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Energy vampires, openness, being somebody, being nobody, and perilous city life

excerpted from IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas



                Soon after that experience, and the defragmentary healing into nobodiness which had occurred on the Charlottes, I would return again to Vancouver, and for the first time in my life, I was to stand amongst my colleagues and mates as if I was looking out through a hollow tube into a display of animated wax figures, each imagining that they were a thing inside a body which they called And I knew they were only trapped inside the form which they were not, but to get out would mean having to relinquish their ‘me’- it would mean having to become nobody, and I assumed few, if any, were up for the humiliating mortifications required to undo their somebodiness delusions into the purity of the great absence.

                And so, as in each of my previous descents into the steaming pit of stool, it wasn’t long after my return this time that the empty, peaceful, defenceless nobody I had won- even more spectacularly this time around- began to accumulate the taint of separation all over again, and to take on the ghastly garment of identity- of creation separated from the creator.

                To come back as a nobody to a city of somebodies is a difficult, if not impossible, task. I have heard of established yogis and saints who have the matured presence of nobodiness within them which cannot be moved nor destroyed by the assault of the separated somebodies, but I was not one of them, and I had to accept this limitation.

                In returning to the metropolis I could feel the pyramid of my macrosoul shrink and be compressed as I encroached upon the city limits, bombarding my emptiness as soon as I re-entered the world of pavement, pollution, square corners, and signs. I could feel my soul shriveling, my vision narrowing, my breath growing shorter, and my heart slowly pumping less and less blood to my over-stimulated head.

                The openness I had attained meant that my shields were all gone- that anyone’s repressions or dark energy could enter at will and deposit their fetid load. I had become like a karmic garbage-dump which could only get so big, and so, as I said, had to be incinerated every so often so as to return me to the purity of emptiness.

                And the only way for me to do that was to leave it all behind and find a way to purge it out. And so the wilderness became my sanctuary and sanatorium, for there is no stillness in the city- it is not intended for such. The city is where one goes to accomplish great things and become somebody. The city is no place for a nobody, and if you go there as a nobody you soon become a somebody unless you sit in your bedroom with your door locked, your eyes closed, and your ears plugged, and, frankly, what’s the use of being in the city if you’re gonna live like that. So I found myself launched in the gurgling stream of humanity again, back in a body, and an identity, and answering to a name that made me into a person, who existed on earth, and had desires, and needs, and hopes, and dreams, and friends, and foes, and in an instant the emptiness was gone and I couldn’t imagine where it went, nor could I even remember it at all because as soon as I was full to the brim the amnesia set in and I’d forget what it felt like to be free.

                And yet I could never forget, because there was a part of me which would not let me, the part of me that remained out on the coast, that never came back with me, and therefore would gnaw away at my broken spirit until I realized I had been caught again with my nose to the grindstone, cramped within the walls and rules and laws of the concentration camp again, and the lightness of my being had been turned into a knotted bolus of indigestible compost, and another war inside of me had to come to an end. Or I had to come to an end.


excerpted from:


author Jack Haas, west coast British Columbia wilderness, ocean forest island



IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey

by Jack Haas



















Mystical books, visionary art, and fine art photography by Jack Haas




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