For a magician of meditation, things, strange devices, and structures come to his or her mind, appearing on drawing boards, instantly because the reflection is conducted in the room of meditation, a type of chamber that insulates them from the surrounding world. After meditation this particular magician’s mind clears away, then goes to his notebooks, drawings, and words are put down, yet why doesn’t he use his mind to let ideas appear? It’s the control and joy of using his hands, a link to ancient masters of note-taking. Less than a second of meditation, words, reaching other epochs, it’s the way of learning for the magician. Possessing millions of books, he finds no wisdom in the experience of different ages. Are wisdom, knowledge, and learning sealed in his soul? Secret writings and instructions are hidden in oblivion, it’s a safe and impenetrable place, and none can find or enter this library which is the repository of books or scrolls. Millions of stacks of paper stored in thousands of rooms of historical documents and instruction manuscripts are never located in any building; if there are buildings with these instructions, then they are hidden from the average person. A magician meditates in the library, finding a suitable manuscript to consult, asking for a spell or education that transforms a human into a frog, dog, cat, or horse, and creates rooms and palaces out of nowhere. During the night, a magician meditates with a view of the Milky Way; wisdom and information about the stars are open to the magician. He or she sees the craters and terrain of the moon as if being there, walking upon its surface, studying and understanding. With vision, the magician searches for a section of the galaxy, then picks a star; the information comes that is one of the many ways the magician learns the way of the sky. Ancient books are opened, read, questions asked, learning is made, and the information imparted. Thousands of books of data are read in days.
Where does the magician live? In a house of many forms, a tent in the middle of the forest or the middle of the desert, the two-story cave high up in hidden valleys, a wagon that travels on the muddy and paved roads, a ship of the sea, vessels of the heavens and anywhere possible. It appears to be just a two-story shack, built well, that is one magician’s home. Several organized stuff in the yard is reserved for building machines that move without electricity, and no solar energy because the magician imparts life and its essence.
Several magicians had gotten together in particular centuries. It’s a rare gathering where they talk with the fire that lives and communicates the fire keeps on burning without fuel; perhaps it comes from a world where there is only fire. It speaks with a voice, and through telepathy, its explosive engulfing form is a deep red; at other times, it is orange-red, whitish blue, or yellowish gold. Deep inside their thoughts, magicians regard the fire as a queen of wisdom; some magicians favor the fire so they can receive what they need and wish. Whenever that form of fire is called up, it’s the same fire; even if they are centuries of distance upon the earth, there is no difference. The fire isn’t worshipped; it is respected as a guide.
For the magician, meditation with the fire is an experience of traveling above the clouds, searching for that part of the world where they wish to hover down to the ground to experience life in other places to gain its wisdom to eventually become a complete magician.
Robert J. Matsunaga
