​Writing a first draft is always an exercise in frustration, self-doubt, and perseverance. It’s where half-formed ideas take their first trembling steps into existence. The process is always grueling, filled with roadblocks and the constant temptation to quit. In my case, the first draft of New Eleusis became an unexpected pile-up of obstacles—computer problems like a dead battery and a cord that needed replacing, getting locked out of essential accounts while trying to access them from Mexico, and countless other mishaps and detours. I even wrote nearly 30,000 words of my 80,000 projected word count on my phone to keep the project moving forward. Besides the tech problems, there were other typical first draft concerns.

​The sheer emptiness of a new document can feel like an insurmountable challenge. There’s no safety net, no guide—just the expectation to create something from nothing. The longer you stare at the blinking cursor, the more paralyzing the task becomes. What is the best way to defeat this fear? Start typing, even if it’s terrible—especially if it’s terrible. Progress beats perfection every time.  In my case, I was tackling an ambitious work, perhaps the most ambitious project I have ever tackled. That “ambition” added another layer of pressure.

​You have a brilliant idea inside—sharp, evocative, and powerful. But when you try to translate it onto the page, it comes out flat, clunky, and embarrassing. This disconnect is normal. First drafts rarely capture the full depth of an idea. They are stepping stones, not finished works of art. The key is to get the words down so you have something to refine and expand later.
 
Blending neo-noir, gothic horror, eroticism, and ancient mysteries into a cohesive narrative was a balancing act that demanded precision and instinct. Each genre has its expectations—neo-noir thrives on cynicism and hardboiled fatalism, gothic horror evokes dread and decay, erotic elements require tension and restraint, and ancient mysteries demand a slow unraveling of hidden truths. The challenge was weaving these disparate tones into something seamless, where atmosphere and character drove the story rather than genre tropes clashing for dominance.

​Both experienced and inexperienced writers face the nagging voice that whispers, “This isn’t good.” The inner critic is relentless, convincing you that your story is unoriginal, your prose is weak, and your characters are lifeless. The trick is to acknowledge the doubt but keep writing anyway. Editing is where brilliance emerges, not in the first messy pass.
 
For New Eleusis, that nagging voice was louder than ever. Am I attempting too much? Is it possible to meld neo-noir, gothic horror, eroticism, and gnostic ideas into a single, coherent vision? This voice warned that the tone might slip, that the atmosphere might suffocate the plot. The sheer weight of influences could crush originality. Can something so ambitious truly work? Can these disparate elements sublimate into something greater rather than pulling the story apart at the seams? The doubt lingered, feeding on the fear that it was all merely a patchwork of borrowed styles rather than a living, breathing world of its own.

​The excitement of a new project fades fast, and writing a first draft requires relentless commitment. Some days, the words flowed effortlessly. On other days, every sentence was a war. The key is to show up anyway. Set a daily word count, a schedule, or a routine—whatever keeps you accountable. Momentum is everything. I’m happy to say I remained disciplined despite the setbacks. In the end, I completed my 3-month challenge, ending up with around 89,000 words.

​A first draft is a dumpster fire of plot holes, inconsistent characterization, and clunky dialogue. Scenes go nowhere. Subplots dangle unresolved. The themes shift halfway through. That’s fine. The purpose of a first draft isn’t perfection—it’s to exist. The refining comes later. But it’s okay; the second draft remedies the problems.

​Editing while drafting is a dangerous trap. It slows progress, feeding the illusion that you need to perfect every sentence before moving forward. Thankfully, I resisted the urge, but it wasn’t easy. A first draft should be written with reckless abandon. Get the words out, then worry about fixing them later.

​Halfway through, doubt hits hard. The initial excitement disappears, the end feels impossibly far, and every flaw in the draft looms large. This is where most people quit. On top of that, I had to rethink my entire process—my computer battery died, I got locked out of crucial accounts, and my usual workflow became impossible. I had to adapt, figuring out how to dictate on my phone, finding ways to pull files off my computer, and adjusting my game plan to keep writing. It wasn’t ideal, but the only way forward was through. I pushed past the frustration, worked with what I had, and finished before long.

A completed first draft, no matter how flawed, is something real. It’s proof you pushed through doubt, setbacks, and resistance to pull a story out of nothing. And for New Eleusis, it’s just the beginning—a rough, unwieldy mass of ideas waiting to be shaped. In a few weeks, I’ll dive into the second draft, peeling back the layers, refining the tone, and pushing deeper into the unknown. The real story is buried beneath the surface, and revision is where I’ll unearth it.
 
If you want to know more about the writing process of New Eleusis, check out my playlist on YouTube.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve started my next novel called New Eleusis. I can’t say much about it yet except that it’s an erotic novel. Eleusis is the name of an Ancient Greek mystery school and I’m using that as a template for a Dante’s Inferno-like descent story where the protagonist enters a religio-erotic initiation. Some inspirations I’m drawing from are Lord of the Flies, The Gnostic Gospels, The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick, and the work of the Rosicrucian occultist Paschal Beverly Randolph.

I’m also interested in examining the duality between our physical bodies and our spiritual selves, drawing from the work of David Lynch and the film Persona by Ingmar Bergman. The book will be a deep dive into the uncanny and a symbolic representation of Gnostic enlightenment. I’m interested in it representing the breaking through of gnostic illusion by portraying it as an ecstatic fever-dream.

Recently I had the chance to sit down with author Erik Mortenson to discuss our collaborative memoir called Kick Out the Bottom (Check out the conversation in the video above). This is a book we've been working on since about 2015 or 2016 so it's nice that it's finally coming out. It's releasing through Cornerstone Press at the end of August. Presales for the print edition have begun (contact www.uwsp.edu/cornerstone or cornerstone.press@uwsp.edu).

Kick Out the Bottom is an experimental memoir that chronicles our time in bohemian Detroit at the millennium’s turn. Together we express our views on both the city and a mutual friend who became something of a mystical teacher, introducing us to the occult, magic, yoga, and counterculture ideas. It also attempts to understand and negotiate the obvious racial implications of two white men journeying through a majority-Black city while going through a transformative experience.

"It may happen that small differences in the initial conditions produce very great ones in the final phenomena.”  - Henri Poincare

​“Chance is a word void of sense; nothing can exist without a cause.” - Voltaire

I enter my studio like every other evening, sitting down on the bed and looking out the window into the night skyline of Portland, Oregon. As the sound of metropolitan-life increases, my thoughts drift to the many pressures of life and the plethora of different ideas associated with it: civic pressure, stamina, and interpersonal relationships. I glance at my windowsill and as I do this, my eyes pass over a key ring. Without thinking about it, I just stare at the ring. Wait. Those are not my keys, and what are they doing on my windowsill?

Suddenly, I feel paranoia, and look around, wondering if someone has been inside my apartment. Everything looks in order, nothing amiss, no signs of searching or of theft. I lift the keys and study them; they’re all new chrome-plated keys of different shapes and sizes. Upon closer examination, I discover something peculiar: four of the seven keys have “ACE” engraved on them. This may not sound too strange. ACE Hardware sells keys. But to me it’s a sign: Four Aces makes up a winning hand in poker. Most people wouldn't notice. I, however, have a keen interest in symbolic coincidences. I believe in chance, or better yet, I believe in synchronicity: the aligning of two arbitrary events, which actually have a distinct connection.

In this situation, either chance came into play or I’m being stalked? I don’t know why anyone would want to stalk me, so some random event caused the keys to appear on my windowsill and the strange probability of four of them having ACE engraved upon them. How this curious event integrates itself into my life is determined by the knowledge of how these keys appeared and also how my mind sees this “coincidence.”

In the essay, The Process of Individuation, Marie-Louise Von Franz speaks of the theory of “coincidence” as examined from the point of view of Carl Jung’s concept of synchronicity. Von Franz describes synchronicity as “… a “meaningful coincidence” of outer and inner events that are not themselves casually connected.” The symbol of the Four Aces resonates with me because of a personal connection concerning the symbols of the key, gambling, the seven, and the four.

In esoteric theory, the four doors of the four cosmic watchtowers are symbolic ways to describe centering yourself within your psyche; east, west, north, south. To do a mystical banishing, one must petition the four directions. Over the years, I’ve lived a reckless life, which I consider a game that is located high above a game board. Few people understand the rules of this game, but they play. I gamble with my life often. But this gambling produces a profound understanding of the game and its eventual outcome. As far as seven, seven alchemical stages exist to reach the gold, the nirvana, the heaven, the nameless.

Now, this all could be mere coincidence if it weren’t for the resonation within my personal experience. In George B. Hogenson’s The Self, the Symbolic and Synchronicity: Virtual Realities and the Emergence of the Psyche, the differential between chance events and synchronicity is determined by his defense of the archetype. He states:

“All too often, however, we tend to lose sight of this distinction and claim synchronicity when all we really have is chance. Jung’s distinction between the two phenomena rests on the creation of meaning, or the meaningfulness of juxtaposed events. He also remarks that synchronistic events are usually associated with archetypal materials, that they have profound affective and symbolic characteristics, and that they change the order of life.”

The archetype is the connecting principle between the psychic field and physical reality. Von Franz also states: 
“Jung stresses the point that since the physical and the psychic realms coincide within the synchronistic event, there must be somewhere or somehow a Unitarian reality—one reality of the physical and psychic realms to which he gave the Latin expression unus mundus, the one world, a concept which already existed in the minds of some mediaeval philosophers.”

The connection to the unus mundus, or one unified reality/world, has always existed, but as human consciousness expands, the sensitivity to the relationship increases. There is a correlation between the machine age and the increase in mind-altering drugs. This may sound ridiculous, but consider how consciousness has changed since the 20th century, since the machine began recording our lives; and since drugs have stimulated the human brain: an organic machine. Our brain is just an organic recording device, no different from the recording process of a mechanical instrument.

In the essay, Magick Squares and Future Beats: The Magical Processes and Methods of William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge describes a conversation he had with Burroughs concerning consciousness in our modern age:
 
“Care for a drink? He asked, “Sure’ I replied, nervous and for one of the only times in my life, in awe. “Well, Reality is not all it’s cracked up to be, you know,” he continued. He took the remote and started to flip through the channels, cutting up programmed TV. I realized he was teaching me. At the same time he began to hit stop and start on his Sony TC cassette recorder, mixing in “random” cut-up prior recordings. These were overlaid with our conversation, none acknowledging the other, an instant holography of information and environment. I was already being taught. What Bill explained to me then was pivotal to the unfolding of my life and art: Everything is recorded. If it is recorded, then it can be edited. If it can be edited then the order, sense, meaning, and direction are as arbitrary and personal as the agenda and/or person editing. This is magick. For if we have the ability and/or choice of how things unfold –regardless of the original order and/or intention that they are recorded in –then we have control over the eventual unfolding. If reality consists of a series of parallel recordings that usually go unchallenged, then reality only remains stable and predictable until it is challenged and/or the recordings are altered, or their order changed. These concepts lead us to the release of cut-ups as a magical process.”

Life is a series of cut-ups. This cut-up magical technique is a synchronistic artistic process, where the artisan takes an existing work, and cuts apart portions to randomize and re-assemble them into a new order and meaning. Tristan Tzara created the technique in the 1920s, when he pulled words out of a hat at the Cabaret Voltaire. Burroughs and Gysin improved upon the technique in 1958, by editing each other; They dubbed this collaboration The Third Mind. This is the technique in which Burroughs ordered his chapters in his novel Naked Lunch (1945). Written language is nothing more than another recording process, and the techniques of magical randomization can apply to this, as well as to physical reality. The truth of existence is being randomized, and it produced patterns; all these patterns are meaningful, none a coincidence. The same law of patterning placed the Four Aces in my windowsill as the cut-up.

It’s imperative to understand that the synchronistic event and the cut-up are entryways into the subconscious. Therefore, when the conscious mind bypasses logic, the “other within” emerges and taps into the indefinable power of the random organization. The tenuous relationship that exists between reality and chance defies logic. Chance and logic seem to contradict one another. It's logical to believe that ordered systems are in place and that each system has an element of unpredictability. In the purest sense of reality, this is not an accurate statement; chance exists as a complex chaotic system with its own law; it is an anarchic system within a system of order; they are both random and predictable if you understand its language.
 
In 1909, the English artist and occultist Austin Osman Spare took the cut-up technique and began experimenting with sigilization. The sigil is an ancient magical technique that affects the collective subconscious. Magicians as far back as King Solomon experimented with the technique. There are many versions of how this is done, but the basic system is the artist/magician takes a word phrase and cuts the words apart, removing vowels and repeated letters, until they break the word down into consonants only. They then morph together the consonants to produce a symbol. In the introduction to The Book of Pleasure (1909), Kenneth Grant speaks of Spare’s process:
 
“The Book of Pleasure contains a unique method of obtaining control of the subconscious energies latent in the human mind in the form of primal atavisms. It is evident that if such energy can be tapped and channeled, it can be directed to creative or destructive ends on a scale infinitely beyond anything achievable by the mind in the more limited state that characterizes ‘waking’ consciousness.”
 
Modern artists use this energy all the time, as with the Dadaists, the Surrealists, and the Burroughs/Gysin technique. Austin Osman Spare used this subconscious energy by focusing his will on a symbol; he would do this until he achieved a trance state. He then created automatic drawings by letting his subconscious mind control his hand. The automatism he found created drawings of bewildering exquisiteness, each one unique and filled with harmonious juxtaposition. In The Book of Automatic Drawing (2005), Spare comments on this intangible place in which the subconscious reveals itself: “All significant art, I believe, comes from that source. It is inspiration, revelation, spiritual truth, which men express in different ways they have developed.”

I can explain the sigil technique by exploring modern chaos theory and the concept known as “The Butterfly Effect.” Whatis.com refers to chaos as:

“…an apparent lack of order in a system that nevertheless obeys particular laws or rules; this understanding of chaos is synonymous with dynamical instability, a condition discovered by physicist Henri Poincare in the early 20th century that refers to an inherent lack of predictability in some physical systems. The two main components of chaos theory are the ideas that systems—no matter how complex they may be—rely upon an underlying order, and that very simple or small systems and events can cause very complex behaviors or events.”
 
The sigil is based upon the law that every subconscious action, despite the apparent subjective relevance, acts upon the objective reality of the physical world. The Butterfly Effect helps illustrate this by stating that a butterfly could flap its wings and influence weather patterns on the opposite side of the world. This is how the cut-up technique works. each single action, no matter how finite, determines the actions of the infinite world. Imagine it this way, if Burroughs had not shuffled his chapters of Naked Lunch (a very conscious and innovative decision that played with the collective unconscious), would the novel have had such an impact on those that had read it, and created their own works in a similar manner, such as Genesis P-Orridge’s musical work in Psychic TV and Throbbing Gristle, or David Cronenberg’s pseudo fact vs. fiction film adaptation of Naked Lunch. Cronenberg created an additional work based upon the theory of the magical act of the original, by mixing historical facts from Burrough’s life with the randomness of the novel.

The consciously random technique, in which the Dadaists were famous for, follows the same law of unpredictability; Cubism and surrealism are visual cut-ups of images. In the realm of the Surrealists, images were juxtaposed to define new outlooks. Like Austin Osman Spare’s automatic drawings, Andre Masson used a similar technique to establish himself in his work Labyrinth (1938), Colin Rhodes, in his book entitled Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives (2000) defines Masson’s unconscious process.
 
“Starting with a web of rapidly formed lines, he worked until images began to suggest themselves, concentrating on the moment of metamorphosis when forms were in the process of turning into something else.”

Many other artists of the Dadaist/Surrealism period such as Hugo Ball, Hannah Hoch, Tristan Tzara, Kurt Schwitters, and even Man Ray, used randomized techniques to create their work.

The idea of synchronicity is based on the idea that random events can change the world. Creation is a revolutionary act, and by pulling randomness from the subconscious mind, we create something new and unique in the world. Marie-Louise Von Franz addresses this in her book On Divination And Synchronicity: The Psychology Of Meaningful Chance, by saying:

“A synchronistic event is an acausal event and is therefore, one could say, an act of creation. Jung believed in a creatio continua, like certain modern physicists who believe that there is in the world in which we live a place where from time to time new things are created. The synchronistic event would be such an act of creation.”

The middle ground between heaven and earth is where the muses breathe. In Chinese philosophy, as well as most spirit-based philosophies, the aspirant/artist/creator can consciously reach this place by dissolving illusion. Von Franz states that:

“If somebody devoid of all illusions, and all that makes the world of the ordinary ego, goes into himself with utmost sincerity, then he comes to this central hole where creation, even the cosmos, takes place. That is why the Chinese thought that certain sages or saints, very rare personalities, could reach that centre and by having come to this contained innermost centre of their personality could support heaven and earth, and be with the creation in the universe.”

The key to life is dissolving the ego and removing illusory constrained will. This rhythmic parallelism with the subconscious center is where many writers and artists tried to reach. The experience with the Four Keys substantiates this theory; the more you enter this center place, the more connected one becomes, and synchronizes, with heaven to form a harmonious sphere around the aspirant. Everything becomes a sign as to what direction the aspirant should travel.

The psychic link to these messages are like indicators of substantiation; each sign brings about a strong connection with the event until creation determines reality to be what the aspirant “sees” rather than what conventional society sees. Ben Belitt, in his essay Sight, Second, or Sudden: Versions of Witness, references Jean Cocteau’s “professional secrets of the poet” within the context of the psychic travel ways:

“…we tend to use the objects of the physical world as nomenclatural signifiers on a tabula plena rather than as events in themselves -mnemonic devices like the conventional symbols on a map or a highway, to identify habitual areas of psychic traffic.”

This tabula plena or table or gaming board is where the concepts of synchronicity and juxtaposition meet. Since the start of the mechanical age, modern man has viewed reality in a much more sterile manner, like a machine: he thinks, acts, and reflects with automatic reflex. Modern artists explore ways to remove the conscious mind from the depths of the unconscious, and like the shaman of yesteryear, they have entered the world of the game, knowing each piece fits into the whole in a unique way, trusting and playing within chaos.

​Have you had a moment of synchronicity? If so comment below.

What is a daemon? The real question is, what is not a daemon? A daemon is not a demon. In Christian mythology, demons are fallen angels, malevolent forces that may wizards conjure and insecurely control. A daemon is not an earth spirit, or elemental. An elemental is a force that inhabits the four earthly manifestations of existence: fire, water, earth, and air. A daemon isn’t a remnant of someone who died. A daemon is a version of a person’s ego functioning at a higher level of existence. 

Manly P. Hall, the Canadian born author, lecturer, and mystic, says this of the daemon in his hefty work entitled The Secret Teachings of All Ages: An Encyclopedic Outline of Masonic, Hermetic, Qabbalistic and Rosicrucian Symbolical Philosophy:

“The Greeks gave the name daemon to some of these elementals, especially those of the higher orders, and worshiped them. Probably the most famous of these daemons is the mysterious spirit which instructed Socrates, and whom that great philosopher spoke in the highest terms. Those who have devoted much study to the invisible constitution of man realize that it is quite probable the daemon of Socrates and the angel of Jakob Bohme were in reality not elementals, but the overshadowing divine natures of these philosophers themselves.” 

Crowley also had a daemon. He refers to it as Aiwass. His Holy Guardian Angel, or Higher Self, dictated Crowley’s most famous work, The Book of the Law, to him. 

​In my childhood, the daemon appeared to me in a dream. At that time, I didn’t understand, but after I made the deduction almost twenty years later, my life fell into place. I have a connection to a unique history than what I was fed. I connected with a more ancient philosophical outlook.

​Now, I believe the daemon is the guide to anamnesis; it reminds us of our spiritual self.

Again, I quote from Manly P. Hall:

“The instructors in the [Greek] Mysteries declared that at birth they assigned each individual an invisible patron spirit called the natal daemon. This entity was analogous to the totem of the North American Indians, except that the totem was invoked by prayer and fasting, while the daemon—being coexistent with the generating soul itself—became, as it were, the identity of the senses.” 

​In 2007, I faced an ordeal. Fate forced me into near-starvation because of a spiritual crisis, a situation that lasted forty days. After a romantic disaster (illustrated in detail within my novel Invisible Histories), I left my lover and needed to find a new direction in life. I was doing research at the time that focused on ancient forms of psychic communication. I built a talking board, or table, sort of like the Ouija board, but much more complex. I entered a motel room with little money, barely any food, and the talking board. There I sat for weeks, modifying my psyche.

​I quote from my text:

“The Eternal Man returned from the past and rose from the bed in a trance. He grabbed the branding instrument and settled into the chair. He began to burn letterforms and sigils into the wooden surface. The scent of burning wood filled the room. He sectioned the board into five distinct areas; within the largest centermost area, he burned two rows of alphabetical letterforms. Below this he centered two rows of numeric digits along with symbols of the planetary intelligences. In the four remaining areas he placed the houses of the zodiac, along with four directional symbols.

​His trance continued as he finished the table. His mind worked swiftly and automatically. He returned to the past as his hand finished the work.

The table introduces me to Yolanda; she’s a sweet child and tells me many things that come true. I call to Yolanda and she appears, but after talking with her, I begin to realize that she’s something more. In the theory of magic, eventually the magician becomes so in tune with his environment that he senses his higher-self, or Holy Guardian Angel—the Augoides or Body of Light. This spirit is not a sweet little girl; it’s my higher-self communicating through the facade of a child.

I know that I’ll run out of money if I eat, so I start to limit my diet. Fruit, honey, and cheese sandwiches will have to get me through the crisis. At first, I eat the sandwiches whole, then it becomes a half of a sandwich, then a quarter, and then none at all. The days are long and I often think about Hina coming back. I write a ten-page letter to her in the midst of my madness. I have no address in which to send it.

Eventually, I run out of food and I drink only water for days. I clear my system of thirty years of built-up physical and psychological toxins. I feel so clean that I don’t even care if I eat again. I’m very alone and I start to think that maybe I’m going crazy. I have these long debates with myself (and the talking board) wondering if I’m doing the right thing or if I’m just going to fuck everything up. As the days number into twelve, I lose weight rapidly, stop defecating from lack of waste, and wonder if I’ll just fade away. It seems like such a big risk. How can all of the factors fall into place?

I begin to realize I’ve been tricked. The androgynous spirit shifts from her child-like feminine voice to a more masculine guru-like persona, and then proceeds to tell me things to set certain events into motion; but later he tells me something different. He causes me to think that the police are coming after me. That Kathryn’s parents have some pull with the government (they did spend a lot time as corporate dignitaries in China). That the FBI has cataloged all of my mystical ways thanks to her mother’s constant snooping of my bedroom. I panic. Then I throw-up out of fear. These abrupt changes in direction frustrate me. I begin to distrust him, thinking that he may be a demon. I think that maybe he entices me to make irrational decisions (like exiting my lover’s home without a place to go, or staying in a fifty-dollar-a-night motel for three weeks instead of finding an apartment right away, or even recommending me to swim in the motel pool instead of going out to look for a roommate). It is clear the spirit wants me here, focused, alone, and free of temptation. I’ll waste away in a motel room of starvation and psychotic solitude. The odd thing is that I get the feeling that he’s trying to teach me something that can’t be communicated in any other way; I need to follow my heart and trust the Universal Mind to deliver me. I realize it’s like the Biblical stories of Jacob wrestling with the Angel, or Jesus in the woods for forty days confronting the Lion and the Serpent. I begin to calmly wait and see where he leads me.

Eventually he tells me many things about my future – I’m not sure if they will come true – but his descriptions are very detailed and vivid. I think that maybe he’s been sent to prepare myself for what will be a great trial. He’s trying to make me confront my fears; I begin to realize that he’s doing this to teach me to maintain serenity under any circumstances. He wants me to become a little angel, a mountain of self-control, discipline, and self-assurance.”

In the motel room I discovered my True Self. The knowledge was instantaneous. It entered me like a projectile. It was then that I re-discovered knighthood, and what that actually means.
In Plato’s Socratic dialogue entitled Meno, he illustrates the challenge of the sophistic paradox, or the contradiction of knowledge. Meno’s paradox is the theory of knowledge as recollection, as anamnesis. Meno states:

“And how are you going to search for [the nature of virtue] when you don’t know at all what it is, Socrates? Which of all the things you don’t know will you set up as target for your search? And even if you actually come across it, how will you know that it is that thing which you don’t know?”

If you aren’t aware of what signifies something as some “thing,” whether it’s an object, idea, or theory, it will be difficult to recognize it when you come across it. If you know the object, idea, or theory, then it wouldn’t compel you to seek it out at all. In either case, there is no point in seeking knowledge.

Socrates’ theory of anamnesis solves this paradox. He considers the soul immortal, and incarnating; knowledge inhabits the soul through eternity. We forget the knowledge of our immortal soul in the shock of birth. What we perceive as learning and experience is the retrieval of what we’ve forgotten. The ancient philosophers Socrates and Plato saw themselves, not as teachers, but as spiritual midwives, aiding with the birth of knowledge that was already present in the student’s soul.

An example of anamnesis occurred in the life of science fiction writer Philip K. Dick. One drug-induced afternoon after they yanked his wisdom teeth, he answers a knock at his door. He opens it to find a traveling religious zealot. Being a sensible man, she can’t convince Mr. Dick to join her religion. Dick looks at the woman's necklace as he closes the door. It’s a shining vesica pisces symbol. In a flash of recognition, he experiences anamnesis. He states:

“In that instant, as I stared at the gleaming fish sign and heard her words, I suddenly experienced what I later learned is called anamnesis—a Greek word meaning, literally, ‘loss of forgetfulness.’ I remembered who I was and where I was. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, it all came back to me. And not only could I remember it, but I could see it. The girl was a secret Christian and so was I. We lived in fear of detection by the Romans. We had to communicate with cryptic signs. She had just told me all this, and it was true. 

For a short time, as hard as this is to believe or explain, I saw fading into view the black, prison-like contours of hateful Rome. But, of much more importance, I remembered Jesus, who had just recently been with us, and had gone temporarily away, and would very soon return. My emotion was one of joy. We were secretly preparing to welcome Him back. It would not be long. And the Romans did not know. They thought He was dead, forever dead. That was our great secret, our joyous knowledge. Despite all appearances, Christ was going to return, and our delight and anticipation were boundless.”

Dick’s experience is difficult to take seriously if you believe in the linear model of time. However, if the cyclical time paradigm exists, then Dick’s experience could be evidence of the reality of anamnesis. Unfortunately, every mystical experience is subjective, so there is little actual proof to support him, except for his word, which permeates his hefty Exegesis; it’s a wealth of philosophy, religion, and science, wrapped in a shell of psychic retrieval. Some nights, he wrote up to 150 pages of inspired writing. I wrote similarly. I wasn’t aware of our kinship until mid-December 2009. By then I had written most my text. His text made me feel not so alone. Late one night, I remember reading how he felt invaded by a rational mind, “as if he had been insane all his life and suddenly had become sane.” His confession empowered me and validated my struggle.

With anamnesis in mind, I refer to the “carrot and stick” idiom. According to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language: Fourth Edition, the phrase “carrot and stick” denotes a promised reward with a threatened penalty. The idiom derives its meaning from mule training by drawing them forward with the promise of reward (the carrot) or the guarantee of punishment (the stick). Another version derives its meaning from the tying a carrot to a long stick and dangling it just out of reach of the mule. The mule tries to get at the carrot, but it’s not possible. 

Spiritual cognition begins with this technique. By dangling the carrot (knowledge of the spirit) out in front of the seeker, the universal intelligence prods the aspirant into deeper levels of mysticism. Within each level of illumination, the aspirant reaches a greater reward. By recovering our forgotten destiny, we enter this cyclical force of being, which leads to spiritual wisdom. John Weir Perry describes the concept of recollection, or anamnesis, in his work entitled The Far Side of Madness, as a contradiction. He states, “… when the soul is born into the world it is inclined to forget its previously acquired vision of the divine light of heaven and must enter into these extraordinary mad states in order to retrieve what it has lost.” 

​It’s as if time moves backward and forward; and the subject must remember what he or she has already learned. Plato, Socrates, Hall, Crowley, Dick, Robert Anton Wilson, Emerson, countless others, believed in an Oversoul, a higher intelligence that helps direct you through life. Do you believe in higher intelligence in your life? Where is it leading you?

People often ask me this question. It’s difficult to distill all my passions into a conversation soundbite, so I’m going to articulate them in this blog post.

Firstly, I’m most passionate about reading, writing, and book arts. I have a background in art. From time to time, I enjoy drawing, painting, collage, and found-object sculpture. I adore creation in all its forms. I love to cook, listen to music, watch films, dance, travel, et cetera. But I enjoy these interests at a deeper level. In conversation, I try to steer it in this direction. Strangely, I rarely discuss my ideas about philosophy, politics, or spirituality because they are too complex for mundane conversations. I never talk about the ideas behind my visual art or poetry; I find these things too personal.

I sometimes talk about my writing practice, but it’s difficult to go into detail. When I talk about this subject, I feel like I bore people. It is a challenge to explain all the moving pieces. Some close friends seem interested, but I never know if they are genuinely captivated or if they are merely being good friends. I’m unsure.

Anyway, I need to reveal more when I speak in conversations. I’m passionate about my spirituality. I had a decent conversation about magic last night—a topic that’s difficult to approach. People don't know much about the subject, so I feel like I’m leading these conversations. The depth of Rosicrucianism and Taoism makes it difficult to express these ideas to people, but I’m super passionate about both philosophies.

It’s enjoyable to talk about topics like these, but the older I get, the more specialized my interests become. It’s difficult because few people are interested in these more esoteric subjects, and even if they are, they often only have an introductory level of knowledge. It’s not their fault. Many of them are younger than me, so I don’t expect them to know much about these deeper topics. I was like that at their age.

Even so, I love talking about ideas, potentials, and possibilities. I’d much rather talk about personal evolution more than popular TV shows, movies, or computer games, but that’s what people often defer to in their conversations. I suppose it’s safer than deeper questions about existence or life, about your trials and defeats. I don’t know. I’m passionate about everything that I love. I don’t think people are passionate often. Maybe I’m different this way.

For example, when discussing music, I run into some roadblocks. Most people know I love music, but they prefer it at a more superficial level. I like to dig deep and find the hidden gems. I’m also a completist for my knowledge of a topic. Some would see this as a social currency, but I don’t look at it this way. If I speak about it, I want to understand it more thoroughly.
​
I want to know the history more deeply. I want to know the behind-the-scenes. That’s why I love documentaries, interviews, and journals. I’m fascinated by the process. Actually, one of my favorite assignments in college was a “process” exhibition. At a gallery in Portland, we had to show evidence of our thesis development. It was a behind-the-scenes before the finished product was unveiled. I found this rewarding and enlightening. Viewers don’t get to see the detritus or the convoluted process of creation that happens when an artist completes a project. There is a massive base under the water, but they only see the outcome.
​
Someday, I’d like to do a video about my writing process (you can find some more focused ones here), but it takes too much time to edit it all and still continue to write, publish, and market my work. That’s kind of what I find most frustrating about my internet videos. I enjoy thinking about what I will say and I wish I could devote more time to them. I appreciate this method better than trying to articulate my thoughts on the spot during a conversation. It’s just easier, more concise, and more focused.
Finally, what topics are you most passionate about? What are your struggles in articulating them in conversation? Post below in the comments. I’d like to know.

​Many people ask about the themes in my work. Each book is unique in relation to the others so this is difficult to deliver. I don’t repeat a formula. With that said, some common themes appear in all my novels.

Foremost, transformative experience plays an important part in all my stories. My main characters go through a “dark night of the soul.” Through these struggles, they come to some new understanding or state of being. Most times, this is a spiritual awakening or a discovery of magic. I’m quite inspired by the works of Hermann Hesse and Henry Miller, and many of their protagonists struggle with their own psychological dilemmas and existential crises.

I’m also captivated by esoteric concepts and mysticism. Most of my stories contain an element of hermetic thought. I’m fascinated with Rosicrucian doctrines and these appear throughout my work. Spiritual alchemy is an essential element in my protagonists’ transformations. These characters go through physical or spiritual initiations that uncover hidden parts of their souls. Many of these initiations reveal the transitory nature of “the moment” (my poetry also addresses this) or some lesson in Platonic anamnesis, the recovery of what we have forgotten.

Dream worlds are another key component in my work. In my first novel, The Invisible Histories of the Spiral Mountain, the protagonist’s mind fractures into two viewpoints: one is a more focused awareness of waking life, and the other is an archetypal dream world. My second novel, The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus, takes place inside a nightmarish Detroit hotel where dream logic dictates the flow of the story. My third novel, Dominique’s Confession, has the main character discovering initiatory clues within her dreams. These clues often direct her toward certain decisions and often hint at prophecy.

Tragic love stories are central to my plots. I’m interested in how these deep connections with others can transform the main characters. Like real life, many of these connections become frayed or fate drives the lovers apart. I’m obsessed with what’s left of these characters after these relationships. Do these love affairs help or hurt the character? Either way, the connections change them. Eroticism is another aspect examined in my work.

Detroit is another major character in my plots. I set all three of my novels in this ruined city, and the element of death and rebirth plays an important part in all my stories.

Despite these common themes, I experiment with different genres and plot constructions in each novel. Invisible Histories is part experiential autobiography and part magical realist fable. Bucephalus plays with erotic stereotypes. I tried to craft a poignant story about life and awakening within the traditional confines of the erotic tropes. Dominique’s Confession was a history lesson for me. I learned so much about 1920s Detroit and the once epic glamour of my ruined hometown. Through this epistolary examination of Detroit’s history, I was able to weave a love story alongside the occult conspiracies and the gang warfare of Prohibition.

That’s it until next time. If there’s anything else you want to know more about, leave a comment and I’ll try to come up with an answer.

I hale from Detroit, Michigan, a symbol of industrialized America’s collapse. Once a thriving manufacturing center, it has now fallen into disrepair. Since 1967’s race riot, the population dropped nearly 50%. Crooked mayors, hardened killers, and racial tension compliment vast tracts of unused land with 33,000 abandoned homes and 90,000 vacant lots adding up to 40 square miles of lost neighborhoods. In 2010, Detroit ranked as America’s most stressful place to live and work with the highest number of murders per capita, robberies, heart attacks, and families in poverty.

I spent my early years in suburbia. After failing at domesticity, I entered the inner city to search for wisdom amongst bohemian culture. While I ventured through a metaphysical crisis, I discovered a deeper relationship with reality. Spiritual emancipation became my obsession as I searched for divinity within literature. Henry Miller, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and William Blake inspired my transformation as their struggles against bourgeoisie morality resonated with me, greatly influencing my writing identity. In the end, I became a storyteller who drew upon the city’s mysterious energy.

With limited opportunities, I moved to Portland to attend the Oregon College of Art and Craft, an intensive school inspired by William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement. With a book arts concentration, I focused heavily on the book’s physicality through structure, binding, and letterpress printing. Eventually, the content became more important than the vessel as I focused on creative writing. During my thesis, I honed my craft by writing and editing my first novel for publication, The Invisible Histories of the Spiral Mountain; or The Hymns of Melchizedek (the video above details this process). I leave you with an excerpt that shows the beginning of my journey into spirit:

My name is Christopher and I’m from Detroit, Michigan. I’m a writer, book artist, and self-publisher. I’m interested in esoteric fiction, spiritual awakening, and metaphysical transformation.

On this blog, I’m going to post random thoughts about life and spiritual awakening. I will reveal behind-the-scenes information about my spiritual awakening, my writing, and my publishing process, as well as tips on creativity and other oddities that fascinate me. 

I also adore arcane secrets, existential conundrums, and mysteries. I’ll crack some of these open with candid stories. I have a lot of unique experiences to share and quite a lot to say. If you like what I talk about, maybe you can subscribe for email updates. 

​Some blog topics I will touch on are:
​

• Writing, Editing, & Self-publishing
• Occultism, Metaphysics, & Ceremonial Magic
• Hermeticism & Rosicrucianism
• Jungian Psychology & Spiritual Alchemy
• Philosophy
• Myth, Fable, & Magic Realism
• Anarchism & Libertinism
• Books, Art, Cinema, & Music
• Tarot & Divination
• International Travel

I will also make blog entries talking about these concepts: duality, identity, transitions of the psyche, alternate realities, altered states, spiritual revelations, knighthood, chivalry, anamnesis, decay and rebirth.

My next blog entry will go deeper into my spiritual journey, which begins in my hometown of Detroit. Anything else you’re dying to know? Leave a comment and maybe I’ll write about it.