This book discusses the branch of esotericism that deals with event programming by Tarot cards.
The book draws on the author’s many years’ experience reconstructing its theory and verifying it in practice.
In Russia, the book finds its online niche within the context of the Patience of Medici. Legend has it that the Patience of Medici is a magical practice that makes it possible to control the future.
Historical and literature sources have mentioned it under various names for hundreds of years.
Many think that they think, but few think that they think him.
And in their delusion, they’re mistaken that they think.
For only those think who think others.
Stalkerreklats
Chapter 1. Introduction to stalking
So, what is stalking?
Life is millions of options and thousands of roads.
But life is also tens of thousands of rules and limits that form its vicious circle, a maze you can’t find your way out of.
Millions of bipedal predators tear to pieces the life of a newcomer to this world, getting him to run around their panopticon like a squirrel on a wheel.
I admit there’s some truth to Russian thieves-in-law’s view that society is a sheepfold, but I disagree that their outlook is the only true one.
People living in Caucasian mountain regions traditionally value the experience of gray-haired old men more than gold. The old men know many roads and paths through ice-covered passes, rent by bottomless abysses, sharp like the razor of hate, and inapproachable and death-threatening almost all year round. The experience and skill of the elders and their knowledge of their native land guaranteed the survival of the people in the years of hardship, when enemies and adversities came upon the peaceful toilers.
The elders were reverentially called Aqsaqals.
In forest areas, where the sun itself doesn’t shed a straight ray across the ground, reflecting instead from myriads of living souls reaching out to it, the chaos of life’s wilderness can entangle the uninitiated into its thickets ever so deep until the traveler loses the strength to get back out. But even in those parts, there were those able to find, by visible signs, a way through life’s confusion and fearlessly set out into the depth of the taiga or the jungle, to return with trophies to those who loved and waited for them.
They were proudly called the Hunters.
In the heat haze of the desert, there appeared, like a mirage, the outline of someone striding like a clockwork soldier; and in a moment so short your mind hardly has time to believe it, the someone from the other world (after all, where he came from even lizards that didn’t die in two or three years did die of surprise when they tried to calculate the possibility of that event – just kidding) stood near you, giving off heat.
How had he survived in a place with neither water nor shadow for hundreds of miles around? How had he kept his sanity, hearing infinity swishing against timelessness? Exactly where had he come from and where was he going to? What was he looking for? Who had he saved, who would he save, and who would he punish?
With the respect and fear of incomprehension, people recounted his story like a legend to their children, calling him the Ranger.
And then, in leaps about one hundred yards long, branching into a tree of probabilities of what could happen next, a lightning came down, picking from the myriad scenarios for its descent the easiest and the most reliable ones – those that kept energy loss to a minimum while offering as many options for further travel as possible.
And if someone doubts that the lightning’s path was the best there could be, let them stand to be struck by it and feel, at the last moment of their life, that its power had not been wasted down the road from its birth to its death but that it had been preserved and even multiplied.
The lightning brought the surplus power from the sky down to the earth, restoring the balance.
This goes to show that stalking is not the monopoly of stalkers but the ancient art of survival and orientation, allowing you to understand the world and your place in it and to restore the world’s balance.
The stalker is the lightning of choice and the hunter of intention, the ranger of spirit, the Aksaqal of experience, and the universe itself trying to look into its own eyes to see its reflection and an understanding of itself.
Here are some features of stalking in brief:
1. Stalking is a magical practice over fifty thousand years old and a hermetic technique.
2. Unlike the many known kinds of magic, such as hypnosis, telekinesis, and pyrokinesis, stalking is not so much an outer technique as it is an inner one.
The meaning of stalking often lies in coadjusting oneself internally to the world or its individual parts. This can be done at various levels of consciousness, from physical to causal, with a variety of techniques and tools.
3. Stalking in its many facets is, in essence, the basis of magic itself, and it has never gained much notice because I do believe that there is actually no magic besides stalking in its various types and forms and that all kinds of magic known today are nothing more than schools slapping their labels on it.
4. Stalking is, first and foremost, the art of understanding the world and its goals and of knowing how to open a long, effective dialogue with the world seen as a part of stalking that serves its purposes.
Similarly, a cell learns how to enter into a dialogue with the whole body. And the cell that has mastered the art becomes a nerve cell of the world – a stalker.
Chapter 2. How a magician becomes a stalker
To give you an example, I will describe, in a tongue-in-cheek yet frank presentation, the actual way of a magician evolving into a stalker.
Needless to say, the evolution takes years…
And, as a rule, more than one life…
…and not everyone undergoes that evolution, for the not-yet-strong body of the young, self-assured magician is not up to digesting all jokes of magic…
…But let’s not talk about sad things…
So, here’s the evolution of magicians – sure nuff, with fast forwards.
As someone with some experience in spell-casting (something of a practitioner), I can tell you for sure. Imagine, as an example, that you’re a magician and she, a princess, not just your average princess buta princess head over heels in love with you.
1. Spells are cast any old way. Whatever the old farts say is tripe; they don’t know jack about magicand don’t let others know… Hold on… Lemme get it done in a sec… OOOOOONE
…tswooo…
…freeeee… Geez what was that?
…
come to think of it, how do princesses likethe pockmarked?
need to put a spell on a dazzlingprincess who enchants all… okay not all I mean that princess there… okay not dazzling but still enchanting… hell she’s got some teeth left, right? maybe a dental appointment would…
2. Those who survived step 1 would be well-advised to rhyme their spells so that they come over the target like sea waves – and by the way, the rhythm law on the tablet says the same. While that doesn’t diminish the backlash, it makes it more pleasant and habitual: the backlash doesn’t tear you in halves like a capelin but comes down on you pleasantly, making you get down on the pentacle, and what’s more, the pattern left on the walls is much more beautiful than that you get from step 1…
Geez, I do need to use rhymes… Here’s some poetry all right… love… even the cat is trying to snuggle up… the princess is smiling… smiling… but she’s smiling at the wrong one like the fool she is… better throw in something stronger… there you go… get ‘er with the iambic pentameter…
That’s right… Wooooow… isn’t that great… What’s the end of that line?
Princess? No that doesn’t rhyme. Too late, how come I didn’t notice it didn’t rhyme? If I say something now that doesn’t rhyme, it’s gonna teeeeeeaaaaaaaaar ya in halves like a capeline! Gotta say something that rhymes right now… What’d I say?
Ooooops… That wasn’t me… God help me… I swear on my ass! Too late…
3. This is for those who tried to practice (as true theorists) both step 1 and step 2 and, cussing and swaying on their feet, said “Hell, somebody shoulda given me a warning. They don’t make these pants anymore – what am I gonna wear now?”
It’s worth giving a gentle reminder that putting a spell based on your own power is a little exhausting and that nobody does it that way anymore, except maybe when they’re in battle and all staffs and wands are already gone but the enemy in your rifle sight keeps coming out the woodwork, a situation you can’t describe without cussing.
And, as a matter of fact, in magic academies you can hear people on the sidelines say that everything good is done not by the magician but on behalf of their astral roof (or their astral basement if their design preferences lie that way).
And, scratching their noggins, still smoking from steps 1 and 2, they leaf rapidly through a catalogue of astral roofs, basements, and oh so tiny mezzanines.
Those still in a position to stay in position pick what they want and then (feeling something bad about to come up after they practiced yelling the name of the roof and put on their least favorite pants and, come to think of it, slippers) proceed to step… proceed…
4. Well, they don’t anymore – they used to but… boy does it drag you all over the pentacle!
Those who said it couldn’t get any worse than step 3 are SNOT-NOSED KIDS!
It’s quite another thing under the astral roof: when it comes crushing down on you, once and for all,
you understand you not only realized but are dead sure now that, hell, even though you were wrong about step 2 and – especially so – step 1, you were saying all those things about… which step was it? Well, go find it yourselves – I’m just fine as I am, lying here on the blood-soaked mat like a meat pancake…
When you’re boxing with the floor, the ceiling, and the asphalt (what’s the asphalt doing here? whatever, never mind), you begin to suspect vaguely that you forgot something – something is missing, but there’s nothing you can do so you move on to step
5. But the body takes its toll. The bastard wants to live so you understand that you ain’t never gonna drivethat clunker again… or almost never. And even if you do jump in, you won’t jump out – the earth punches hard when it hits your face.
Perhaps you’ll lie down instead… And why did they hang me out to dry?
We’re a team here, right? Why am I the only one on the grind?
Look how many slackers we have – c’mon, get your ass in gear (don’t go over the top with foul language; after all, we’re making a spell for the posterity – what do you think they will make of it?)
Lay ‘em here…
They look just fine lying here. Not moving a muscle! They’re real pros, looking alive the way they do. Their pictures oughta be in the textbooknext to “Where it is thin, there it breaks.”
After twenty or so passes (you were dying to cast a love-spell on the princess of a shabby empire; everyone was – at least when they were still alive), it occurs to you that, just to be on the safe side, you should back up each system component and stabilize the channel, starting, while the going is good, with some three courp… I mean, magicians.
…………………
Hurray, at least some folks survived the spell-casting.
True, half the mountain range is gone after all, and the island sits at a tilt, but what does matter is that the princess is in love… yes, with everybody at once, but that’s just a trifling side effect.
But now we can move on to step…
…Boy, I still remember how to count!
6. If you think about it – thinking is something you need to do at step 6—the clay tablets say the same… written.. I mean carved… two thousand years ago before AD… before people came along… dragons… those that were left …because they didn’t get enough training and couldn’t fly to otherworlds…
Hell, I’m so confused.
Never mind, you get the idea. Why make an apple when there’s plenty around?
Just make sure it’s the right time and the right
place… There’s a princess crossing the road… dig those legs, right in front of a speeding truck, and here I come, on my white dra… I mean, white hor…
turns out I’m a paramedic in white… no, it’s too late to be a paramedic, the princess will never be the same now that she’s just a heap of bones… white, white – white what? Got it – a Mercedes. I wedged it in with a flourish between the truck and her, now she’s indebted to me till the day she days, but what does she owe me? We’re talking five years here, no less. No, it’s not a rape, guardian angels are supposed to…
All right, a white truck. I swung the wheel with all might, directing the truck to a wall, a white one… that’s why the truck is white… but the princess… it’s all love… mission complete… and there’s no backlash to speak of, although the truck thinks otherwise… but hey, who’s asking the truck?
After you practice step 6, changing the princess about a dozen times, step 7 logically follows.
7. Stay away from spell-casting – there’s a bunch of princesses out there, and at least one of them is yours… especially if you…
or she is your …basically, it’s all the same – all you have to do is give one of her sidesa polish…
That’s how magicians get to be stalkers.
At least, those of them who survive, of course.
The key difference between magicians as we know them and stalkers is that stalkers don’t reinvent the wheel or break through the tunnel of probabilities but take the existing paths and upward streams to go, with the greatest of ease, to the place the world needs them to be at the moment, playing the part the world needs them to play.
…And the Traveler has enough roles and scenes…
Chapter 3. Don’t youget smart with me – show mewith your finger where it is
Just kidding… Here’s one you might know
The Arctic Ocean… The weather is windy, snowy, and the sky hangs cloudy 100 yards above. A Chukchi man bobs in a kayak on the lead-colored waves. He sits hunched up over the water, fishing for something that has no compass to migrate to Sochi or Turkey.
All of a sudden, the water gets all rough and bubbling, and a US submarine comes up and swings a hatch open. The captain climbs out, wearing a black coat, produces a phrasebook, and starts saying “I’m a second-rank captain, and who are you?” in the dialects of Extreme North peoples. The Chukchi squints at him shortsightedly and, trying in vain to lift his head up, something he’d never done because he’d never had to, looks at him askance like a regular Russian pop singer and asks him, in perfect English, the same question geologists ask when someone comes upon them on the third day of their search for oil in bottle crates.
“What the f – do you want, soldier?”
The captain replies, bewildered, trying to speak English as well as the Chukchi, “Would Sir Chukchi be so kind as to tell me the way to God-blessed America?”
The Chukchi says, “Course south-southeast, 250 miles, and be careful with those jars near the shore.” The flabbergasted captain gloomily climbs down into the hatch and vanishes out of sight. The Chukchi keeps right on fishing for something that had gotten too hot in the tropics and, if the horoscopes can be trusted, returned to cool down to make a good snack for your beer.
The water gets bubbling and foaming again, and a Russian submarine comes up, swaying heavily.
A boatswain climbs out on all fours, feeling no pain, and shouts down the hatch, “C’mon, thaz not a problem – we donneed no compass ta figure it out! We ‘ad two liters o’ spirit that woulda gone to waste otherwise!” Then he looks at the Eskimo and, trying to focus his eyes on him, cries in a hoarse bass voice, “Hey, Chukchi, which way do we take to Murmansk?” The Chukchi replies, “South-west-west, 560 kilometers, but be careful not to tip that submarine over when you go down.” And the boatswain yells at him angrily, “Doncha get smart with me, you snip – show me with ya finger where it is!”
So, what’s stalking at a glance?
It’s evening… Yet another Hero, as crazy about reading fantasy novels as all morons and losers are, staggers back to his little cozy den in the five-story condo he likes so much, to fall into anabiosis until the pure, good, and just event – the publication of a new remake that depicts him as the Great and Powerful throughout – happens.
In the meantime, the powers of darkness in the persons of a budding criminal nicknamed Lisper (sentenced for rowdy behavior to three years suspended) and a couple of other young and gifted good-for-nothings, stopped by the condo’s entrance hall, looking for something soft and pliant to train their adolescent psyche.
Scenarios:
1. Hero didn’t spot Lisper until he was all in Hero’s face. Hero’s right hand hurriedly went searching for the mouse and hurriedly clicked the left button that wasn’t there, and the absence of a screen sight to aim through made talking to these people a tad harder for the powerful magician.
The day’s last thing saved on the hard drive was a blurry, dirty 50 Hz palm closing the world shut before turning it upside down. So he couldn’t see the young yet promising judo champion who ran up the stairs behind him and confidently set about knotting the young and gifted good-for-nothings into a macramé pattern.
2. Hero got so blown away he slipped and dropped all his fantasy books at the entrance door. While he picked them up, a young yet promising champion boxer named Gavrila burst into the hall, ran up the stairs, and tripped over Lisper. A short, if informative, discussion followed.
Over the course of that discussion, the advantage of the left hook over bluff and thief-argot bluff was elucidated. Gavrila helped Lisper get better at lisping by giving him an unassuming professional kick in the teeth.
Drenched in cold sweat and stepping with disgust over the bloody spit and puke, Hero ran fast to his den to leave it all behind by diving into the second level of the book about Him, the Great.
3. Hero went home, sweating gallons.
All day long, signs kept shouting to him that a white furry beastie would be coming for him soon. The world’s hints were getting more insistent by the hour – the cats squealed by his ear louder and the passersby, saying something seemingly irrelevant, looked at him more and more meaningfully, making the matrix bulge so much they seemed out to pounce out of the RAM at him.
The last sign was the scrap of a newspaper he saw at the condo’s entrance door, with the headline “Gazprom Gives Last Warning to Ukraine,” torn so that only the words “last warning” remained visible.
“I wonder what Castaneda would have said about that,” Hero thought, squatting with his feet on the bench at the entrance door.
The answer came as usual in the form of the young yet gifted good-for-nothings, headed by Lisper, cussing and yawping heartily, slagging off Gavrila, the young yet promising champ of you’re-in-deep-shit do, who had brushed past into the hall while Hero pondered the “to be or not to be” of his situation.
4. Offscreen voice: Hero was asleep but he knew that in five minutes he’d wake up in his bed, remembering all he’d been dreaming about. That’s why today he let the champ of what-did-you-say-it-was and Gavrila enter the hall first.
5. “And thith thime we’ll leth the king of spades come firthst, come firtht,” Hero mumbled malignantly under his breath, lisping as the result of his last encounter with Lisper, getting deeper into his role of the local lunatic, as he looked after Gavrila, who had no idea he was about to meet Lisper in a way that would be fateful for Hero, hurrying in to meet Lisper all the same…
6. “Let the Kings of Swords come first please,” Hero thought calmly, looking Gavrila in the eye, exchanging meaningless phrases with him before Gavrila rushed, in a businesslike manner, to smash Lisper’s face in as any patience card was supposed to do.
7. “Nnnoooo, I don’t like the way the cards have fallen,” Hero thought, and he jumbled his cards laid out to show Gavrila give Lisper’s head a kick with his strong foot, freeing the condo once and for all from that bold-faced asshole. And, all things considered, Lisper wasn’t worth laying out a patience for.
Gavrila, on the other hand, was a cool guy, ready to beat the hell out of Lisper for the asking. Svetka from apartment 54, however, didn’t see what she was missing, the hoity-toity fool.
Better lay out a patience for the two. So that they could move in together and live happily. Then there’d be more descent people living in the condo in some – teen years, by the way.
For those in doubt, here’s the classification in brief:
1. Stalking version zero.
2. Unconscious stalking, or where the guardian angel strikes is your home.
3. “Ooooww enemies, they shut me in, that’s an ambush, how d’ya like that, bro?” Semiconscious stalking that often transforms smoothly into madhouse stalking, directed by the kind and sympathetic men in white coats.
4. Stalking by a dream-seer… or, to be precise, a stalker’s dreams… maybe… or dream stalking… or in-stalking dreaming… or perhaps in-dream stalking… Damned if I can get my head around those dreams without a panel of stalkers to help me out…
5. Stalking by a not-yet card sharp who already cheats a little with cards… and events…
6. Stalking by a stalker, or so he thinks…
7. “It’s high time the stalker became a stalker,” the world thought…