Posthumous Journal – 5

February 11, 2007 at 5:55 pm (Ghost River)

John Hayes

 February 11th

What is the single element that brings all the other elements to life? That is what the philosophers seek. That which is most common and most used, yet seldom noticed.

We have lived our whole lives in ignorance and fear, but also in hope. That hope is our freedom. Perhaps we do not hope for much, perhaps we hope for a lot. That hope is our way out.

Within the physical body is a luminous body. When the four elements dissolve, the light remains. Freedom is in the light.

We enter the theatre
In darkness
Stumbling into a movie
With no beginning
And no sure end
We stroll along the river
And watch the clouds drift
Across an endless Sunday afternoon
We buy a book
And gaze between the letters
Reminiscing about different textures of light
Moving our fingers gently
Across the furrowed crevices
Of inaudible currents
Once everything comes to rest
It’s easy to see what creates
And what dissolves
But until then
We must suffer the weight
And temper of images
Bear their rudeness
Flatter their vanities
Assuage their fears
Until they all drown
In the perfect sleep of Spring

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Posthumous Journal – 4

February 6, 2007 at 6:41 am (Ghost River)

John Hayes

January 12th 

“When the blood stiffens
When your body turns cold
Then the flowers open
And the trees spread their branches
And you
Who were their fate
Enter the sky
Where everything is white.”

                             Edmond Jabe

There is something curious about randomness. The randomness is decidedly intelligent. If you look for patterns you won’t see them, but in the non-linearity of phenomena, in its not having a pattern, something is happening.  Very mysterious, very capricious, very free.

The gap is widening . Whole parts of the world are breaking off into their own time space fields. This world is literally falling apart –town by town, city by city, state by state falling apart seamlessly into the ocean of night.

We are here and now we are gone. To live is to become invisible, to become invisible is to live.

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Posthumous Journal – 3

February 2, 2007 at 5:07 pm (Ghost River)

John Hayes

 November 17th

“One who is afraid of time becomes the prey of time. But time itself becomes the prey of that one who is not afraid of it.”

Sometimes the roar of the ocean is so strong you can’t hear yourself think. Everywhere you look there is a single sea. Nothing is inanimate.

Even the dead planets are aware, have in fact a very fine and pure awareness whose sphere of influence flows through us constantly.

At some point the text becomes obscure and the chapters that were never that clearly marked to begin with become lost in each other. Characters appear from nowhere and then are abandoned. The spontaneously random plot disappears entirely, and then, just then you look up as the sun fills the empty sky, and ask: when were we ever not spirits?

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Posthumous Journal – 2

February 1, 2007 at 11:18 am (Ghost River)

John Hayes

October 20th

For you
There is only one direction
To go -North

The dim yellow lamp
Glows faintly
Over the thick carpet
A soft fire burns into embers
Sitting on a sofa
With a glass of white wine
You ask, why?

She cannot respond
In the dark of recesses
Of private libraries
Hidden in the cracked leather binding
Of unread manuscripts
There might be an answer
Or there might not

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Posthumous Journal – 1

January 30, 2007 at 6:50 pm (Ghost River)

John Hayes

October 16, 2006

fragments of memory
dreams and the light of fires
golden fabric
the sound of the ocean

Today I died.

It is difficult to describe where I am. In the diffuse fog of space differences are blurred and desires muted. The oddest part is that I am still here.

Not all in one piece – just in fragments of images and voice. One following another. Nothing connected to anything else. There isn’t any cause and effect at all. When I join fragments, it is just another fragment.

I am floating through something. I am not sure what. It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. But that is not too different then what was before, is it?

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Ghost River – Postscript

November 2, 2006 at 8:16 pm (Ghost River)

As a longtime friend of John Hayes who has followed his work with some interest over the years, I feel now is probably as good a time as any to pick up a few of the pieces he never quite came to grips with in his narrative.

With the help of Lynn Alexander, I have been going through both John’s papers and those of his grandfather, William Hayes. There is still much to be accounted for, but I feel we are getting closer to realizing some closure on this matter.

To put it in vaguely chronological order:

Professor William Hayes moved to Stranger Creek in 1924, and assumed the Departmental Chair in Metaphysics at Linden College. That same year his daughter Caroline was born, the mother of John Hayes. His first few years in Stranger were happy and uneventful, but in the 1927 the infamous ‘rip in the fabric’ occurred. Exactly how this happened is still not clear. Evidence points to certain events during WWI and its aftermath that may be responsible, but the effect was that certain forces hitherto kept at bay, were allowed to penetrate our world, forces of a decidedly unwholesome nature. By the early 1930’s these forces had concentrated their energies sufficiently to affect global affairs in a profoundly threatening way.

Hayes and several other senior members of the Omaha Theosophical Society, realized not only what had occurred but the potential severity of matters if they were not properly addressed. He was directed to create a special Lodge that would begin to attempt a remedy, by no means an easy or assured proposition. Eventually he would create a cadre of a dozen members who began various occult experiments, not all of which were successful.

By 1939, both the Lodge and the larger Theosophical Society had collapsed, but Hayes and three of his more stalwart fellow experimenters achieved a notable breakthrough. Although they were unable to halt the growing intensity of archonic manifestation, they discovered a method to shift parts of the physical world to another dimension, in essence to quarantine the invasive elements.

This method involved creating an elaborate but alluring labyrinth, one that would divert daimonic attention long enough, for the shift to take place. With their eyes off the wheel, the direction of the karma could be changed. The final rite in a series of rites was set for February, 1941. Unfortunately, for reasons that are still not understood, the last rite failed, in fact, it failed rather badly.

All three of his colleagues disappeared entirely to places unknown, and Stranger Creek itself shifted out of this dimension, into a close but not contiguous space – like a door that becomes ajar and no longer opens or closes properly. By this slight shift of dimensionality, Stranger Creek vanished both in the memory and the maps of Kansas, hence the difficulty that has been reported, of trying to locate Stranger Creek physically.

This disaster broke Hayes completely. His wife and teenage daughter were away at the time, and after the shift had no way, or even thought of returning, to what was now apparently, nothing at all. The remaining citizens were, as you might imagine, not pleased, and the Town Council launched an investigation. This report I have not been able to find – it may be somewhere still in the Courthouse. William Hayes, died that Spring, by his own hand. The worst war in history soon followed.

A Council was formed to assess the situation and make recommendations. They eventually were able to find a way in which town residents could return to the world they left, which they called Kansas. Also, they realized that Kansans could also enter Stranger Creek. It was difficult, but on certain days, when the signs and stars were aligned, one could, by an exercise later called ‘seeing diagonally’, enter the town by following certain angles of oblique sunlight, and the spheres they created. One of these visitors, was John Hayes, William’s grandson, who accidently stumbled into Stranger Creek, one afternoon in 1954, when he was eight years old.

Over time it appeared that the experiments of William Hayes were not a total failure. This is something that we only recently realized. It appears now, that by his actions, the rip expanded, and conversely to expectations, this allowed a more diverse array of beings to enter into the world at large. This diversity allowed for an increased number of karmically possible outcomes, and for that reason was positive.

The rather large hole that now exists – something akin to the missing Ozone layer over the poles – is slated to close fairly soon – for reasons involving certain other forces that are hard to speak about. That date is said to be sometime in the fairly near future – possibly 2012. There is continual discussion in Stranger as to what will happen then. Possibly Stranger Creek will shift back into presence with the rest of Kansas, possibly Kansas will shift out of orbit and join Stranger Creek in its special space, or on the other hand, perhaps both dimensions will cease to appear, or appear somewhere else entirely. This is all still an open question. Of course, there are larger implications to all of this, considerably more disturbing than global warming, but being a small town, we naturally, are more interested in what might happen locally.

John Hayes bravely attempted to carry on his grandfather’s work, but it is not clear just what he accomplished. It appears he was seduced by a certain kind of luminosity that surrounds perimeters and edges. He also neglected I think to realize that the nature of a doorway is that it swings both ways. But this is just the near-term view – further away, things might look entirely different.

Fortunately, we have managed to close the opening John created. This will have some immediate consequences. Mr. Samdi, being on the other side of the door at the time, having gone back to retrieve certain ritual implements, will no longer be able to roam freely here in Stranger Creek. I know some of the students at the college will be disappointed, as he was gaining a popular and loyal following there.

The Council of Elders has put a moratorium on occult experimentation that will stay in effect through the remainder of 2006. New guidelines on properly methodology will be issued in the next few months.

Of course our town forum will once again need a new moderator. I am pleased to announce that Lynn Alexander will take over this task. As our librarian, she is one of our most wholesome citizens, and I’m sure her cheerful Stranger spirit will brighten our site.

I appreciate the patience of our residents and friends as we work through this latest series of events. Hopefully, with the coming holidays we can take our minds off our particular troubles, and celebrate the simple joys of life that are still available to us.


Dr. Douglas Oostenburg

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Ghost River – 13

October 24, 2006 at 4:35 pm (Ghost River)

She didn’t have to tell me who she was. I already knew. What surprised me was how much we knew about each other. Seeing her, I knew exactly who she was, and she knew exactly who I was. We knew everything about each other.

For her to appear only could mean one thing – that it was time to cross over for good. She pointed to the woods, and I understood I was to follow. I dropped my rake and we went up the hill together, past the meadow, to the thicket where the burial mounds are.

Where there had been two, now there were three. The third was new – the black soil was freshly turned. We walked to the edge and she pushed me in. I fell through the earth into darkness. I felt a complete sense of peace. Then the darkness lightened and I saw that I was somewhere else entirely.

We were standing on a large sandbank gazing out over the ocean. Soft waves rolled in against the shore. In the air above large white birds darted and soared. At the far edge of the ocean, rainbow light radiated from the horizon. We stood next to each other, and I felt incredibly happy, as if all the good fortune that had ever existed had just been given to me.

I looked up from the booth at the Anti-Temperance Tavern. Simone, the fierce, red-haired bartender who ruled over the realm of quiet intoxication was staring at me and shaking her head.

“My God. Just look at you.”

I stumbled home. I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. I was not the same. It had been a long time since I had been in the flesh.

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Ghost River – 12

October 23, 2006 at 4:38 pm (Ghost River)

There is a vast lore on the mystical significance of numbers. Like all theosophical investigators, my grandfather was fascinated by this. In his uncompleted and rather deeply unorthodox, A Treatise on Alchemical Magic, he begins to push the veil back a bit on this, but then stops. However, in his uncollected works I found some additional notes which suggest he was particularly enamored of the number nine.

In these notes there are frequent references to the ninth hour, the ninth room, to a castle with nine towers, to ‘nine brothers who rule nine different kinds of fire’, to the ‘nine daughters of dawn’, to ‘nine arrows of the spirit whose face is half red and half black’, to the ‘blacksmith and his nine sons who worship the horse headed god’, and to the nine ‘mirrors of creation’.

In Westcott’s 1892? edition of Numbers, Their Occult Significance and Mystical Virtues, a book still bearing the stamp of the Omaha Theosophical Society, we read, “the ennead, the first square of an odd number, is said to be like the ocean flowing around the other numbers…it is like the horizon because all numbers are bounded by nine”.

He notes, as have others, that whenever you multiply the number nine by any other number, the sum of the new numbers when added back to a single digit, will always produce nine again. Westcott refers back to a still more venerable work, John Heydon’s Holy Guide of 1662 which asserts that the number nine engraved on silver and carried about one renders the wearer invisible. He also recalls the roman festival of Novennalia, which was celebrated every ninth year, in memory of the dead.

So with all that in the back of my mind, why should I have been surprised when a young Indian girl appeared one morning while I was working in the garden, told me her name was Nava, her tribe the Dgulha, and that she was nine years old.

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Ghost River – 11

October 22, 2006 at 5:42 pm (Ghost River)

We have discovered in the papers of the late John Hayes, three final sketches, which we will share to complete his Ghost River narrative. This is the first.

Lynn Alexander

After the reappearance of my grandfather, I went back through his works, back through the alchemical treatises he had left, and back through those that I had gathered on my own. I searched out the obscure backwaters and dry wells of our town’s ample collection of obscure works on such matters, but to no avail. Nothing gave me a clue.

Each evening I would exhaust myself, but then every night about 4AM I would suddenly wake. I would try to remember what I had been dreaming but not a single image would come. One night, unable to fall back asleep, I went outside to the back porch and just stared out into the woods.

I saw something and started to follow it. The moon was almost full, and since I know the woods and path well, I don’t need a light to guide my way. I walked up the hill, past the meadow and down to where the burial mounds are. It was an exceptionally clear and quiet night – only the distant sound of the trains, and my own footsteps on the leaves broke the silence. I walked to where the dry streambed cuts a deep crevice and sat on the rocks and waited.

The deep peace of the night woods soothed my nerves. The cool, crisp autumn air wafted around me like a clear elixir. I sat there for an hour, maybe two, and then slowly walked back to the house and fell sleep. The next few nights as the moon stayed bright, and the weather mild, I continued these walks. Gradually I came to hear more –not just the surface sounds, but the different layers one doesn’t recognize at first. As the moon reached its peak, coyotes began howling and listening to their eerie cries which sound almost like laughter, I could imagine the doors of the underworld becoming ajar, but even that didn’t mar the deep clarity of the woods.

After a week, I stopped waking up at night and my walks ended. It is fine I thought, the dead do not want their mysteries penetrated. I was content with that. Then she appeared.

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October 20, 2006 at 11:24 am (Ghost River)

Welcome, I am Baron Samdi, the new chaplain, for Linden College. I will be helping guide things as we go along. My predecessor, Mr. Hayes, was a bit careless, but a most courageous explorer. I am personally very grateful for his efforts. What can I say? He was like a father to me.

As I grow accustomed to my new surroundings, I hope I can share something of my own with you. It is so wonderful – the fresh autumn air — don’t you think!

Where I come from we say: kill the philosopher, start the party. If you want to become intoxicated on words, you have to distill the spirits – otherwise you’ll never stay awake.

So go ahead relax, as we enter my favorite place, a land where the living and the dead almost touch each other.

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Death of John Hayes

October 19, 2006 at 11:18 am (Ghost River)

John Hayes, October 1, 1946October 18, 2006

I am very sorry to inform the readers and guests of Stranger Creek of the unexpected death of our narrator and town chronicler, John Hayes.

Information is sketchy, but according to his close friend Dr. Oostenburg, the body was discovered yesterday afternoon. Cause of death was not given. We have been told that the funeral will be on Saturday, followed by a wake. As is customary in Stranger Creek, we do not involve public officials in our town’s affairs, being a self-governing municipal unit, so there will be no autopsy or police report.

Dr. Oostenburg will be taking care of all final arrangements. He will be also going through the remaining papers of Mr. Hayes and will share any information that may be pertinent to interests of concerned citizens.

We are all quite stunned. John and his late wife were longtime residents of Stranger Creek. John contributed significantly to the town’s literary activities, was an active member of the Congregational Church, served on the Theosophical Museum Board and was a strong supporter of our local library.

I will be talking with community members soon. We are soliciting a new narrator to continue to share with you our town’s literary heritage.


Lynn Alexander
Stranger Creek Librarian

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Ghost River – 10

October 17, 2006 at 6:16 pm (Ghost River)


“The pious mind does not devise for itself, any kind of God, but looks alone to the one true God.”                                                                                –Calvin

I have been doing some research on the Kanza, as part of a larger study of Indian tribes that once lived here. I have become fascinated by their stories. My own farm, sits on land that was once theirs and contains several unexplored burial mounds, which I have left untouched out of ancestral respect. In my research, I found, that in some accounts, there are more than the 27 Kanza deities I mentioned earlier. For example, in Creuzfelder’s History of the Plains, he lists an additional six: the dry creek bed with white pebbles, the young woman with flowers, the man in light, the blue snake that sheds its skin, the tree shaped like a spiral, and the raven.

There are several stories of individuals, usually medicine elders, who have met the ‘man in light’. Some have met him before they came to this world, others, during a near experience of death, and still others, shortly before they themselves crossed over. He is a great man, one who appears in a special manner – not only all light himself, but surrounded by a light that allows one to see the thoughts and hearts of others.

My grandfather was also fascinated by lore of this sort, and in fact, refers to a ‘man in light’ in his Alchemical History. Since seeing my grandfather in the flesh so to speak, I have gone back to his work that I am editing, for clues as to what might constitute his reappearance. It appears that in 1941, which was sometime before I was born, the last experiment he conducted, the one that caused his disappearance – and his disappearance was total, unlike our townspeople – he was attempting to reach this ‘man in light’ to reverse some rather unfortunate events that occurred some years before. I had always assumed that his experiment had completely failed, but now I am not so sure.

For several weeks after the reappearance of my grandfather, Dr. Oostenburg and I have kept a close watch to see if anything else out of the ordinary has transpired. So far there has been nothing. Everything has been quite still. We did find a note in the pocket of my grandfather’s suit which I have been puzzling over,

The girl with the black hair will reveal the luminous orchids that grow inside the skulls of the newly forgotten dead. The wet gray moss will form a blanket you cannot remove. The black wood of fallen trees will stir the vessel as it rises from the Earth to form the canopy of your head. Her eyes are dark, her skin white. Slowly, she moves closer and it all becomes clear. The texts are true – it is the daughter you love, not the Father.

If the reader is able to make any sense of this, they will have done a greater work than Dr. Oostenburg and myself, who are at a complete loss. At the same time, I must admit, I am becoming a bit worried. I have gone back to staring at the Owl. There’s something he’s hiding – I’m sure of it. Something they all are hiding.

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Ghost River – 9

October 16, 2006 at 4:48 pm (Ghost River)


In my father’s house there are many rooms.

Late at night I got a call from Dr. Oostenburg. “You should come over to the Court.”  

When I said my late wife was buried, I’m afraid I was talking somewhat euphemistically. Actually, since 1941, no one who has passed on in Stranger has been buried.  We ‘preserve’ them so to speak, and since the Courthouse has been vacant, it has worked well for this purpose. We kept this rather quiet as you can imagine, as we would rather not draw attention to our somewhat unique local customs.

Arriving at the Courthouse, I found Dr. Oostenburg in an anxious state of mind. “Something’s not right. You better take a look.”  I went down with him into what we call the catacombs where the more silent residents of the town are kept.  I do not want to give the appearance of anything macabre – due to Dr. Ooostenburg’s good care, the residents look quite fresh, and he has done a good job of arranging them in lifelike positions. Women are always dressed in white and the men are given fashionable suits to wear.  

As soon as I reached the alcove where my good wife was resting, I could see what had caused Dr. Oostenburg’s concern.  We had dressed my wife in her bridal gown and given her a bouquet of flowers. We did not give her a groom – but somehow she had found one.

“I thought you would want to see this,” Dr. Oostenburg said, his voice still visibly shaken.

“My God,” I said, falling back against the wall, “That’s my grandfather!”

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Ghost River – 8

October 15, 2006 at 3:58 pm (Ghost River)


Bliss masks itself in the forms of emptiness

It is all noise, weather, traffic and the unexpected.

I do not think philosophy gives enough attention to the presence of the worlds intertwined with this one. You cannot count the number of worlds, and the facts of one world are not the facts of another. In one world numbers are infinite, in another they don’t exist at all. As you move toward one world it grows sharper, as you move toward another it grows dim. In one world everything is still at night, in another, everything is still at day.

Knowledge is itself daimonic. The serpent is always coiled around the tree. Once we leave the text, then we are on our own. Life becomes fiction, we pretend to pretend.

So what are these other worlds? If worlds are created by desire, and there are an infinite number of desires, there must be an infinite number of worlds. There must be heavens, hells, and all manner of in-between locales. There must be worlds of complete extinction where atheists find rest slowly dissolving into the elements. There must be fanatical worlds where the soldiers of faith receive the just due. Then there must be worlds like ours – where we live again and again, a dozen lives, a thousand lives, an endless number of lives.

Perhaps death is as illusory as anything else. The soul often leaves the body and returns later. At death it just doesn’t come back. It goes on in some dream that may even be similar to this world. In this way, the soul may not even know it has died until looking around it notices small things that are completely illogical. The spell breaks – then it realizes it has crossed over.

That is how it was at least with my wife. She is somewhere, who knows where, and she doesn’t even suspect that in this world she was given a funeral, buried and mourned and that I’m writing this about her now. Of course, with so many forks in the road, perhaps you and I, are in the same way, just as clueless.

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Ghost River – 7

October 13, 2006 at 4:05 pm (Ghost River)

“When I came I opened the way, and taught them about the bridge they will cross, those who are chosen and know…”

The experiments I have been working on are rather difficult and somewhat dangerous. They are similar to those of my grandfather, those I discussed in The Order of the White Rose. Western understanding of these matters has increased significantly since his day, and I believe through my close study of the Alchemical History I have detected the mistakes he made and have corrected them.

Our shared interest is in transporting ourselves with all senses and mental functions intact into worlds other than this one. That this is possible I have no doubt. The unsettled issue is how to do this with sufficient control to ensure safe and untroubled passage.

Of course we all leave this world eventually. Leaving is not the difficult part. The difficult part is coming back. This is not always given the consideration it should. One reads many narratives of investigators who started out with the best of scientific intentions, and then went native, so to speak, and just stayed over in some other world until everything they knew of this one had disappeared.

Unfortunately, my late wife was an investigator of this sort. Becoming interested in my work, I shared my discoveries with her and she proved a quicker adept than myself in putting them into practical use. While I can barely cross over for an hour or two at a time, she would cross over for days, then come back, glowing and full of strange conversation. Once she came back and wouldn’t eat or drink anything except ice cream that I fed to her. Another time, she brought some books, but when I opened them, there were nothing but blank pages. Then one time, she didn’t come back at all.


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Ghost River – 6

October 12, 2006 at 5:01 pm (Ghost River)


Words chose the poet…The art of the writer consists in little by little making words interest themselves in his books.


I digress. But you have to make sure no one is following. That is why you weave back and forth, here and there, over and about, east and west, and then, when Argos begins to shut his eyes one by one, then you can speak.

If you examine dreams closely, you will see that they never stay still. They are always moving. If you want to find the still point in the dream, you have to be alert. This kind of alertness requires practice.  Pretend that you are dreaming now.   Look at the room you are in, noting the doors and windows, what is on the inside and outside of them. Note what is close and what is far away. Look at the objects in the room. Which are speaking and which are quiet? Note the layers of sound. Note the light. Where is it coming from? What is it moving toward?  

Last night I woke up suddenly. Wind was blowing through the house. There was no one there. I saw a light on in the workshop and went out to look. It was empty. I saw lights in the forest. I walked up the hill path. I could hear sounds of animals.  The stars in the sky were not still, but moving and breaking into pieces. I walked deeper into the woods. A mist arose. I couldn’t see trees, only tombstones. I was in some cemetery.  The mist lifted and I saw a creek and a bridge, and beyond the bridge hills of black grass.    

I woke up again. I heard my late wife’s voice from inside the closet and went up and opened the door.  It led into an empty high school. The voice I heard was coming from a locker. I opened it.  There was a stairway leading down. I followed it into a cold stone room. My wife was standing at a thick wooden table mixing liquids in a chalice. “What is it?” I asked.  “I can’t show you,” she replied sadly.

Then a window opened up in the wall and I saw my father. He was standing in the snow.  It was snowing. He was holding up a photograph.  I began staring at it, then found that I was in the photograph.  It was the garden of my father’s farm. I walked inside and found him in the library. He looked up and put his hand through my body. It wasn’t solid at all.  Then I knew I was behind the mirror, where images no longer were forced to take a set form, but could appear intimately and randomly, in any fashion they chose.


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Ghost River – 5

October 11, 2006 at 4:25 pm (Ghost River)

It is all good and well to speak vaguely of other worlds. To visit them and take up residence, that’s an entirely different matter. Worlds of course each have their own physics, their own logos and mythos. Of course we are speaking of pure worlds where the mythos is not fractured as in ours. Our world is a not actually a world per se, but more of a vast central station, where one can purchase passage to one destination or another. Everyone passes through, but no one stays. Destinies are revealed but do not begin or end here.

As a transport station our world is a bit of a free zone. It accommodates a lot of modes of travel, not merely human. All the beings here have over time developed rather complex forms of interaction, utilizing and being utilized by one another. There is a natural hierarchy of capability – plants are at the bottom, then animals, then ourselves and then spirits – but all share the same moment, the same presence to that moment.

Now there is much misinformation on the nature of spirits. One reads accounts of magicians who force spirits to do their bidding. In the East too, one reads of great masters who bind spirits to their purposes. It is possible of course, but the general trend is quite in the other direction. As a class of beings, spirits, or daimons as they are better called, have considerably more powers than humans do. Their ethical range is at least as diverse as ours. Traditionally there are said to be nine orders of angels and nine of demons, but this bifurcation ignores the vast numbers who like ourselves have a mix of good and not so good intentions.

Of course boundaries such as inner and outer blur considerably at times. And since the rip in the fabric occurred, daimons have had a lot more free play then they did previously. Whereas possession was once rare, over the last hundred years it has become depressingly habitual. Modern consciousness has become so fragmented that daimons have little difficulty continually moving in and out of beings.

Hence to draw attention to these matters, to actually engage the daimons directly doesn’t put us at any special risk. Quite to the contrary – it is clear to anyone who watches the subtle flow of events that the daimons are already out – those who are aware have the protection of their awareness, whereas the great majority of individuals wandering about dazed and confused, let every kind of spirit flutter through them constantly like wind rippling in the wheat.

Not impeded by physicality, spirits are not just flowing in and out of human beings, but also animals, plants and so called inanimate objects. Quite a few spirits are even able to manifest physical bodies on their own even. The ordinary person has no appreciation of the rather large number of people there are roaming about who strictly speaking, are not real at all.


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Ghost River – 4

October 10, 2006 at 5:01 pm (Ghost River)


The Omaha Theosophical Society’s Hermetic Lodge formed in 1927. That was the year my Grandfather would later claim “the rip in the fabric” occurred. Of course if he had known that then, he could have done something useful, like sell stocks and buy gold. But these things only appear later in hindsight. The Lodge led a rather tumultuous existence for a number of years, and then started losing members until it was formally disbanded. My grandfather lived a little while longer working on his manuscript until he died in 1941at the age of 49.

The purpose of the Hermetic Lodge was to conduct experiments. My grandfather was not only a theosophist but a scientist. He had limited patience for theosophists who merely advanced theories and collected antiquarian lore, and presented it as if that alone should suffice as proof of something. Certainly it was evidence enough of the unexplained, but knowing that, what was one to do? Believing in subtle forces was one thing, utilizing them was another.

He also had limited patience for science which did not go beyond science itself. The edge of science is always speculative. He favored what he called ‘spontaneous experiments’, those that precede without assumptions. Of course even these experiments do not always turn out as one intends.

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Ghost River – 3

October 9, 2006 at 8:48 pm (Ghost River)

History is an odd thing. Out of the densely interwoven fabric of destiny, we attempt to form a narrative from only a few threads. We are not sure that what we capture or recover is even significant. And then from the few remnants and patches that survive we give voice to only a fraction, letting the rest lie in silence. We speak, briefly interrupt the flow of events, then our conversations slowly vanish into nothing.

But then there are times when a single word can suddenly strike one with the force of unimaginable recognition. This I have learned from reading the unpublished manuscript of my grandfather, “An Occult History of the Midwest”, a dense and obscure 1,300 page narrative which traces the lineage of the Omaha Theosophical Society back to various mystery schools in Vienna, Prague, India and Tibet before it suddenly breaks off.

Interlaced with the history are many short texts, some of which are familiar, and many which I have been unable to find mention of anywhere else. The manuscript is primarily in English, although certain parts of it, which are preceded by warnings and cautions, are written in another language which I believe is the tongue of a certain class of minor deities who specialize in foreshadowing destinies, deities who are long lived, and have the time to engage in vast studies of human events utilizing resources we can’t even dream of.

These deities are impossibly hard to attract though. They are not impressed by credentials. They are not interested in flattery. They are not moved by offerings. And they are indifferent to worship. To befriend them you have to become one of them, and that is not an easy task. My grandfather understood this and was willing to make the required sacrifice. He had seen something, an outcome he wanted to prevent, and did not have the luxury of following a slow path to attainment.


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Ghost River – 2

October 8, 2006 at 6:14 pm (Ghost River)

“To tell the truth, prose doesn’t exist. There is the alphabet and then there is verse.” -Mallarme

Like almost everyone in Stranger Creek, I am a collector of rare texts, but the texts I collect are somewhat unusual. None of them have ever been written. I collect them from those who have crossed over. This is not a vocation that I chose, but one that come to me by chance.

Everyone should believe in something. I believe in texts. I believe there is only one and many mirrors that make the one always appear different. These texts move and vary while the one remains the same and never moves. The texts have qualities — some are clear, some are clouded, some reflect the whole, some the part — the one is without qualities.

Whatever I believe, when something asks where I live, I answer Kansas. It is important to maintain appearances, to keep them fresh, but actually, no one has ever lived in Kansas. The only place anyone has ever lived is the present.

The owl might live in Kansas though. That is definitely possible. Not the Kansas that is shown with towns and roads, all neatly named and diagrammed, but the real Kansas, the one not on the map.

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