The Duelist

While speaking to a friend recently, I came to the sudden and strange realization that I am probably more familiar with melancholy than most people, barring poets and unrequited lovers.

Which is not to say that I spend my days depressed and lonely, or that I wallow in self-pity. It only means that when I do feel the onset of melancholy I allow myself to be acutely aware of it.

Aside from run away from it or blot it out with activity, there are two things one can do when one feels pensive. First, you can simply wallow in it, like a potent drug. Second, one can use it.

Use it? When one is melancholy everything becomes acute, and you become very sensitive to the slightest nuances of just about anything. The Japanese in particular, as a culture, are very conscious of the beauty in sadness and often the most beautiful scenes in their books or plays or movies evoke a certain bittersweetness that seems to render everything crisply, sharply.

Acute. That’s the word. Suddenly every falling leaf or beam of dusty sunlight becomes pregnant with non-verbal meaning that borders on the spiritual. Borders? It is spiritual. Suddenly the ripples of an otherwise-still pond speak to you in a hundred different ways; even a moment spent staring out the window of a train at the passing cityscape becomes an occasion for an unspoken truth.

People recognize it in the works of other people more willing to stare melancholy in the face, even if they never dare to face it that closely themselves without soon turning away. Often these appreciations are voiced in imprecise terms: “It touched me,” “It’s so true,” “It seems so real.”

Real.

That’s because it is. It is a sincerity of such stark clarity that the first urge of most people is to look away, as if having stumbled upon something too sacred to behold. The simple truth is that these things, captured in word or song or images, are too naked. Too vulnerable. It is an interesting paradox of our times that the expressions of ourselves that resound most truly are the most hidden. There is too much punishment for living the undefensive life.

Clarity, then. The next time you find yourself there, look with melancholy’s clarity. Look unflinchingly, and bring back a piece of it with you when you leave, so that other people may recognize it.

When I first began my astral practice with my initial, halting steps using the Silva Mind Control method, the Promontory was where I first invoked my counselors, which is the term for the inner intelligences you contact to guide you with further explorations. Now it is my preferred point of entry whenever I visit the Island, the little corner of the astral that I call home.

The Promontory is, like other promontories, a high point of land jutting out over the ocean. However, the only landmark, and one of the first things visitors see when they enter my little astral nook is simply called the Tree, a large tree that I like to lean against that provides plenty of shade when the sun is high.
Sometimes I go to the astral simply to spend time here by myself, to meditate and collect my thoughts. Other times it’s just a landmark, a stopover before I head to my actual destination, like the Aleph or the Laboratory.

The Aleph is the tallest mountain within my astral landscape. Snowcapped, it overlooks a vast mountain range that is often obscured by clouds. I didn’t look for it or even intend to end up there the first time I found myself at the summit; I actually meant to materialize in my usual spot, the Promontory.

Nowadays I do a lot of my evocation from that spot, particularly hostile or uncooperative entities. The Aleph is a position that probably represents my complete dominion over my astral fiefdom, and to evoke an entity from that position conveys the position of superiority to them. More friendly entities get invited over in cozier accomodations.

The Aleph also allows a strange sort of long-distance scrying. Strange because things scryed from the Aleph appear both as distant events and zoomed-in windows at the same time. I’m not conveying this properly. Let me try again. They appear to be very far away and at the same time no detail is lost. It’s hard to explain.

Now that I think about it, I have never been to the Aleph at night (astral ‘time’), although I’ve been to the Promontory during all times of the day. I wonder why that is.

Take a deep breath, Demian. Let it all flow. Let it all begin. Read the signs in the static, in the ripples. Tell us all the story of now and here.
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What covers me: The Lovers.

Separate threads of my life are coming together, intertwining. Something is forming that is greater than the sum of its separate parts.

What crosses me: Five of Cups, reversed.

The greenness of the grass on the other side should not distract me from the cups underfoot. I must not kick them over while my eyes are set on the distant banks of the river that lies in front of me.

What grounds me: Page of Cups.

The inner call. Emotion. I have always understood my own inner voice, as long as I take the time to be quiet and listen. Listen. You can hear it if your soul has not truly given up.

What crowns me: Strength.

The jaws of the beast are giving way. It is inevitable. What I am, what I am becoming. Inexorably, it comes.

What is behind me: The High Priestess, reversed.

The time of rationalizing away what is self-evident, what resonates in the quiet places within, is over. Now it is time to listen.

What is before me: The Chariot.

What cannot withstand that which is to come will be trampled, crushed underfoot. It cannot be denied.

The Self: The Mage.

The sword is the extension of the will. It can only hold an edge as sharp as the metal it is forged from will allow, it can only withstand a blow that the steel itself can withstand. Through constant refinement, through the alchemy of the self, there will be nothing that this sword cannot cut through.

The House: Nine of Swords.

Look around you. Look upon yourself. Aren’t you lost in the details of the surfaces that you see? You fall apart because your center cannot hold. This does not have to be this way. And you know it. Everyone does. But no one listens.

Hopes and Fears: Nine of Pentacles, reversed.

It’s changing, isn’t it. The order of everything. Security itself becomes stagnation unless it is turned upside down. The rigid heirarchy of everyday is upturned, rearranged, or even discarded for something completely new. There is a word for this: Revolution.

The Sum of the Reading: The Sun, reversed.

When something does not progress, it regresses. We can no longer afford to be self-centered children pursuing the selfish acquisition of what ultimately amounts to new toys, new distractions for the self. The sun is beneath the horizon for now but it will rise as it has always risen. The key is, what will the new day’s light greet? The dark night of the soul will end. The new day will bring another duel. Prepare yourself to meet it now, while we are still in the dark. Sharpen your sword.