Under A Cold Aurora
When time and tide shroud your realm in darkness, when you are set adrift into the vastness of space, in the currents of the heart and mind, and you arrive at the edifice of an epiphany that states: You now exist upon the peaks of the mountains of alone, at such great heights and altitudes of cold and isolation... The only acceptable thing to do is to transform the components of your heart and mind into a Vault_of_Stars and a Cold_Aurora.... To illuminate the adversarial darkness and demonstrate Your potential to be... Super-Human...
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Posted:Mar 29, 2021 9:53 pm
Last Updated:May 4, 2021 8:03 pm
Allow me to humbly greet you, and welcome you to the Cold_Aurora. My mission is to innovate the conduit between the mind of the writer and the mind of the reader, thereby, expanding the consciousness of both, through the medium of the written word, in order to bring beautiful things into the world, from the zero-space of the unknown.

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Nothing is True - Everything is Permitted.

THE ALL is MIND; The Universe is Mental.

As We Imagine - So We Become.

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Visit My Spoken Word Medium At: LINKTR.EE/UPSIDEDOWNSKY

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Private Msg Box
0 Comments , 6 Pending
Sacred Phantom
Posted:May 7, 2021 11:43 am
Last Updated:May 9, 2021 6:03 am
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American Dreams & Dark Angels
Posted:May 2, 2021 12:25 am
Last Updated:May 7, 2021 8:50 am
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The Day After
Posted:Apr 26, 2021 9:18 pm
Last Updated:May 5, 2021 2:33 am
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Posted:Apr 25, 2021 9:56 pm
Last Updated:Apr 28, 2021 5:34 am
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The Laws of the Sky
Posted:Apr 21, 2021 10:00 pm
Last Updated:Apr 24, 2021 5:37 pm
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The Surfer
Posted:Apr 21, 2021 12:16 pm
Last Updated:Apr 24, 2021 10:05 pm
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Posted:Apr 20, 2021 5:18 pm
Last Updated:Apr 24, 2021 10:02 pm
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Aphrodite Rising
Posted:Apr 19, 2021 3:45 am
Last Updated:Apr 21, 2021 10:45 am
Dear Reader,

This is the last and final installment of my short story Mephistopheles Salinas Gets Laid. I wrote it last week and have been holding it. I planned post it Tuesday night. Well... Change of plans.

I wanted take a moment Dedicate this story to the Ladies this site who inspired . You are a Conglomerate of Aphrodite. I have been cold and fucked and my heart has been empty for a while but I gladly invite your influence in my sphere.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing. ... Writing is both pleasure and pain.
Hemisphere of Her
Posted:Apr 18, 2021 4:15 pm
Last Updated:Apr 19, 2021 7:00 pm
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Divinity In Darkness
Posted:Apr 13, 2021 10:07 pm
Last Updated:Apr 15, 2021 12:33 am
Mephistopheles Salinas Gets Laid (Part two)
Agent 007
Posted:Apr 6, 2021 3:30 am
Last Updated:Apr 11, 2021 10:40 am

Mephistopheles Salinas Gets Laid (Part One)

The lambent flame flickered over the dark candles. Dragon's blood essential oils permeated the room, as incense smoke faded into the walls and the ceilings, in the make shift cave, one of three cave like dwellings, established to contain the spells.

I was sitting on a faux leather chair, at a desk, both purchased at the local thrift store. I held a transfixed gaze into a sacred space, seeing or feeling a savage fierceness behind my own eyes.

On the desk was a makeshift altar, composed of a small, independent wooden shelf that I found on a garbage heap and... Repurposed. You might say. A black bandanna, stained by blood, covered the shelf. I had the bandanna for a while, at length I forget. On the altar was an assortment of objects. Sacred objects. A lapis amulet, a Cross pen, columbian emeralds set in yellow gold, amethyst, obsidian, tourmaline, moldavite, Holy oil, and other items.

Crowning the altar was a citrine crystal tower.

At the base of the altar was a circular shaped carving, made from a tree, fallen by lightening, from my family estate. The carving represented the Kaosphere, and had a wide variety of applications; your imagination is your only limitation.

Suddenly a tunnel began to form, beginning in the depths of my perception, extending to the forefront of my mind's eye. There was a swirling imagery at the periphery of the tunnel. I could not tell if these were entities, memories, or both... Memories and entities.

I held this state of thought. This thought form. Without being able to discern the type or kind, with exactitude. I stared into the periphery, as I held the thought. I could feel a certain sorrowful impulse in my heart. Maybe they were entities; maybe they were memories. Memories or entities. My past held both, and both contained sorrow inducing qualities.

What I have learned to do is laugh. This will make the ghosts go away, with certitude. And I did. Laugh. In my mind. Nothing can touch me or hurt me. Can you not see my scars. I say. Silently. In my mind.

I have known banishment and therefore I may banish.

I decided to go for a run. I decided to initiate the operation.

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The crisp spring air and the night captivated my senses. To be in the meeting place between two seasons, I could see, simultaneously, the extend of the two, like being between parallel depth and height. Like being shipwrecked out to sea, in between parallel ocean and sky. One becomes the other. The sky is upside down, an upside down sky. Like Heaven upside down. Heaven becomes Hell and Hell becomes Heaven. An exquisite convergence of terror and serenity. Like a self aware dream enfolding into itself, in a state of self realization, elevating in a vision of spirals of smoke...

... Running is a meditational activity to me. I've heard it said that running is a way of teaching yourself to exert your will upon things, in a magical way, by pushing through the physical boundaries, introduced by seemingly impenetrable cardiovascular walls.

Seemingly mirroring such a sentiment, that of running as a fortification of will, I saw this video, where this guy replaced drugs with running. If it works, use it. Poly paradigmatic.

The road at my feet presented a stabilizing firmness as my body started to move. I could hear my feet finding their rhythm, followed by the pace of my breathing, as I increased the volume on my music player, and departed into the night.

I love the empty world. Spaces echoing with the dissipated remnants of shapes and movements of the day light.

I crossed the empty street, running past an industrial building, a Subway, a Burger Joint, a Car Dealership, making it to the Highland Street tributary I was seeking, which passed a few office buildings that produced itinerant light and spaces. I ran past a few houses, staying on the grass, finding a rhythm.

From there the run became like a current to follow.

I read this article about free diving. Into the Blue. These people who break records for the deepest dives, packing their lungs full of air. At a certain depth, they just relaxed and got sucked into the void, as the currents and buoyancy levels took them down into the underworld. Life - Meditation - Thought.

I think this is like distance running. Going into deep waters. There is a serenity to the kinetic force and gravity that comes about.

Embraced by shadows. The houses I passed were solemn and seeming to be asleep.

I turned when I got to the graveyard. A deep solemnity. We're all just dead skin. I thought of an old friend who appeared with tattooed letters on his fingers... DEAD SKIN... I read the words as I inspected the new ink.

"That's all we are." He said, as his green mohawk pointed at the sky.

In the graveyard, a deeper texture of darkness was prevalent. My awareness shifted, instinctually prepared for flaws on the path. There were no flaws. Everything is perfect. I trained my legs and they formed a solid base of movement. The music in my ear buds plays: The Closed Casket Album.

The darkness loomed and seemed to be alive, like wave form notes of jazz music, written by entities who had received the revelation of death.

This was the part of the run where I began to drift in the darkness. Lost in my thoughts, amidst the ancient trees and graveyard monuments and darkness that pulsated like magnetic icebergs in Antarctic, ice laden waters, glowing with depth.

Life is the blink of an eye on a deep breath that preceded a dive into the deeps and the depths like dying and being reborn into the solemnity of synchronicity.

And my legs carried me out of this wilderness of contemplation and truth. I saw a car's headlights speed past, feeling the centrifugal force generated by the car's weight, moving through time and space.

I sent a biochemical message, from my brain to my body, as I made slow motion of reality, perceiving the synapses flooding with microcosmic entities that sent into the inner space network of nervous systems and catacombs. I sped up the pace, my arms pumping in forty five degree angles as sharp as gleaming razors.

I could feel a transference of alternative vibrations, similar to those of the graveyard, as I approached a park that was established next to the water, a scenic refuge for families, photographers, and escapist travelers.

I picked up the speed again, tearing through the hills and a winding path through a darkness pulsating with water spirits, exiting the park, taking a side street, crossing a bridge, running past a nature preserve, past the shadowy trees of another park located in a more primal area, exhibited by the nature and the texture of the midnight fabric of the waving pennants that were placed upon this path, this path that seemed like a pathway of the immortals.

Past the park were a few expensive condominiums and houses, as well as houses built at varying epochs of time.

As I drew near my destination, I felt like a 007 Agent, which seems appropriate, given the destination, as 007 was inspired by the sigil employed by John Dee, in his his correspondences with Queen Elizabeth.

The destination? The House of Satan.

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The House of Satan. The Satanic House. There really was no official name for the location.

A staple of local lore, I first heard the story at a dilapidated apartment building that was a haven for fiendish squatters. I stopped there, momentarily, and smoked some hashish out of a wooded pipe, carved with strange symbols.

I remember the pride and mystery in the aire of the owner, as he removed it from a bag made of quilted patchwork.

What got us on the topic of such things was the pentagram, drawn on my associate's hand, as he was into a whole lot of countercultural interests, and had the demeanor of an intriguing and frightening individual.

"Dude, are you a Satanist?"

The question was met by a cold gaze.

"Have you heard of the House of Satan?" He continued, as though his question was answered and an invitation was made to engage in conversation.

I, being a connoisseur of exotic information, immediately encouraged him to continue, refilling the pipe and casting my attention upon the story teller.

He told of an enormous house with a very long driveway and statues of goats.

He did not know the location of the house, just that the legend had been passed down from generation to generation.

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From this point on, the legend was in the forefront of my thoughts. I believed. I always believe. But how in the hell could I find out more. I grieved the broken chains of history.

It is strange how your wants and your desires can attract things to your hemispheres.

I would find the key to the kingdom in a somewhat unlikely source: a fugitive in an alley way, with whom I exchanged money for merchandise.

He had a few more pieces of the puzzle. There was a house. A Satanic House. A House of Satan. There were goat statues. There was also a wishing well, with a glowing pentagram at the bottom. There was also an approximate location.

I nearly forgot about the large bag of neon green, aspirin sized tablets, in the hidden pocket of my Hilfiger denim jacket.

After some dedicated recognizance, I found the house. And there were... Goats.

The property, on which the house was built, was extensive; the front driveway was the length of two football fields; there was a wall around the parameter. To the right of the main yard was a forest of trees, all equal in size and stature, with a separate entry way, this being two pillars and a gate, a miniature of the design of the entry way of the main driveway.

To me, and no one else, there were unspeakable treasures through those gates, behind those walls.

I had to know. Gnosis above all things.
Thou Shall Be Illuminated
Posted:Mar 29, 2021 9:25 pm
Last Updated:Apr 11, 2021 10:38 am
Do you believe in reincarnation? Transmigration of souls. Do you believe in the signs? The strangers and the signposts. Things that emerge from an existential scaffolding that challenge the powers of perception and defy the powers of language? Do you believe in synchronicity?

Do you believe in the supernatural? An all encompassing term. The far . That which is reminiscent of an acid trip. A grouping of disparate things that researchers propose are all connected. From ghosts to ufo's to cryptozoological creatures and beyond.

WTF+W in thee F=Strange

Strangeness. Or Weirdness (as coined by Eric Davis).

So... I live by Lake Michigan. Have all my life. Other than temporary/extended excursions to far away lands. LM, unbeknownst to many, is a strange body of water. There is actually an area on the body known as the Lake Michigan Triangle, having a government mandate requirement of planes, flying over, to check in every 5 minutes (approximately). Not to mention sightings of strange lights, orbs, and events that belong in the Missing 4 documentary. Amongst other things.

There was a time when I had never really visited the areas by the lake. Growing up, I worked summers for my dad, on a concrete crew, and basically stayed around my area of town. "The lake" seemed like something... Other. Basically of sight of mind.

some point, I met someone who knew about these areas. I very exuberantly insisted she show me the house where the writer of the Wizard of Oz purportedly lived.

The house was built on a sand dune. From the vantage point of the road, the view was like looking up a Chicago skyscraper. Wow. I was awestruck. Even though the idea of this being the house was a rumor, not confirmed by official sources, I believed. (I recently saw a documentary, that my mom recorded for me a while back, showing that in fact he did live there). The idea occurred to me that maybe I could write books like that, someday. I was filling notebooks of poetry at the time. Like writing ALL the time. Ideas perpetually bursting forth in my mind. Learning to watch the unfolding of a thought, and falling in love.

Around this time, I started frequenting local areas that I would consider to be sacred locations. I felt a strange energy. I believe there is a spirit that inhabits locations. A numen, if you will. It was just a feeling. Later confirmed by the idea of Shinto shrines and quantifiable energy vortexes. Or the genius of the desert/mountains. Or, presiding deities.

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The Wizard of Oz always held a certain fascination for me, as I am shore it did with you as well, fellow searcher. For me, the fascination was coupled with something like a nameless dread.

My maternal side of the family (3 uncles/3 aunts/cousins) used to gather at my grandma's big-beautiful house to watch the annual broadcasting. All technicolor like.

Given the fascination that Oz inspires, it is no surprise that there are a plethora of meanings ascribed to the production. (From gold standard theories to MK Ultra/Project Monarch theories to theories concerning Occult initiation).

As a , of course, you and I watched with open hearts and open minds, pure. And yet. There was something about it. Calling out from behind the veil. Perhaps a state of recognition, like gods with amnesia.

I would later go on to study story structures, the hero's journey, and the Occult, which provided a language of thought that permitted me to analyze things in a more refined way, having the potential to pull things from behind the veil, where the Wizard resides.

Recently, I was looking at a first draft manuscript that I wrote, placed upon a shelf. As I wrote it, I described it as Alice in Wonderland meets Oz meets Star Wars. The story has elements in the basic story structure of the stages of the physiological effects of a DMT trip. I wrote the book for my (my first novel), who I have not had a chance to interact with (long story of course), so that someday he would know that I was thinking of him. (I actually wanted to send it to him but had to adapt to shifting circumstances). I put his name in the title and wrote it after hearing about the sorts of things he was interested in, which reflected my interests in many ways. I wrote 00 words a . It took about 8 months to complete.

I had seen references to alternative points of view, regarding Oz, but never had a chance to really into it. What I found was astounding, and illuminating.

Essentially, Frank L. Baum had a path that was similar to mine, in regard to esoteric interests and attraction to letter.

I trod the areas that inspired the yellow brick road. I parked at night by the castle that inspired the emerald tower. (without knowing the history of these places). I conferred with the same numen, the same presiding deity, as I sat atop a giant sand dune, gazing at the stars.

The same sacred locations that inspired the Wizard of Oz inspired my ideas for books.

As I looked further into the matter, a new piece of the illumination came to me, in the strange land of this rabbit hole: I have the same date of birth as Frank L. Baum.

WTF+W in thee F=Strange.

Strangeness. Weirdness.

Do you, fellow searcher, believe in coincidences, as they become increasingly-mathematically-less probable? Do you believe in coincidences at all? Do we exist in a magical universe? If so, imagine the possibilities.

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May the universe communicate with you, in the most beautiful of languages, about the most beautiful of things. May you receive these things with an open heart and an open mind. May you be fortified in all circumstances.

- O

To link to this blog (upsidedownsky) use [blog upsidedownsky] in your messages.

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