The Abramelin Diaries. Ramsey Dukes

      Alas, my altar floor did not fit, so I'll have to take it down a bit.

       Thursday 14 April

      Exciting dream: my house was large, I lived in one half and in the other half there was someone else. The basement was large and stuffed with rubbish—old wood, etc. (A woman came seeking her lost hamsters in it.) Part of my side were the offices of some sinister firm. They planned to kill the neighbour—a doctor (played by Jack Nicholson). In time, he infiltrated them disguised as a Rolling Stone—Charlie Watts (the corpse-like one)—but he failed to kill the two ringleaders and the alarm was raised. The firm was something a bit showbizzy.

      Did this symbolize my conscious soul? There is half a house, littered with junk below and corrupted with the evil firm's office above, then there is the Saviour disguising himself as a corpse to gain admittance and then transforming into a young woman for victory. Oh well, it was great entertainment.

      Lovely clear cold morning that later turned to cloud and irritating high wind. Hung my lamp this morning. Making an early and efficient start enabled me to sow beans and carrots before cycling to St. Albans. The return was a real test, which saw me slaving against high wind and cold. How will it compare with later tests? It nearly broke me.

      Rather rushed and ungrateful today. Did some washing and small chores. Irritation at N's kitchen habits tried to get me again. After evening meditation I was being efficient when a lengthy phone call from PF ruined it and put me on edge. It is now 10.20. Oh dear.

       Friday 15 April

      Dream of two conjurors. Before the show they took great care to make the stage symmetrical—for instance, they were worried that one had fewer Chinese rings than the other, and so on—but the act itself was quite asymmetrical. The right-hand one (who was known for his thesis on the psychology of cookery) left the stage and then came back on wearing long underwear. Unfortunately, his tool was hanging out. This produced a mixture of amusement and shock in the audience, but it turned to outrage when he made it clear that it was deliberate. M and G thought him rather offensive as the whole of the first half of their act consisted of a radical sociological diatribe. I was backstage and went round to the front to watch. By the time I'd got there the second half had begun. The right-hand conjuror was now looking very smart in a suit and they were both doing tricks, which seemed to consist entirely of them producing cakes. Everyone (including M) was impressed. I tried one of the cakes and it was delicious.

      This seems like a parody of my operation. I would have liked to see the left-hand conjuror play an equal part. In yesterday's dream it was the left-hand side of the house that was not mine, and did not feature in the story.

      Naughty untaxed ride on Bloaters to Harpenden—this was due to having prepared the seeds for sowing and then finding that Redbourn had sold out of peat pots. It felt unusual, even after only four days abstention.

      Clumsiness was in evidence today: doing things in a rush without concentration and…crash!

      I was aware of two demonic pacts: sitting, lazing, over lunch, I began to think wrathfully about the civil service. As my anger mounted I leapt to my feet and busied myself—i.e. I used the anger to combat my inertia. Similarly, in the evening I was working at seed-sowing too late—when I should have been making supper—but the desire to show off how well I was eating to N (and to shame his efforts) reminded me to start supper before he went out.

      In a way it was clever to play off demons but, a) will I become enslaved by the process, and, b) does the fact that there are low-grade demons encouraging me in my work augur well for its effect on me?

      I fitted a padlock on the oratory door and am preparing beeswax for polish.

       Saturday 16 April

      Saw no significance in forgotten dream.

      The wretched alarm woke me at about 4, so I was late and bleary for the sunrise. Very sharp frost—coldest morning yet. Lovely and clear till 11, when it clouded over.

      After break, I read the chapter on Abramelin in The Tree of Life. It was very good, and reminded me of some important psychological points. I'm concentrating more on finding a routine than on putting a lot of pressure on, which could be all right provided I monitor my prayers carefully.

      K rang a.m. She is okay, but she's had more trouble rising than me.

      I'd been chatting with N immediately before “evenmed” and so kicked off with a silent meditation to cool valves.

      Did some gardening (hoeing), cleaning of sitting room, fixing up warm electric propagator, and work in the oratory. It's been a good day, but not a great day.

      At time of solar return I was hoeing garden.

      Horror of horrors! On going to bed I glanced at Abramelin and saw that I'd misunderstood the cleaning and perfuming bit: I'd taken it for Sunday instead of Saturday. Of course, I can see now that the oratory must be cleaned before the holy day. This is so obvious that it led me to seek for the meaning of my absurd oversight. Yes, it typifies what has been wrong in much of my work: while I'm spending my time daydreaming and planning the wonderful completion of the work, I forget the most elementary beginning steps.

      Late last night I hastily swept and perfumed the chamber, changed the linen and then had bath. Oh dear, what a hell of a lot of laundry! I resolved on an early start tomorrow morning so I can sweep the oratory before sunrise.

       Sunday 17 April

      Interesting dream: I was at some sort of gathering or conference. I can't remember much about the early incidents except that they relate to my pride and snobbery. Amongst the names of those attending was an extraordinary one: “Therese” (as it were) d'LionelSnell of…I was intrigued to find my name within another, and tried to locate her.

      When she was pointed out to me I saw a rather black-haired, dusky-skinned (i.e. Spanish or Southern Italian) girl standing with another. I introduced myself and commented on our names, but she did not seem impressed. “What was that about your name?” her friend asked. (They both had nice foreign accents.) “Oh, it's just that it's made from an English name,” she replied. They were a bit giggly, like girls together. She said something polite, like: “How interesting, nice to have met you,” and they went back to their seats. I had been told they were from a nunnery (convent school).

      Although I was a bit disappointed, I forgot about it, but was then surprised when she came up to me again and greeted me. In view of her background and earlier behaviour, even this modest greeting struck me as very forward. Interested, I suggested we meet again, to which she agreed and said we could have a chat. By now I was feeling a bit shy myself, so I said, “Perhaps I can buy you a meal”. She laughed and said, “I hope we have more than a meal together!”

      This parting remark embarrassed me and awoke old fears of inadequacy; she did seem a bit hot to handle! But very sweet about it.

      Then she came for me. “Quickly,” she said. “Follow me! We must not be seen together too much, because we are a party of schoolgirls and the rest will be jealous and spiteful.”

      I recall assuming that, being from a convent, she would not be on the pill; fortunately I had a (blue) contraceptive left over. Surprised at my confidence, I got under her clothes and we had a great time.

      It struck me as all too good to be true; a sort of temptation for the Abramelin operation.

      After that I became divided into the “observer” and “Lionel Snell” who became more glamorous and dashing. We had a happy time together and LS made some toast, holding the bread with his bare hands and deftly tossing it over. She laughed in admiration, saying, “You can do anything! I bet you can't interpret dreams though!”

      LS said he could, but was a little uncertain. She described a dream of an old abbey in Nailsworth. “Nailsworth?” asked LS. “Write it,” said she. “Ah yes, that was it, ‘Nailsworth’.” In this abbey's graveyard was a tomb with a de LionelSnell inscription.

      Excited at the hope of solving