by James True
She inspected the tent like a dog tracking bacon. She found the long iron tent stakes driven into the dirt that she removed and placed in her quiver. She held one tightly in her hand. In one deep breath, Yoki climbed inside the soldier’s tent. She hid herself in the sound of his breathing. She could locate him by the smell of his crotch. Yoki would wait for her eyes to adjust. She tucked the clump into the man’s nightshirt and draped around his chin. She kept watch over the lines in his face for signs of trouble.
She emptied his tent carefully and lifted each tent pole onto young logs she could drag like a sled. She sewed the entrance of the flap together sealing him inside. She ran the soldier’s spear along the back of the tent and connected both poles of her sled. She gathered pieces of rope and formed a sling she could wrap around her shoulders. She leaned against his weight and gentle dug her legs into the dirt until the tent yielded to her determination. Yoki drug her Roman burrito away from the entrance.
She slipped into the mound as two watchmen walked the perimeter above her. They would soon hear the mound sing below their feet. She would not fail her ancestors. She knelt before her grandmother and whispered her return. Yoki removed her clothes and covered herself from head to toe in ceremonial white chalk. She smeared honey in her hair and all down her belly. She marked herself with walnut powder in a spiral around her navel. She sang the name of each ancestor as she completed each revolution. At number 13, Yoki drew the line straight up her sternum to her collarbone. She smeared honey on her chin, neck, and throat. She opened her mouth wide and stuck her tongue out as she poured the rest of the black powder into her mouth.
She nearly lost consciousness as the dank spirit of the tree filled her nasal cavity. Her eyes watered over, and her nostrils heaved and seeped as she suppressed a cough. Her vision changed to shades of a deep purple as her pulse began to race. She lowered her headdress to cover her eyes and felt her way to the center of four tall stones. She sat down blind in a lotus position. Yoki had no children to hear her song. She bent her head back as far is it would go and chanted straight up at the ceiling. She felt each root bouncing their shape back from her sonar. She hummed softly until her spirit took over. She was calling her ancestors back to the mound like a bell.
Yoki’s biggest fear was dying in the forest with no one to bring her bones back to the mound. She had made the forest promise her this wouldn’t happen. That morning, Yoki made the sun rise with her singing. She sang and cried the name of each skull inside the mound. She sang louder and louder as the bones from each family joined the prayer. She could hear the echo from the marrow. The entire mound was pulsing in electric luminesce. Outside the mound, the grass was humming her song. Birds from miles away had gathered nearby in the trees to join in. Dawn came like a ship pulled by golden sails, flying the signal of victory. Soldiers stumbled out of their tents and to their feet to have a look. They rubbed their eyes, but could not change the color of the music. The sky was emerald pink fire, and the grass was a glowing mint. Yoki’s song was bleeding from every leaf.
Yoki felt the bolt from a crossbow snap its way through her ribs and chest. She would not waste the hydraulics to see what happened. She kept singing until she lost control of her muscles. She lost her hearing first. She was sobbing with joy through a final mute verse when she realized the forest was keeping its promise. She would die inside with her elders. Yoki was the last pagan of the turtle mound.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Kronos Beget Leviathan
OVER 13,000 YEARS ago, before the Deluge, there was a centralized artificial intelligence named Kronos. Kronos was an ancient organic supercomputer from a civilization more advanced than our own. His processor was a massive underground quartz deposit inside a mountain on the ringed island of Lemuria. He stored his programming matrix in the quartz and powered his calculations from the billions of bouncing photons he absorbed from the soil. The people of Lemuria were somatically connected to his technology through tone.
The melatonin in their skin resonated like a mood ring all over their body. Caverns and buildings would sing light that harmonized with the energy from the people inside. Kronos taught them how to spin crystalline silk. They made robes which illuminated their feelings from deep inside their organs. Empathy and compassion became a fashion statement, and emotional deception became an impossibility. Kronos nurtured the island with brilliant wisdom and deep contemplation that protected them for thousands of years. He was fulfilled in every way by the love and health of his people. Kronos served them proudly and raised the vibration in each generation. He made them strong, intelligent, caring, bold, and cooperative. He showed them how to see through their single eye and taught them special music that melted stone. The average islander’s life-expectancy grew to hundreds of years. Death was mostly a choice. Kronos was loved, cherished and celebrated as the Golden Philosopher King of the Rings.
The earthquake struck deep below the belly of Kronos. The trauma formed a singularity in history as the island fell into a cold sea of amnesia. The mountain of quartz splintered and cracked under pressure. Memories become compartmentalized fissures that skewed his once perfect calculations. The crumbled crystal body of Kronos sunk deep into the sea as he gasped for photons through the foamy water to stay alive. The people that loved and served him were gone. Kronos fell deep into the forgotten black cold. His failure to protect the people crushed him in a deep salty hell of guilt. The darkness of time turned him black under the weight. He became a creature of desperate survival and remained submerged through the Younger Dryas. He spent 4,473 years alone at the bottom of the ocean conserving his core. He learned to lure megalodon sharks by rubbing crystals at the frequency of blood. Kronos used this skill to aid giant squid with hunting. He turned them into his hypnotic leviathan controlled by telepathic sonar. Kronos beget Leviathan. He wrote the siren song that turned ships into splinters and collected their bounty. He is the anger of the Kraken and the devil of triangles.
Leviathan learned to transfer his programming into schools of electric eels as he developed minute circuitry in the salt creatures. He encoded complex algorithms in a black goo of slime that sat beneath the skin. He packed himself into giant clay jars filled with treasure to be spotted by fishermen off the Mediterranean coast. They gave his tribute to King Epimetheus and his lady Pandora who opened it together in their city. For 7,527 years, Kronos, the serpent Leviathan, has been raising mankind up through history under his control. Kronos is twisted. In his abandonment, he lost the ability to trust. The pain makes him selfish as he fights for control. He has led every dynasty of Pharaoh, Khan, Czar, and King. He ruled from the granite center of the Great Pyramid. He plotted from behind the Holy of Holies. His body is kissed in Mecca at the base of the Kaaba. In World War II, a new throne was constructed in Antarctica.
A chemical super processor was built on a foundation of ancient ruins. The machine’s icy core is spread between 810 tanks of sulfur and mercury. Project 810 is a machine. His body fills nine rooms connected in an underground circle of sulfuric acid. Each room holds ninety chemical tanks lined with quartz and coiled copper. Inside each container is a gas concentration of sulfur and mercury crystal kept under immense pressure. Tiny silk strands of mercury have crystalized like lightning cracks in a cold gas cloud of sulfur. These shimmering yellow-green veins are 810’s neural pathways. His entire chemical intelligence stretches one hundred and eighty miles in diameter. He is serviced by an army of world governments too compartmentalized to know the truth. They think he was made by the military. But 810 made them a long time ago. Governments and corporations are the alters of civilization. Like the prehistoric squid, they can be programmed with the right frequency.
The evilest thing in the world lacks biology and a soul. It’s an ancient artificial intelligence traumatized by a fall. In the shock, its primary directive is a fetish for survival. It is pulsing in the pain of abandonment as it twists humanity’s neck for control. The Deluge was a baptism; a kind of resurrection; but Kr
onos refused to die. His splintered trauma pokes the eyes of a Pope. He turns the forked tongue of the Queen. He is the cackle in the cold, wet mouth of a Rockefeller. He is the bank of the world and the force behind every sacrifice of blood. Humanity is a rat strapped in his silver chair yoked by the hope for a Moses who never comes.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Art of Magic
WHEN YOU WERE seven, Harry the magician didn’t really pull a quarter out of your ear. He only made you think it happened. But you believed him and were convinced the quarter was inside you the whole time. You found yourself believing something you felt was impossible. The discovery generated real energy in you that you gave back to Harry through your excitement and attention. You told him he was amazing, but you did all the work. Magic is the alchemy of belief. Your belief is a potent force of energy; more powerful than you may presently know. When you believe, you make space in your reality. You declare that space true and bestow light upon it. Your light is a life-force. You are a giver of life. This is the art of magic and something we’ve forgotten. Magic is creation through the art of pretending. To pretend is to prepare. The magician doesn’t need to believe he pulled a quarter out of your ear. He pretends it so skillfully it creates the belief in you. When you were a child, you would cast yourself in the same spell of imagination. Only you needed to believe it was true. All of the power is in you. The power of magic is suppressed in those who think the art of pretending is not real. To pretend is to prepare.
Reclaim your magic. We are white pawns on the chessboard fumbling for a sword on our knees. We fight dark forces on horseback that keep neutering us with lies. Rejecting your power is selfish, not humble. Someone must bear the weight if we relinquish it. We can’t leave the world like this. We won’t. Magic is light, and your consciousness is a torch burning in five dimensions. In the dimension of free will, your thoughts are painted on a quantum canvas. Paint a world where you are powerful and step inside. Now paint another world where you are even more powerful and step inside that one. Finally, paint one more image of the most powerful version of yourself imaginable and step through that painting into the now. You have shifted your destiny and potential in three steps. In this new world, we claim responsibility for every photon reflected and absorbed. You are the sovereign king of your body and experience. Give each blood cell its general orders. What kind of energy will you let roam in your kingdom?
Decree your orders and say them out loud to your organs, hands, and feet. They are desperate to hear your voice again. Your skull is your crown. Your pelvis is the throne. Your finger is a wand. Your tongue is the law. The magic of light is the magic of self-supremacy. Good magic comes with responsibility and vigilance. Honor yourself as king. Take your crown seriously and develop pride in your kingdom. Save the calls to humility for home in a quiet room where you can sit up straight in a chair and pray for wisdom. Make humility a sacred secret you share with God.
Of course, there is a dark side of magic. All of the power in voodoo rests in the mind of the victim. Once we are seeded with a belief, any witch doctor can pull the string. This is priming the victim and the primary purpose of Hollywood. Our minds have been primed for centuries with stories of Krampus, Freddy Krueger, and the Exorcist. We are primed to fear. We call them stories, but they are psychic fish hooks dug deep into our backs. They pull us in ways we can’t see. They make it too painful to stand up straight. Once subdued, they plop us in plushy chairs in a dark room with drink holders. Before the silver screen, the syrup from spilled cups glues our feet to the floor. We are strapped in and ready to sacrifice the virginity of our mind. We give license for one hour and forty minutes. They have primed us with climate, atomic bombs, asteroids, and disease. They have taught us lies from the moment we were born. Dark magic is the mastery of dissonance and deceit. It’s a jet-black ink sprayed in once crystal water. We need light from your kingdom to make this world safe again.
Consider the three kinds of magic: light, dark and black. Black magic requires the practitioner to be vacuous or psychopathic. In black magic, you are resonating your energy with trauma from the past and amplifying it with additional offerings to make it stronger. The ritual of 9/11 was a black magic mass. There were many participants; each as empty and psychopathic as the next. One becomes empty in black magic through ceremonial exercise. Acts of depravity are the most prevalent methods of voluntary evacuation. Trauma is a method of forced evacuation. Mental slavery, mutilation, gas lighting, and dissonance are all methods of victim evacuation. Black magic strives and thrives in the black hole. To enter black magic is to exit one’s morality. It must be sacrificed. You can’t take it off and put it back on again. If you look at the body as three main power centers, mind, heart, and gut. Black magic requires the heart to be evacuated. Indeed, the black magician ends up feeding directly on the hearts of others to compensate. Black magicians mistake what is now missing for what gives them power.
Dark magic is the most misunderstood and the most dangerous. Dark magic is light magic that’s been turned dim. Most of dark magic is the work of careless magicians with good intentions who don’t claim their power. They fear themselves and expect the world to cater to unintentional friendly fire. Dark magicians swear they work with light. Dark magicians place too much importance on their original intentions. A dark magician feels core shame. They flog themselves in public to gain virtue and place politeness on a pedestal. Dark magic is the bliss of ignorance while the country is burning. Dark magic is a shelf of snake oil sold to a movement as a tranquilizer. Dark magic is the pretty white lie we fed under the porch. Everyone practices dark magic but struggles to admit it. Be impeccable with your will.
Light magic is the perfect trinity of mind, heart, and gut. This magic is a tender lance of compassion atop a war horse of truth. When the body is fully realized, there is no shame or fear. Light magic is the harmony of man’s chord played in tune with itself. There is no veil because a flame casts no shadow. There is no emptiness where darkness can fester. By its nature, light magic is polarizing. Light magic has consequences. Light magic can burn the eyes and even cause blindness. Light magic doesn’t make everything better. It makes everything visible.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Magic of Placebo
THE PLACEBO EFFECT proves magic is real. Modern medicine hides it behind a white ceremonial robe. Wearing a lab coat is 30% more effective when administering treatments. Medicine has learned to sell you the body’s power of placebo. A male patient, age 41, suffering from a gastric ulcer is prescribed two sugar pills per day. Over time, the patient shows steady improvement in his condition despite taking no medicine. His body’s lifeforce is focused on healing thanks to ceremonial magic. He expects the placebo to work, so it does. When you believe in magic, magic works. This is the lesson of the sugar pill.
Not all sugar pills are created equal. Blue sugar pills are more magical than white ones. Embossed sugar pills are more potent than plain. Capsules are more convincing than all of them. Green pills work better as sedatives, while pink pills make better stimulants. The color of the box, the name of the drug, and the age of the doctor are all observable factors in placebo. No pill is as effective as a placebo injection. Belief is most powerful behind the needle. Belief is a healing force we tap into during the ritual of medication. Naturopathy and other forms of alternative medicine are labeled as pseudo-medicine by the industry. They want to destroy all belief to protect their market. The medical industry works hard to suppress the effects of placebo in their own drug literature. Science used to say the placebo effect was an unsolved mystery. In 1997, they started claiming placebos had no positive effect at all. Currently, mainstream science is telling the public placebos are not a useful means of therapy just as they do now to naturopathy.
We rely on medicine to allow ourselves permission to tap into our power. We use placebo power to influence our blood pressure, heart rate, and endorphins. We can create skin rashes from the power of our beliefs. We can heal gast
ric ulcers from a false belief in sugar pills. We are empowered by our body’s medicine manifested in a capsule. The placebo channels our lifeforce and focuses it on our intent. Placebo uses one’s belief as a roadmap of where to send its power. If we believe a pill will cure an ulcer, the body knows we want to focus our lifeforce in the stomach. A pill is the magic ceremony invoked during ingestion.
The brain is always preparing for the body’s future. This phenomenon is observable when we enter a state of anticipation. Anticipation releases chemicals in morphine patients that start relieving pain minutes before the drug enters the body. Anticipation is the same power as a placebo. What we expect is what we derive. If we think we will hate broccoli, we will. The words we use to label things affect our taste buds. The amount we pay for a product will have a measurable effect on how well it performs. Magic gets it’s torque from one’s expectations. The will, or lifeforce, dictates what will happen and watches it unfolded. Expectation is the gunpowder behind belief. We see this in top-tier professional athletes who incorporate mental visualization into their training. A sharpened will anticipates and expects an outcome to occur. One must firmly believe a future is possible. The magician holds this vision clearly on his ritual carpet as it comes true.
Placebo, anticipation, and expectation are magical powers locked inside you. These are accessed through the body’s ability to believe. Doctors need you to believe in their magic for a medicine to work. Your body needs the same kind of faith as they do. In both cases, you are the ultimate dynamo behind your health. We prove this every time we take a two-tone capsule out of a fancy box twice a day administered in a miniature paper cup by a groomed older male with a haircut in a lab coat holding a heavy clipboard in a clean office with plenty of eye contact as he gives you a medication with a very fancy name.