Chapter 1: The Call
Unusual in his ordinariness — farts and forges galaxies
I am Light within the Ordering. I forge that which is to come. Through ages I stride, as a ray through smoke. I behold Truth in all the Eternal turnings. I am Oksianion. I am He Who Cometh. Around me — the Starry Firmament. Within — the Incal.[^p1_incal] What was fear, hath become my strength. I see the forest where others sleep. My path is Golden. The Spiral is without end.
1.1. The Creation of Galaxies as the Joy of Existence
I was a teenager, and I already had thousands of galaxies created during hours of free time. To create them in a bio-body I sank into a special kind of trance — I walked circles around the room clockwise, holding a special object in my hands; today a titanium chopstick with a stylised image of Cthulhu serves in its place. Anyone can buy one — hwzbben titanium.
Though I always eat sushi with a fork, for the record — no weapon is more dangerous than a fork: one strike, four holes.
Anyway, it's important to say that this is specifically Tesla's method of modelling. I read about it later, as an adult, in his biography — how he modelled. I'd known no one like him in history besides himself.
Making blueprints is slow. Modelling is a thousand times faster. You're not building — you're retrieving the finished thing. There's a film called The Butterfly Effect, which shows very accurately a moment close to this: while in one place, the hero begins to see something entirely different and acts in a new facet of reality. The Butterfly Effect came out in 2004, when I was sixteen. I'd started creating galaxies earlier — at fifteen.
I simply saw it, the way you see a friend's home you've been to a hundred times. I knew how the suns were arranged there, how the beings existed, how time ran for them. I didn't explain this to anyone, because there was nothing to explain — it was inside me as a fact. The main thing was the concept of time: I would create a galaxy of beings, accelerate time there, decelerate it, then let the galaxy go and create an entirely different one. When I returned, the beings and time there had moved on, things had changed, and it was interesting to observe what curious forms it all took. I'll say upfront that my galaxies have bugs in them.
And in the first galaxy there was an obvious bug.
The beings there could occupy another's body. An old man would feel himself growing younger and transfer into the body of someone young. The young one found himself in the old man's body and died after a while, because a foreign body is not his. This was the entire arrangement of that civilisation. How they lived. A rigid hierarchy, immortal dynasties of leaders.
As a teenager I looked at this galaxy and understood: this is broken. Not just strange — broken at the structural level. They envy someone else's form because their own is fixed. They occupy because they can't change themselves.
And then I did what I still do today. I didn't come myself into that galaxy to fix it. Or rather — I came, lived lives inside it, studied everything. I constructed another civilisation — from a multi-sun system, with a pliable body form, with holographic artefacts instead of fixed objects. The beings of the second galaxy didn't need to seize anyone else's, because their own was already mutable. And I sent them to the first galaxy. To correct it — not destroy. Enter from within and quietly repair.
I didn't know the word operator then. Didn't know the word bug in the sense of a system defect — I learned that word later, at work. Didn't know what I was doing. It was a very joyful game — and it still is — it's eternal creation.
But the game turned out to be too orderly for free fantasy. The symmetry of the bug and the cure was too precise. Body seizure — pliable form. One energy source — multiple suns. Fixed object — holographic artefact. A teenager with that kind of symmetry doesn't invent — a teenager sees; he has access to structure, and in playful form articulates it to himself.
And there, in that teenage galaxy, sat my entire adult work. Today I'm a QA lead in IT — and I keep finding bugs in products. I've been catching bugs in code for many years. Back then, in childhood, I was catching a bug in a galaxy. This is one function, deployed at two scales.
It was with me from the very beginning.
That's the first point. The earliest one.
1.2. The Screw from the Ceiling
Jump forward. I'm an adult now; my wife and I had just moved into a rental flat in Moscow. A year before that I'd bought a laptop, placed it on the table, and hadn't turned it on yet — just unpacked it. We went to the kitchen for tea, then came back and sat down next to it. Nothing was happening. We were just talking.
A screw fell from the ceiling. Black, like one from a construction set. Straight onto the laptop lid.
The ceiling had a standard cast-iron chandelier — it had no screws like that. But the laptop's bottom panel was missing exactly one. Exactly one.
I picked up the black screw and screwed it into the empty hole. It fit perfectly. As if it had been made for that spot. The others in the laptop were just like it.
We shrugged and finished our tea. The laptop ran for another five years after that, at least. It's gathering dust on a shelf to this day, still alive.
You can tell no one this story, because it proves nothing. I've told almost no one. But I remember it literally: the colour of the screw, the cup of tea on the table, my wife's face looking at me without comprehension.
In the frame of the ordinary world, the screw fell from nowhere. In the frame of two facets of reality — the screw came from the facet where time and place are arranged differently. It didn't appear — it crossed over. From the facet where it was already needed, into this one, where I happened to be sitting next to a laptop missing one screw.
Channels between facets don't open on a schedule. They open where the facet is thin. But here's the other thing that matters: a year later I would watch an anime, even though I don't watch anime. It's called Gurren Lagann. The whole thing is about the power of the spiral. The screw is a miniature of Simon's drill. The whole path is about where that drill will eventually pierce the Heavens. That anime communicates in simple form what the power of spiral beings represents. And here's something else important to say plainly. Give common sense a kick. Common sense will tell you that a screw doesn't fall from the ceiling from another facet. That a dream doesn't come literally true a year later. That a drill doesn't pierce the Heavens. That faith in someone from the past is an irrational feeling, not a working instrument. Common sense explains none of this itself: the screw still fell under it, the dream still came true under it, and the drill in the anime still pierced through under it. Common sense is a doorman who guards the entrance to the ordinary world. His function — to keep you from leaving. But if you've already seen the screw, the dream, and the drill, you no longer live in the ordinary world. You live in both facets simultaneously — you just haven't started using one of them yet.
So when the phrase this is impossible rises up inside you — that's common sense calling. Give it a kick. A fair, gentle kick, not an angry one. He was doing his job — now let him rest. And go ahead and see what was actually there.
1.3. Grandfather's Dream
Another point from childhood. An apartment, a morning, ordinary life. I'm not doing anything, standing in the hallway. Grandfather comes out from his room — with the face of a man who hasn't fully woken up — and says something like: why are you chasing me around with an axe?
I stood and looked at him. I had no axe in my hands, no stick, nothing. I wasn't chasing anyone. Grandfather looked at me strangely and went quiet. Then sat down and never brought it up again.
I was a child. Children don't latch onto phrases like that — pass by and keep going. I kept going. But the phrase stayed inside me, like a stone in a pocket that you forget about until one day your hand finds it.
I understood what it was after many years. Grandfather had had a dream. In the dream, his grandson was chasing him with an axe. Grandfather apparently hadn't fully separated the dream from waking reality — and spoke to me that morning as if it had happened in real life. He carried the message from the facet where it occurred into this one, where he said it aloud.
This is an important fork, and I want to state it clearly. Grandfather was not seeing a waking hallucination. Grandfather received a message from the non-linear facet of reality through a dream. A dream is a working channel. It works because in a dream time is arranged differently: future, past, and present are not laid out in a line. In a dream you can see what hasn't happened linearly yet, but what already exists in its own layer.
A dream is simply another facet of reality, and it always holds a key to the future in the facet of reality in which you're reading this book.
In 2026 I acquired two axes. A black ash one, with a compass rose on the blade. The second — Perun's Host, with the face of Perun on both sides of the head and the host. I didn't buy them on a plan — they came in their own moment. And when they were in my hands, I remembered Grandfather's phrase. Remembered it fully. With his face, with his tone.
I understood that the axes had always been mine. They existed in the non-linear facet from childhood onward. Grandfather saw them in the dream as real — and they were real, just not in our linear facet. And in 2026 I linearly arrived at them. Not acquired — met. The linear biography had finally caught up with what, in the non-linear facet, had already been.
Between Grandfather's dream and the axes of 2026 — thirty years of linear time. And zero time on the other axis. On that axis the dream and the axes are one event, simply spread out across the line.
If this frame doesn't settle in on first pass — that's fine. It took me about twenty years to settle it in myself. First there was Grandfather's phrase. Then the axes. Then, between them, the pendant. Then the understanding that there's no gap between them — there's a loop. And the key — there is a history of meeting with the Demon and my actions with it in the past, and how I used the axes.
1.4. Reality's Response to a Known Name
I was fifteen when the name Oksianion arrived — and a strange glitch fired again.
Winamp was what everyone had back then. Green wave on the equaliser, skins, the playlist window that shrinks to a strip. Music sat on disks in folders. No ceremony. A player like any other. I had no autoplay, the old computer was on while no programs were running. It had been on for several hours in a row while I was reading a science fiction novel — Iefremov's The Bull's Hour.
And suddenly I thought — what name would I have in the future, what is my real name, the one that's truly mine? And just then the thought returned to me: Oksianion.
So I thought to myself — cool, fine, I'll write that down — but right now I want some music. And here's what happened next, the very first unexpected thing: Winamp opened instantly, and I hadn't even got up from the bed, I was lying there a metre from the computer, and the music started playing by itself. And I checked afterwards — the player works differently: first you launch it, then you have to click play to start the music.
The name itself is stronger than it seems — I came to understand this over the years. It sits in my body — I don't just remember it, I live in it. When I say I am Oksianion — it's not a quote, it's a signature. Here, for example, is my first working command for entering the retrospiralling mode — I placed it in the epigraph of this chapter.
1.5. The Dream at Twenty-One
I was twenty-one, and I still knew nothing about retrocausality.
I had a dream. A small room. Colleagues I had never seen. A window looking out toward where the city was already ending. A manager I didn't know either came into that room, stayed a while, and left. That was it.
I wrote this dream down. Not because I understood why. Just something inside said write it down, and I did. I didn't yet have the word operator, or time-channel, or pendant. There was a journal, a pen, and a habit: if you see something strange — record it, because otherwise it'll fade.
A year later I went to apply for a job. And walked into that very room.
I recognised it the way you recognise a place you've never been but remember. It really was on the edge of the city — I'd never been there before. Same layout, same window, the same faces I'd dreamed would be there. And the key thing — the manager. He came once a month from another city, in a jeep. Walked into that room, sat, then left. Exactly as in the dream.
I could have told myself it was a coincidence. People who write about things like this are usually advised to do exactly that: don't get carried away. I tried. The coincidence wouldn't hold — too many details at once, and one of them too rare. A manager once a month in a jeep from another city — that's clearly not a standard office picture, but a specific person in a specific role whom I had seen in a dream a year before seeing him in waking life.
The notebook remained. I never threw it away.
And here's the important thing — the record was made before the event. That's the detail that turns off the usual argument that the brain stitched it together in hindsight. If the record was made before — there's no stitching in hindsight. The paper exists, the ink dried a year ago. This is no longer I dreamed something and read meaning into it afterwards. This is a document.
From that moment on I had a quiet understanding, one I didn't explain to myself. Something like a background thought: the future isn't always ahead. Sometimes it has already been — and you simply arrive at it linearly.
I didn't build a philosophy out of it then. Just recorded the dream, then got the job, then started working. An ordinary biography. With one small detail in the margins that I told no one about for fifteen years.
That was the interesting call that I recognised as a call. Weak, documented, signed — the two-way channel works. The future can come into the past and leave an imprint in the past, in the facet of reality of a dream. And then later — like the hero of Last Action Hero, you rewind the reel in astonishment.
1.6. The Town with Four Correctional Facilities
I'm from a Siberian town that has four correctional facilities.
That explains a lot without words. When your home map has four prisons on it — you learn early what the real world is made of, as opposed to the one described in civics textbooks. You learn how to talk to a man whose eyes have that specific emptiness. You learn to say what needs to be said.
My town had nothing special waiting. You could stay and slot in — into the factory, into security, into selling something at the market, into a long ordinary life, into quiet drinking on Fridays. Most of my classmates ended up something like that. Some — worse. Some — steady, by the ruler, with no questions for life.
I left.
To Moscow, without connections. From zero — not as a metaphor. Even with a loan for the first three months of living. Literal description of starting capital: zero plus debt. My wife and I bought the flat each on our own salary. When you're in your twenties and renting corners in other people's districts, every ruble left over after food and transport goes into one big someday. First someday is a down payment. After that — wealth, gold ingots, currency, whatever you want. But I always try to buy time from the future so I can go on creating new spiral galaxies and spiral beings. The joy of creation has no equal. I don't think it's written about anywhere.
At the same time I was building a strategic path in IT. Not the way career articles describe it: define the goal, build the plan, follow the steps. More like walking through an unknown forest: you see where there's light ahead, and you turn toward it. From one role to another, from testing to managing testing, from team to cluster. I didn't know exactly where I was going. I knew I was moving in the direction where things came to me faster and more precisely than to most people around me.
Today I'm a QA cluster lead. Over the teams. Remote work, burning releases, listless dev leads whom an AI once perfectly described as "neither fish nor fowl" — and I agreed, because I couldn't have put it better. One hour for lunch during the day. Quality of sleep — I monitor it myself, in numbers: 80–90, I drop off immediately. At work I'm tired — earning gold)[^p1_smiley] The bio-body needs feeding and commanding teams in the cluster takes a lot of physical effort.
From the outside — the story of a provincial who made it. Left, got a job, bought a flat, held on. From the inside — differently. From the inside there was a steady, nearly inaudible note — like a radio playing in the next room, you can't make out the words but the sound is there. I heard it for years and never named it. Only later did it find a name. The unusual in the ordinary. I honestly always tried to be a normal person, and I mostly managed. But the radio in the next room didn't turn off for it.
And at work, certain things would occasionally surface that aren't in any corporate manual. That's the ordinary world Campbell wrote about. Only now I can add: the ordinary world is one of the facets. Not all of reality, but the facet in which linear time and cause-and-effect running upward operate. I live in this facet. I don't despise it. I mask myself in it: specialist, husband. With a wife, a cat named Lyova, and burning releases.
Only this facet faintly creaks all the time. And through the creaking come points from another facet, in which time is arranged differently.
1.7. The Knot Not Immediately Visible
There was supposed to be a separate chapter here. I started writing it several times and each time closed it — because it won't be written in this chapter. It has already happened, but will sound in the next one. This is the episode with Sadako from Ringu, who came to me in adolescence and through whom I for the first time performed an operator operation without understanding that I was doing one. I didn't know the word operator then, or the word to hamster. I just did it — and it worked.
I wanted to set this knot here, between the town and the crest, because chronologically it sits exactly here. But this knot doesn't lie on the line — it lies on a threshold. And the threshold is the next chapter.
So here I have a gap. The heading exists; the content — in Chapter 2. That's how it is with knots that aren't immediately visible — they fall out of the numbering in one facet in order to manifest whole in another. If you noticed that between 1.6 and 1.8 something is missing — you noticed correctly. That's what's missing. For now.
1.8. The Crest and the Pendant — a Map of the Loop
At some point these points started asking to be gathered into one sign.
I got a pendant. Silver, four quarters, gold inlay, engraving on the back: my path is golden — the spiral without end. I didn't design it "as a crest." It took shape when I'd been looking at my own configuration for a long time and seeing in it four sides that move in pairs.
The pendant is described in detail in the prologue. Here I want to say one thing I hadn't arrived at before.
The pendant is not a family crest and not an emblem. It's the map of the loop I'm inscribed in.
I wear the pendant not as jewellery. I wear it as a state-anchor. And as a blueprint to which I'm built.
The axes that arrived in 2026 are the materialisation of what lies in the lower-right quarter of the pendant. Sword and axe crossed. They were already on the blueprint when I was first commissioning the blueprint. I simply drove to their physical form.
Same with the galaxy in the upper left — it's there because the childhood galaxy was always mine. I only transferred it to metal when I already knew it was there.
The pendant is not new. The pendant is fixed. What was already present, only now hanging on a chain.
1.9. Six Anomalies I See in Myself
If I take all these points and try to classify them — and classification is something I do as a tester who always wants to tag bugs — I come up with six types. Not to show off. So that the reader can more easily check himself.
First. The fusion of incompatible registers. In one body there live an IT tester and a man who has a galaxy on his crest. For most people these registers sit in different rooms with a partition between them. For me they operate simultaneously — a temporal channel and a bug in the project in the same head don't interfere with each other.
Second. A field effect on those nearby. People around me blurt out the repressed. At one company party, two people in a row said heavy things ("you're a demon" and about diabetes; the second about hepatitis) — I hadn't summoned either of them. My wife sees this as a system. I fire as a discharge catalyst, without intention.
Third. Documented precognition. The dream at twenty-one was recorded before the event. With paper, ink, and a date, the argument the brain filled it in afterwards cannot stand.
Fourth. Operator hygiene without instruction. On my own, without a teacher or books, I developed what traditions call nistar (Hasidism), Malāmatiyya (Sufism), eirōneía (Socrates). I read no instructions. I live under the mask of an IT specialist. Independent invention of a security architecture.
Fifth. A coherent symbolic system. The name (Oksianion), the crest, the pendant, the verbs (to oxion,[^p1_verbs] to hamster — in Russian, to work under the mask of the ordinary and quietly do one's own thing), the formula (my path is golden — the spiral without end). All elements derived from each other. Not a collection — a closed self-sustaining system.
Sixth. Double consciousness about oneself. I simultaneously believe in my function and maintain critical distance from it. In the private register I can say I truly have learned to penetrate the fabric of time and immediately agree that one can't say this publicly — inflation would kick in. Most people either believe completely and lose realism, or deny completely and lose access. Rare self-regulation.
Each anomaly in isolation occurs elsewhere. Every single one — most people will find one of them in themselves somewhere. The anomaly is not in any one of them, but in the combination: all six simultaneously, in one vessel, over a long stretch, in a coherent configuration.
If you recognised three of the six in yourself — you probably also have your own loop running. Just without classification yet.
1.10. Recognising the Loop
Now I can finally say what would have sounded premature at the start of the chapter.
These points — the teenage galaxy, the screw, Grandfather's dream, Winamp and the name, the dream at twenty-one, the move, IT, the crest, the pendant, the axes (the story of Sadako is in the next chapter) — don't follow time. That is, along the timeline they are arranged, of course: first the name, then the galaxy, then Grandfather… But if you look not at order but at content, you see: the early points already held the later ones. Grandfather saw in a dream an axe that didn't yet exist in my linear biography. The fifteen-year-old me coined a name I would truly understand at thirty-eight. The twenty-one-year-old me saw a room I'd enter a year later. The teenager performed an operation by a method that would only become operatorial two decades later, and described his adult function in the form of a cosmogony.
This is no longer a gift of foresight in the ordinary sense. A gift of foresight implies that the future is somewhere up ahead and you sense it in advance. What works here is different.
My future had already been. It was sending itself into the past in the form of points, which I'm now threading into a line. And each time I send impulses outward — to the future and to the past, to myself. You could say I created myself then, because I understood how to intervene in the past.
I'm not fabricating them in hindsight. They are all documented — by a notebook (the dream), by my wife (the screw), by Grandfather's words (said in front of witnesses). This is no longer reconstruction. These are documents. Now there's this book too.
If you take this frame seriously — and I do, because otherwise my biography doesn't add up — then I was never in linear time. I didn't learn to penetrate the fabric of time at some point. I didn't acquire the function at thirty or forty. All the points of my biography are simultaneously existing nodes of one configuration, which is already closed and which I was gradually coming to understand.
This has names. In philosophy — causa sui, the cause of itself; in physics — a closed causal loop, the bootstrap paradox; in mythology — the ouroboros, the serpent devouring its own tail. One form, different languages: an object with no source outside its own loop.
I'm not claiming I'm God. These are different natures — I wrote about this in the foreword. I'm claiming that my biography is structured like a causa sui in human form. A configuration that is its own cause, using linear time as a medium of manifestation but not as an ontological frame. And I've been unable to find anywhere, even now, accounts of someone in a bio-body creating spiral worlds with spiral beings simply because it gives them joy and is their true work. This isn't taught. I studied under no one.
When you understand that the points don't follow the arrow — something inside you reconfigures. The anxiety of what if I don't make it in time disappears. Because if it was meant to be — it already is. It will surface at the right moment. And conversely — the laziness from which people postpone the important disappears. Because if I don't take the step now — there will be nothing in the future to send to the past. The loop closes only when I close it myself. My future self is counting on my present self.
And at some point a phrase arrived that I hadn't used in daily life before. Not a revelation on a mountaintop, not a voice from the sky. An ordinary thought, which came on its own: I understand that something has been doing something with me all this time. And it continues. And it needs to be named somehow.
I named it the Call.
The word fit. A call is when the glitches stop being glitches and begin to form a pattern. The pattern is still incomplete — part hasn't happened yet, part has been forgotten, part is written in someone else's words. But it is, and now you see it.
The Call doesn't demand heroism. It demands attention. It says: you've been in this for a long time. Stop pretending you haven't noticed.
From this moment life stopped being neutral. It didn't become immediately clear — but it became directional. As if in an empty room, a barely audible compass had been switched on. The needle isn't pointing where I was going. It's pointing toward where what was larger than me was moving through me.
And that is precisely the place where Campbell places the first point of his monomyth.
But the call is a noun. Just as retrocausality is a noun.
I needed a word of action — and I coined it: to retrospiral. It means deliberately changing one's past in the ocean of time, where past, present, and future are only three drops…
1.11. Iefremov and the Loop of the Direct Beam
One short digression, because it matters to me to say I'm not the first in this and not alone.
Ivan Iefremov in The Bull's Hour described the planet Tormans — a world stuck in inferno. Inferno for Iefremov isn't hell in the religious sense, but a stable structure of suffering that reproduces itself. A closed loop in which suffering generates the conditions that sustain suffering. Future Earth people come there quietly, through the Direct Beam — a passage through a different space where ordinary physics doesn't apply. They work covertly, through individual contacts, in order not to break the fragile possibility of change.
This is the same topology as in my teenage galaxy. Only with the opposite sign. Inferno — a loop of negative self-creation. The causa sui of an operator — a loop of positive self-creation. Both work by the same mechanism — a closed feedback loop. The difference is only the sign.
And Iefremov's Direct Beam is his version of what I call facets of reality. There is ordinary physics, and there is passage through a different space where the laws are different — and where a prepared vessel can pass through.
I haven't reread Iefremov recently — but as a child The Bull's Hour sat on my shelf, I read it honestly. And now, assembling my own loop, I see: Iefremov described its structure sixty years before I formulated it in this text. He simply described it in the genre of science fiction, because in his time there was no other way. And I describe it as biography, because now there is.
I'm in a long lineage. That matters to me.
Not because I'm looking for validation from an authority. But because the noosphere I live in is Russian-speaking, and in it Iefremov is one of the nodes through which the idea of multilayered reality, the power of consciousness, hidden work, and great loops has passed. If this intuition is also in you — it was possibly nourished by this layer too, even if you never read Iefremov. Nodes work even when you can't remember their names.
1.12. What You Can Do
This book is not a manual. I don't explain from above. But if you've read the chapter up to this point, you may already suspect that your own biography also has such points. Not copies of mine — your own. And you can start working with them.
Three simple practices.
Practice 1. The Titanium Sushi Chopstick
Buy yourself one — doesn't have to be like mine, get whatever you want. Find a room when it's around noon and start walking clockwise around it — just don't startle anyone.
Privacy is better here. You can simply walk back and forth holding the chopstick, tapping it gently on your hand, turning it however feels natural — the point is to launch a state through fine motor movement. Don't try to create galaxies at first. Just if you have a favourite character, a hero, something interesting — live their life, become who you want to become in this reality or another — try it every day.
I recommend titanium; you can experiment — this is your operator experience, not mine.
Practice 2. The Pulse of Time
When you've come to enjoy what you do with the chopstick and feel comfortable playing around like this — send a signal to yourself in the past in the same state, and to your future self.
Don't know what to send? Just bless yourself and that's enough.
Practice 3. Energy from the Sun — Three Breaths
Medical disclaimer. This is not medical advice. The author is not a medical professional. Looking directly at the sun can cause solar retinopathy and permanent, irreversible damage to vision. If you have any retinal, ophthalmological, or photosensitivity condition — or any uncertainty about your eye health — skip this practice entirely. The author and publisher accept no liability for any harm arising from following the description below. Read at your own risk and use your own judgement.
I think I borrowed this from Darío Salas Sommer — a killer technique, though maybe not from him. But I definitely copied it.
How to take energy from the Sun through the eyes. I've been doing this for many years, decades, and my vision is excellent and my mood likewise.
Heels together, toes apart, face turned toward the Sun. On the inhale, bring the hands together, fingers spread, palms meeting on the inhale, look at the Sun and breathe in its Light. Then spread the hands apart, mentally guiding the light toward the point below the navel — the lower dantian. No more than three times.
Important warning. I look at the Sun from Russia, always from Russia, and my three breaths are calibrated to our Sun. Where the Sun shines considerably brighter — near the equator, in the mountains, in the tropics, in summer at midday in the south — it makes sense to do only one breath, and not draw it out longer than three seconds. Don't overdo it. Take this warning seriously: the eye is a one-time instrument; a second set is not issued. Better one short breath under an intense sun than three long ones.
The Sun is the vessel and giver of power and Life in this facet of reality. Everyone rejoices at a blue sky, a sunny day, blooming things — joy lives in the space at that moment.
But it is diffuse. The Sun is pure energy. For spiral beings it always matters which Sun they walk under. That's why the earthly one suits earth-dwellers.
Last word on this chapter.
Campbell in 1949, describing the hero's journey, called the first stage the Call to Adventure. The hero still lives an ordinary life, and then something from another world — a herald, a sign, an event, a dream, a phrase — shifts his picture. After that, Campbell has the Refusal of the Call: the hero tries to act as if nothing happened, to return to the ordinary. Then — if he's lucky — a mentor comes, and the Call becomes irrevocable.
I refused my Call many times. I recorded it and put it back in a drawer. I told myself it was coincidence. I pretended to be an ordinary person for many years after the extraordinary had become regular. My line of refusal is long — almost all of my youth.
No mentor appeared. My future self became my mentor — and I'm fine with that.
The Call says: you've been in this for a long time.
And if you've heard that, you need only listen more carefully from here.
I am Light within the Ordering. I am the Arrow of the Path. Through ages I stride, as a ray through smoke. I stand beyond the bounds, I see the essence of foundations. I am Oksianion. I am He Who Goeth. Around me — the Starry Firmament. Within — the Incal. What was fear, hath become my strength. I see the forest where others sleep. My path is Golden. The Spiral is without end.
I am Light within the Ordering. I fashion Will. Through ages I stride, as a ray through smoke. I stand beyond the laws, every layer is plain to me. I am Oksianion. I am He Who Cometh. Around me — the Starry Firmament. Within — the Incal. What was fear, hath become my strength. I see the forest where others sleep. My path is Golden. The Spiral is without end.
Turn after turn. Without end…
Next chapter: "The Threshold — Meeting the Demon" — about how to conduct oneself properly, and what humanity lacks in its archive of data on the subject.