Initiation in the Black Temple
The darker the sky, the brighter the stars will shine.
On New Year’s morning in a Dutch castle, I had a dream where Master G served as a guide to a magical space. Some call him ‘G’ or Vladimir.
In my dream, I was chased by two masked men. The figure of Vladimir has grown out of nowhere; with his look and the phrase, which he did not seem to utter, as if his thought were transmitted to me on a subtle plane, “Get ready for constant internal discomfort, and now I invite you to walk with me.”
Master G did not ask, he inspired the right action. His intent and power were so all-encompassing that it was impossible to refuse.
At dusk, we hurriedly walked along the deserted streets of the deserted city of N and finally turned out upon the square, where there was a low hanging Gothic temple.
On the right side of its main entrance, behind a cast-iron fence and on a small piece of land set aside for a cemetery, stood a centuries-old dais covered
with brown earthen moss coffin.
“A strange place,” I said to G, “It looks like a crypt … Still, I advise you to have a look in there with me, since we are already here.”
G. opened the lowly door, behind which a staircase began. We climbed a few steps and found a second door which was locked and marked with a sign reading “Retreat of the Holy Spirit”.
Without consulting, we decided to knock. After a short pause, a black woman with long curly hair opened the door. She began to speak with us using a language unfamiliar to me. Vladimir, feeling bewildered, slapped me on the left shoulder, and I instantly began to understand the black woman:
“This is the Great Black Temple. On it lies the curse of dead souls. A long time ago, several murders took place inside the temple, and now the souls of the dead do not leave this place.”
“Just don’t be afraid, let’s go with her”, Vladimir whispered to me.
And then the black priestess threw up her hands in disbelief:
“Oh, didn’t you know? We must pay tribute!”
Vladimir looked from the woman to me, and I hastily reached into my backpack, which, to my surprise, was not empty at all, and pulled out two bananas and a piece of pitch-black bread.
“Great, you can’t imagine better”, G said smiling. After evaluating the “gifts,” the stranger made an inviting gesture with her left hand, and we followed her. Inside the space there was darkness; for a minute it seemed to me that I had become blind, and then, somewhere in the distance, the orange-pink lights of a dozen torches appeared. “Is it always so dark in here?,” I said as I turned to G.
“It is better to ask the inhabitants of this temple,” G replied.
We continued to move forward until we came upon a new staircase, which now led downward. There was a sharp lack of air, and I really wanted to get out from this sinister place. “Are you still alive, sis?”, asked Vladimir.
Vladimir seemed to have poured the missing energy into me, and my state changed. He said: “There were musicians of the American black jazz ensemble. Impromptu jazz music began to sound from somewhere, with a trumpet as the soloist.
The cheerful jazz atmosphere does not coincide with the traditions of the inhabitants of this place, and they do not particularly respect men,
they have a completely different mission – maintaining the otherworldly fire.” Again G posed a lot of new questions with an answer, and as soon as I was about to start asking them, Vladimir said: “Okay, that’s enough for today, let’s go to the exit.”
And from here a beautiful connection was created:
the same as any seed contains the tree and the fruit,
the whole universe is enclosed in small man, who’s religion, deeds, health,
body parts, nature, language, words
and deeds – everything sounds in one
tone and one melody according to
God, heaven and earth.
Johann Valentin Andreae
“Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz” (1459)
In the apartment where I grew up, a party was already in full swing. The house was filled with people; women and men, they all had amazing beautiful faces. Suddenly, in the corner of the room I noticed a guitar. ‘How could a guitar from my Parisian apartment in Montmartre move here, to my childhood home?’ Asking myself this question as if dreaming, I kept focused on a thought that this is a dream, where everything is possible. I took the instrument in hand, hugged it tightly, and decided not to let the guitar out of sight. In the grand salon, by the window, there is an old musical instrument brought from Germany by my grandmother. It was a piano from the famous House of Amati; Nicola Amati an Italian Master Luthier from Cremona, the son of the founder of the violin school, who brought the type of violin developed by his predecessors to perfection and became a teacher for many future masters.
“And when will we start playing?”, I was impatiently worried but still opened the lid of my instrument. “Let each of us write on the beat,” I boldly suggested, without any hesitation or second thought. “This is a great idea, Anna,” Master G was delighted. I felt sorry for the writer Gilbert. Again, he was unable to hide his grievances, seeing that Vladimir and I were united. My cat, Musia, seemed to be counting the tension of Gilbert and meowed pitifully, jumping on his lap. Gilbert dismissed the pet’s caress and sat down closer to Vladimir on the sofa. “Wait, just be quiet! Do you hear this?” said Gilbert as trumpets filled the apartment. The sound was so clear that all the fun as instantly silenced. I decided to go to the bedroom, where there was a balcony, to look and check – perhaps this is where the wonderful trumpeters hid. Opening the room’s door, I saw three young maidens dressed in medieval clothes. Their hair was hidden under high cone-shaped headdresses, and their faces shone with kindness and purity; they seem to have come off the old tapestries that I loved so much to see in the Musée Cluny in Paris.
“And let us change you into something decent,” – said one young woman.
The girls began to help me. It turned out that there were several outfits in the closet and all that remained was to choose the most suitable one. I chose a long silk blue dress, put it on and returned to the salon, which was now filled with men who were dressed like the knights in armor. “Where is everyone?,” I asked while looking for Vladimir. One of them, the tallest, came up to me. The man wore a special knightly costume: over the forged chain mail – a white shirt with the image of a red cross; these were worn by the Knights of the Templar Order. He leaned toward me and said: “So, we meet again!”
The knight then dropped to one knee. For a minute I looked at him and could not understand who he was. His sharp gaze was very reminiscent of G’s, but this was already another person, with whom I are completely unfamiliar in this life, but at the same time, it felt like we had known each other for all eternity.
And I saw seven Angels, who stood before God;
and seven trumpets were given to them.
The revelation of John the Evangelist
Order of the Gray Tunic
Truth is what you think is true even if others disagree.
Richard Matheson, “Where Dreams May Come” *
To meet Master G in dreams meant to experience new trials or adventures, which as a rule were of an initiatory nature, contributed to inner awakening, and correct comprehension. They could provide the key for solving problems that the adept is inevitably forced to go through his own way and overcome his emotional constraints and selfishness. By interfering with the pure energy of kindness, that is, to purify, to inspire, and to continuously renew a person’s potential while ensuring that he remains in the correct energy flow, in the ray of light.
“Finally, I found you,” whispered Vladimir tenderly while patting me lightly on the left shoulder, “We have things to do, let’s hurry!” We found ourselves on the stairs of some entrance. “Where are we?” I asked, with great curiosity. “In St. Petersburg”, Vladimir replied with a smile. A moment later we were standing in a typical St. Petersburg courtyard. G suddenly became very serious: “Again we will have to take a taxi, otherwise we may be late for the procession.” He exclaimed. In a dream, Vladimir looked significantly younger. I hurried after him; it moved quickly and smoothly, like a ship driven by the wind of the starry worlds. From around the corner of an empty street turned out an old “Moskvich“, once popular soviet vehicle of light green color. Vladimir stopped the car with a gesture. “Get in, quickly!” Commanded G. We got into the car. The driver took off without asking where to take us. Yet, he drove with knowledge of the matter. After reading my thoughts again, Vladimir said: “Be patient. Just a little while and you will see everything for yourself!” Then there was a journey in a changed space and time. Following G in dreams, you can get into amazing spheres, subtle, borderless realities, where the usual notions of time are absent – ether reigns there. And everything becomes possible. Unbelievable opportunities open up to the galactic wanderer, and if the master is supportive, then you can count on revelations and discoveries too.
We found ourselves at the foot of the building. The ideal cylindrical structure made out of white stone seemed to have no doors. G said: “Now we will enter through there, and you will meet everyone!” In a moment we were transported to the inside of the sanctuary, where men, dressed in gray tunics of coarse fabric, offered prayers, took deep breaths and exhalated. They are all very similar to each other, like brothers. The unusual sounds and aromas made my head spin. “Be patient, dear, “ G kept repeating, “Just try to be patient! Your main task is to form the character in such a way that you can combine all four primary elements, controlling fire, air, earth and water.”
Another man has appeared in front of us by this time, his tunic was somewhat different in color; it was blue-gray, embroidered with silver thread, with amazing patterns and secret signs. His unusual belt buckle caught my eye. I heard an inner voice: “If you look at the buckle for a long time, you will forget everything!” After that, a new dream began, with a new plot and new unique experiences.
Artworks By Valery Koshlyakov