Carl Abrahamsson's Blog, page 10

Fiction: The Black Baba

I met the Black Baba in Kathmandu.

The city is like a maze of colorful houses, each one built upon a history of kind devotion to the Hindu gods; connected with fierce and rickety outdoor electric wires. The air smells of incense, sewage and heavy traffic. The streets are filled with people, hustling and bustling with more or less good intentions.

There are signs of poverty everywhere. There are also signs of hope and timeless strength.

The people seem to be happy and content with their lives. It was a strange mix I couldn’t figure out, but I liked that kind of mystery. My parents had taken me to Kathmandu as a kid, and on the whole it didn’t seem to have changed much.

People flocked to this special city in order to experience… something. I had decided to stay in Kathmandu for at least a month to learn more. Everyone I talked to said it was a place of magic. ”It’s a place where anything can happen. It’s a place where anything is possible.” But most of those people were young and stoned, and looking for something they just couldn’t define. Very much like myself, I guess. Alone in big crowds.

I first met the Black Baba in a restaurant. I was sitting by myself eating a plate of noodles when I saw him walk in. He was medium height, in his late 50s, blonde with piercing blue eyes peeking out through thick glasses; he had a build that reminded me of Buddha: happily pudgy. He wore a black linen suit. The whole look was topped off with a well worn Panama hat. When he removed it, I could see the sweat on his bald head.

It was obvious to me that he was a spiritualist of sorts. The locals looked at him with awe in their eyes and greeted him reverently.

I didn’t believe in any of that nonsense.

I usually mocked people who pretended to be spiritual; especially those who claimed to have magical powers. I knew the type all too well. I grew up around people like that. I grew up on the road. My parents were hippies who traveled from place to place, following whatever guru was in fashion. I had seen it all before. I knew for a fact they had been to Kathmandu many times. And here I was, looking at a scene my parents has probably also experienced at some point.

I knew what the Black Baba was: a fake.

I watched him as he made his way through the restaurant, greeting people along the way. Everyone he passed nodded to him as he went by, like some kind of local celebrity.

I had never seen anything like it. My waiter could tell. ”He’s a magic man,” he whispered to me.

The magic man apparently had a way of making people feel special, like they were the only ones that mattered.

Finally, he reached my section and sat down at the table right beside me. He smiled and bowed.

“Namaste.”

I nodded back. “Namaste.”

He ordered a salad and some mineral water.

As we ate, I casually asked him about his background. He told me that he was Scandinavian.

“People treat you like… some kind of Guru,” I said.

“That is what I am known as,” he said. “The Black Baba.”

He smiled at me with a knowing look in his eyes. I didn’t like it.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

He nodded. “For many years, yes.”

I decided to push my luck. “Are you a guru?”

“No. I am not a guru. I am only a man who knows some things that you do not.”

I scoffed. “What makes you so special?”

He leaned in close, looking me in the eye. “I have spent my life studying magic. I know the secrets of the universe.”

I laughed. “Then why haven’t you done anything with your life?”

He shrugged. “I have done everything that I have wanted.”

I was confused. “But why not more?”

“That is not how magic works. There must be balance in all things.”

I didn’t believe him. It was all standard bullshit. I had seen many people like him over the years. They were all the same: promising big things but delivering nothing. They were just pretenders.

I shook my head. “I’m not buying it.”

“That is fine. You can’t buy what is not for sale, anyway. Not everyone believes in the same things.”

“I believe what I see.”

The Black Baba smiled. “Then you will not believe in much.”

I felt like I was being played with. “Really? I have seen a lot,” I said.

“I’m sure you have. But I doubt that you have seen enough.”

I didn’t like the way he was talking to me. “I have seen more than most people.”

He looked me in the eye again. “If that were really the case, then you would probably not be sitting here with me.”

I felt my temper flare up. “Really? I could leave at any time,” I snarled.

He shrugged. “You do not see enough. So… you will stay.”

“I don’t think so.”

He leaned in close. “Look into my eyes,” he said.

I did. He stared back at me intensely. I felt his gaze bore into my mind, as if he were actually reading my thoughts. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. His gaze was too powerful. I felt myself being pulled into his eyes. I couldn’t stop it. It was a terrifying feeling; it was a feeling that I never wanted to experience again. Finally I pulled back, breaking the gaze.

He leaned back, too. “I have seen into your soul,” he said.

I knew that he was right. I couldn’t deny it. I had felt it. It was true.

Suddenly, he stood up to leave. He had already finished his salad. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said. “Come to the Monkey Temple at dawn.”

I watched as he left, angry at having been toyed with, but somehow perplexed in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t believe in any of that stuff. I didn’t believe in magic. I didn’t believe in spiritualists. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I finished my lunch and left. Maybe some perfectly normal tourism would help clear my mind?

The next morning I went to the ancient Monkey Temple as agreed. It is an old stone stupa that is visited and revered by everyone, it seems. The air is cool there. It smells of incense. There is a beautiful view of the city from the patios of the surrounding restaurants.

I saw him standing on the balcony of a restaurant, looking out over the city. He wore a white linen suit this time. It matched his Panama hat perfectly.

I approached him and he turned to look at me.

“So you came after all,” he said.

“I did.”

He smiled. “I knew that you would.”

“How did you know?”

“I am not sure. I just did.”

“You read my mind yesterday,” I said.

“Yes. I did.”

I had a million questions running through my head. “What exactly happened?” I asked.

“I told you,” he said. “I looked into your soul.”

“There is no such thing as a soul.”

“That is what you think. But thinking won’t get you far. Quite often, thinking is just a dead end. And you seem to be looking more for a living beginning. Am I right?”

I didn’t know what to say.

He looked out over the city. “Come,” he said. “Let me show you something.”

He led me across the balcony. We stopped at the edge, looking out over the city. I could see the roofs of the buildings, the chaos of the electric wires, the serene intensity of Nepali city life. I could see the people walking up and down the streets: Hindus, buddhists, Tibetans in exile, tourists, beggars… Even some dogs… It was a beautiful sight. And then the giant stupa monument so close to us.

“What did you want to show me?” I asked.

“Only that. It’s called Swayambhu… It means self-created.”

I didn’t understand. “That is all?”

He looked out over the city again. “This is all there is,” he said. “There is no more than this.”

I didn’t believe him. “You said yesterday that you knew magic,” I said. “Where is it?”

“Don’t you see it?” he asked.

I looked around. “I don’t see anything.”

“You do not see. You do not feel. And yet you think you do.”

I was starting to get angry. “I mean, I don’t see anything special,” I said.

“You have not learned to see,” he answered. “You have not learned to feel.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t explain this to you unfortunately. It is something that you must learn on your own.”

“You won’t help me? Is that it?”

He shook his head. “I believe… You must learn on your own.”

I didn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t know how,” I said.

He kept looking at me. “You must first learn to know yourself.”

“How do I do that?”

“That is something that you must also learn on your own.”

“You won’t help me? OK, thanks a lot.”

He shook his head. “Again, I cannot. It is also something that you must do yourself.”

I was extremely disappointed in the Black Baba’s evasiveness, and even more disappointed in my own having believed in him for a brief moment. What a waste of time… I left him without even saying good-bye.

It all bugged me. Now I was becoming obsessed with finding things out, and I hated being in front of some weird, abstract mystery. I decided to seek out someone who actually knew what they were doing. I decided to seek out some local guru, some wise old Hindu or Buddhist monk, or whoever, as much as it made me laugh at a myself. But no-one else knew, so… so what?

Manic, and more and more desperate, I started to ask around. I went into a shop filled with religious knick-knacks. An old, wrinkled Nepalese woman was sitting behind the counter. She wore a red sari, with her grey hair tied back in a ponytail.

I greeted her. “Namaste.”

She looked at me. “Namaste.”

After nervously looking at her for a while, I asked her where I could perhaps find a guru. She looked at me for a moment. Perhaps she had heard that question a million times?

“There is one for people like you,” she said. “He lives in the mountains. Close to Wariphur.”

I was excited. “Where exactly?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. I have not seen him in many years. Maybe you should go there? Ask there?”

I thanked her and left. Over the following days I made preparations and then went by bus as far as I could. It took several hours to get there. I was tired when I arrived but didn’t want to sleep until I had found what I was looking for.

I asked around and eventually I found someone who at least looked like a guru. He was sitting on a bench outside of a small cottage. He wore a dirty brown tunic. His hair was long and wild in dreadlocks, and his beard long and dirty. He looked at me as I approached.

“Namaste,” I said.

“Namaste.”

I asked him if he was a guru. He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I am not the guru. But I know the guru.”

I was excited. “Where can I find him?”

“I do not know. He moves from place to place.”

“Do you know anyone who does know?”

The old man nodded, smiling. “There is a woman who lives in the next village. She may know.”

I thanked him and left the following morning. I walked over the lush hills to the next village. It took a whole day to get there but it was truly a lovely walk in spectacular landscapes. I was tired when I arrived, but I asked around until I found the old woman. She was sitting on a bench outside of a small hut, and looked at me and smiled as I approached.

“Namaste,” I said.

“Namaste.”

I asked her about the guru. She looked at me for a moment, then nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I know of a guru.”

I was excited. “Where can I find him?”

“I do not know. He moves from place to place.”

“Do you know anyone who does know?”

The woman nodded. “There is a man who lives in the next village. He may know.”

I thanked her and then fell asleep in a simple room in a guesthouse, exhausted by the walking and the feeling of being close to something I could not define. The next morning, I kept walking through the serene landscape to the next village. I asked around until I found the man. He was sitting on the ground under a big tree, meditating. He also had dreadlocked hair and a wild beard. He looked the part perfectly, and waved at me as I approached carefully.

“Namaste,” I said.

“Namaste.”

I asked him if he was the guru. He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head.

“No,” he said. “But I know of him.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Oh… He is in Kathmandu.” The old man pointed in the direction I had come from. “Go back the way you came.”

I was shocked and then depressed. I had walked all this way for nothing. What an amazing waste of time and energy.

I thanked the man and left right away, feeling utterly sorry for myself. I walked through the hills, the mountains, and eventually came back to the city. It took several days to get back there. But it was a lovely trek, and I saw so much beauty in the people, the children, the animals, the landscape… I guess it wasn’t wasted time after all. At least that was what I told myself. That Baba guy had been full of crap, and he had definitely tricked me. But why? Well, it no longer mattered so much to me. I was exhausted, and looked forward to getting back to my routines as a normal tourist. And to going home to America.

Once back in Kathmandu, I went to my favorite restaurant and sat down at my usual table. I was very surprised to find the Black Baba sitting there, too, at the next table. I just laughed out loud when he greeted me.

“I told you that I would see you again,” he said.

I nodded. “You did.”

“You have been away. What did you learn?”

I shrugged. “Not much.”

“That is to be expected. You weren’t ready, I guess.”

I didn’t like getting involved in his mind-games again. “Oh, really? How do I become ready, then?”

“You must first learn to know yourself.”

“I thought that was what I was doing.”

He shook his head. “No. You were not.”

“Then how do I learn?”

“That is something that you must figure out for yourself.”

“I take for granted you won’t help me?”

“On the contrary. I am helping you. You’re just not seeing it.”

I didn’t see how he was helping me. I didn’t see how anything was happening, or why. He was getting on my nerves – again.

“Have you learnt nothing at all?” the Baba asked me. “Even from all that walking?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

He nodded. ”Perhaps it is a start… Perhaps.”

“But what do I do now?”

“You must walk again. And stop thinking.”

I didn’t know what to say. I ate my food in silence. I was deeply disturbed by his arrogance, and by the fact that I couldn’t break free from his weird grip. Why was he even there in the first place?

That was it. I had had it, and got up and left. I thought I heard him chuckling behind my back.

The next day, I walked through the city to the edge of town and beyond, just walking and walking. Eventually, I stopped and looked back. The mountains rose up in the distance. The sun was setting. It looked so beautiful.

I had never seen anything like it in the same way; maybe because I was leaving the pollution of the valley behind.

The next morning, I started walking again. I walked for days on end in mixed emotions. I thought about everything that had happened. I thought about the Black Baba. I thought about the guru who wasn’t there. Or was he? I thought about the people I had met, and how kind they all had been.

Gradually, I realized something. I realized that I had been looking in the wrong place. I realized that I had been looking for answers outside of myself. I realized that they were all telling me the same thing but in different ways – sometimes even in silence. They were all telling me to look within myself for the answers to any questions I may have had.

Arriving at a small village at sunset, I asked a family if I could have shelter for the night. They agreed, and said they’d bring me something to eat and drink. I was amazed at how kind they were. I offered them some money but even though they were obviously poor, they refused. They showed me to the back of their house, where there was a small garden. I sat down at a rickety table. There was another man there. He took off his hat and looked at me. It was the Black Baba man. I just stared at him, thinking I must be hallucinating in my exhaustion.

But he was real, very real. He smiled at me and said “I knew you’d see eventually.”

I just couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to say. He was right though. I had seen. I had finally understood. He reached over and patted me on the arm. “Good work. Keep it up.” Then he simply stood up and walked away down the gravel road in the dusk. I never ever saw him again.

I have been back in the States for a while now and sometimes when I am alone and quiet I can still feel him patting me on the arm, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still smell Kathmandu. It makes me remember. It makes me smile and feel.

I am still walking. I am still searching. But now at least I know where to look. And I know that I am not alone.

© 2024 Carl Abrahamsson

This just arrived

This just arrived. Very Happy! Pre-ordering is up, with a physical release on Oct 1st.

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Weeklies: Extinction Exitainment Blues

We live in a culture of more or less instant gratification, and it makes us lazy; dumbed down even. Why bother looking through more layers or angles of an issue when someone (or something) else could tell us the answer immediately, or even do the work for us (or suggest expensive remedies)?

In my forthcoming magical autobiography, Meetings with Remarkable Magicians – Life in the Occult Underground, I touch upon this conundrum:

”And there they were in my own life: Crowley, Spare, P-Orridge, LaVey, Anger and a whole other army of poetically minded truth sayers, artists, and magicians; pushing on because they had to, without necessarily needing to understand why. That was exactly what I was striving for. And that’s why contemporary platitudes like ”Work smarter, not harder” have no meaning for me; it simply sounds like a euphemism for cutting corners. In my mind it’s always much better and much more rewarding to work harder.”

My approach has always been seeing the work itself a blessing and as its own reward; a work well performed is a result in itself. ”Work smarter, not harder” is the slogan of the corner-cutters, the cheapskates, those without understanding or appreciation of the merits of labor. Today, we see an entire culture of teen-titans and technocrats, as well as their serfs, all distancing themselves from initiative, mastery, and pride in achievement: great human qualities.

It’s become more cynical than ever these days, too. People actually pay to work less – or at least give the impression they do. Not in the sense of (logically) getting less pay for less work but rather that they actually pay dearly themselves to seem to work less. How many apps and services do you subscribe to that are supposed to make your life ”easier” and  more ”efficient”?

It’s in many ways the ultimate cynical triumph of our own distancing from our natural habitat. You don’t see a tree trying hard to get away with being less than a tree. Nor any animal. Even cats, lazy as they can seem, do exactly what they should and never less. They are pleasantly fulfilled by their feline efforts and then go back to dreamland, wondering… Whatever happened to humans?

Western culture is a culture of negligence and avoidance of realizing how thin the veil is; the veil that temporarily covers all aspects and insights of an imminent Ragnarök well-deserved. Repairs and strengthening seem too cumbersome and anxiety-ridden, so let’s do even less about it – or about anything. Riders of the perfect storm, trotting along while counting steps.

Our so-called activists are in actual fact just aggressive passivists. It seems more important to be visibly and audibly caught in the act of activism than to enforce actual potential aspects of change in themselves – as in slow and boring political drudge WORK.

Cutting corners is debilitating. It is life-negating. A good work ethic brings peace of mind. If you’re not happy with with any given situation of course you should try and change it – through work. Not by yapping, not by proxy, not by cutting corners, or by relying on technology or others to solve your own problems for you.

Most of us are still human and very pleased with that. Part of that agreement of and with being human is that we rely on our own initiatives and intelligence to solve problems and improve situations. Improvement is not something that will automatically require less of you. On the contrary, it might even require more of you. But the benefits will not only be a problem solved but also a deep-rooted feeling of existential satisfaction.

When looking at the good, life-affirming things we have and can share today, it’s easy to see that they are all the results of hard experimental work leading to construction, application, and dissemination. On the other hand, a culture that promotes shallow speed potentially digs the deepest graves.

What needs to be done? How do you go about doing it? Watch yourself closely in this process and be honest in admitting what brings you the most satisfaction – no matter how ”uncool” or ”untrendy” it can seem to others. Then you orient yourself from that and onwards.

I suspect I already know your direction because we are, after all, part of the same species. Working hard is an essential – perhaps even quintessential – positive part of the human experience. Let’s work it for as long as we can.

P.S. That said… I am contemporary western so I constantly need to publicly improve my ”brand” and sell something while sharing these free words of wisdom with you. So please buy my autobiography so I don’t seem to be some crazy radical who has ideas of some substantial kind. Whenever the bots listen I’m a good cyber-citizen and whisper gently to them that all I really want for Christmas is to make slightly more money than my fellow man/woman/they-them. The rest, I guess, is byte-sized padding for people who can still read.

Get your own copy of my book here.

P.P.S. The photo was taken by my lovely wife Vanessa as we were visiting the great Tjolöholm Castle on the west coast of Sweden a few years ago; incidentally (?) where Lars von Trier filmed his exquisite Götterdämmerung porn film “Melancholia” in 2011.

A lecture on “Midsommar”

Early post, I know, but… Don’t miss this talk in which I look closer at this fun ”Swedesploitation” film from the point of view of the Collective Unconscious, and how an attempt at mockery can backfire and instead promote a relevant ideal:

https://www.morbidanatomy.org/events-tickets/online-talk-midsommar-a-weird-tale-of-unconscious-ideals-with-carl-abra hamsson

#occulture #midsommar #morbidanatomy #carlabrahamsson

Fiction: The Expedition

Everyone was watching their tele-vizers or mind-transmitters, anxious to see what the vessel from the Saturn expedition had brought back from its voyage of almost one hundred years. I couldn’t care less. I already knew what was going to happen. It was a tragedy waiting to happen. I knew.

Just about a month before the arrival of the spaceship, I had written a short story for English class. It was titled “The Expedition.” I had spent days pouring my heart into the story. It was about a spaceship that traveled from Earth to Saturn and back again, taking just under one hundred years. The crew, all middle-aged men and women but still alive thanks to their power-packing gene-snacks, were extremely excited about their journey and the things they had discovered. They spent years exploring Saturn’s moons and rings, discovering new forms of life and recording new data. And they had been back in touch for the past month after decades of silence.

I didn’t tell anyone about my story; I wanted it to be a surprise for everyone. But when we heard there was communication with the vessel again, I felt uneasy. Why had I written this just before they got back in touch? It didn’t make sense to me. I had to tell someone. I told my best friend, Ben. He read it over lunch one afternoon at school.

I waited anxiously while Ben read my story. After finishing, he closed the binder and looked up at me, shaking his head.

“You’re such a morbid kid, Soldan,” he said, his face grim. “This is some sick crap.”

“Is it?” I asked, confused. I had been hoping for a more positive response.

“It’s about this spaceship that comes back from Saturn,” Ben sneered. “But when they land, the crew goes out and everyone dies. Their bones crumble to dust in the Earth’s gravity for some unexplained reason. It’s so morbid.” He shook his head again, frowning. “Why’d you write this? You know they’re coming back any day now, huh?”

“I don’t know why,” I admitted, feeling a little embarrassed. “I just wanted to write something… good.”

“Well, you did a great job, but it’s so sad,” Ben said, patting me on the back. “You should stick with happier things.”

I didn’t say anything, but inside I was feeling a bit hurt. I had wanted Ben to like my story.

Coming home, I gave the story to my parents, hoping they would read it and praise me for its qualities. I didn’t have high hopes for it though. They set it aside and kept talking to each other. Business as usual.

That night, I sat at my desk and tried to write another story. One that would make people happy. But everything I tried to write came out sounding silly or childish. I couldn’t do it. So I put down my pen and decided to call it a night.

As soon as I fell asleep, I dreamed about the crew of the Saturn expedition.

They were a bunch of aged men and women in spacesuits. They had spent nearly one hundred years in zero gravity and looked extremely frail. They climbed out of the spaceship one at a time, their faces filled with joy and wonder. They then held hands with each other and stood at the top of the ramp that led out of the ship. They smiled at the crowd and waved.

A man with a white beard and white hair climbed out last. His uniform was different than the others; it had stripes and badges all over it.

“My name is Commander Peregrinus,” he said, waving at the crowd. He had some kind of dry sense of humor and a weary look in his eyes. “I’m the captain of the crew. We’ve spent nearly one hundred years out there and we have a lot to share with you. We’ve discovered new species, recorded new information. We’ve made history. We—”

He stopped speaking abruptly and frowned. The other members of the crew looked at him curiously. He rubbed his arms and shoulders and suddenly began to scream.

“My bones!” he cried. “My bones are breaking! Oh God, they’re breaking!”

The rest of the crew looked down and screamed as well. I literally heard a loud cracking sound and saw the flesh on their bones begin to turn into dust. They tried to run back inside the ship, but it was too late. They collapsed into piles of bone and dust. The last thing Peregrinus blurted out was “We should have stayed in space.”

I woke up anxious and sweating. My alarm was blaring and my clock read six o’clock. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, looking around the room. Everything was normal. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just had the worst nightmare of my life. I had a headache. It was the exact scenes from my story, only displayed inside my head.

My parents were up early so we could watch the Saturn expedition land on our street’s hovering tele-vizer. My room was already filled with its bright glow from the street, and it made my headache even worse. My mom was sitting on my bed, patting my shoulder. My dad, sister, and brother were in my room, too. All of them were dressed and ready to go.

“Wake up, Soldan,” my mom said, shaking my shoulder. “We’re about to watch the expedition land.”

“Don’t want to,” I said, pulling my pillow over my head. “I’ve seen it before.”

“What do you mean?” my dad asked.

“I had a dream,” I said, keeping my face hidden in my pillow. ”I also wrote a story about it. I don’t want any part of this.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” my mom said, patting my shoulder. “Come watch it anyway. It’ll be fun.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve already seen it.”

“Come on,” my sister said. “It’ll be cool.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Soldan,” my brother said. “Don’t be a sissy.”

“No!”

“Soldan, stop being selfish,” my mom said. “You need to spend time with your family sometimes, and not just write your weird stories and read those trashy books.” She got off the bed and walked to the door.

I threw off my pillow and sat up, looking at my family. They all stared back at me.

“I don’t want to watch it because I don’t want to see a bunch of people die,” I said.

My family looked confused. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t understand either.

“They’re not going to die, moron,” my brother said, rolling his eyes. “What are you talking about? They’re landing any minute now.”

“Their bones will break and turn to dust,” I said. “I wrote about it, and I saw it in a dream, too.”

My family looked at each other and shrugged.

“Soldan, you need to stop watching those horror movies,” my sister said, shaking her head. “They’re giving you bad dreams.”

“I don’t watch horror movies,” I said. “And my dream wasn’t bad. It was…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “It was just real.”

“It wasn’t real,” my mom said, walking back over to me. She sat down on the bed again and put her arm around me. “It was just a dream.”

“It was real,” I insisted, pulling away from her. “I don’t want to watch it. And what about the story I wrote? You read it, didn’t you? I just don’t want any part of it.”

“Okay,” she said, standing up. “But if you change your mind, you can join us anytime.”

“Sure,” I said, lying down again. “But I won’t.”

I lay in bed and listened as my family went downstairs to watch the tele-vizer. I wondered if what I had written and seen was really going to happen.

I stayed in bed for two hours. I tried to fall back asleep, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking about the expedition. I re-read my story. I wondered what they had seen on Saturn. I wondered what new species they had discovered. I wondered what Commander Peregrinus looked like in real life.

After two hours of lying in bed, I got tired of thinking about the expedition. So I decided to get up and do something productive.

I got out of bed and got dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. I went downstairs to the living room, looking for something to do. The room was empty. I walked over to the window and looked out.

There were people standing in front of our house, looking up at the tele-vizer screen. They had set up folding chairs and blankets. I wondered why they were watching the expedition on the screen in front of our house instead of on their own mind-sets. I walked over to the screen and looked at it.

The Saturn expedition had landed safely and was just opening up the doors to the ship. I felt a rush of excitement and stepped closer to the screen. I could hear the announcer speaking on the tele-vizer.

“…The crew of the expedition has been exploring Saturn for nearly one hundred years,” the announcer said. “They’ve seen things we can’t imagine. They’ve discovered new life forms, new planets. They’ve made history…”

I felt anxious and looked around. Where were my parents?

Suddenly, the tele-vizer screen went white. A loud screech filled the air. I covered my ears and stepped back, in pain. Everyone else was doing the same thing. Then the tele-vizer screen flickered back to life.

The commander was climbing out of the spaceship. He was an old man with white hair and a white beard. He looked just like I had pictured him. He waved at the crowd and smiled.

“Hello, everyone,” he said. “We’re so, so happy to finally be back on Earth.”

The announcer continued to speak as the crew began to exit the ship. “This is the crew of the Saturn expedition,” he said. “They’ve been traveling for nearly one hundred years. And now, they’re coming home…”

The people standing in front of our house were all watching the screen with big smiles on their faces. They were holding each other’s hands and stupidly waving at the screen. I wanted to close my eyes but just couldn’t.

The commander was still smiling at the crowd. He was waving at them and holding out his hands. They reached out to him, but he suddenly shook his head in panic.

“My bones!” he cried. “They’re breaking!”

I felt a chill run down my spine as the announcer continued to speak.

“The Saturn expedition has landed safely and the crew is exiting the ship,” he said. “They’re waving at the crowd and smiling. This is an historical moment…”

The rest of the crew looked down at their hands and screamed hysterically as well. The announcer’s voice faltered.

“…What’s going on?” the announcer said. “I don’t know what’s going on. Something’s happening. I…”

The rest of the crew continued to scream in agony. The announcer’s voice cut off and the tele-vizer screen cut to a mind-vert for a new strain of happy-carbs. Everyone else was staring at the screen. Some people were trying to look away, and most were crying. I heard a loud crashing sound and turned back to the screen. There was live footage again.

The entire crew had collapsed to the ground. They were piles of bone and dust. I heard someone whisper “Oh my God,” and turned to look at the people standing in front of our house.

They were all staring at the screen. Some were sobbing. I turned away and walked back to the house. My parents were standing in the living room, in shock. My sister and brother were sitting on the floor, staring at our small tele-vizer. I walked over to my parents and stood behind them. They turned and looked at me. Then they grabbed me and hugged me. My brother and sister came over and hugged me as well. We stood in the center of the room, crying and hugging each other.

The Saturn expedition had landed and all the crew members had died. I had somehow known it was going to happen. After everyone else had gone home, my family and I sat in the living room and kept staring at the tele-vizer screen. There was a picture of the commander on it. He had a big smile on his face. Underneath his picture, it said “In memory of the Saturn expedition.”

“Why didn’t they stay in space?” my sister asked, staring at the screen.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.

“They shouldn’t have come home,” my brother said. “They should have just stayed out there.”

“Why?” my sister asked, frowning.

“They weren’t meant to come back,” my brother said. “They should have stayed on Saturn.”

“But then we would never have seen them again,” my sister said. “We would never have seen the things they had seen.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But they would still be alive. Maybe they should have stayed on Earth in the first place…”

My family nodded and we all fell silent. After a few minutes, my mom turned and looked at me. She had tears in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, shaking her head. “Why didn’t you tell us about your story?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I didn’t think you would believe me. And by the way, I did give it to you to read. The other night? Remember?”

“We would have believed you,” my mom said, grabbing me and hugging me. “We always believe you. You’re a special child. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded and hugged her back.

“But why did they have to die?” my sister asked, staring at the screen and then at me, as if I knew.

“They had to,” my brother said and also looked at me. “It seems… that’s how the story goes.”

I couldn’t really sleep that night. Just dozing off and on for hours. I woke up to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, looking at the clock. It was seven am.

“Who is it?” I asked, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“Mom,” my mom said through the door.

“Come in,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

Mom was wearing a robe and had her hair up in a bun. She walked over to my bed and sat down, smiling at me nervously.

“How are you doing?” she asked, rubbing my back.

“I’m okay,” I said, nodding.

My mom nodded back and smiled. “I wanted to talk to you about your story,” she said. “Do you have it?”

I nodded and pointed to my desk. My mom stood up and walked over to it. She opened the top drawer and pulled out my binder. She then read it from beginning to end.

“Now I’ve read your story,” she said. “It is very good. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling back.

“I wanted to apologize for not believing you,” my mom said, shaking her head. “We should have believed you.”

“It’s okay,” I said, shrugging. “I didn’t believe myself.”

“Well, we should have,” my mom said, patting my shoulder.

I nodded, feeling happy despite the tragedy.

“Do you want to write another story?” my mom asked. “Maybe something happier this time?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

“Well, whatever you write will be great,” she continued. “Just let us read it before you give it to your teacher. And let’s just keep this binder in your room, OK? No need to talk about this with others, OK?”

I wondered if I or anyone else would ever know what had actually happened. But I didn’t really care now. I had written a story about it. My family believed me. From now on, they always would. I was a special child. That was all that mattered.

© 2024 Carl Abrahamsson

The first of many book events

Mark your calendar for this great FREE book release event!

https://www.morbidanatomy.org/events-tickets/free-online-book-talk-meetings-with-remarkable-magicians-with-carl-abrahamsson

October 27 2024: Join Carl Abrahamsson as he talks about his brand new magical autobiography Meetings with Remarkable Magicians: Life in the Occult Underground, followed by a Q & A and conversation with Vanessa Sinclair.

In his book, illustrating the possibilities of a life infused with magic, Abrahamsson reflects on his decades spent in the company of some of the most unconventional thinkers of the late-20th and early-21st centuries. Revealing how his immersion in both the underground and above-ground world of art and the occult only grew through his adolescence and into adulthood, the author details his involvement with psychedelic culture, the punk subculture, and numerous occult figures and organizations, including Genesis P-Orridge and Thee Temple Ov Psychick Youth, Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan, the Ordo Templi Orientis, and a branch of the American Golden Dawn.

Interwoven with his occult experiences and meetings with infamous practitioners of magic, Abrahamsson describes his evolution as a multi-disciplinary artist, detailing his pursuits in writing, making music, and working as a photographer and filmmaker, always imbuing his diverse artistic practice with a developing occult philosophy. He also details his ongoing efforts to disseminate the occult arts via publishing companies like Psychick Release, Looking Glass Press, Edda Publishing, Trapart Books, and the occultural journal The Fenris Wolf—as well as fieldwork in Tibet, Nepal, and India through The Institute of Comparative Magico-anthropology.

Through each encounter and reflection on the magical, shamanic, and mystical practices that have structured his own life, Abrahamsson richly illuminates how it’s possible to experience a rich, wise, and abundant life of wisdom and miracles.

—

I will talk about the book, show unique photos and film clips, talk to Vanessa, and hopefully also to YOU!

The book is available on pre-order here:

https://amzn.to/3 L5Cajy

#meetingswithremarkablemagicians #occulture #sourcemagic #innertraditions #fraterud #carlabrahamsson

Join a Class of its own!

Carl Abrahamsson: Into the Devil’s Den and Back – An Introduction to the Magical System of Anton LaVey & the Church of Satan

Sign up for my brand new class here:

https://www.morbidanatomy.org/classes/into-the-devils-den-and-back-an-introduction-to-the-magical-system-of-anton-lavey-and-the-church-of-satan-taught-by-carl-abrahamsson-beginning-july-7

During four consecutive Sundays in July you will be presented with unique material and insights that shed an infernal light on the dark mysteries of LaVeyan Satanism. Whether you are a curious beginner or already an ardent and knowledgeable Satanist, you will be able to experience a wild and inspiring ride into the netherworlds of the human psyche. As recommended by LaVey himself, exercise your own Beast rather than exorcize it, and live life to the fullest every day, every night. In this course you will be provided with fuel for your own unique and beastly fire… Let Anton LaVey’s ideas inspire you to try out what real, tangible magic really means.

July 7th: The History of Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan

July 14th: Satanic Magic in Theory

July 21st: Satanic Magic in Practice

July 28th: The Future of the LaVeyan System of Magic

After each lecture, there will be time for a Q & A session. Don’t miss this unique opportunity to expand your mind in great Infernal company!

#antonlavey #churchofsatan #magic #occulture #satanism #morbidanatomy #carlabrahamsson

New class coming up!

Into the Devil’s Den and Back: Four sessions in a unique and exclusive class on Anton LaVey and his magical system! Join me as I talk about the history of Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan, his magical system in theory & practice, in detail, and its future – with the help of ultra-rare archival material. This is a focused and substantial infusion of hardcore magic created by a highly controversial and innovative magician. LaVey’s Satanism not only challenged a stagnant society and culture in the 1960s but also the magical ”market” ever since. In this course you will get an in-depth look into and understanding of his basic tenets as well as advanced secrets to real, tangible practices and techniques that can change your life.

Sign up for this course here:

https://www.morbidanatomy.org/classes/into-the-devils-den-and-back-an-introduction-to-the-magical-system-of-anton-lavey-and-the-church-of-satan-taught-by-carl-abrahamsson-beginning-july-7

During four consecutive Sundays in July you will be presented with unique material and insights that shed an infernal light on the dark mysteries of LaVeyan Satanism. Whether you are a curious beginner or already an ardent and knowledgeable Satanist, you will be able to experience a wild and inspiring ride into the netherworlds of the human psyche. As recommended by LaVey himself, exercise your own Beast rather than exorcize it, and live life to the fullest every day, every night. In this course you will be provided with fuel for your own unique and beastly fire… Let Anton LaVey’s ideas inspire you to try out what real, tangible magic really means.

July 7th: The History of Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan

July 14th: Satanic Magic in Theory

July 21st: Satanic Magic in Practice

July 28th: The Future of the LaVeyan System of Magic

After each lecture, there will be time for a Q & A session.

Sign up for this course here:

https://www.morbidanatomy.org/classes/into-the-devils-den-and-back-an-introduction-to-the-magical-system-of-anton-lavey-and-the-church-of-satan-taught-by-carl-abrahamsson-beginning-july-7

Don’t miss this unique opportunity to expand your mind in great Infernal company! 

– Carl Abrahamsson, director of the LaVey documentary ”Into the Devil’s Den,” author of ”Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan: Infernal Wisdom from the Devil’s Den,” as well as a Magister of the Church of Satan

Magic Trip Updates

Thank you so much for filling out the survey about our magical trip plans. So far, Bali, Morocco, and Egypt are the top choices among the people who’ve taken the survey. That sure sounds great to us – all of these places are incredible.

If you haven’t filled out the survey already, please do so here:

https://trovatrip.com/host/profiles/carl-7lcth

It allows us to see where we should plan a first magical trip together with fine people just like you.

I have been to Morocco several times, and Vanessa and I went there in 2019 to celebrate the summer solstice with the Master Musicians of Joujouka. Beyond magical!

In 2018 we went to Egypt, traveled the Nile, and saw a great amount of supremely magical remnants of an astounding civilization. It’s something that really needs to be experienced first hand.

So of course we’d like to go back at some point, but… There’s magic all over the world! If you would like to travel with us, do let us know which your preferred destinations are … the world is a big place!

https://trovatrip.com/host/profiles/carl-7lcth

#wakinguptoaworldofmagic #vanessasinclair #carlabrahamsson

Weeklies: It’s a real stretch

It seems like every time I scroll through my streaming services, the majority of the content being recommended to me are series: TV shows with multiple episodes that can span over several seasons. Remember the days where we could sit down and enjoy a complete narrative within a two-hour movie? Now, it’s all about investing hours upon hours into one story, only for it to end on a cliffhanger and leave us waiting for the next season.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good TV series just as much as the next person. But lately, I’ve been wondering why we have become so obsessed with (or conditioned to) this type of extracted storytelling.

Why do we allow ourselves to be pacified by these stretched-out stories? Is it because we have become conditioned by society’s need for instant gratification and constant stimulation? Are we too neurologically disappointed if an entire story arc unfolds in one sitting?

One theory could perhaps be that our brains (or at least our perceptions) have evolved along with technology and social media, making us more accustomed to shorter forms of communication such as tweets and posts. Our attention spans have shortened significantly, and mostly for the worse. Maybe the extremely long fictional narrative arcs are needed as a counter-balance, strictly neurologically? Consider the difference between a tweet, text message, or post, and a good hearty face-to-face, substantial conversation with a friend. In a world like ours, can we live without the latter?

Perhaps there is another reason behind our fascination with the endless series: money. In today’s media world, where everything is fueled by raw media greed capitalism, even the art of story-telling has succumbed to the pressure of needing high profit margins. The film industry has realized that producing multiple seasons of a popular series generates more revenue than creating stand-alone movies. And if they can’t come up with any new and unique ideas… Hey, why not just milk a super hero franchise for ever and ever?

This trend has also translated into mainstream cinema where movies are becoming longer and longer – sometimes reaching three hours or more in length. How come David Lynch could turn ”Dune” into a great action-packed movie, while Villeneuve’s sleepy version feels like a perfume commercial on opiates? Is this purely a marketing strategy to entice audiences to spend more money on ticket prices and concessions? Or is it an effort to justify the high production/marketing costs by providing viewers with ”more” content? Quantity as quality? Or just a clever way to pacify people even more?

What effect does all of this extended viewing have on our perception of time? It’s no secret that binge-watching has become a common practice, where people can easily watch multiple episodes in one long sitting. ”Binging” has become a way of life – perhaps most attractive to those who are not already addicted to ”gaming.” With the swift rise of competing streaming services, we now have access to huge amounts of entire series at once rather than waiting week after week for new episodes. The few services that do initially serve only one episode a week of a new and attractive show will be guaranteed to accumulate bad-will (I can even see that phenomenon disappearing soon). People want their fix right away, and do not mind over-dosing at all. On the contrary, that is part of the lifestyle and social discourse already. ”I just couldn’t stop…”

When we binge-watch, we tend to lose track of time as each episode seamlessly merges into the next. Hours fly by without us even realizing it. Repeated exposure to these elongated stories seems to slow down our perception of time even further. The anticipation built up throughout an entire season makes it seem like an eternity until the next one comes out. (To not sound aloof and cynical here, I’m definitely speaking from my own experience of elongated torture in waiting for the next season of a favorite show…)

There is something to be said about the power of a well-told story in its original format – a novel or one single film. Focused attention and the suspension of disbelief! These mediums have withstood the test of time and continue to capture audiences’ attention without losing their impact. But let’s see if that conservative fantasy holds up – people no longer read books to the same extent: they listen to them. Or watch the movie adaptation. Or TV series adaptation.

In a novel, we are forced to use our imagination and fill in the blanks between words, creating our own unique interpretation of the story. Similarly, in a ”normal” movie, every scene and line of dialogue has significance as there is but a limited time for exposition. This not only keeps us engaged but also allows for a more concise and impactful storytelling experience. I would argue that this creates a deeper connection with the material rather than just passively taking it in.

So why do we continue to choose series over standalone works? Is it because they provide easy entertainment without requiring much effort from us? Or are we nowadays truly slower in our understanding of narrative sequences?

I can see a future when we are locked to the device in question, and have no say in the matter as to what’s being projected straight into our brains and minds. The transmissions will not be intelligent and concise; they will be even duller and even more drawn out, slowing down not only our perception of time but also our actual capacities for comprehension and critical thinking.

Maybe next time you find yourself scrolling through streaming services looking for something new to watch, consider opting for a movie instead of diving into yet another ten-hour commitment. Time is the most precious commodity of individual life, and it’s up to us to choose how we use it in the most intelligent way.

P.S. I don’t like to endorse too much, but would like to recommend MUBI, Cultpix, and Criterion (if you’re in the US). Choose your battles – and movie input – wisely!