Phlogistic & Other Silly Fancies

Upon digging into the ethereal realm. A good strong iron shovel at hand. Spiritually penetrating our inner selves. Breaking the pots of our never ending narcissistic enlargement. Descending down & down into the inferior regions of our outward life, down under all corporal imaging or personal or collective phantasmagoria. The more we dig, the deeper the great gap or chasm we make, ripping into the curtain show of this world’s outside worries. Still, on the public square in the middle of town the kids are doing kids’ things.

Electricity is only a spectral indication of a lower energetic form, combusted. Combusting. A reactionary chemical propriety of what we would call the sign of living matter. The energetic consequence of the intimate intermolecular correlation of thriving individual animated things. Whether little or big.

Eliphas Lévi thought it the Universal Agent of all things. The Universal Mercury. The Anima Mundi. The Mercurii Mundi. Paracelse’s AZOTH.

Little do people know that there is neither an electrical form of anything nor substantial electrical entity, we could posit as absolutely existentially real or necessary. That would give birth to anything. Tesla knew this. But so did the many, & I mean many Alchemists of Antiquity. Let alone propose this shadow element of Nature as a cause of anything. It would be like saying when a guy & gal fuck, it’s their shadows on the walls of their bedroom made them do that. Made it happen.

The Sadhus say rub the wood! You need 2 to make a baby. But did the baby make them do it? In masturbation there can only be Golems & Homunculi. Creatures without any individual sentient life vitality! It’s the living soul makes what we call existence, come into apparent being on this world’s illusory heart rending stage.

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Where ever we go, where ever we chance to engage something. There is a golden substantial non undulatory essence, vibrates between all things as well as within our very physical being. In all the outside decorum we would call reality. Real. A pocket of AIR. The Void in the SEED.

But no thing, whatever it be, can stand upon itself. Without another standing next to it. In any case outside in the court yard, where the grass sometimes grows, when there’s enough humidity. Yet it’s certainly not the electrical tendrils between these entities of all kinds, that communicates to them the least amount of life. These electrical manifestations are but due to the loss of the life force itself of things.

The Ancients; or at least those ancients who were not as stupid as the ancients of their time, nor as we are today, called this the Fountain of Youth. The Fountain of Life, Fons Vitae. The Tree of Life which IS IN PARADISE.

It is Life’s foundation. Though invisible. Surrounds us constantly, without remiss. God’s Angel, the Higher Self overshadowing the ephemeral well being of each hair, if you still have some, on your body. The Protector of the Innocent. The Vital Juice of all organisms. You have it. I have it. But how strange, to what extant we ignore or belittle it.

From this inconsequential inexistant primordial dynamic state of affairs the alchemists of the 16th & 17th centuries made their metallic gold. More especially the Philosopher’s MINERAL Stone. This is how God makes metallic gold. Even today. From a higher density of enormous weight from up above, inside the more subtle spheres of creation, the alchemist could & can attract from within the air we breathe, all around at certain times of the day, certain moments in the year, the Sun’s ethereal Gold. All they needed was the inner eye for seeing, the crucible and the bird’s cage for keeping.

Mind you. You do have to know how to make a vulgar fire. A furnace. A chimney place. And have a little daring!

In Nature nothing is for free. Let alone ENERGY. We kill to eat and drink. Nevertheless, in Paradise, on a higher plane of being, the higher self can fetch what it needs, without depriving another of its life. I call this Phlogistic.

True, we have a fanciful way of seeing this world. Others beseech us to disappear. Still others wish we were just dead. Better yet, it is best to be ignored. The Muslims say, the angels come to those who are in a room without pictures. This is why in Islam in olden times they had no paintings of any living creature not even of their own children, on their walls. The angels of the ethereal world are the subtle life sustenance that we inhale without knowing and understanding. We do not appreciate what goes in and out of our nostrils.

The Philosopher’s Gold is deep inside. It is not electrical. But evanescent. Intangible. Without wires & has inexistant invisible waves. Like a Nightingale in the treasure trove. Singing his merry way away. The maddening crowd a hustling downtown. Weary and unawares. The life of them throbbing in the Ether. In their actual being. In the being who they are. All the rest is dross. A compost for my girl friend’s flowers in the garden.

(All of which has been said up above, is not to be taken seriously. The reader is entitled to his own fancy making. And not to be taken any more seriously, either. Dear reader, adieu.)