IV. Ouija Physics
The heading above, of course, is an oxymoron: Ouija defies physics, so what I offer here is my own pure speculation, fueled by a few hints only from our teachers. Really, this is just a section anticipating FAQ’s and displaying my true ignorance. Just as I don’t much know how my home T.V. set works, I don’t understand the physics of ouija and don’t particularly care. I’m curious, of course, but the content offers me so much more. I also think it likely that no physical explanation exists—that is, science will likely fall short.
My lack of intense scientific interest might seem strange to some readers. (Scribe is even less interested, I’m sure.) After all, if we understood the physics of ouija—how non-physical eternity is able to affect physical reality and spell out words in spacetime—then imagine what magic could be worked in the rest of human life. We could save the world!
Yes, we could, and this is indeed exactly what I aim for, a physical miracle of global proportions to save us from untold suffering, perhaps extinction. Yes. But I don’t think looking too closely at ouija will teach us any more than anything else in the world. How does any consciousness become physical? You have an idea, let’s say, and you choose to write it down (which is another idea). You pick up a pencil and note pad (two more ideas), and you begin writing. Now your idea has to become language, where some ideas are easier to formulate than others. Now language becomes symbols (letters) that correspond to sounds that we often don’t even say or hear. A scientist will say that every idea must correspond to a physical event in the brain (every letter?). Some might say that a neuron must fire. Some will say that it’s not the neurons themselves, but the synapses between neurons (where somehow our intelligence lies). Others will point to large 3-d chunks of gray matter and will include hormones and other physical features. None of this is an explanation nor can be.
It makes no big difference (to me) what levers or buttons I push within my brain/body to carry out my thoughts. But somewhere they must exist. Somewhere there is always a gap between mind & body, and somewhere the mind leaps over that gap. (Clearly there is a gap, and since the physical world is unable to connect to the non-physical, it must be the other way around.) That’s why we train our minds.
Before I present what I think is most likely the case (my guess), first one important fact: I have tried to do ouija with two other people, family members who both were willing and open-minded: Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zero. Exactly what should happen. It doesn’t take very long to give up. Ouija is not for everyone.
Thus, I think the primary connection for us at the board was between our guide and me. I am our guide’s contact, and he is my working partner. These are the strongest bonds. He is also just as much Scribe’s guide, too, of course, and the symbiosis is perfect. Daimones fill gaps. The gaps are discontinuities in human minds, a fact of our natures. Daimones don’t have such gaps. It is important to note, however, that daimones are needed by us only until we ourselves become flyers. Then (almost by definition) we cross the gaps ourselves.
What actually happens? I think the mind/body gap above plays basically no role in ouija, because our guide himself does nothing physical. Our guide doesn’t cattle prod our muscles, nor is he tinkering with synapses and hormone releases. (That would be crazy and chaotic, more like a bad acid trip.) He simply inserts his thoughts (with Albion’s permission & approval) right into wherever my own thoughts are. It’s like a computer virus deep in my unconscious (a strange mixed metaphor). Most of what we think is subliminal (probably 99.99%). Inserting a few lines of thought code is no big deal. The code, which is seamlessly woven in with my own, makes the muscles move a bit, coordinating my back with three different arms and shoulders. It sounds amazing and complicated, but it’s no more so than dancing a jig or juggling a soccer ball or just typing at a keyboard. (Just think about all the “code” needed for breathing or burning calories. A few muscle twitches can’t amount to too much more.)[2]
Of course, there remain some real anomalies for me, things I can’t explain at all: (Start with the most outrageous) how or why did Blake (need to) see my naked body, when he visited us in 1994? (There’s a joke on me somewhere in this.) How does an eternal voice at an ouija board see at all? From what vantage? Through what organs or aperture? (I faced my large dining room window, an excellent mirror, but I had no idea.) Here’s a thought: Was this my exact form (me, age 35) that appeared to Blake in 1794, or did he see an idealized, never-physical me? Did he perhaps see me even through my own eyes, in the mirrored window—the only eyes available, since Scribe excused himself for the viewing? (I don’t believe so, as this would amount to a kind of possession and would, at the least, require my overt permission. Free will and possession rarely intersect.) (At age 35 I did look like that, but close examination of the painting shows no ACL surgery or other scars.)
Still a much bigger gaping hole in my understanding concerns language. How do Josef, Vilansit, and Anand speak such beautiful English when they’d been dead a century (and more) before English even existed? Our guide says one reason he needs us is precisely because human language is so difficult for him. It is one way for him to extend himself, something human minds can offer him.
One might guess that somehow our friends get inside our own English-speaking brains (with our permission) and that their English is, in fact, Scribe’s and my own. While I think this is largely the case, our speakers all have distinctive voices, also quite different cursive motions at the board. (Even with my eyes closed I almost always know when a new speaker steps in, simply by the motion. I recognize Jane immediately, for instance.) But here’s an anomaly within the language anomaly: A few words—colour comes to mind—have employed spellings “learned from Blake,” as well as “others,” the key being neither Scribe nor I would have used the British. Additionally, the names Anand and Vilansit were unknown to us completely when we first received them (as was the word aliah), and we did not learn for at least a decade that we’d been mispronouncing Anand’s name the whole time. (The Hindi accent comes on the first syllable, though we (still) continue to accent the second.) And this means that our friends don’t just “borrow” their English (or whatever language) from the brains of the two parties seated. What’s certain is that their penetration of language is so profound that they understand the difference in choosing between spellings (as Scribe and I both do). Colour (the British spelling) was employed, for instance, to introduce a new karass word separate from color, referring to colour in its purest abstract hue, a Platonic wavelength (eg., I am yellow).
All that being said, let the record show also that Don (in particular) has used vocabulary I did not know at all, which sent even Scribe running to my OED, for no other dictionary proved sufficient. Not a native speaker, Don likely spoke better English in life than I do now. He was certainly better read. So when Don is present, our guide, Josef, and Indian friends have at least a third English-speaking mind to tap. And Jane makes four. (A final prideful note: All of us use “proper,” educated English, especially grammar, consistently avoiding the common errors most people make. Vilansit, for instance, goes out of her way to use “whom.” Scribe & I, and certainly Don, all in life revel in language analysis—delighting in grammars and etymologies—finding it all a constant mystery & puzzle & thus a joy. Thus, we care to get it right. I’m guessing Jane will share in this joy.)
I’ll finish by mentioning our early efforts to authenticate our guide (who was first to meet us). Yes, the miracle of ouija was undeniable, but I (more than Scribe) wanted to determine with certainty that our guide came from outside us, that “he” wasn’t just our manifest unconscious minds, bubbling up in what would amount to a different species of miracle. That is, even though our guide told us he came from outside, I contrived a variety of tests to be sure. My most elaborate test (in 1991) was to have my father, a polyglot, come up with his own questions in languages neither I nor Scribe knew (Mandarin and Norwegian). Then, without learning the meaning of these questions, I practiced with him how to pronounce them correctly (proper tones, etc.), so I could recite them at the board (my dad being a stickler for perfect pronunciation). It was amusing then how, precisely in the testable moment, I abruptly & unintentionally translated most of the Norwegian, invalidating the experiment (my German kicked in). Worse, I then realized that my father’s Chinese questions were the same as his Norwegian ones, making the whole experiment kaput. Our guide played along beautifully.
Readers may wonder why we didn’t stubbornly test further. I have a family member, for instance, who’s convinced Scribe faked the whole thing—1500 pages, 16 years of mind-bending quality, all a big hoax that one friend played on another. (Hey, if Trump can win the White House, anything can be faked.) The point is, I could have repeated my double-blind language experiment the next year, in 1992, but we didn’t. The Rubicon, at that point, lay far behind us. Once Josef has plucked dreams from each of our minds and laid out their lessons in succinct vivisecting prose, reminding us even of objects within the dreams that we’d failed to notice—well, it’s silly to doubt at that point. You have to go with it.
For years we had a favorite joke about going with ouija,suspending disbelief because you have to. Only in our last years did we become aware of a fourth living member, to whom the joke applies particularly.
(Cue the vaudeville Yiddish accent.)
MAN: Doctor, doctor! My brother thinks he’s a chicken.
DOCTOR: My goodness! Bring him in at once, so I can have a look
at him. We must put an end to such nonsense!
MAN: I would. But we need the eggs.
12/16
[3] "Don't litter!" Scribe quotes how we were admonished by a crazy person on a forest trail during our first S-div day, (2003).
[1] Those were the good ol’ days before email & increasing demands on teacher time required me to rise by 4 AM for the last half of my career.
What ouija looks like:
(minus kite and planchette)
August 3, 1994
Hail, Friend!
Aliah! A quick glance will tell you that the 1994 sessions were by far the most productive batch to date. That we held seven sessions (rather than three or four) is only one factor. Once again our communication efficiency ascended its geometric curve, giving us not only faster messages, but ones deeper in insight and ever more conversational in tone.
Credit for our improved reception stems, in part, from our new ouija board, one which took me the entire intervening year to make. The arrangement of letters is nearly identical to that of our previous edition, but we have replaced most of the numerals with punctuation. Only the number “1” remains, retained so that we may continue to spell out [our guide’s call letters] and that we may use it as an exit point for the planchette, to signal the end of a message. The punctuation we included is as follows:
. ? , & The - / §
You’ll find, as you proceed through the transcripts, that use of our new punctuation picks up slowly. The period and slash, in fact, are never used (to Scribe’s knowledge), while the comma is employed only in later sessions, and then mostly as an apostrophe (which was by design). Not arriving until our fifth session was our “call waiting” symbol, “§,” originally suggested to us by C.L. with his usual dry wit. Additionally, I have, in typing these transcripts, used brackets to denote “The,” to distinguish it from those instances where the letters are spelled individually. Finally, the board includes two representations, a cup and a flower, which were included for decorative purposes only. Yet on one occasion the cup itself was indicated (and was relevant to the message).
In addition to the symbols, the board now includes colour. The outer circle of consonants, in fact, lie on a circle of watercolor which approximates the rainbow. The interior, where the vowels and punctuation lie, is a photograph of a bend in a river (the Sandy River in Oregon, though without landmarks). The photo is in color, but because everything in it is blanketed in snow and fog, it appears to be black & white.
The board itself did not take much time to make. But the reverse side of the board pictures a mandala, which took probably hundreds of hours! I made it with the original intent of using it as the board’s background. Most of these many hours were spent staring at the incomplete mandala, waiting for inspiration, or practicing over & over on separate sheets of paper. In the end, the mandala was too busy to be a non-distracting background, and it became simply the reverse side (yet something much more as well). Circling the mandala (which itself means “circle” in Sanskrit) is a color spectrum identical to that on the obverse.
Scribe and I continued with our well-established ritual; and because—over the course of our seven nights—we added a few more ritual elements, I’ll describe the tradition as it stands now:
James Merrill
1926-1995
albionspeak: a draught af language (3.3)
OUIEA Mechanics
I find ouija mechanics tedious. Perhaps it’s because I described it so many times in those early mind-blown years that I just burned out. It’s also a detail thing, more for scribes than albions. Thus, the operational mechanics (Section 2) date from 1994, quite early in our work, even before the start of our apprenticeships. After seven or eight years, as I’ve mentioned, many of our rituals became less important. Thus I felt no need to continue describing them. We still maintained them, however, as a cherished private language, also as a sign of respect & gratitude for the gifts we received. By our last several years, though, especially once Advisor arrived, we felt confident we could manage ouija anywhere, even in a crowded bar (like Scribe’s favorite, where he literally wrote books of poetry).
Again, the operational mechanics date to 1994. My quick history lesson below is a current perspective, as is my grossly incomplete discussion of ouija physics. I also include a sample table of contents and Scribe’s 2003 profound Nine Adages as Section V, which circumscribe the proper mindset for ouija. Mechanics I find tedious. Mindset is everything.
I. Our Ouija Origin
I must relate our earliest history just to make sure it’s documented properly. How do two responsible, educated men wind up in ouija? Scribe and I came from two different paths. It is important to note what looked like happenstance at the time proved anything but. Each of us had prepared for ouija for years without knowing it.
I’ve been a strong mystic my whole life, as I’ve always known that I was soul, eternal. (This is not faith-based; it’s my direct experience.) And because of my deep knowledge of this (and my natural inclination), I’d developed my own very thorough metaphysical “system” before I’d finished high school, which turned out largely to be spot on. I was 29 when we first did ouija.
Scribe came at ouija from an academic perspective. By the time he entered college he’d already explored most religions, literature, and philosophy. And he understood all of it. By age 28, he seemed to know fucking everything. Technically, he was a Christian, in a C.S. Lewis apologist kind of way (compassionate intelligence). Last I heard that hadn’t changed. The link between us in this particular case came through James Merrill.
Scribe bleeds poetry, and Merrill was one of Scribe’s two favorite living poets (the other, Seamus Heaney). No one can deny Merrill’s wealth of work and mastery of language. But then there’s his other work, the ouija stuff. Merrill, it seemed, spent most of his adult life doing ouija with his partner, David Jackson, and he turned much of their experience into poetry, published separately from his other work. Scribe sent me his 3-volume collection, The Changing Light at Sandover. What did I, the mystic, think? On a whim, at least five months before Scribe’s midwinter visit, I bought an ouija board (the Parker Brothers version at Toys-R-Us). Then I completely forgot about it.
Scribe arrived. My wife went to bed early per usual. (Scribe defines night owl.) Not having considered ouija for several months, I was reminded when Scribe brought up Merrill. Do you want to give it a try? So we did.
And the rest was not quite history yet… Perhaps it’s remarkable that we kept on trying that first night after so many nonsense responses. But we got just enough, maybe words, maybe German words. And then we got that rather dreadful response to our question, “How did you die?” (I KILDD I ) Part of our tenacity simply came from trying to manage the unwieldy Parker Brothers board. How do you sit? Board on knees? How does the planchette (what you lay your hands on) move? (That actually turned out to be the easiest part. It just moves.) Why the fuck are the letters so hard to reach? We were not going to give up until we’d figured out the basics.
And that first night we did figure out some important mechanics: For instance, both of us are right-handed. Scribe was the first to try scribing, but we did trade places, very briefly. Our little trading-places experiment felt to both of us like a live wire. We quickly went right back and never changed our spots again.
The most important part of the history that I want to document concerns a miracle, one I accepted as a sign at the time, although Scribe barely commented. The miracle happened the next day, January 3rd, 1989. Scribe and I ran errands, maybe went for a coffee, and the whole time we were mulling over the crappy ouija board. Couldn’t it be improved? First off, the letters need to be reachable (and relatively equally so). How might you arrange them? When we got back to my home, immediately Scribe got to work.
I had some proper drawing paper, 12” x 12”. Scribe took my compass and made a circle that filled most of the sheet. Then he took the Parker Bros. planchette, measured its circular window (roughly quarter-sized), fiddled with the compass, and immediately began drawing quarter-sized circles around the initial large circle. He made no measurements, did no calculations (like dividing by π, for example), didn’t even count or approximate anything. He just made a whole bunch of circles, and surprise!, 22 congruent circles all wound up perfectly tangent to one another around the circle. The diameter of the final circle fit the final space exactly. (I was amazed. I know my math.) Scribe continued. Then he made an arc across the center and fit a bunch of slightly smaller circles for the numerals. No measuring, no calculations—all circles perfectly fitted. The final arc, the most important, Scribe left for the vowels, which Scribe spontaneously rearranged to spell “OUIEA.” Finally, in one of his five or six perfect calligraphies, he wrote in the letters, numerals, YES, NO, and two decorations, a cup and a flower. (Both “cup” and “flower” later became symbols absolutely central to us later in discussion, symbols entirely appropriate to their placement.)
I watched Scribe construct this first board as quickly as one could do it if one had practiced it in the military (like breaking down an M16 and reassembling it in a timed test). I knew it was miracle. The miracle was confirmed when we tried it out that ground-breaking second night. Five years later, when I made our “official” board (pictured below), I measured and calculated everything. It took a long time, and I do this professionally (draw circles, that is). I also copied Scribe’s calligraphy exactly since I knew it was inspired—his letters, his cup, his stylized flower.
Still other (major) miracles concerning this board were revealed years later.
12/1/2016
P.S. Despite my criticism of the Parker Brothers ouija board, I have bought three or four of them. Immediately I throw away the board, but the planchette itself is gold. (Eventually the felt footpads do wear down, mostly on invisible candle wax spray.)
II. Ouija Operational Mechanics
Note: I wince a bit at my older writings, both this and my letter to Jane, especially. This is disorganized (unpolished scribal detail), while the letter tries way too hard. 20+ years later I see the metaphors are same, but I’m older, not the same man exactly, and have apparently lost track of time. Where did I go? I hope my long wait has allowed for ripening. (12/2016)
[2] I should note for balance, following another decade of practice: The best ouija reception feels as smooth as silk, not twitchy.
III. (A Sample) Table of Contents
I include one session’s table of contents only (out of seven in 1994). It’s just a taste of how seriously Scribe & I approach our content. This table is nearly twice as long as sessions from later years though, because they attain a coherence that can stay for long stretches on a single topic. In comparison this is disjointed, but still fun to look at. By 2000 I had to set up a Meta-Table of Contents.
CONTENTS 1994
Question #
Session 17:
Many Greetings 1
Migrations & the Monarch 10
The Master of Dreams 15
Josef Reads “Gray Whale” 20
The Medium’s Dream 23
Corrections to Genesis 26
A Deep Call 28
Jane’s New Face 32
Anand Explains 39
The Woman at the Ganges 44
More on [our guide’s] Body 46
On Possession 50
Affiliations in the Net 51
Trials & Rehearsals 56
Josef Reads “Rome” 58
Affiliations Continued 60
A Poem by Anand & Jane 64
That’s the ritual as it currently stands. Each year we add more to the process and take little or nothing away from it. I hope these practices don’t increase to the point of their looking like a Catholic mass—ritual must always aid (and never hinder) communication. Still there is more to explain: I would call the remaining practices we follow not part of the ritual, but rather the SOP’s of ouija, the mechanics which we have nearly mastered.
First, prior to Scribe’s arrival in Washington, we each spend the entire intervening year ruminating, researching, collecting pieces of information, composing questions, and, no doubt, undergoing the quiet metamorphoses which allow us to receive new information. While Scribe and I both spend time going to libraries, this is clearly an activity more suited to Scribe’s character and abilities. He tends to be the one to unearth the most interesting artifacts and clues. My role, on the other hand, lies more in setting an agenda of questions. This task begins immediately following Scribe’s departure the previous year, when I spend zillions of hours typing and annotating our sessions. I’m sure this huge labor is necessary to my understanding. Then, like a snake, I digest and review my meal. Questions arise, and from these questions others arise, often in inspired bursts of 30 or 40 questions at a sitting. My best faculty to date seems to be in constructing metaphysical systems which are consistent with the oft-conflicting scraps we glean from our board. While I have read more New Age publications than Scribe, and I am familiar with some interesting schemes of the universe, I find our own brand of reality far more interesting than any I’ve found on the shelves of stores—my constructions really are the mappings of uncharted lands. (I think this intuitive ability can be connected to my love of games—any kind; metaphysics is for me the ultimate game, and I’m good at it.) At the end of the year I review what I’ve got and try to install some order. I wind up with a long list of topics and their derivative questions. This year I had seven single-spaced typed pages, grouped by subject; Scribe brought with him a single hand-written page, where questions were listed under the names of those to whom he wished them addressed.
The intervening year is also not without its own news & surprises from the Net. So far Scribe and I have each been dealt a few important dreams (ones we’ve remembered). We are getting better at recognizing those of significance and documenting them. Some of these are important enough for us to carry to the table for interpretation from their source, Josef. For me the best dreams usually come right after our sessions’ end; for Scribe, they seem to come right before the next set. (In my case this may simply be a matter of summer vacation vs. the school year, when I’m forced to get up to an awful alarm at 5:00 AM.)[1]
Finally, once seated at the table, as ready as we can be, we begin our talks: Scribe and I agree on a question—which often arises from context or may be introduced from our prepared lists or may come entirely spontaneously—and Scribe writes it down. Unless there is some specific reason for Scribe to ask, it is my task then to voice the question to the thin air. This no longer seems silly. The transcripts here represent Scribe’s beautifully distilled written version of each question, but my oral renditions are much more elaborate (and often long-winded). I am, naturally, more conversational in tone, friendlier, more polite & grateful, and show more humor than the written questions indicate. (Where the oral & written versions differ significantly I’ve tried to make a note in the transcripts.) Sometimes I stumble over the complex ideas in the question; sometimes I get lost in what I say; often, if there is a particularly complex question, I’ll just read the written version. In every case our planchette shows tremendous patience; it sits in the middle of our board like a race horse in its gate. As soon as I’m finished, bang! It takes off on its own; there is no final signal, no bell, no “Go!” It knows, and it moves at a speed which still astonishes me and would seem absolutely faked to any outside observer.
And so it goes. I sit in a manner which I’ve learned to be ideal (described in the transcripts), and my body rocks and gyrates from the base of my spine, sometimes quite wildly so. This may sound weird and gullibly contrived, but it feels no stranger than tapping one’s foot to music; and, perhaps fortunately, I have my eyes closed most of the time, so I can’t see myself in my mirror-window. Meanwhile, Scribe maintains one hand on the planchette, while his right hand writes everything down, sometimes one letter at a time, sometimes whole words and phrases at once. Surprisingly, the wilder, more frenetic sessions tend not to give us the best results, in terms of quantity of material. This is because the slower, more meticulous examples of planchette cursive tend to “hit” on letters with both the up and down strokes of our circular motions. The wilder sessions may take several revolutions around the board before hitting anything, and sometimes they just spin out of control. Nearly always when a message is properly completed, the planchette exits the board to the left toward me and seems then just to die, generally leaving via the numeral “1.” Because this pattern is so well established, it is easy for us to determine whether a message has faded out, broken off, or ended appropriately. This is exactly how we gathered the 543 responses in the following pages. [1994 only]
The final element of our SOP’s, perhaps the one I get the most pure pleasure from, involves reviewing the previous night’s conversation and titling the subsections. This practice was initiated unilaterally last year by Scribe when, without daycare then, I had to spend my mornings stuffing faces, playing, changing diapers, etc. Scribe is very practiced at titling, as I found later when I typed the transcripts. There were a couple of titles which struck me as, perhaps, too plain. After several days of consideration, I realized each was, in fact, simple & perfect. Only one of last year’s titles is my own contribution, that because of an omission. This year, with mornings somewhat freed up, Scribe & I sat down together over good coffee. Scribe always reads, and then together we determine the boundaries of each subsection and give it its title. Scribe is still much better at this than I, but I am improving; and this year’s was a cooperative effort. Where to divide subsections was actually quite easy, and titling generally followed without problem. Only in a few places did we momentarily get stuck, generally on questions of function vs. aesthetics or on what preposition to use. One rule we agreed on which governs the process is that function (identifying the subsection clearly for easy reference) must always take priority over personal aesthetic appeal. Another rule: when a speaker addresses us for the first time, we always title that subsection with the person’s full name. I have many favorites among our contents. I will only point out “Don on the Mandala,” because it needs to be said aloud.
So, concerning the 1994 content, what’s new? My, where to begin. . . ? Yet there are a few important highlights I can give away here and still not spoil (or misrepresent) the fun: Probably the most significant element of these sessions for me is that Scribe and I are about to begin our missions in earnest. We have finally met everyone in our circle (two new & exceptional friends), and our ship is ready to leave the harbor. Each of us has a role (what roles they are!); and soon we’ll have some idea what our roles impel us to do. There is something important to do. Certainly, there is much learning ahead; our circle is even called a “learning circle.” Still, there is more.
What else? Some great discussions of metaphysics; good stories and illustrations; dreams sent & interpreted; waking visions; and some historical artifacts which have new significance (and which boggle the mind). More than all this, though, the 1994 sessions represent a chronicle of old friends reacquainting themselves. Each member has a unique voice and has something important to contribute. It is, in fact, remarkable how smoothly we migrate from speaker to speaker and how, without any imposition, everyone takes turns and gets roughly equal time. I have come to feel loved and needed by something other than my family on Earth, in a way that is every bit as real, and yet doesn’t threaten to divide my loyalties. I can’t express how great I feel after these latest sessions!
§Ouiea
Albion's dining room 1990 -
V. Mindset
Editor’s Note [Albion, 2003]: What follows are Scribe’s enumerated “adages” on ouija-as-a-process, the goal of which must always be to facilitate ideal communication, thus enable clear teaching. These adages do not codify an etiquette so much as advance a proper mindset, or intent, or set of well-practiced protocols, ones which we have only most recently attained with our 2003 sessions. As a list, these adages signal the start of a new genre for Scribe, one most different from poetry. The only precedents are Scribe’s Notes on the Steps, (May 2003 ) written to me as advice on the Nine Men (& composed over T.V. hockey!) and, years earlier, my own odd artifact Uncle Ludwig’s Ladder. It is important, I think, to note that none of these enumerations actually represents a hierarchical structure, nor do the numbers in any logical way signify, as it were, a true sequence. And yet it would be wrong to alter the order of these adages or claim they lack coherence; for beyond the aesthetic concern lies an underlying structure, the necessity of which both Scribe & I sense, but would be hard-pressed to elucidate.
Scribe read me his adages over the phone in mid-September. He had eight at the time. Clearly, I said, there had to be one more. He finished my given koan by 9/21/03.
Nine Adages
It is meet for me to address our shared sense that the latest set of sessions is intensely different from what has preceded. Let’s address this sea-change under several headings.
1) More is not better. These briefer nights indicate (I feel) a new sense in [Scribe’s] & [Albion’s] powers to hold up their end, fill in blanks & solve puzzles. When necessary, we proceed step by step: curiously, this process yields fewer responses over all, and more definite vectors of thought.
2) Architecture not chat. We love catching up and always reserve the right to “play” an apparent non-sequitur or comment out of left-field. But the total shape of the design precludes dithering and delay. By all means, explore: but out of intent, not chaotic curiosity or crickety impishness. When needed, frame a firm request for clarification.
3) Think for yourself. Puzzles are a privilege. Advanced students are always asked to work out certain solutions on their own. Thank goodness we are now in a position to deserve this difficult responsibility -- and to schedule a serious, but fun, hour to come up with provisional responses, away from the board.
4) Improvise on the spot. Listening to our teachers provides many an occasion to engage in one-off exchanges prompted by the moment. (Think: attentive give-and-take in jazz.) We are not merely a passive audience, receiving a set performance. We are participants. Take the risk.
5) No unnecessary progress reports. If we know what to do, or what we have not yet done, we need not to “check in” or “connect.” Safe bet: our teacher has something more pressing to say, or may use reticence as a needed measure.
6) Trust the odd or off word. In these sessions, more than ever before, an anomalous (or deliberately withheld) word or phrase is a clue to a further, unexplored area. Our teachers expect us to catch these oddities, and follow up; in some cases, after hours of conversation away from the board.
7) Don’t litter. [3] When we sensed our teachers were on a roll (final nights), we just let them go. The results were unprecedented. Just as we’ve learned to respect their brevity, so we now know enough to allow them room to expand.
8) Start ready. Once it used to take a good half an hour or more to get the ball rolling with our friends. Yes, in part the delay was poor reception of the signal (information). But, I now believe, our own unpreparedness played a part. Even though it seemed wasteful for me, say, to postpone one particular session by a good 50 min. because I felt so unaligned, the wait almost certainly improved reception at the board. So we shan’t be sorry for quiet time, naps, “pre-concert” music, or whatever it takes. “The readiness is all.” (Hamlet V,2)
9) Trust in measure. In order to follow the teaching, we must, in some sense, emulate our teachers. Ideally, a session is a small chance for flight: intense but fun, intended but relaxed. We are allowed many missteps & mishaps. But with the right fluidity & attention, aliah is within our measure. A session at the board, then, can be an image of the continuity we so badly need: not as an end, but as a vital means.
§ [Scribe]
Hail aliah
§
The setting is arranged with precision, though is in no way cumbersome: Our board is taped to the underside of my glass dining room table (facing up, naturally) with enough space at the edge of the table so that the planchette may slide freely. Scribe and I put our chairs—slightly asymmetrically—at the south end of the table, where the board is; and we leave the blinds of my very large dining room window open, so that at night it becomes an excellent mirror. The asymmetry accommodates our separate functions: Scribe needs his right hand free for transcribing. Because the table is higher than the coffee table we’d used previously, I found I needed a folded wool blanket on the seat of my chair for elevation. The modern design of the chairs eliminates rear chair legs and allows for more rocking, which, as the Medium, I found very beneficial.
Those are the necessary elements. Still there are many other elements in our ritual which neither Scribe nor I would dream of doing without. We are convinced that these elements aid our communication. Among them, the use of candles and music are the most firmly established. Regarding candles, this year we placed my clear Pyrex pie plate at the head of the board, within which burned both a large and small floating candle (as the sun & the moon). The plate’s position became important, as it was sometimes employed as a bumper for the planchette during some of the wilder cursive messages. Next to the dish was a small, copper-teal colored candlestick, good for two standard candles. In addition to candlelight, lights within the room were on, though dimmed to the lowest setting needed for easy reading.
Concerning music, there is nothing new to report. Steve Roach’s “Deep Listening” was our first selection each night, generally played twice through (though I would not say “Deep Listening” itself is part of the ritual). Jean-Michel Jarre’s “En Attendant Cousteau” also gets high billing. The key feature, again, is that the music must not distract from the process and should set a meditative tone. Vocals, drums, and upbeat rhythms are generally out—certainly so at a session’s opening. Other pieces included a number of Bach solo instrument selections (Gould, Perlman, Ma), Barber’s “Adagio for Strings”, and Khachaturian’s “Adagio” from Gayneh, the latter two short pieces being played repeatedly in a kind of endless spiral of minor strings.
Beyond sight & sound, Scribe and I incorporated smell into our ritual. At the north end of our table, starting the sixth? night, I placed my newly-purchased incense holder, a flat rectilinear piece of polished wood, which curves slightly up at one end. Holding a new stick of sandalwood, it reminded me of a sundial and Scribe of a boat on the Nile (perhaps of the god Ra or Osiris’s death barge). The fragrance set both a literal & a figurative atmosphere, though Scribe & I felt no need to keep a stick continually burning.
Taste played no role in our ritual, but I mention it because our habits did change slightly. Beers (2 or 3 each) and a shot of bourbon used to be a standard for us; but after one day’s long & exhausting walk, Scribe and I cut down on the alcohol, and I found tea to be at least as conducive to results, perhaps better. No controlled substances were consumed.
The strangest new element in our ritual—not of our invention—is the use of my “magic” kite. The kite is very long (33’5”) and easily circles the dining room table and chairs. Following instructions from our board (see the transcripts), we lay it on the floor around us so that the head and tail meet to my left, and their juncture becomes the door through which we enter and exit. (When open, the kite’s head is propped up against the dining room armoire.) This element in our ritual still strikes me, but there’s method in it.
Finally, our ouija ritual now includes a rich oral tradition, where most of the elements in this tradition occur at the beginning & end of each session. Once properly seated, we open officially with an invocation: In every one of the 1994 sessions Scribe recited (from memory) a Keats sonnet. (As in the case of music, I don’t think the poetry of Keats itself is critical, just some quality work of short length.) In our last two sessions the content of these poems was used by our friends, and I imagine Scribe and I in future sessions will, at times, choose poems as different as “On the Sea” and Blake’s “Tyger, Tyger” (an exaggeration) to set different moods. (I’m sure Scribe’s choices in 1994 were anything but random.)
After the invocation, we always begin with the question, “[our guide’s call letters], are you there?” Now that we have a number of talkative friends, this ritual question appears to be even more important. Of our friends, our guide is the oldest known to us, and his “butterfly” role at our table seems to include acting as master of ceremonies. After an affirmative, our newest tradition is to establish a setting for our session. Scribe & Albion are sitting in a suburban dining room, but the conversation can travel to any place or time. How the setting is chosen & composed has not been clearly established. As in the choosing of the invocation, I think there is great opportunity here for creating an environment catered specifically to meet the needs of a particular lesson.
I cannot think of any ritual elements that occur in the middle of a session, although Scribe & I do have many questioning habits, some of which may appear odd at first glance, but which have arisen out of trial & error and serve only to further communication. One new habit, which borders on being a ritual element, is our waiting to ask our guide to introduce our friends with him that night at the table. We generally cover an initial lengthy topic or two, during which individual members may interject and introduce themselves where they have something relevant to say. Then, after the initial subject comes to a close and we’re firmly within the session, we find out if there remain any quiet listeners (perhaps lurking) in the wings. I’m not sure why we’ve developed this habit—if it’s done out of politeness or a wish perhaps to be surprised—or is this merely a vehicle for coming up with a question when we’re sitting numb & dumb? I will say I am reluctant, however, to feel obliged to follow this pattern in every instance.
The close of each session has its own tradition: We ask someone to compose a poem, and then we ask for parting words. So far, every member within our close circle—except our master Josef—has composed at least part of a poem; Jane and Anand have been getting the most practice of late. These poems have now taken on a life of their own, and I’ve decided to keep a separate journal solely of board poetry (see Appendix 2 for this year’s collection). They give us a different way of seeing the symbols we continually encounter. It’s especially valuable to ask for the poem at the session’s end for this reason: concepts we have just been exposed to are restated in a new, generally alineal way for reinforcement and long-term consideration.
Our ritual of “parting words” began as a polite gesture, but has since turned into something more. Here our guide and Josef play the dominant roles. The message always has a prescriptive aspect to it, often overtly so. Josef will give us something to do, look to our dreams, for example. Or we will receive a maxim which carries with it the force of a koan. One aspect of “parting words” which increases their significance is that no matter how profound, obscure, or ambiguous the response is, we never ask a follow-up question. This, I feel, is rather sacred. On the final night of the sessions—as I’m sure we’ll repeat on subsequent final nights—we asked each & everyone present for their last words. Within each set the same rules were maintained (with only one exception, prompted by our board). These are the words which haunt me the longest.
2C Ouija Mechanics
Images & Attributions (in order of appearance)
1. Banner: Rhiannon C. 2016
a) Jewel Mandala (2): D.C. Albion 1994
b) Albion Glyph: "Glad Day" or "The Dance of Albion," William Blake, c.1794
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/47/William_Blake_-_Albion_Rose_- _from_A_Large_Book_of_Designs_1793-6.jpg
c) Jewel Ouija Board (2): D.C. Albion 1994
2. a) Photo of James Merrill
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/5/58/James_Ingram_Merrill_-_1970s.jpg
b) Photo of book cover to Merrill's The Changing Light at Sandover
By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1414944
3. Jewel Ouija Board (2): D.C. Albion 1994
4. Photo of Albion's dining room: D.C. Albion 2017
The Table of Contents below is too long to display fully. If you move the cursor to hover over one of the Lessons, you'll see the primary source documents displayed under each. These original sessions are a world treasure.