Today, I found something at the library that took my breath away. I needed
Jessie to come take my blood pressure! I saw a painting called "Anonymous 16th
Century Gentleman." The Italian gentleman is wearing a coat and a vest
patterned with Solomon's Knots, symbols of fusion that are supposed to mean,
"divine inscrutability." Bartolommeo Veneto painted the portrait in Italy in
1519. But here is the incredible thing! The Anonymous Gentlemen is the image
of my Bobby Guide in the pick-up who took me to Mexico. And guess what else?
In the portrait he is doing the same signal I did to Lord Pacal! His right
fist is in the center of his chest, just the way my right first was, and he is
ready to push his fist out to arm's length and make forward circles. But to
show that motion, the artist painted a vortex on his chest so that his fist is
resting at the center of the vortex. So I was not making fishing motions, I
was making vortex circles. I can see why Pacal was astonished. What if a
mysterious woman materialized in the middle of your amphitheater and made
vortex circles at you and then said, "Don't you remember me?" I see now why he
stumbled backward. My breathing stumbled when I saw this portrait.
In this same trip to the library, I found a book with a picture of my marriage
cathedral, Chartres Cathedral in France! The cathedral also has a vortex, a huge one in
the entrance hall. Pilgrims really made good use of this vortex.
Traditionally, when they entered Chartres, they started at the outermost circle
of the Vortex and spun around and around in circles ever inward until they
reached the center.
Dear Carol:
Dear Claire:
I am certainly not bored, but I feel you may be in need of human, male
companionship. Oh, I retract that statement. On second thought, a boyfriend
would just complicate your simple life. Even an invisible husband might make
trouble, especially one with a sword, if you tried to take on a boyfriend.
Today, the plumber is here but the plumbing is not. He materialized in the
middle of my kitchen and said, "Don't you remember me." Boy, do I ever! He has
to keep returning because he never fixes it. Then he gave me a signal, his
bill, causing me to stumble backward.
Oh, it is a glorious day today! It was cool last night, and this morning when I
went out to feed the menagerie, I almost stepped on the big Florida Indigo
Snake (protected, but he seems to do okay by himself.) He must live under the
house, because I have seen him right by the back steps several times. He must
have thought it was a great day, too, and he was sunning himself. He is not as
afraid of me as I am of him. What a gorgeous creature he is: big and bad and
so blue that he is only about two shades away from black, and so shiny that
when he slithers along, the inch of his underbelly scales that I can see look
as Mediterranean blue as that roof on Ft. Denaud Road. I thought about him
several times and hoped he hadn't frozen during the cold weather. Molly either
doesn't see him or pretends she doesn't see him.
I have already rearranged the chicken pen, i.e. moved the nests out from under
the pole where they roost at night, for reasons of esthetics and sanitation and
because Jessie was refusing to gather the eggs. "Yuck Mama. Doo Doo." Well,
today the chickens started to hatch. How exciting! This morning at 7:30
Jessie and I got to the incubator and the brooder just in time to see two
chicks come out of their shells. Jessie was so thrilled. She was yelling,
"Hey, baby chicks," at the top of her voice and probably scared the poor little
things to death, them being pretty chicken anyway. I was only slightly more
contained; I've never seen anything else come out of its shell, either. (Except
Rodan at the theater when I was a kid and that was not the same thing.) There
are yellow ones and black ones and speckled ones. So far, we have 11, although
one of them looks like he has something pretty wrong with his back end.
I rigged the brooder with 3 light bulbs and a dimmer switch so we can control
the heat, and it was a good idea, because when Jessie and I came back from town
today, all the little biddies were laying down with their wings spread out.
(According to the books I read, that is a sure sign of overheating, something
chickens are highly susceptible to.) I am now a Chickenologist.
I heard sad news from Tam today. Dial A Bid, her $25,000 stallion, the one
with the big blaze face and the belt around his neck, twisted a gut and had to
be put to sleep. The funeral is tomorrow. I don't expect you to come, of
course, but I thought you would want to know. The backhoe man comes and digs a
hole. When you can get him.
Dial A Bid was a fine horse, one of the best. And so competitive. Horseracing
is a cruel business under the most humane conditions. Horses are run to death,
broken down, and filled full of all kinds of vitamins and other stuff to make
them racy. It also makes them crazy. There used to be a horse at Tam's farm
that was noted for biting off thumbs. He got 4 or 5. Then he would throw it up
in the air and stomp it, throw it up in the air and stomp on it. Can you
imagine watching that happen to your thumb? One of the vitamin mixtures is Red
Cell. If you mix it into the oats with your hand, you wake up in the middle of
the night burping vitamins (with your neck arched and your tail cocked).
Breeding horses is interesting, also. When a valuable brood mare is about to
foal, someone sits up with her all night doing "foal watching." In Islamic
law, two men must witness the breeding of blood Arabians. According to the word
of Mohammed, the mares should never leave his realm because one once saved him
from dying in the desert by putting down her head so that he could hold on and
she could drag him to an oasis. From the time of the adaptation of the Koran
until the 1930ies, the rule stood - great stallions were routinely smuggled but
no mares. The rules for good mares have never much varied.
When Rapsodin was bred, the embryo was transplanted to another mare so the
mother could continue to race. Rapsodin is a $250,000 horse and the darling of
the farm. Last year, when her mother Seseka died, she was cremated and her
ashes spread on the training track.
16 new biddies at this writing. I just peeked in on Jessie, and she has her
little bear sitting in a chair at her little table and is feeding him crackers
and brushing his teeth. I'm so proud. My child the prodigy. When I saw other
people's children doing things like that, I was impressed but I never remember
interpreting it as a sign of genius, the way I do when Jessie does it.
Jessie has a new hairdo. Remember Pebbles Flintstone, with the little ponytail
sticking straight out of the top of her head? Well, it may look a little dorky
but it keeps the wisps out of her eyes. I am quite proud of it because she
looked like Sinead O'Connor for such a long time, bald and pretty, and I don't
want to have to cut her any bangs, so I guess this is the only way out.
57 (A message from kitty Sandra Dee. Rather cryptic, don't you think? She is not
only beautiful but good with her paws as well.)
Jessie has been trying to leave home. The other morning while I was doing my
Jazzercise tape, Jessie woke up and went right on out the back door. When I
discovered that she was gone and that the back door was open, I nearly died. I
know the neighbors think I am a nut case. I was running around crying and
screaming her name and nearly throwing up. I checked the pool for her little
limp body. I checked the horse barn for her little broken body. I crawled
underneath the house where the giant Indigo snake lives. I thought about the
Lindbergh kidnapping. And way out in the pasture, almost beside the fence, I
saw this little magenta-clad figure coming toward me babbling her head off and
pointing down at the "frowers" and up at the "frees." Barefooted. I thought that her little feet would be all cut up from the sticks and
stickers. Ha! The girl has Georgia blood running in the veins that supply her
feet.
I started using the screen door latch with the little spring lock that I put on
the back door months ago. And then I caught her with her stool beside the
door, standing on top of it trying to reach the latch. So I got her down and
told her not to do that again. Then, about 20 minutes later, she had the broom
trying to reach the latch. I left Jessie inside for only a few minutes and
went outside to catch Moore to put him up and was walking him back to the barn
just in time to see Jessie hotfooting it across the back yard. The girl is
fast. I just put another latch on the back door. Write soon.
Dear Carol:
I have now moved to Susan's. It was almost traumatic. As I was packing to
move, it occurred to me that it might not be as easy to move Heavenly Partners
as it is to move a computer. I'm only moving from Midtown to Sandy Springs, but
what if I lost my partners in transit? The thought of such a terrible thing
happening terrified me and I sat on the bed and cried. My partners tapped on
the computer several times, taps that mean to me, "Turn over a Tarot
card." I shuffled, cut and flipped up the 6 of Cups (Water, Six of Hearts). In your deck, that's a man
handing a woman a bouquet of flowers. In my deck, it's a card with "Faith"
written on it.
My partners tapped again and I turned up 3 cards: Flood--The Mind--The Hanged
Man. (These are the actual words written on the cards.) In your deck, they're the 4 of Cups (Water, Four of Hearts), the 7 of Pentacles (Earth, Seven of Spades) and The Hanged
Man (Major Mystery, Mirror Image Reversal. The Hanged Man is the card we use to designate the Anonymous Gentleman,
not that he was ever hanged.) I went outside and sat in the garden, and my mind
was flooded with a mental image of his portrait as it was being telepathically
transmitted to me. I began to feel much better. I was thinking that if I
could get the partners into my mind, then surely I wouldn't lose them somewhere
in Buckhead on the way to Sandy Springs. I was relieved to find, upon arriving
at Susan's, my partners were still with me. Susan asked if they had made the
trip OK, and I said I felt that they had. That night her cook prepared for us
a wonderful oriental meal while Susan packed to leave the next day for the
Florida Keys.
In the interior of Chartres is the great aisle I walked down on my way to the
altar with Lord Pacal. I recognized it in the picture! When we were married, we
entered the cathedral through a portal that sizzled when we passed through it.
I think this portal is beneath Chartres, where there is a dolmen (a megalithic
tomb of two standing stones supporting a large, flat boulder - that's the
portal) and a well, called the "Well of the Strong," The Druids are supposed to
have built them. Until the 18th century, each pilgrim took part in a ritual
involving descent to the dolmen, where they were blessed with the water from
the well. So, they would enter the cathedral, spin around and around in the
vortex-labyrinth, go into the cathedral on their knees, and then go down below,
where they walked through the portal and were blessed at the well. I love this
vortex material. I hope I'm not boring you with this stuff, but I just love it!
Write soon.
The next morning before Susan left she had a message for me. She dreamed,
"Tell Claire--Guede." She thinks it is an Italian word. We decided it might
be Italian for guide. Later, I found the word "guide" in the Italian-English
dictionary at the library. Guida is Italian for guide. Her pronunciation was
much the same. She thinks the Anonymous Gentleman's name is Guede. She had another
dream for me, one she forgot. Then, I dreamed Guede's last name is Cosmo.
That's Italian for cosmos. Guede Cosmo, Cosmos Guide!
My room here is quite nice, and I have a private bath. All the raps, taps and
ka-thunks are coming from the bathroom here. Susan has two cats, and one of
them likes to sit in my bathtub. Susan said she'd never known the kitty to do
that before, and I said she'd never had an enspirited bathroom before, either.
Cats
are psychic, you know. Something really funny happened with that kitty. I
set my computer on the floor beside my bed. Then, the kitty came into
the room. Just as she walked past the computer, my partners tapped on it and
the
kitty jumped aside with her tail pointed straight up and puffed. She snuck up
on the computer to sniff and inspect it, and just as she did, they tapped
again, and
she jumped back again and said, "Fssssffft"! Then, she went on her way into
the bathroom to sit in the bathtub.
The partners made the move just great and are fully in my room. They fill the
room with a gossamer haze, and I keep hoping Susan will walk in and see it.
Yesterday, I was lying on my bed daydreaming when something amazing happened.
At the foot of the bed, against the wall, is a large chest-of-drawers. It's
about 6 feet tall, and on the top of it are two brown teddy bears. There was a
crack of electricity at the top of the chest, and a flash of white light, and
then one of the teddy bears jumped right off the top of the chest-of-drawers
onto the floor in front of me. Susan said they were John's teddy bears.
In my research at the Sandy Springs library I've uncovered some mysterious
things that are all related, among them the Holy Grail, the Ark of the
Covenant, the Shroud of Turin and the Book on the Sapphire Stone. In a legend
of the primitive Jews, Adam, the first man, was said to have received a Book on
the Sapphire Stone. The book is supposed to have taught him advanced technical
stuff, such as his anatomy and how it works, the weather and how it works and
the solar system and how it works. Now where would Adam have gotten a book,
and who taught him to read it? He passed this book on down to his descendants:
Jared, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Aaron, and Solomon.
Susan's cook is sating me with a variety of good Filipino food. Susan prefers
Chinese, so that's what she prepares for her, and it is also very good, but
I've had Chinese. I'm interested in this cuisine of the Philippines. Write
soon.
Dear Claire:
I bet Eve taught Adam to read. If we took a census, how many men do you think
we would find who would admit Eve taught Adam to read? If Adam passed that
book down to Solomon, it must have been a shambles when Solomon received it,
considering it had survived not only time but also the Great Deluge. Perhaps
it was passed down genetically?
It should be another impossibly hot day today. I forget from summer to summer
what they are like down here. I try to ride at Kris's place twice a week
(except that my horse trailer currently is full of plywood), but it's really
been too hot for the last few weeks anyway. Jessie and I have been to the
local libraries a lot lately, and the first things we try to find in a new
library are the Juvenile books and the ladies' room. Jessie is so nice now in
the library; I can almost forget how awful she was in her "terrible twos."
Sometimes, she pitched such a fit when I was trying to check out books. She
did everything but turn her head around around. I was mortified by the way
she was acting, but once I've told her she can't do something, I can't relent
no matter how many disapproving glares I get from on-lookers.
Another thing she used to do that completely destroyed me was to lie down on
the floor when she didn't get her way. And she relapses occasionally to her
old ways. Yesterday, when I found out she had refinished the table with cheese
flavored Molly McButter, I popped her little leg. She flew into the living
room with a horrible scowl and turned around and hissed at me like a cat,
"Fssssffft"!
Jessie likes to play, "Let's do this until Mama gets so sick of it she leaves
the room." I fear that she has all the combined assertiveness' (assertiveness?)
of her Aunt Claire and her Mama. And I fear that it is too late to swap her
for a docile little child who will do my every bidding and be a comfort to me
in my old age. Not that she doesn't have manners. I especially like it when
she says "Thank you" and gives me back the little broken pieces of something
that she knows she was not supposed to have but got hold of and tore up, anyway.
677 (Message from Jessie)
You really do need to read Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins. It is the story
of a painted stick and conch shell, from the temple of Astarte in Jerusalem,
who team up with a can of beans, a spoon, and a dirty sock to follow a young
artist and her husband to New York. In order to prove himself worthy of the
young artist, the young man takes his parents' Air Stream RV and welds wings
and drumsticks onto it so that he shows up to claim his new bride driving a
giant silver turkey. Someone once said that Tom Robbins writes like Dolly
Parton looks. And his books, Still Life with Woodpecker, Another Roadside
Attraction, Even Cowgirls get the Blues, and Skinny Legs et al are very
beautiful, very bizarre and very, very funny.
I've been reading the cards to see if I can foretell my future financial
horizon. I fear I may be wasting my time. The only way I could see out of my
present, pressing financial difficulties is for me to win the Lotto this
weekend, but since it is only a 3 million-dollar jackpot, it wouldn't help me
all that much.
What do you think? We have added a new dog to our collection, a
beautiful, full-grown, 160 lb. Great Dane named Hooch. A recently divorced
lady, who says she stays away from home all the time, partying and generally
misbehaving, gave him to us. She says that she feels guilty about leaving
Hooch alone in her condo. After a long romp out in the pasture chasing Moore
and his adoptive cow-child Sarah (Moore and I can assure you, he won't do that
again), Hooch is relaxing on the kitchen floor and sends his love. (White with
a few spots and blue eyes.) Molly is about to pop, having eaten all the food so
that Hooch won't get any and so that she won't starve to death with a new dog
around eating her food.
Oh, and last night the PVC fitting going into the pump blew apart, so I have to
fix the water. There are leaks in several of the fittings, and I think Moore
has been rubbing on it or something. And sure enough, I saw Moore hanging out
by the pump yesterday after I unloaded the horse feed. Moore thought I should
immediately feed him his supper, even though it was only 3 p.m., because he
could smell the sweet feed. Sweet feed is a mixture of oats, cracked corn and
molasses, and it smells better than a cake in the oven. That horse is the
Prince of Darkness. He can think of the evilest things to do to the one person
on this earth who loves his hateful self and who is sitting here with no water.
I just killed a strange sort of a fly, like a blowfly with a long
stinger-looking thing like a bee. I listened for a few seconds in case it was
screaming, "Help me!" Help me!'" but I didn't hear anything so I delivered the
fatal blow.
Moore has been a big, bad horse the last couple of days, so we are having
school again. This afternoon when I went to get him out of the pasture, I took
a length of PVC with me so that I could whack him when he tried to crowd me. I
used to carry a plastic baseball bat from time to time whenever he needed a
little refresher course, and what a good little horsie he would be. A plastic
bat is a wonderful horse tool. It won't hurt them, but it makes an awful
racket and even a horse Moore's size (if there is another horse on the planet
Moore's size) is certain that he has been slain.
We went out to the barn last night to watch the space shuttle take off. What a
neat thing to see. I tried to explain the significance of the big light to
Jessie, but she was equally impressed by all the other little lights.
Jessie wiped out in the bathtub a few minutes ago. Her feet slipped out from
under her and she busted her cheek on the side of the tub, right where the bone
circles the eye. It burst a little blood vessel underneath, which immediately
popped up, and when I tried to hold ice on it, she acted like I was trying to
rub salt in her eyes. So I guess she is going to have a shiner. I don't know
who cried the worse, her or me. Usually I am standing right beside her when
something happens to her and I am still powerless to stop it. You cannot
imagine how horrible it is to watch even the tiniest, most mundane little
accident befall your child. She is fine now and I still need a large rum drink.
I just heard Jessie's primal scream and went to save her and found her with
both legs jammed through the little holes in her shopping cart, where the doll
sits. She already has a bruise underneath her eye where she wiped out in the
bathtub, and now she may have a bruise on her leg, too. She got her feet stuck
in there because her feet are so big, and I've given up the idea of having them
bound. So I guess she will have to have "big flapping feet" like Spring Moon's
mother warned her about.
And if I don't go brush some of the burrs out of Moore's forelock he is going
to call HRS or the SPCA on me. And when are you coming to see us? Write soon.
Dear Carol:
This is a short letter because I'm on my way to the library. Speaking of the
ladies' room in the library, the last time I was there, I learned its location
the hard way. Deep in thought, I was on my way to the bathroom and walked
right into the men's room for the first time in my life. When I came back out
of the stall, a man was standing there with his back to me, using the urinal.
Thankfully, I made my escape without his ever seeing me, and I went back to my
table and telepathically instructed my obviously male partner that when we have
to go to the bathroom, we have to go to the ladies' room not the men's room.
Even so, it was a liberating, almost exhilarating experience. First the men's
room, next the world! Alchemically speaking, when the androgyny appears - and I
take it that this was the appearance of it - the Great Work is progressing nicely even 'tho sexual confusion may be the initial symptom. I feel no gender identity issues at all, though. When I see the male version of myself-not in dreams, when I see Bobby and Pacal and whoever else, I feel heterosexual in relation to them. I wonder how many people experiencing this place on the path are misinterpreting the meaning of it and thinking they have an sexual identity crisis?
I have been researching the Philosopher's Stone, along with everything else
that has suddenly become of interest to me. I was recently given the
Philosopher's Stone in an initiation, so I thought I might try to find out more
about it. How it happened, I was again in a mystical initiation ceremony in
the astral planes, where a stone was dedicated to me. Written on the stone was
my new name, which no one knows but my partners and me. They supplied the
first and last names and I supplied the middle name. In this quote from the
Bible about the stone, I changed the "hims" to "hers" and "man" to "one" and
"he" to "she." If someone were to go through the Bible and rewrite it with
nonsexist language, how long do you think that would take?
"To her that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give
her a white stone, and on the stone a new name written, which no one knoweth
saving she that receiveth it."
I also found a reference to the mystical experience of "the light too bright to
behold," like the one that went bang in my biofield the night of the séance.
"Within the deeper esoteric traditions of the Hermetic art there is a
suggestion that with the blinding flash of illumination that heralds success
comes a tremendous change in the adept, both spiritual and physical." Well, I
know that's the truth! What a tremendous change to have partners who are
everywhere and nowhere at once, including inside any head, and to have partners
who massage my legs from the inside and make my headaches disappear. Never have
I been so happy as I am now and I feel a sense of wholeness I never felt
before. I have finally found all the parts of myself and am at last complete.
That wholeness and completeness I speak of is unfortunately occurring
physically, as well. Susan's cook has been sating me with Filipino food to the
extent that I am gaining weight. Everything she cooks is delicious except for
one thing she wanted to me try, and that was dried fish. I think they dry it
by hanging it on a string on a clothesline, like in those pictures you see in
National Geographic. This stuff smells really bad, and people who hate
anchovies should get a whiff of this. It makes anchovies seem like
marshmallows.
By the way, I have stopped wearing make-up. Twice my makeup tray leapt, under
it's own power or under some invisible, magical power, from the bathroom sink
onto the floor, scattering the Lancôme everywhere. I interpreted it to mean to
stop wearing make-up, something I'm willing to do since I never enjoyed wearing
it, anyway. Write soon.
Dear Claire:
I am devoted to wearing make-up. Had my make-up tray leapt from the sink onto
the floor, I would have interpreted it to mean to change brands from Lancôme to
Clinique.
Today was Story Hour at the library. I colored a cow and cut it out and pasted
it on a paper bag to make a puppet. Danielle pushed Jessie down and made her
cry, and by using great restraint I kept from breaking Danielle's legs. My cow
puppet doesn't look much better than my kitty puppet did last time. The little
kid who was coloring across the table from me made one that looked much better
than mine, but he kept his eye on me so I couldn't trade with him while he
wasn't looking.
A new kitty has taken up with us. It is a little, skinny tabby tomcat that I
think belongs to the Frenchman behind us. I remember the old man telling me
how expensive cat food is, and his cats have been coming over here to eat dog
food or whatever else they could scrounge, and they are all skinny. After
several days of watching him eat the scraps I throw to the chickens, and never
leaving earshot of the back door, just in case it opens and I come out bearing
something to eat, I put him a dish of cat food under the edge of the house
where the rain would not get it, and he thinks he is in heaven. He lies out in
the rain to be near the back steps, and if he is in danger of drowning, he gets
on top of whichever of my truck tires is nearest the back door.
That little tomcat is a neat little tabby and eats like a dog. He nips when
you're petting him, although it is a very light nip, and he never comes close
to breaking the skin. Jessie didn't much like it that he has done it to her a
couple of times. But she does love the kitty, and I thought I would explain to
her the concept of names and I wondered if I had gotten through to her when I
asked her what she wanted to name the kitty, and she said, "Biting Kitty." I
guess it's like an Indian name. But, I think Jessie is beginning to understand
names and how they work. Yesterday she came into the kitchen to tell me she
had changed her name--"Mama. Name Flipper."
I am trying to type between assignments as plumber's helper, which I have found
to be a really hateful job. Plumbers deserve every dime they over-charge. If
I have at least part of a letter to you on disk, my conscience will be somewhat
eased, and I function quite well with a partially eased conscience.
I need to re-read A Confederacy of Dunces. I gave my copy to Butch in
Louisiana because I thought he would appreciate the book, and he quotes from it
constantly. He told me when his Ford place was about to go under, that he was
thinking about trying to save it with the religious angle - Our Lady of the
Dealership.
Jessie has lost all of her baby look and looks like a little girl now. It's
scary. It is like she is on fast forward. Oh, it is much easier before they
are potty trained. Back then when they were wet, you just changed them instead
of becoming acquainted with every grimy bathroom everywhere, which she merely
wants to examine. And handle. And she is learning to say "A, B, She." Nearly
every bathroom we go into has graffiti on it somewhere, put there by some
whacko, and Jessie points and says, "Look. A, B, She's." And she wants to
touch everything. No wonder you have to teach them to wash their hands.
You need to read Clavell. You can't claim to know anything about China without
having read Clavell. When you finally get on Clavell, you will want to read
everything he has ever written, and so you need also to read
King Rat, which
was his first, and is at least semi-autobiographical, since he was in a
Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.
Whirlwind
was not nearly as good as his other
books, such as
Shogun
and
Tai-Pan, which I can't bear that you haven't read,
but then
Whirlwind
was about Iran and Iraq. "Insha Allah." Because you haven't
read Clavell, I can't refer to Jessie as Empress Lady and expect you to get the
full impact of it. I know you have an interest in the eastern mentality. Your
Brown Belt in Karate proves it. By not reading Clavell you have overlooked the
Faulkner of the East. You need to be aware, also, that the Samurai are going
to wind up owning everything because of their duty and their intricacy.
Miss Manner's Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior
is another one of my
all-time favorites. I am concerned that you are not reading fiction, anymore.
That you haven't read Rita Mae Brown makes me fidget. You should at least read
Six of One.
You remember Roy Rooster who I renamed stretch? He is now Emperor of Chickens.
His adoring hen harem has grown, and the other day when I changed their
chicken feed, Stretch called up his hens to show it to them, just as if he
alone were responsible for it. "Look what I found for my precious ones!" And
he stretched his neck up and down gloriously, bobbing his head and showing them
where to peck. I guess I'd better close. Write soon.
Page 1 - How I Wrote This Book
Page 2 - A Spell is Cast | The Voodoo Priestess | Psychic Healing
Page 3 - Sudden Death | A Hole in the Wall | Crystal Woman
Spirit Tunnel
Page 4 - The Seance | The Light
Page 5 - The Portal |
Wings of Love | Bene Ha Elohim
Lord Pacal and the Maya
Page 6 - Pacal's Bride | Wacah Chan | A Murder was Committed
The Mysterious Woman | A Swarm of Sparks
Page 7 - The Vortex |
Portal in the Cathedral | Guede Cosmo
The Androgyny | The Philosopher's Stone
Page 8 - Sexual Alchemy | Tantra Yoga | Feng Shui
Page 9 - Keys in the Enochian Language | The River of Life
Page 10 - The Number Four | The Phaistos Disk
The Star of David
Page 11 - Sacred Indian Ground |
Spirit Possession
Rules of Congaylia | The Heaven Plane
Page 12 - The Lovers | Ancash-Tica
Page 13 - Searchable Index | Bibliography
Copyright Notice - Disk of the World - Text and images copyrighted March 21, 1993-2023, Claire Grace Watson, B.A., M.S.T., U.S. Copyright and under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act of 1998.