"The main thing to understand is that we are imprisoned in some kind of work of art." --TERRENCE MCKENNA

The sensation of being bottled up is experienced by every human being. It is a reminder of our existing connection with intent . For sorcerers this sensation is even more acute, precisely because their goal is to sensitize their connecting link until they can make it function at will.
 When the pressure of their connecting link is too great, sorcerers relieve it by stalking themselves...
When you stalk yourself you jolt yourself, using your own behavior in a ruthless, cunning way.
 When a sorcerer's awareness becomes bogged down with the weight of his perceptual input, the best, or even perhaps the only, remedy is to use the idea of death to deliver that stalking jolt.
 The idea of death therefore is of monumental importance in the life of a sorcerer. Without a clear view of death, there is no order, no sobriety, no beauty. Not thinking about death protects us from worrying about it, but that purpose is an unworthy one for average men and a travesty for sorcerers.
Sorcerers struggle to gain this crucial insight in order to help them realize at the deepest possible level that they have no assurance whatsoever their lives will continue beyond the moment. That realization gives sorcerers the courage to be patient and yet take action, courage to be acquiescent without being stupid.
 The idea of death is the only thing that can give sorcerers courage. Strange, isn't it? It gives sorcerers the courage to be cunning without being conceited, and above all it gives them courage to be ruthless without being self-important.
 Sorcerers stalk themselves in order to break the power of their obsessions. There are many ways of stalking oneself. If you don't want to use the idea of your death, you can use poems to stalk yourself.
 I stalk myself with them. I deliver a jolt to myself with them. I listen, and shut off my internal dialogue and let my inner silence gain momentum. Then the combination of the poem and the silence delivers the jolt.
 See if you can feel what I'm talking about with this poem by José Gorostiza.:

"...this incessant stubborn dying,

this living death,

that slays you, oh God,

n your rigorous handiwork,

in the roses, in the stones,

in the indomitable stars

and in the flesh that burns out,

like a bonfire lit by a song,

a dream,

a hue that hits the eye.

...and you, yourself,

perhaps have died eternities of ages out there,

without us knowing about it,

we dregs, crumbs, ashes of you;

you that still are present,

like a star faked by its very light,

an empty light without star

that reaches us,


its infinite catastrophe.

As I hear the words, I feel that that man is seeing the essence of things and I can see with him. I care only about the feeling the poets longing brings me. I borrow his longing, and with it I borrow the beauty. And marvel at the fact that he, like a true warrior, lavishes it on the recipients, the beholders, retaining for himself only his longing. This jolt, this shock of beauty, is stalking.

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