what I would do next.

"Practicing his Spanish." repeated the laughing one. "Who are you, one of our neighbors?" He asked, still chuckling. His accent was fairly severe, but not entirely placeable, I wasn't familiar with the area from which it came. "You're not Mexicans, are you?" I asked. He laughed some more as he rose to his feet. He made a sweeping gesture with his hands, which seemed to encompass the whole area within the fence. I could see that it went on to an unknown distance. At the edges of my vision there was a thick fog so that the area just faded away.

"No," he said, "We're not Mexicans. Come over here - we'll show you around the place! Do you know where you are?"

I realized that I did not. It was clear that where I had previously thought I was going was not where I had arrived. I didn't say anything, but I actually felt fairly well, I felt that I was pretty safe, that this man and the oldest one would protect me and my invisible companion from any real harm. As I approached him, the others got up from their sitting places and gathered around me. We set off on a small trail that led off in a variety of directions. We moved along it to my right, with the laughing man leading and the old man closest behind me. The rest followed along in a rag tag way, sometimes mumbling amongst themselves in what sounded like Spanish sometimes, and like something completely different at other times.

"We've been living here for a long time now, ever since we came to the United States, but we don't get very many visitors. You must have seen the gate out front, huh?"

I nodded. "You're Indians, aren't you, from Central America?"

He laughed again "Good Guess! Yes, you're right, we're Indians."

I heard a question in my head and asked it before I had thought about it at all: "Are you Mazatec Indians?"

Now the old man was looking at me very closely. I felt his breath on my cheek. He seemed to be looking into me, and some of the other men had stopped following us for a moment, as though re-assessing something. The laughing man was silent and he turned to me. "That was not a guess, my little gringo neighbor, how did you know?" We all stopped. His tone wasn't threatening, though it certainly could have been. I knew that I was as out of my element as I might have been if I were underwater, but something in me had come unhinged so that I could not interpret the stimuli as menacing, only as fascinating, like the way a child who has never been injured might interpret and encounter with a playful dog twice his size.

"I didn't really know it just seemed like the right thing to ask, I'm not sure what happened to me" were the words that came out of my mouth. We continued walking. The terrain remained basically unchanged-redwood forest, a layer of redwood dust everywhere, covering a fairly thick layer of fallen detritus from the trees. Here and there a bush or other small plant, and a trail moving unremarkably through it.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked, thinking we were in America.

"How do you know where you are?" countered the old man, his voice surprisingly youthful-sounding.

"I don't," I said, realizing it again, "but I mean, how did you get here."

The laughing man's face straightened noticeably as he began to recount the story of their journey.

"Between our homeland and this place there is a river of fire" as he spoke I felt a strange sensation; it was as though there were a fiery fish swimming very quickly in circles in my belly. I was there, then. I could see the river of fire, it sloped unnaturally downward at a ridiculous angle. I was watching them from their right side as they, in a white boat that looked like a bathtub, tried frantically to negotiate the rushing, flaming waters. "Gandfather guided us here in the white boat, over the river of fire." Because I could still see them in the boat I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man was telling the truth.

"Though the journey lasted for three years it was completed in a few moments. We lost two of our companions. One we could not recover, and the other is buried here" he pointed to a patch of ground that had been cleared of branches and was simply damp earth.

His gesture indicated a small semi-circular mound, a half-oval rising up perhaps an inch from the dirt. About four inches wide in the middle and tapering to points at either end. It bowed away from me, off to our right. The moment that I saw it an uncontrollable urge gripped me and I knelt near the grave and began sobbing until I was nearly incoherent with mourning.

I could not understand what was happening to me, but there was no time in which to make the attempt because the emotion was overwhelming. I wept and wept and prayed for the soul of the departed one, whom I knew to be much like the other young men who surrounded us. Finally we were done there. We went on around a couple of turns in the path until we came to an area where two medium-sized shacks had been constructed out of sheet metal.

"This is him, the one who was lost and is buried there, where you knelt a moment ago." As we came near to the first shack, I could see that the door was ajar and inside, on the left, there was a statue of a young Mexican Indian man. He was naked, but bathed in a reddish glow, as was the inside of the shack. It looked as though a rusty liquid had been spilled upon him from above, and his skin was stained from it. We moved on. As I peered into the next shack I could see the same color scheme, the reddish glow-while on the left there was a young white woman wearing some black leather straps in the manner of popular sado-masochists. Most of her body was naked as well. She was fairly attractive and stood very still. On the other side, the right side, there was a tall, fairly thin young white man who was playing a long guitar and looking very cool, except that he was naked. I realized that the girl was watching him. Neither of them were moving, really, although I could sense that they weren't simply statues.

For a reason unknown to me I did not feel any desire to ask about the two people in the second shack. Soon we were past it, though, and another question rose: "Have your people been taking auyehuesca?" The laughing man smiled broadly, and I heard him inside my head: "Yes, last night, you just missed it."

"Do you think that Grandfather would teach me?"

The large man raised an eyebrow. "Who could say? You should ask him yourself."

I noticed that the oldest Indian was not around and I ran back along the trail until I caught up with him.

"Grandfather", I managed to speak reverently but without fear.

He turned and looked at me with eyes like dead stone. But he was paying attention.

"I was hoping...I wanted to ask you...will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"About the earth. I want to know about the earth and the plants and the animals. Can you teach me about them?"

He nodded.

(end of record ­ uncertain if I awoke or stopped writing here at this late date)