Far away from here, from this, my beloved Mexican homeland, travelling along other roads, the winds of destiny took me to that ancient South American city which in preColombian times was called Bacatá, (in native Chibcha language).
This bohemian, melancholic city with its 19th century creole mentality; a smoky town in a deep valley…
A poet said of this marvelous metropolis: “Bacata city spins in the rain like an unbalanced carousel, a neurotic city that covers its hours with scarves of cloud.”
At that time the First World War had already begun… What times those were, my God! What times! Better now to exclaim with Ruben Dario: “Youth, divine treasure, you pass with no return, when I want to cry I cannot, and sometimes I cry without wanting to.” How much sorrow I still feel remembering so many of my friends who are already dead!
The years have passed on by…
This was the era of the Bohemian’s toast and Julio Flores, the years in which the writers Lope de Vega and Gutierrez de Cetina were in fashion.
Whoever wanted to boast of being intelligent then, between one drink and another, recited that sonnet of Lope de Vega that reads:
“Violante commands me to write a sonnet
I have never in my life seen myself in such a fix, a sonnet is said to be fourteen verses, with tongue in cheek, three go ahead. I thought I would not find a consonant and I am in the middle of another quartet but if I see myself in the first triplet, nothing can scare me in the quartets. I am entering the first triplet and still I boast of starting off on the right foot since with this verse, I reach the end. I am in the second triplet and still suspect that the thirteen verses I’ll complete count if there are fourteen and it is done.”
In that creole environment evidently, bards stayed awake all night finishing this kind of recitations to shouts of admiration and storms of applause.
Those were the times for the Bohemian’s toasts; years in which knights would put their lives at risk for any lady that passed by in the street…
Someone introduced me to a friend with a scintillating intellect, much given to the metaphysical type of study. Roberto was his name and if I do not mention his surname, it is with the obvious intention of not injuring susceptibilities.
Roberto was the illustrious offspring of a departmental representative in the National Chamber of that country.
With a glass of choice bacara in his right hand, drunk with wine and passion, that bard with his unruly head of hair held forth, stood out everywhere in front of intellectuals, in shops, bars and cafes.
The extraordinary erudition which that young man possessed, was certainly worthy of admiration. He would as promptly discuss Juan Montalvo and his seven treatises as he would recite the triumphal march of Ruben Dario…
However, there were lengthy respites more or less in his tempestuous life. At times he seemed repentant and would shut himself in the National Library for long hours, day after day.
I advised him many times to abandon the abominable vice of alcohol forever, but my advice was to no avail, sooner or later that young man would return to his old adventures. One night whilst my physical body slept in bed, it happened that I had a very interesting astral experience.
With terrified eyes, I saw myself before a horrendous precipice tracing the sea. Whilst looking into the abysmal darkness I observed small, swift ships in full sail approaching the cliffs.
The sailors’ screams and the sound of the anchors and oars verified that those small crafts had reached the gloomy shore.
I saw lost souls, sinister people, and appallingly twisted, grisly people, menacingly disembark.
Unreal shadows ascended the heights to where Roberto and I stood.
Terrified, Roberto plunged, head first, falling into the abyss like an inverted Pentacle and was lost once and for all in the stormy waters.
I cannot deny that I did the same, but instead of sinking beneath the waters of the Ponto, I floated deliciously whilst in space, a star smiled at me.
It is clear that such an astral experience impressed me vividly; I understood the future awaiting my friend.
Years passed and I continued my journey along the path of life, I moved away from that smoky Bohemian city.
Long after, far off in time and distance, travelling along the coasts of the Caribbean Sea, I arrived at the port of Rio Del Hacha, which is nowadays the capital of the Guajira peninsula.
A town of sandy tropical roads by the seashore, hospitable and charitable people with faces burnt by the sun…
I have never been able to forget those Guajira Indians clothed in such beautiful tunics and everywhere shouting: “Carua! Carua! Carua! (Charcoal).”
“Piraca, piraca, piraca! (come here),” the housewives cried from the doors of every house in the purpose of buying the necessary fuel.
“Haita Maya (I love you very much),” says the Indian man when winning the love of an Indian woman. “Ai macai pupura (days come and go),” she will answer.
Unusual circumstances exist in life, tremendous surprises; for me one of them was the encounter with that very bard whom I had known before in Bacata city.
He came to me ranting openly in the street, drunk with wine… as always, and to make matters worse, in the most dreadful misery.
It was obvious that this intellectual luminary had degenerated shockingly with the vice of alcohol.
All my efforts to get him out from the vice were useless, every day went from bad to worse.
New Year was approaching, everywhere the drums resounded inviting the village to the public festivities, dances held in many houses and orgies.
One day as I was sitting beneath the shade of a tree, deep in meditation, I came out of my ecstatic state upon hearing the voice of the poet…
Roberto had arrived barefoot, face emaciated and body half naked; my friend was now a tramp, the EGO of alcohol had transformed him into a beggar.
Staring at me and extending his right hand he exclaimed:
“Give me alms.”
“For what do you want alms?”
“To collect enough money to buy a bottle of rum.”
“I am very sorry friend, believe me, I shall never co-operate with vice. Abandon the path of perdition.”
Once those words were said that shadow silently and taciturnly retired.
New Year’s Eve arrived, that unruly mopped bard wallowed like a pig in the mud, drinking and begging from orgy to orgy…
Completely losing his reason, under the disgusting effects of alcohol, he got into a fight, he evidently said something for which he was given a tremendous hiding.
Afterwards the police intervened with the sound intention of bringing the thrashing to an end and as is normal in these cases, the bard ended up in jail.
The epilogue to this tragedy whose author was naturally the EGO of alcohol is really macabre and blood-curdling, because that poet hanged himself. Those who saw him the following day said he was found hanging by the neck from the bars of the prison cell.
The funeral was magnificent and many people gathered at the cemetery to say the last farewell to the bard. Grieving, I continued my journey after all this, moving away from that coastal port.
Much later, I proposed to investigate directly my disembodied friend in the astral world. This type of metaphysical experiment can be achieved by projecting the EIDOLON or the magic double, about which Paracelsus talked so much.
To rise out from dense form certainly cost me no hardship, the experience was marvelous.
Floating with the EIDOLON in the astral atmosphere of the planet Earth, I entered through the gigantic doors of a great building.
Situated at the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the upper floors. I could establish that there was a fork in the steps approaching the base.
I cried out in great voice, pronouncing the name of the deceased and then patiently awaited the outcome…
The latter certainly did not keep me waiting long. I was startled by a great mob of people who rushed headlong down each side of the staircase.
They all came together, encircling me, “Roberto my friend! Why did you commit suicide?”
I knew that all of these people were Roberto but I found no one to whom I could address myself, I met not one responsible character, not one individual…
I had before me a PLURALIZED EGO, a mass of Devils; my disembodied friend did not possess a permanent center of Consciousness.
The experiment came to a conclusion when that legion of Selves retired, ascending the divided staircase.
Samael Aun Weor
