The Navki continuously comb the countryside in search of their former mothers, who would be quite shocked by what their daughters are becoming of a Pussy-Riot rebel generation. The young Navki ghost girls are usually seen to be rejected by the mother Church of Rome , whose patriarchs greatly fear them with deep dread, due to their malign reputation of jealously attacking those Christian women who are said to be close to the time of childbirth.
Although this has more to do with attempting to stop a child from being brainwashed into the appropriated ancestral-self-identity of another people, whose cultural construct of a Abrahamic religion had been stolen by Rome. The initiatory period of wandering for these angry ghosts of the Navki lasts for seven long years, which seems to indicate an elder tradition of training young girls by some form of ancient matriarchal religion. The chosen girls were no doubt highly adept at trance drowning induction, who left their natural mothers in order to be trained. However, those of a Christian disposition perceive the Navki as begging anyone of the Abrahamic monotheist faiths, who will listen to their sad ghost tale, to baptize them.
But if the Navki cannot find a Christian cultist to take pity on their wailing voices, to utter Biblical prayers, they are doomed to spend the rest of their days as Pagan Succubae Rusalki. As rebellious Pussy-Riot Rusalki, their predatory nature is to seek out Alpha males with one time Order Of The Dracul fast horses to that of Illuminati sports cars , both of which denote big Vatican wallets to suck dry.
There are certain times under stars, revolving as a Zodiac clock, when they eventually emerge from out of their underwater world. The Slavic peoples of pre-Christian Eastern Europe used to believe that trees are highly evolved beings, which are far more connected to humans than other plants and animals. This belief is not too dissimilar to the ancient Celtic perspective of sacred trees. Bloomington: Indiana UP, page: During Rusalki Week of partying, Birch Trees are usually decorated with flowers and other offerings such as prayer bundles, where they stand naturally, or branches of the tree may be brought into the home to be made into birch-garlands.
The Birch tree was then duly carried into the village, while songs were sung over it and the arrival of the Birch into the village was heralded by a ritual meal. Swimming during this week was strictly forbidden especially to for pubescent young girls and boys just entering maturity, lest Mermaids would drag the girls down to the river floor to make like themselves; while the boys are seduced by wet dream torments.
Some folklorists have noted that the word Rusalka originally referred to the dances of girls at Whitsuntide. The Rusalki ghost girls are seen to spend their time combing their long luxurious braided hair, where their power to be, playing amongst themselves, dancing circles to lure female seekers to their little deaths, drowning into trance so that to initiate them into their arcane pre-Christian mysteries, while the men they to seduce.
The Rusalki are also known for being spinners of webs, who hang the results of their labours within sacred trees, or to draw spirals upon banks near flowing waters, where anyone passing should be wary of stepping upon. The Amphibious natured Navki and Rusalki ghost girls are in essence a folktale memory of ancient priestesses of a matriarchal Religion, who were adept at trance drowning Induction. The Rusalki were very likely female Shamans due to their close proximity with other North-Central Asian Shamanistic traditions such as those found in Siberia.
The Native American Chumash of the Southern coastal regions of California speak of a ghost woman called Momoy, who can either manifest as a very old crone looking like a Witch, or to otherwise appear as a ravishingly beautiful sorceress, of an ethereal appearance, whose visionary manifestation is that of a most wanton Succubus. Momoy is the spirit of the Datura flower, specifically Datura meteliodes, but this name is actually a synonym of Datura inoxia, which is a Mexican plant, whose flower is narrower than its Datura stramonium counterpart, having ten teeth at its flower rim rather than five.
The Datura family is known for its potent hallucinogenic properties, which includes Datura stramonium; wherefore Momoy can be very dangerous indeed to the unwary, who has an intriguing link with the author Carlos Castaneda, whom spoke of partaking of Datura. She distorts men. She gives them a taste of power too soon without fortifying their hearts and makes them domineering and unpredictable.
She makes them weak in the middle of their great power. In Mexico the Catholic church believes the plant was created by their Devil, and like Mephistopheles it entices people to make pacts with its spirit.
Whereby you have the alternate name, Yerba del Diablo. Although, since the natives consider Datura to be feminine of quality you could alternatively see it as being a female version of Mephistopheles to otherwise name as Mephistophina. You can thereby determine that Momoy has to be treated with great respect, which requires that the practitioner knows the correct proportions and careful ritualistic use of her powerful plant, otherwise she will most assuredly kill an unwary dabbler. It is said that if you drink the bathwater of Momoy, being that, of a tea made from the root of her plant it will enable a practitioner to contact a personal dream Ally helper , from whom requests can be made, as well as seeing ghosts.
The dream Ally can be prior determined of a meditated upon two-dimensional image, in order to direct the conjured Datura visions of its three-dimensional manifestation. But, the subconscious will generate its own visionary material, which will formulate of intricate associative correspondences, like that of a tortuous dream. So, the practitioner has to be very careful about the imagery he chooses to meditate upon of a prior ritual. The name of Momoy can also be found in the ancient tradition of the Bocon zone in the Merida State of Venezuela.
However, Momoy is otherwise seen as small ghosts called Momoys, which are commonly depicted looking like bearded gnomes, wearing phallic hats, or in the same shape as the Datura flower. Although the image of the gnome depicts the shaman partaking of Datura , not the spirit its self. The gnome like figure is very likely derived from a European influence, since the natives do not have beards. The Momoy shamans are seen to be adept at contacting the feminine spirits living at the bottom of the lagoons, of similarity to what Don Juan Matus communicated about the inorganic feminine intelligence of the Allies, being associated with waterholes.
The duty of the Momoy shamans is to look after the natural environment by interacting with the spirits, whose domain is the watery amniotic realm of uterine dreams. The problem is that Momoy has since been taken out of her ritualistic context for mundane recreational use, whose unwary users should look into why Datura is called Jimson weed, or Jamestown weed in the US. They are reported to have spent eleven days going literally insane. The Tongva tribe call it Manit. Mexicans call stramonium and inoxia, Tolguacha, or Toloache, whose power will enable a practitioner to enter into the surrealist realities of their deep subconscious , which can be a cathartic experience.
It has a long tradition of being used for conducting prophecies and oracles similar to Brugmansia sanguinea. The Aztecs also used Thorn Apple, which they called Mixitl. The Nazi regime as well as the CIA used scopolamine as part of their interrogations, with the hope of using it like a truth serum. But it was untrustworthy due to the ensuing hallucinations it induced.
However, should the dream be a nightmare, the practitioner will not be free of its horrors, until the affects of Datura have subsided. Datura is believed to be the sacred plant of the Hindu God Shiva Nataraja; for via its use Shiva the [shaman] Lord of Yoga was therefore able to contact Kali, who is the Momoy queen of ghosts, the mother of the dead.
The seeds were also used as a narcotic ingredient in ritual beer. On the night of the 30th of November Gypsies would place the seeds of Thorn Apple outdoors; the next day they would then throw them into a fire. If the seeds cracked loudly, then the winter would be hard and dry. The seeds were also used for shamanistic divination rites; such as those conducted by Lapp shamans, which involved the placement of nine to twenty-one seeds upon a marked animal skin of a drum. The number of the seeds is curious, which is similar to the dosage of the Mixe ritual for a man and a woman.
But then Datura was originally brought to Mexico by the European colonists, some of whom no doubt remembered their pre-Christian Momoy heritage, since there is a similarity of ritualistic usage between cultures. Overall, it does appear that Momoy has travelled far and wide as a ghost, housed within a plant, which be as her hallucinogenic body, her dangerous flesh. She is a Great Countess and a Mighty Princess and appears in the visionary form of a most beautiful and noble Woman. But only when she to ride and be ridden by him upon the Casting Couch within those most Erotic lucid dreams she will induce after evoking her Succubus archetype of the Fallen Anima.
She also knows of all things Past, Present and to come of Futures beckoning back. When a heterosexual male practitioner conjures Iposi, he can assume the alternate persona of a famous Actor within a lucid dream, which Iposi will empower. Truth be told, these missions had been the catalyst. Every couple needs a hobby, a binding interest; in an odd, wonderful way, the Sorcerer had become theirs. Greg had dubbed them the Followers. The pun, of course, was intended. Gabi supplied the vision, the ideas, the tenacity. She read the omens, established the energetic connection, tracked the phantom, stood vigil against inorganic predators seeking to appropriate their energy.
So what if the Sorcerer made fun of his sandals? He raised one finger in the air, Gene Wilder as Dr. She pinched her thin lips with her thumb and first two fingers. Usually, her voice carried the hard residual edge of her German accent. Tonight it sounded soft and anxious. Something was bothering her. One of the things that irked her most about their estrangement from the Sorcerer was the fact that it had come at a time when she was beginning to make real progress. It had happened towards the end of an evening in the rented dance studio in Santa Monica where the group practiced their Magical Passes—martial art-like movements designed to gather energy.
Since then, it seemed, the magic and the revelations had grown stronger and stronger. Over the months of their surveillance, like Greg, she had continued to practice the passes—they had, in fact, just come from their regular practice group, one of the hundreds of independent cells that formed across the globe. The Sorcerer called it the Emissary. It answered her questions, guided her choices, told her unwaveringly that this quest of theirs was supported by universal intent. It also told her, on this particular Tuesday night in the summer of , to be careful. Something was different.
Something was wrong. She could feel it. The yellowish stucco compound occupied a large corner lot in the tidy neighborhood of Westwood Village, not far from the campus of UCLA. A rambling, L-shaped building with shallow peaks and a shingle roof, it had bars on the windows and a large, internal courtyard, all of it obscured from view by a foot privet hedge that ran along the street sides of the property. From their parking place on the southwest corner of Pandora and Eastborne Avenues, the Followers could watch both gated entrances of the compound, each of which carried a separate address.
The right side, on Eastborne, seemed to be used only by male visitors. The left side symbolized the mysterious, the unknown—the Nagual. The Sorcerer was also known as the Nagual, the last of a line of shamans that stretched back thousands of years to the Toltecs, the pre-Hispanic Indians who inhabited the central and northern regions of Mexico prior to the Mayans.
The left entrance, on Pandora, was used by the Sorcerer and his women: the three Witches, the Chacmols, the Blue Scout, the Electric Warrior, the other female members of the inner circle. To the rest of the world, the Sorcerer was known as Carlos Castaneda. Castaneda himself became a cult figure—seldom seen, nearly mythological, a cross between Timothy Leary and L. Ron Hubbard: a short, dapper, nut-brown Buddha-with-an-attitude who likened his own appearance to a Mexican bellhop. The Followers, over the course of their investigations, had begun to figure it out. They were particularly proud of their videos.
The magazine ended up running an abstract drawing on the cover. For more than eighteen months now, at least three times a week, Greg and Gabi had made these clandestine pilgrimages. They followed the Sorcerer and his party to restaurants and movies, to inner-circle practice groups. On the one hand, what they were doing felt kind of tacky and intrusive, like they were peeping toms or paparazzi, or maybe more like they were children watching their parents have sex.
On the other, it felt like a legitimate—albeit amateur—anthropological exercise. The Sorcerer himself had earned a Ph. His own journey had begun as a undergraduate inquiry into ethnobotany, a study of the natural hallucinogenic plants of the southwest. In a way, the Followers considered their actions a sort of academic homage. And besides, they knew in their hearts that their motives were pure, that their energetic connection was strong and true. They meant no harm to the Sorcerer. Indeed, they liked him. They respected him. They just wanted to be close. The Sorcerer always talked about seeking non-ordinary reality.
It was hard to explain, but this was theirs. At last, Greg and Gabi exited the Hyundai. They clicked the doors quietly closed, crossed the street, stepping carefully, wearing dark clothes. As was their custom, they started at the Eastborne side of the property, began working their way nonchalantly along the perimeter, arm in arm, like a couple on their evening constitutional.
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Raccoons were certainly not uncommon in the area, but the Followers had been to the neighborhood at all times of day and night and had never noticed any before. They watched raptly as the furry critters perambulated unhurriedly west-bound along the sidewalk, a darling little Disney grouping. The last one in line was a bit plump. It struggled to keep up.
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The Followers followed the raccoons around the corner, north on Pandora. Twice, the mother broke rank, circled around, coaxed the fat baby with her nose to hurry up, then went back to her place in line. The father, the mother, the first baby disappeared. The last one, the fat one, stopped and turned around. Greg took a step forward.
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The fat baby vanished through the hedge. A large black moth flew out of the hedge. It hovered in the air for a second or two, right in front of his face, so close that he could feel the disturbance of the air, the flutter of tiny wings tickling the tip of his ample Armenian nose. A palpable sense of alarm overcame him, a strong suggestion to Keep Out. He stood up quickly, his eyes like saucers.
For several long moments the Followers stood riveted to their places on the sidewalk. They felt a weird tingling up and down their spines. Crickets sang, a dog barked, the leaves on a nearby fig tree rustled in the breeze. And then … and then…. Greg looked at Gabi. Gabi looked at Greg. He raised his hands, palms up, shrugged his shoulders. Gabi cut her eyes toward the driveway, then back to Greg. She knitted her brow, a look of concern, then took his arm. Slowly, they strolled toward the driveway, toward the large trash can at the curb.
Greg reached over, opened the top of the can, peered inside. Greg looked north, then south. Then, grinning triumphantly, like an archeologist unearthing a pre-Cambrian pot, he began removing bags, translucent white plastic numbers secured at the top with twist-ties. He handed three bags to Gabi, took the remaining four himself. It just sort of happened spontaneously one night. As the night dragged on, the Followers watched as a cast of marginal characters came one by one on foot into the neighborhood to dig for recyclables.
Andy so it was that Tuesday nights became Trash Night.
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Whatever looked important or significant they kept. Of the leavings, whatever burned went up in smoke. They had a fondness for ceramic snakes and Mexican earthenware. The women had a taste for fine clothes—Armani, Barneys, Neiman Marcus. When they were finished with an item of apparel they would cut it to pieces and throw it away. Sometimes they were not so thorough—Gabi often wore a pair of DKNY leggings they had forgotten to cut up. Later she would find a leather jacket that belonged to one of the Witches. A corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches had belonged to the Sorcerer himself.
It fit Greg perfectly; he wore it everywhere, even to practice group. It was his fondest possession. The Sorcerer and the Witches, the Followers discovered, used wooden stick matches to clear the smells in their bathrooms. They loved word games, anagrams and crossword puzzles. They cut their own hair.
There was mail addressed to dozens of different people—over time, the Followers figured out that each of the occupants of the compound had several different aliases. The Sorcerer himself seemed overly fond of Las Vegas weddings. Found in the trash were certificates indicating that the Sorcerer had legally married two of the Witches, in ceremonies dated two days apart in September of Now, on this cool Tuesday night in August, loaded down with their latest gleanings, seven white plastic bags of trash, the Followers walked south on Pandora, heading for their car.
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