Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Evidence - Out of the Corner of My Eye

Here I am talking to you, excited and delighted, yet never do I forget for one moment there is an unfinished story waiting for me indoors.  I see a cloud shaped like a grand piano.  I think: I must mention in a story somewhere that a cloud went by shaped like a grand piano.  I smell heliotrope.  I say to myself: sickly smell, mourning shade, must be mentioned in describing a summer evening.  I lie in wait for each phrase, for each work that falls from my lips or yours and hasten to lock all these words and phrases away in my literary storeroom.  They may come in handy one day.

Trigorin, The Seagull, Anton Chekhov

We see faces in everything - in clouds, in rocks, in trees, in buildings.  We have evolved to see faces in things: those of us who could made out the leopard amongst the leaves; those of us who couldn’t didn’t make it this far. We see faces and we see spirits.  More rigorous occultists will dismiss such inanities as Jesus in a Taco, yet those self-same occultists might congratulate themselves on conjuring to full appearance when they see a face in the smoke of their incense?  To what extent should we use pareidolia to dismiss or justify esoteric experiences; how do we determine when seeing a face constitutes evidence of a spirit?

There’s an exercise bike in my bedroom that has curved handlebars that look exactly like the horns of some baleful demon when seen from the corner of my eye.  I should move it, why haven’t I moved it, why do I let it linger and haunt my dreams?!  Sometimes I move my head, or blink and catch some sign of movement and turning closely to examine I see that it is only some reflection on the floor or door that moves when I move my neck – optics and not spirits at work, I reassure myself.  Sometimes the juxtaposition of objects in 3d space reveals a haunting image when glanced at as 2d and my mind is more than capable of filling in for a presence as well, if the space lacked one of its own.

A long time ago, in an English village far away, I found myself in a freezing haunted attic staring at the bloody imprint of a face in the wall.  The house was haunted, legend had it that the master had raped and murdered a maid in the attic, and, so it goes, this face-like red-brown smudge on the wall was evidence of his/her presence.  True, people had tried to paint over the smudge several times, but the face always returned – insidious damp or vengeful spirit?  Not one to be wary of such things in those days I attempted a banishing (of sorts) with my friends.  We played the Beatles to the spirit and beamed limitless love and forgiveness into it, then wished it farewell with a rousing chorus of Strawberry Fields Forever.  The face faded, over a few weeks, but it did fade.  Successful banishing or the meeting of hearsay, hysteria, early winter, pareidolia and mould cycles?

In spite of these doubts and concerns I am not ‘’debunking’’ this form of manifestation, I am attempting to review evidence of spirits like this in order to explore the temporal entanglement model.  Spirit work generates all kinds of associated phenomena that we will review and at times pareidolia is a legitimate form/recognition of interaction.  Sure, I can randomly see a dragon in the clouds, light streaming through it, but I can also see a dragon in the clouds after summoning a draconian entity.  Coincidence, forcing myself to see something that isn’t there, or genuine manifestation?  Or, conversely, was that random dragon all that random in the first place?  Was a draconian entity, somewhen, summoning me?

I have a feeling that one of the effects of temporal entanglement is the imprint of one time on another time and these imprints show up in the arrangement of things.  For instance lets suppose an impressively head dressed magician conjures me from somewhere in the past – they may remote view my room from there (and it would seem alien), they may rifle through my mind learning things that they couldn’t have known, the future for example, and my dream self, my cloud self could send them back all kinds of visions, communications that little [dog name ego] me is blissfully unaware of and all I may see on this end of the temporal spectrum, evidence of his imprint, is that demonic exercise bike – just taunting me.  

Beyond life, there are – his face grew ashen with terror - things that I cannot distinguish.  They move slowly through angles.  They have no bodies and they move slowly through outrageous angles… God they are breaking through!  They are breaking through!  Smoke is pouring in from the corners of the wall.  Their tongues… - ahhh!

The Hounds of Tindalos, Frank Belknap Long

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