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The Uncarved Block: esoteric learning, recondite metaphysics, occultism, philosophy, anthropogenesis

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



              Back then I was still little more than an uncarved block- a young man who had only begun to piece his own world together, had only begun to find his own voice, had only begun to write and believe in himself- which is an essential step towards binding the disparate worlds of essence and form into a functioning whole. Yet Hans and I quickly latched onto each other like two derelict prisoners in a sea of idiots. And there we clung together, grappling through the darkness of words for ways of understanding each other and our common lot, for ways of sharing in each other’s visions, for ways of saying- “Yes, brother, yes, it is all crazy and impossible, this life, and no one sees it like we see it, and you see it differently than I, and I differently than you, but damn it, not that differently, and at least we- two out of six billion- at least we know it is all mad and misunderstood and that there are realities running on behind the scene that would freeze the average man cold where he stands were he to get even the slightest glimpse of it.”

                Poor Hans was like a castaway who had been adrift even longer than I; a voice crying in the wilderness in a language that was no longer spoken, of a reality that had been long forgotten; a lost remnant of a lost race which was suddenly thrown upon the shore of my implausible world- a world in which I had begun to realize was far more tangled, far more psychically polluted, far more afoul with the stench of mankind’s sordid history of folly and blindness, and far more enmeshed in the hidden dream of the Gods who had forgotten they were dreaming than I ever could have imagined.

                But now I had met one who was calling them to account. One man, alone in the wilderness, raging like an awoken beast with the scent of divine blood on its nose. There was Hans, driven like an exiled Pharaoh, out into the bush, driven by an unknown force, with an unknown need, out into the wilds to vent and curse the heavens, and build himself a life and try to heal the rift he could no longer avoid seeing.

                And we took to each other, as I said, like two beings lost in an alien world who had finally found another to whom they could communicate. Albeit we reached out to each other through naught but vulgar grunts, and howls, snorts and scratchings of all varieties, but we knew at least that we were pointing at the same wound, the same darkness, the same hidden and yet ubiquitous sea of bile and oppression which oozed out into the soul and mind of every one on earth whether they were aware of it or not.

                Every year from then on I would find my way to the Charlottes, traveling by thumb, or bus, or boat- and usually an odd collection of each of these vehicles- and I would arrive in one of the island towns, fill my backpack with booze and some dope perhaps, and hire another boat or plane to whisk me away from one world and into another. And there Hans and I would sit together, machinating and articulating, from sun up to sun down, day after day, week after week, together like co-researchers, hammering out the secrets and unspoken notions of this mysterious universe, all the while conversing in esoteric yarns, metaphor, parable, and rhyme- arguing, disagreeing, commiserating, debating, propounding, relating, and coming together on occasion to formulate the new thought, the new understandings, and new intentions that would solve the conundrum of existence now and forever.

                We’d run the whole gamut of thought from lost religions, to recondite metaphysics, occultism, philosophy, anthropogenesis, and the like. No topic or observation was excluded; no idea was beyond our ken, no possibility too outlandish or remote. The Gods had had their day, had messed things up royally- or so we supposed- and now we sat there, a force of two men, bantering out how to right it all, how to fix this wholly botched experiment and bring it to a rapturous finale.

                To be sure, as similarly as we saw the world we also saw it completely opposed. But the flint needs steel to strike it in order to create a spark and bring the fire. And fire is what we needed, and fire is what we got. And that is what kept our cloistered, insular brotherhood burning hotter than the sun.


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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