… to the Rest of Reality!
To us, your world is known as Sanctuary, for it is the one place in all existence where magic can not work. The inter-planar region around your world is known as Regio Sanctum. This region, as defined by the celestial Pentarchy, includes the four mortal worlds within Sanctuary Rim (approximately the Sol asteroid belt by your reckoning), Hod, Netzach, Malkuth, and Geburah. A fourth world, Chesed, is also worthy of mention as its four moons became the home of The Geburahans (Martians) after the exodus from non-magical space.
Beyond three-dimensional spacetimemind, Regio Sanctum also includes the twin proximal planes: the dream realm, where the shadow-self manifests during mortal sleep, and the astral realm, where the ego-self is manifest during meditation. From the dream realm, the Olympian, Helipolitan, and Luciferian empires are accessible. From the astral plane, the Seraphim, Asgardian and Fey empires may be accessed.
The major source of interplanar commerce — and conflict — is the soul trade. Every major empire now has an affiliated soul-trading house dedicated to reaping and bottling sorcery-fueling un-incarnated souls to power the probability-rending sorcery of their mage forces.
Under the stewardship of the First Martian Solar Dynasty and the Gaian Midwives of Atlantis, your world has been sheltered from the sorcerous bedlam of the wider, wilder cosmos. Since the end of the Pleiadian-Atlantean Interface, about (10,000 AD Sanctuary Reckoning) humanity has remained oblivious to the sorcery raging just beyond its doorstep.
The first sorcerer from magicless Earth, and soon to be ruler of the known multiverse has deemed it of strategic import that the veil be lifted from humanity’s eyes!
I am Zardak the Dave, High Scribe of the Promethean order of Farlore V.
At the bidding of my liege, Andy Crowley, born of your sacred world, I have chronicled within the pages of your glass grimoires, the saga of his ascent to the throne of all reality.
The Andy Crowley Gnoitalmanac: A Rudimentary Reckoning in Pulp, of the Local History of Reality
The mortals — the only entities gifted with sparks of the All, called souls — are farthest removed from the Ain Soph (the divine All) at the core of our torus shaped reality. In terms of Order and Chaos, their worlds have cooled as they have descended into matter. So far removed from the sorcerous bedlam of the inner planes are they that they have long since ceased believing in — let alone practicing — any form of magic.
To the mortals of magicless Earth, the Fey, the Seraphim (the Aeons and Archons), the Gods (the Aetherics), and the Demiurges, were all mere fictions conceived of and discarded in a time long past. Now they revere only the outward existence and are possessed of myopic obsession with conquest over the material plane.
Eventually, having been hoodwinked into functioning as witless workers, consumers, and soldiers, the mortals lost the ability to use their third eye. So blinded, they ceased donning their astral mail to stride amongst the gods upon the inner planes.
For millennia, humanity’s gaze remained fixed ever outward.
It was not until Atlantis, when Plato’s cosmology (Timaeus) unlocked the power of the five fundamental forms of reality, that mortals tread once again beyond the astral plane. But it was not as it had once been. Where once Heaven, Realm of the Demiurge, Olympus, Asgard, and Heliopolis had bordered the astral plane, Samael’s United Hells, loosely allied with Helheim, now guarded the mortal threshold.
Atlantis was drowned for Plato’s audacity. But Plato would have his revenge.
83 years after Nikola Tesla and Aleister Crowley failed (with disastrous consequences) to replicate Plato’s success, a Canadian boy had a nasty fall on the ice at school.
Three days later, when his third eye opened, let’s just say all hells — not to mention all heavens — broke lose.
Think of consciousness as an 8-track tape being unplugged from the hi-fi system in the rec-room (representing our physical body that inhabits the material world of exoteric reality). Our consciousness, so removed from our rec-room system can be inserted into the 8-track setup in the dash of our car (let’s call this container/player our astral body: the sheath one inhabits to undertake experience in the realms within). Now we may traverse the inner realm. If we know the way, we arrive at the summit of Mount Qaf. Descending it, we penetrate the 9th sphere and enter the esoteric reality: the multiverse within.
It is important to understand that the inner realms are not imaginary. They are not the spontaneous and spurious arising of thoughts. Rather, the realms are imaginal. A consistent objective geography of planes and worlds that is objectively ascertained by subjective entities visited upon it in astral form.
Further, the inner realms, which are just as real and tangible as the outer, affords the astral sheath that bears our consciousness, a greater capacity to interact with the laws of nature there. Magic or sorcery, the ability to manipulate the tangible properties of the esoteric realms, is the word used to describe this phenomenon.
Miss Cyril, the Grade Five teacher at Harmony Public School, knew even before the school year started that Andy Crowley was going to sit in the front row. She knew his type. The black and white rock and roll shirt told her a lot. His hair, like a girl’s, parted, feathered, and down to the shoulders said it all. Called by the Lord to be a shepherd of children, she knew she had to watch this one. In preparation, she had observed him methodically during yard duty the year before. She would manage him, but she held out little hope she could bring him to grace. He was a worst-case-scenario — a daydreamer and a rock music enthusiast. He even played the Satanic Aetherburn game older children played now. He was a clever child, to be sure. Such a shame. Then there was the clincher: a broken home. With only two years left until retirement, she had seen enough of those. A doomed life for the boy, certainly; damnation for eternity was a virtual guarantee. She would not waste her prayers on the salvation of Andy Crowley. No. She would pray for the strength to maintain her composure in the face of his insolence. And she would pray that his wayward inclinations would not infect the other children — that the grim draw of his godless passions would not sway them from the glorious gift of God’s grace.
Miss Cyril didn’t know her powder blue pantsuit was covered in chalk. Andy was sure she thought she looked like Nancy Reagan. She didn’t.
For just a moment, he was a little sad for her. The smell from the black marker she held was giving him a headache. The hand she held it in shook over the giant get well card the class was making for U.S. President Ronald Reagan. He had been shot by John Hinkley Jr. yesterday.
The class had been asked to come up with things they were thankful President Reagan had done and Miss Cyril was not satisfied with their contributions so far. Having been on the receiving end of her self-righteous indignation more times than he could count, Andy knew when she was edging toward something bad. Right now she was showing early indications of going full Soviet MR-UR-100 Sotka.
He mulled taking the hit for his classmates and squirmed in his seat at the thought. Even at this, the slightest of movements, Cyril’s gaze snapped onto him like an owl’s onto a rabbit under a full moon. Andy didn’t hate Sea-hag Cyril. He’d lost his mother to Jesus, he knew the type well. He pitied her: another victim of this culture’s fixation with ego. He often pondered the irony of her profound capacity for cruelty being the product of her desperation to be seen by others as loving and good.
Zoxathotho a oo’ee Zozazoth, he focused the Hermetic mantra in his mind to give him courage to put up his hand. He didn’t really want to go out into the hall today. At this time of year it smelled like Cougar boots and wet feet. But… Oh well.. what the Hell, man.
His hand went up. It was contorted into the Bhramara mudra for whatever protection that would offer him. “Yes Andy,” Cyril’s forced smile looked as though it might shatter her petrified prune of a face.
“Which of President Reagan’s accomplishments are you thankful for?” She couldn’t hide her skepticism in her asking of the question. Andy’s eye’s looked at the giant Bristol board card propped up on the ledge of the blackboard. Only two things were written there.
Thank you for securing the release of the Iranian hostages.
Thank you for the War on Drugs.
“Thank you Ronald Reagan –, ” he said it in a statesmanlike tone before stopping to ponder for a moment. He hadn’t completely thought this through. “– for proving demonstrably the inefficacy of trickle-down economics, and the lunacy of a working class electorate bestowing the presidency upon a sycophant of the corporate oligarchy.” Miss Cyril looked perplexed for a moment. Andy knew she had not really understood what he had said, but he could tell from the rage vibrating into her to be prepared to protect his face. Then Miss Cyril lunged for the bible on her desk and threw it.
As he had done so many times before, Andy collected the good book, which had bounced off his arms to land splayed on the floor, and dragged his desk out the classroom door into the hallway. He felt more than saw Deb Holcroft smiling at him through the open doorway of the Grade Six classroom across the hall. His eyes were getting worse. The glasses hadn’t helped. His third eye was getting stronger — but he knew at some point he would not be able to read.
Deb sat in the front row too. Unlike him though, she was the kind of person who chose to sit there. He made a big show of pompously reading Miss Cyril’s bible. This always made Deb smile. Deb Holcroft was Andy’s next-door neighbour, and she had known him longer than anyone else. She knew that Andy’s mother had given him a bible for his sixth birthday and that she had made him read it all the way through before his seventh. She also knew, that the year after that — just to be fair — he had also read the Quran, the Tao Te Ching, the Upanishads, and the Kybalion…
…Just to be fair.
What is a mystic?
The right brain (or unconscious, as Jung would call it), ascertains the gestalt reality of all there is as one. This is the experience of the sacred.
The left brain (Jung’s conscious) is labeler, divider, seer of parts but not of context. Ego, the sorcerers call it, the false self cobbled together from from cultural constructs — foister of falsehoods onto the unity and grace of spacetimemind — the All.
Religion is the left brain’s attempt to quantify, qualify this experience, and the results, while always inadequate, are more often than not, also disastrous.
A mystic is one who, through mental stillness, not so much achieves, but rather falls into, the transcendent state of Mu to experience the truth of all things as one thing —