John St. John

12.3. 7.40. 9.10. 12.15. JOHN ST. JOHN Anyhow I will now (12.37) go quietly to sleep—as I am always saying, and never do when I say it !—in the hope that daylight may bring counsel. Woke fresh and comfortable. Sleep filled with dreams and broken into short lengths. I ought to observe that this is a very striking result of forging this magic chain; for in my normal life I am one of the soundest sleepers imaginable. Nine solid hours without turning once is my irreducible minimum. Having done an hour’s illumination of the New Ritual, will go and break my fast with coffee and a brioche, and thence proceed to Michael Brenner’s studio. I have spent the morning in modelling Siddhasana— a more difficult task than appeared. Rather like THE taskl But I went on with the mantra, and made some Re- flections upon Kamma. I will now have a Yogin coffee and sandwich, and return to my illumination of the Ritual. In the desert of my soul, where no herb grows, there is yet one little spring. I am still one—pointed, at least in the lower sense that I have no desire or ambition but this of accomplishing the Great Work. Barren is this soul of mine, in these 3% years of drought (the 3% coils of the Kundalini are implied by this) and this Ekagrata is the little cloud like an hand (Yod, the Lingam of great Shiva). And, though I catch up my robe and run before the chariot of the King into Jezreel, it may be 9}