A.M.

Have noticed for a short time a sense of well-being mornings, as of reserve strength. Wonderful! Satisfying, gratifying.

An indescribable renunciation had to be made in regard to the vision work that I cannot grasp. Yet I definitely, consciously renounced.

I have in the past sought the Elysian fields of bliss—thought I was all wrong unless I roamed there. Wrong.

Live, not know.

I so infrequently in the past used the physical medium; got to the point where I knew I was a city divided. Made a point of bringing myself back, again and again, and shall eventually develop a sound mind in a sound body. Now know the beneficial effects on the physical of so living.

P.M.

^[1]

Silence and prayer.

2:00

^[2]

I enter the grotto with the large brown chair. A huge dragon-like monster which rears up, his head touching top of dome and drawn back against throat as does a spirited horse at times, the body arching backward and down to where I see two legs similar to those of a crocodile. His back over these two hind legs is distinct, hide of crocodile but there is a horny ridge in center, the tail long and trailing into darkness. I cannot visualize details of body. It snorts through large bulging nostrils. Nothing repulsive, nothing slimy—great strength and power, and a sense of green somewhere. I climb onto back over two hind legs. I shoot down the tail, way off, come to a circle of red, gaze at this puzzled; then grasp away blue, which now encircled red centre, race back over dragon, up its back and to head. (What happened to the blue?) I remain suspended in space trying to visualize completely the face. While doing so, feel love for this thing permeating me. It immediately prostrates itself, rests happily at my feet; and I feel it is now a helper, servant, to do my bidding—glad to do it.

On a high mountain, in a room of a homely house, a man seated by a table with a book, lamp to his right. I face him. He rises, goes to a shelf to his left, takes from it a book, which he places before me, open. Something there, but I cannot read. A large tome, parchment covered. I depart with the book, see it carried by my double in front of me, a purple silk marker flowing from it. I descend the mountain, attempt to read, pages appear blank. Turn to frontispiece—can see no picture, but in lower left-hand corner I see blue and know there is gold above it. Opposite is printing, and I understand my name is there. Get nothing more: I wait.

The book fades away in smoke, and I see horses’ stamping feet, I follow up the legs and the picture is filled with mounted horsemen, carrying spears and banners. In the centre, more visible than the rest, a youthful figure, suggesting a Jeanne d’Arc or Christ.

9:30

For the first Harpocrates has meant more than a silence by stilling. At the altar my heart overflowed toward Shaddai and to him I poured my oblation. I then went on to Harpocrates. Came a partial vision—a field of white light with a something in the centre I assumed to be Harpocrates, while below stood Shaddai—he quite distinct.