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In the Hearth: Shemash,
Salock in the Heart

Carlos Dwa

These writings are reproduced with permission of the author. This edited version Copyright 1998 by Carlos Dwa. All rights reserved. No portion of this text may be copied without expressed permission of the copyright owner.

Magnetic Blood | The Ubertyrant and the Net

Theater of synthetic mysticism

A series of mysteries with coherent and consistent metaphors
and symbols.

Within an additional outline and guide

The players

Ahja Ka -the metawhore

Shemash -Fire From Heaven

Loki - language

The Bonfire of Burning Forms

The plasmas from the bonfire of Shemash

is the stuff which flows forth from the burning fount of creation

-symbols lacking form -fraught with meaning

dense and volatile,

that sear the minds that first confine them,

and later -finally bogged with the encrustation's of existence

-wash upon the shore of Nowhere to be gathered

and burned in his bonfire of burning forms.

1998 Carlos Dwa



The Salock poetess/whore/priestess is a
formidable entity.
In all things she is a whore.

This in itself is nothing.
Who could deny such about themselves
given the proper figurative leeway?

But she -oh she -is a whore
with a difference.

Everyone pays.

There is no exception
even for herself.

According to her discipline
the only acceptable payment
is a show of blood.

There are no conditions or requirement
regarding the specific form of this payment.
Though she must find it acceptable.

The Salock Priestess is a metawhore.

She can be anything you want
and sometimes despite yourself
-somethings that you didn't.

She is at her best when she is something
that you didn't know that you loved.

The Priestess -though absolutely lascivious
-is strangely conservative.
She has yet to recognize the advent of agriculture.

She is renowned -and rightly so -for her fidelity.
She has absolute fidelity
-though she has never determined to who or to what,

nor has any other.

She is a poetess
and words fall from her lips
like wantonly overripe plums
so terribly needful of pluck.

There can be no
Her puckish flirtations
-full of the promise of succulent meaning be.

The allure of detour -unexpected and delightful.

She is an earnest being.
She is of nothingness
and a fullness supreme.

Her name is Ahja Ka daughter of Ea.
And Fire From Heaven is her lover.

copyright Carlos Dwa 1995


And Fire From Heaven came to Shemash
in the cool of the morning
-before the last stars had dimmed
-before the breaking of dawn,
and they walked along the sandy path beside the waters.
And Shemash
knelt beside the lucid clarity of the flowing
brook -in that static perfection -between
the breaths of day and night, and Fire From
Heaven whispered to Shemash as if he
where himself.
He said, "The time will come
- my love -when you will resent even
the most delightful of revelations
and the speakers thereof
-when even my songs
-burning with the passion for consciousness
-will you flee
-as but another distraction.

1995 Carlos Dwa


Buddha, Newton, and Tuppa Ka Loc where having a picnic
one sunny afternoon on the banks of the great river Heropass.

After tea and krumpets, or scones as the case may have been,
Sir Isaac rose and made an expsansive gesture that seemed to
encompass the emmensity of their surroundings. He said,
"Ah, gentlemen, such magnificance is indicated by creation...
such genius... such perfection. by studying the complexity around
us and discerning the sweet and pure underlying laws by which
these phenomenon manifest we understand the sublime.
To look out into the depths of reality is to look into
the mind of God, and the nature of our creator, and therefore
our own."

Budda smiled serenly and said, "To look within, without preconception
will lead one to the perception of the core dynamics of all
experience and liberation from the endless cycles, both
without and within."

After a little while it became apparent that Tuppa Ka Loc did not
intend to comment upon the matter under discussion.
finally Sir Isacc inquired, "Our esteemed Salock friend, do
you not have a perspective that could enrich our current
consideration of whether it is more beneficial to look "without"
or "within" for the knowledge that leads to the transcendental?"

Finally after a further silence the Salock said (seemingly without

"The how of looking determines the what of seeing.

Look at looking to find the determination of what you would create.

See what you would have, everywhere, and you have found how to look.

What you see is how you look.

You create what you see by how you look.

There is nothing to see, independent of looking and no one to see it.

The "information" precieved, whether within or without,
of the intellect or the emotions, or the sensate,
is "information" neither of the looker or the seen
but of the looking.

When the looking is seen the seen and the looker become one.
Self luminious in this reunion, the seeming
dualism is absolved by the discovery of the
unseen third force, which unifies and quenches
their dynamic opposition within the
eternal transitional."

The Salock ended his comment with a smile, a grunt,
and a fart. Whereupon Sir Isaac exclaimed,
"If I had double spacing like that, I'd have discovered
quantum theory, by jove!."
Then he and Gatama dissappeared with a distinct
popping sound, not unlike that of a vertibrae being
realigned by ones pet chiropractor.

Tuppa Ka Loc removed his "tennys" and put his feet
in the river Heropass which promply dissolved
into it's constituant ocean.

It was after one in the morning when the Salock, Tuppa Kae Loc had
Shasha Togg get those of us that he could reach together. I think half
of us where drunk or high. Fortunately I had been spending a rather
uneventful evening working on hybridization schemes for my Amurs.
Nobody had lit a fire in the hearth and it didn't seem like anybody
was inclined to. We where all standing around silently enduring the cold,
restlessly huddled in our cloaks and greatcoats when the Salock entered
and regarded the lot of us with a look that defies description.
As if we had forced him to be here at this ungodly hour
instead of the opposite. He strode to the center of the hall and
started right in -for all the world giving the impression that we
had interrupted something important and he was anxious to get
back to it.

He said, "How comforting it is to believe there is a program,
a tradition,
a method, a technique... that there is a way that has been tread
before. That there are official conformations. And of course there are, but
there are none such to what I am indicating, nor can there be.
Yet there is an organic potential and I will not say that it is not there
-full blown -naturel, and alien to all your concepts about such.
How comforting to think there is someone who can lead you there. But I tell
you -that if there was someone who could by their own power -propel you into
what I speak of. They would be doing you an incredible disservice and injury.
They would be crippling you for all time.
You think there are conclusions to come to -psychological factors -insights.
There are...-endless conclusions -endless psychological self referential
infinite regression -all futile as regards This Movement. Every
understanding, every conclusion is another bar in your prison. You can think
you got a step up by coming to this conclusion itself, but you have gotten no
where. This has nothing to do with psychological revelations -psychological
revelations are irrelevant. "False self", "false "I"", "self", "ego",
"subconscious" -If you achieve an enriched functioning, an enhanced
consciousness, if you attain Ka (*rymes with awe)
you will never waste your time on this nonsense again.

Then what will you do -if all your problems and impediments evaporate?

Will you delve back into their cozy dim comfort?
Will you slit your throat?
Or will you move forward as an explorer in new territory -new neural
territory. Yes, the "mechanism" (a "mechanism" more conscious and alive than
you are) that opened, that affords you this enriched functioning is embedded
in your genome. But no one has been where you will be. There is no one to
run to for comfort or conformation. You will either love the vistas of
consciousness -of unexpected inconceivable possibilities -or you will try to
run home to mama by talking about it.
Then you will be "safe" once more, back in the arms of futility -fast asleep,
and trying to teach others how to awaken. But then your awakening is only a
memory. Your possibilities are ended and you can only lead the sleeping
deeper into slumber.

All your great spiritual heroes where nobodies as regards This Movement. The
real greats are far too covetous of their time to become widely known. How
would the sleeping masses recognize an awakened person? By their feelings
around them? All they will find is a spiritual politician -someone
genetically dominant -a daddy. By miracles? By believing in external miracles
you miss the possibility and realm of real possible miracles. When you reach
a point that you wouldn't cross the street to see Jesus, or Buddha, or
Mohammed, or anyone -unless you wanted to borrow a tea bag, then you are at a
point where you can actually do yourself and others some real good.

What I am saying here does not indicate "facts" or "Truths" or conclusions.
It indicates energy flows -vectors. The words are irrelevant nonsense. See
what is behind them. If you can -disregard the speaker and the hearer.
Derive what nourishment they may hold and spit them out and forget them."

And he turned and hurried from the room.
And it was a really strange vacuum he left behind him.
It was charged with -I don't know what.
We all just stood there in silence for a time
and then one by one without a word to each other
we left, making our way through the snows to our respective abodes.

(c) Carlos Dwa 1998

It was that wonderful time of year.
That time of sunny snow filled days that pass so swiftly
like a whisper into the long blue ... crystalline nights.
A time when, stomping the snow from my boots,
as I entered the shop in the predawn darkness,
the serene roar of the glass furnaces seemed
so reassuring and intimate.

I was always the first one there.
While the maestro still slumbered in his loft
snuggled with his wife and children, I breathed
the dawn.
A time when the Solstice approached, a time
just for me and the subtle roar of the furnaces
as I fired up the gloryhole and unloaded the annealing
kiln, swept the glass dust from the floor as I held my
breath against the deadly sparkling cloud
that rose form my broom.
And dawn would creep through the white birches
behind the shop and the first rays would bedazzle
one as they struck the hill of multicolored cullet
that we had dumped back there. It looked for
all the world like a mound of diamonds nestled
in the snow.

I had everything in order.
The pipes preheating in the flames of the pilot burners,
the gloryhole beginning to emit it's cherry glow, the water
for the wood blocks refreshed, new bees wax set out.
I was just taking a moment before I took my pipe and
made the days first gather of the glowing flowing glass.

Then Shasha Togg entered, stamping his boots in
the doorway to dislodge the snow that he tracked
in. He stretched his hands out toward the tank furnace
obviously appreciative of it's warming radiance.
We smiled and he said, "Carlos I already spoke with
Patra so he knows you won't be here today."

"I won't?"

"No no, I'm sorry, but there was no warning,
the Salock Sig Wacca Jix has decided to go to Val
today and he wants you to accompany him as his bodyguard."

This seemed extremely unlikely to me and this must have
been evident to Shasha because he shrugged and said
"He insists."

Firstly there was no earthly reason to need a bodyguard to
go to Val, which as far as I knew was safe to the point of
monotony, and was only 18 miles distant.
And secondly, Sig Wacca Jix hardly needed
protection. I imagined he could have crushed me without breaking
a sweat. But there really was nothing to do but acquiesce even though
the prospect of being alone with the Salock unnerved me.

I could detect some empathy in Shasha Toggs voice when he
said, "He'll be ready in twenty minutes. You're to meet him at his

Today if Sig Wacca Jix ordered me to his gate in such a manner
he would be standing quite alone. But at that time our relative
enactment as regards This Movement were quite different and
he possessed that which I would have given anything for. No labor was
to great, no request unreasonable.
So I was standing before his gate fifteen minutes later
while my well worn pickup truck idled beside me, it's heater warming the cab.

Then I heard his door close and he was right there beside me
looking me up and down. His great size and the unnatural
speed with which he moved already had me on edge.
He was like some elemental energy drawn from the Nordic
mythos all red and grit and girth, with a pattern of energy
that undulated visibly like living hoarfrost upon his bearded
face and wherever his skin was exposed. I was supprised
he didn't send off sparks as the heat of his breath formed
clouds about us in the morning chill.
He looked at my boots and said, "Good, get your coat and turn
off your truck, we're walking. He grabbed a stafflike walking
stick that had been standing in a snow drift aside his gate.
He gestured toward the woods that lay beyond the snow covered
fields behind his house and ordered, "This Way", and stuck off,
leaving me to secure my truck, grab my parka, gloves and
scarf and catch up as I may.

I must confess I was feeling quite put upon. It was going to take
all day to walk to Val and accomplish whatever business the
Salock had there and walk back. I had been planning to take
my Amurs out and let them hunt for their dinner on the mountain
behind my house. They would be furious with me by the time
I got home and they held a grudge for weeks when affronted.

The Salock Sig Wacca Jix was about to enter the forest and I
had to run in order to catch up with him. The snow was deep
and I was hot from my exertion by the time I reached the tree line.
He stood about fifty feet from me beside a small brook that
had kept the snow at bay and embellished itself with a latticework
of ice by it's mossy banks. The snow in the forest had been
there for weeks and had a thick crust that momentarily supported
my weight before my foot would plunge through up to my thigh
with each steep of my progress.

As I made my way toward him the Salock looked up from his
consideration of the tinkling rivulet and said, "Here now Dwa,
look at the mess you are making of this beautiful scene. Have
a little consideration for my aesthetic sensibilities will you."
He indicated the trail of disruption I had inflicted on the otherwise
pristine icy crust of the snow. And I realized, there he stood
probably three times my weight and there was no indication
of his passing and he was standing in all his massive glory
on top of the snow. "Have a little subtlety will you?"

I stopped and then somewhat tenuously lifted my boot up to
test the support of the untrodden snow in front of me.
He nodded in encouragement. I sort of simultaneously
stepped up and slid forward on the thin rind of icen snow.
And it held! It held my weight and I was able to effortlessly
walk slide across it's top.

He smiled at my obvious astonishment and then started off
once more -upland following the brook.

We had been making our way through the virgin hemlocks,
the air full of their invigorating scent, the wonderland of
the snow laden forest all about us for the last hour or so.
As we walked the Salock addressed me, "So Dwa what will
you do when you leave here?"

"Leave?" I questioned, for I had never considered leaving
The School. It had taken me so long to find it and twice that
to be acknowledged and admitted.

"Yes leave"...he said a bit impatiently. "What did you think
you would do stay around here and teach glassblowing?
Of course you will leave when your through with us. This
School is not an end for the likes of you. You are not a
teacher. I can tell you that. You don't have the patients.
You would mention something in passing and let it drop
because you discovered it for yourself and expect others
to understand at once what they would need to hear over
and over before they develop an understanding. No you
are no teacher. That is for sure."

"Your not talking about glassblowing."

"Of course I'm not talking about glassblowing. Is that
why you came here? To blow glass?"


We continued in silence for about a half hour.
As we reached the crest of the hill a break in the hemlocks
afforded a view of the next valley. Off in the distance
a well known Ashram was visible in the southern distance.
"Do you know that place Carlos?"


"Have you been there?"

"I have, on a few occasions at the invitation of a female friend."

"What did you find there?"

"Ceremonies, tradition, reference for certain personages.
They where very friendly, very polite, some even seemed blissful."

"And, I get the feeling there is something you are not saying."

"They were asleep."

"What! asleep, but they are in the direct lineage of one of the
most popular holymen of all times."

"Nevertheless that was my impression. I sat with them in meditation
and they seemed to enter a state of selfhypnosis and blissful though
it seemed I could see into it directly and there was nothing new being
discovered. No creative discovery, just a programed internal manipulaton."

The Salock snorted, then said, "The abnegators -saying "This is not
I, This is not I, I am not that, I am not that." -longing through imagined
cosmic nullity to crawl back into the womb. They reduce the complex
to the simple and the simple to the nix. While all about them life expands
in every possible direction. It's track and spore increasingly complex."
He continued, "Layer upon layer of intrinsic intricacy. The only reduction
lies in illusion. The illusion lies not in the intricacy of the world, the
illusion lies in the simplification of the world.

"The ultimate illusion is that there is the One.
One is a number.
A concept.
Is there not something that is not a concept?
The touch of your lovers lips?
The smell of her hair?
The succulent stars in a desert night?

"Take everything -everything is one thing...PERIOD...right Carlos?

I said nothing.

"What if you can't take everything?" He continued.
"What if everything being one thing is only a concept.
Just the ultimate reduction. The ultimate simplification,
the ultimate attempt to get a handle on overwhelming complexity and
Can you conceive of the possibility that there is no one thing?
That everything is not everything?
That it is not a whole -is not one thing -except in the mind of man?

"Can you concieve of EVERYTHING not being one thing Carlos?
Of course you can't.

"I'm not talking about some infantile exercise such as saying
that everything is two things or everything is forty-nine things
or any number.

"What if the statement "Everything is..."
is already incorrect? Can you conceive of this?

"Can you see the fertile possibility in this? The potential?
What if the statement, "What is", is already incorrect
-is rooted in a fallacy?"

The Salock stopped and turned back and looked into
my eyes for a moment as he said, "To even one time
mistake the moon for a finger is a million times more
costly than visa versa."

Then he turned and started in again as he glided on.
"So what does this indicate? -This fact that it is impossible
for you to conceive of their not being a One -even if
you call it infinity or whatever? Does it indicate -is it
a telling of the world? -or of the mechanism of conception itself?

"If you free yourself from the bonds of conception, will you find the One?
When it itself is the ultimate conception. Or will you find something
other? -something inconceivable?

"Just a humble suggestion of a possible
fertile field for your own investigation -Carlos -if you
are so inclined.

"This does not mean your love will end Carlos,
merely that another idol will crumble and leave you
some breathing space for further discovery"

Then the Salock Sig Wacca Jix fell silent once more
and the enveloping serenity of the forest descended
and we moved swiftly onward.

To be continued...

1998 Carlos Dwa


Practice, Practice, Practice

Zai Ky Maaca was perhaps the most formidable of the Salock.
He was also the least respected. He made sure of this.
Otherwise his presence would have inspired such awe
as to paralyze functional association with others.
He seemed to set up situations purposefully to embarrass
himself and then not be embarrassed at all and then
get angry at his failure to embarrass himself.

I guess everybody needs a hobby.

The lineage of the Salock poet warriors predates
the IndoAryian invasion of Europe. It predates
the Celts, Gauls, and all the Germanic
peoples of preagricutural Europe. And it
certainly predates the Aryan invasion of India
which established the Vedic culture.
It predates the Mesopotamian city-states
by thousands of years. It is the ancient way
of the transeuropean culture that spanned
the continent before the invasion of the
Germanic peoples out of Asia with their
warlike skygod and their belief in themselves
as the chosen people. Not unlike what the Israelites
did on a smaller scale in the middle east.
This belief in being chosen by the supreme
god made it easier to rationalize their genocidal
and regicidal tendencies. But the Salock where
fluid and mighty hunters and
under the Germanic cultures of the Celts and Gauls,
and Germans, became warriors. Warfare against
other humans was unknown in Europe before this invasion
from Asia.
Enough of history, but to add that the art
of the Salock warrior poets has profited and
expanded no matter the external conditions
throughout the ages. If you are of European
heredity this is your true mystic heritage.
One that has never been totally erased by all
the degenerate religions that have had political
sway there. The only mystical science that is native
to your genome. The only one that is a science
of the magnetic blood that courses through you.

At any rate, for some reason Zai Ky Macaa took
a liking to me. Partly, I think because I was always
in rebellion against any presumption of authority
at The Hearth. Partly because he knew that I
would not hesitate to call him on anything,
that I accepted nothing on faith.
So it came about that J. Krishnamurti was to
give a talk at Carnagie Hall. And at the time,
having studied His writings quite intensely in
my youth, I still had a desire to see him in
I asked Zai Ky Macaa if he would like to go
with me, since it was only a 45 mile trip
south to the city. He gave me a sneer that spoke
volumes. It said, "You are here, here with us
and you still wish to peruse that which has no
being, no reality, no real nourishment?"
But I persisted, I told him Krishnamurti was
mearly a philosopher that was attempting to
be intellectually objective about subjective
experiencing, not some self deluded religious
He told me that he was well aware what Krishnamurti
was. That I should know by now that nobody who
has ever become popular has really known anything
about what can be or how to bring it about.
He seemed to hold a similar
opinion about anyone who had written a book.
But Krishnamurti had mean so much to me
in years gone by, and for some reason something
within me wanted the contrast of a Salock
who, like Zai Ky Macaa was burning of consciousness
and who's presents could literally be felt when
he entered a room unseen. Felt like an energy
that was a gift. Like all of a sudden, you were
running on hi octane fuel.
Finally with bribes and a wager he agreed to let
me buy him a ticket and drive him to the hall.

And this is the most important thing that took place
during Krisnamurti's performance.
He came out and sat in a chair.
A young worshipper came out and
prostrated himself before him then
attached a microphone round his neck.
He then prostrated himself again and left the stage.
Zai Ky Macaa grunted at this, and I got
the distinct impression that at another time
and place he would have taken Krishnamurtis
head just for allowing this.
Krishnamurti began to talk, but the microphone
wasn't working. Another young follower
came out and prostrated himself before
Krisnamurti and then ever so humbly
and with visable awe and foreboding -adjusted
the microphone, reprostrated himself and left.
This scene replayed several times with
different clearly upset servile acolytes
dressed in appropriate Indian style costume.
But to no avail the mic just would not
work and nobody could hear him.
Finally some long haired roadie tech
type, a big bear of a guy dressed like
a lumberjack comes out.
Without the least show of deference
to old J. he walks up and seems to
jerk the microphone that is attached
to Krishnamurti by a loop around his neck.
he jerks it about so violently that I
thought he would surly snap the old man's
neck. Then the lumberjack steps back and
directs Krishnamurti to speak. It works
and the Jack lumbers off stage.
Zai Ky Macaa grunts again at this.
As if to let me know that this was truly

Krishnamurti does his sticke, nothing new,
nothing surprising.
Soon as it's over Zai Ky Macaa says,"Lets go eat."
When we get in the car I say, "So what do you think?"
He says, "He's not conscious."
And I knew it, but I had to hear him say it anyway.
And I knew he wouldn't say anymore.
What was there to say?

But perhaps the last and hardest of my boyhood
spiritual heroes to fall before the undeniable
enhanced conscious being of the Salock
was Gurdjieff. For I had spent years and years
with several people who had been his personal
students, and where undeniably remarkable
after a fashion.
And this only after I meet a Salock Berserker
whose eyes alone could transform one without
a word.
But that is another story.

(c) 1999 by Carlos Dwa NAL

Salock?please define.Thanks,Alan
Salock: This is mearly a term of convience
No simple definiton is possible.
see my previous posts that mention them.

I will say this though. A Salock is born, not
made. Though sometimes it takes them
a while to realize what they are.

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