How Elan did NOT change my life (I did)

It was 2015, and I desired a flute crazy much.

In fact, I desired a flute so badly that I would come to steal one, more or less. Why the urgency? Because it was as though I had reached an infinite hand through time and space, and had touched an enchanted flute in some distant, auspicious reality.

If I acquired that enchanted flute, I would be transformed.

And there it was, right in front of me in the bus line, protruding from an Andean man’s colorful shoulder bag.

He was drunk. Good. That meant he would be easier to trick into selling me his flute.

While the other passengers on the small bus leaving Puno complained about the drunken man’s unruly behavior, I jived along. I even got to try the flute; and when the man seemed warm, I presented him with the offer of one Sol for the flute (thirty cents) – nothing. I presented a scam.

But it wasn’t without reason! If I got that flute, I would be a superhero in a dream reality. Surely that justified my deceitful means.

The drunkard wouldn’t budge.

At our common destination of Juli, however, he gave in to my nagging.

For the equivalent of eight dollars, he let me keep the flute. I was intense about it. He did agree, though without a trace of satisfaction.

The fluteless man stumbled off into the town square. I hurried the other way, around corners, clutching my prize. In the event that its previous owner changed his hazy mind and came after me, I wanted to be gone.

Nightfall found me standing on a hostel rooftop and wondering if this was how people felt when they wanted to jump. I was terrified of myself. Not only had I been persistent and persuasive in a matter void of compassion; I had also succeeded. That’s what troubled me the most – I could be an asshole and still achieve seemingly grand things. Because if I maintained the story of how I had lured a flute off “a random drunkard”, there were those in my social circle back home who would praise me for my sketchy cunning.

I kept the flute during two weeks of healing at Lake Titicaca, then left it at an ancient site.

At another ancient site, I gained compassion and lost my fear of aliens.

As it has since antediluvian times, Aramu Muru’s Doorway looms flat and enigmatic in a sloping cliff of red sandstone. It has a five foot high recess shaped like a fat letter T. At the center of the recess is a small hole.

I stood on my knees in the recess and put my hands on the hollowed stone. Just as the shaman did in the book which had guided me to this stargate, I placed my forehead over the small hole. My intention was to let happen whatever needed to happen.

Before leaving for Peru, I had done a DNA activation with a mystic. What stood out in that experience was a curious feeling and part of a song playing in my mind (Forty Six & Two by TOOL). Now, as I kneeled into stone and mystery, I had the same curious feeling, along with mental music.

This song, however, was different. It was The Beatles. I heard their bright, peppy Here Comes the Sun.

My back felt warm – the clouds had parted and were letting through sunlight.

I opened my eyes and lifted my forehead off the small hole. The shadow I cast on the rock wall was that of a classical Grey: short legs since I kneeled, a huge head on account of the sun’s angle, and long arms. Fear – fear of myself, fear of the unknown, fear of whatever – ceased to make sense as the timeless clock struck love.

I feared myself because I feared aliens, because they were me, I was them – everything in the Universe was ultimately one.

In the spring of 2018, I really went for it. I moved into a forest cabin and got seriously playful about realizing the storyworld which since my South American adventures had started forming in my consciousness. I was making art out of my transformational process.

As spring became summer, and my dream reality budded within and without, I had a premonition. It grew on me like a lush vine. Something amazing would happen in August.

The premonition blossomed; I was supposed to visit Gothenburg, for a festival.

On the train to Gothenburg I heard a channeled recording of an extraterrestrial fellow calling himself Elan. I had listened to many Elan-recordings during my time in the cabin, but this one hit home like none of the previous marvels. Elan of the Sassani was talking about instantaneous transformation:

Your mere ability to imagine something is an indication that you already are of that vibration. You cannot experience any reality that you are not already the vibration of, even in your imagination. Even in your desires.

When you project a particular version of yourself, in the moment that you are even able to picture it, you are it. All that is necessary to close the circuit is to then, with the vision as a foundation, act.

The essence of the vision – the exciting vibration – inevitably becomes your reality when you embody the behavior of your dream persona, making its actions your actions. The distinction between current self and dream persona dissolves. You merge with your dream persona now – in no time.

You experience instantaneous transformation.

Latent limiting energy may linger. No problem. Just maintain that empowered decision.

Something to that effect, Elan said, and blew my process-laden mind.

By his reflection, I understood how to make conscious creation simple. I will always be making some decision about who I am. Why not be and behave as my dream version?

I got a much nicer hotel room than I had planned for. I lay down in a beanbag at the festival and wept in bliss as a lady walked by with – on her black T-shirt – a print of the Pleiades. I saw the greatest bands and wrote the greatest words. I was let in through a back gate when the main entrance line was an hour long. And cutest of all, when I thought I could use some lighter shoes, immediately in front of me, on the ground, abandoned, were a pair of violet sandals (in my head buzzed the words ‘Now you manifest’).

Not yet in possession of the flute, I had brought a little flute. I played it at the train station on my way back. A man noticed my tooting and said it sounded good.

He asked if I had heard about the willow flute.

As soon as he mentioned it, I knew my instrument. I also understood the mechanics Elan had described: transformation first; flute follows (dream desire). Select a reality, and allow it.

A willow flute was what I carried when shortly after my return I went up a mountain with a pretty girl. Like myself, she wrote stories. I wished to provide a good explanation of the characters I had developed during the summer; but how could I, when the speller that can be told is not the eternal speller?

What would my dream version have done?

We sat talking in the sun, both of us juggling ideas about my storyworld, gazing over forests and lakes to the sea.

Suddenly, I jumped to my feet and flourished my willow flute – the flute for me – and held it to the girl’s neck as though it was a sharp weapon. Before she was over the startlement and realized the jest, I said something flirty. I also added the description that spellers are cunning with the intent of doing good.

On the way back down, she called my trickster charisma bright; my light was noticeable.

And that’s when I “messed it up”. I crowned myself with the idea that I was excellent in her enchanting eyes, superior to everyone else, and therefore I ceased to look excellent. Little else happened after our date on the mountain.

The moment marked a kind of beginning, in that I met this enchanting girl when I had just decided on preference. I was sure of which direction I wanted to take my writing and my life. That auspicious reality I had once touched upon with my infinite hand was close, and I never let my prideful blunder stop me from proceeding.

Now, that same girl also marked a kind of completion...

We are nearing the end with increasing tension, so perhaps it’s appropriate to swap tense:

Fast forward to the time of my posting this piece, and I don’t just have a grip on the slippery spellers when it comes to writing them; I am skylarking as the magic fool that I prefer to be, embodying the speller energy. One fateful summer night in the city I am headed downtown dressed as a gnome, donning a Christmas hat. In my wallet is a scratch ticket that I’m intent on giving away.

I see a familiar blue-eyed girl at a restaurant table right by the pavement on which I’m walking. She sees me. Out comes my wallet and up comes the scratch ticket.

“Merry Christmas” I say, slapping down the scratch ticket on her table before she is over the startlement and can realize the jest.

The girl turns around with a giggly “Whaaat?” and follows my swift movement. I wink as I go. I walk into the twilight, indifferent to praise and blame.

I just have a hoot with a flute.

Elan’s only caveat matches my experience: having performed instantaneous transformation, we may still have limiting energy lingering. Back in Gothenburg, I decided ‘This is who I am’; and, as I went along, various beliefs, behaviors, and circumstances came up that were incongruent with my preference. I had to deal with them. And it wasn’t a problem. Not even when I “messed it up” with my pride was it a problem, since I maintained an empowered decision.

And it never had the quality of a process, as though something awaits over the next hill.

In my opinion, it is more free-flowing and fun to deal with limitations as completion, instead of dealing with limitations in a process which will then result in completion. The effect was that initially, as completion, I brushed up against latent heaviness. Then I found myself steady as my dream version, with little or nothing of the old reality to deal with - in a new story, everything of the previous story resolved, eager for more.

What happens next?