"What I'm dealing with is so vast and great that it can't be called the truth. It's above the truth." - Sun Ra

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Tell it Like it Isn't (thoughts on TOAD ROAD and my own very gaudy life)

Like so many former space captains, I genuinely feel that when I did drugs as a youth it was a grand experiment; my friends and I were artists, musicians, in a band, and part of a big Syracuse hippie scene. We did it to enhance music, inspire wild poetry and flights of fancy, we loved drugs and alcohol like Christians love Jesus and Virgin Mary; the drugs and alcohol bonded us and showed us the way forward. I wasn't even a musician when I joined the band. Drugs did that! We were hanging out and discussing what to do since the latest bassist flaked, when I hallucinated John Doe's bass snaking around on the floor towards me as if a holy finger. It was five AM, but we were still up by the time the music store opened; I was on stage with my new bass that very night, still wide awake, every note I played reverberating through my skeleton in great purple rings. 

If I wound up in the gutter, then AA, and I never became a very good musician, because I kept tripping rather than practicing, who cares? No shame in being the Syd Barrett / Brian Jones / Pigpen.  I looked good up there, man. Like I belonged. I felt that old John Doe bass up my leg feeling when I decided to risk my future chances at the pesidency by combining Hunter Thompson / Bill Burroughs-esque gonzo first person-AA qualification history to film criticism for this site. So I set out to validate my glowing memories of past psychedelic experience, depicted in film and memories of watching films based on lengthy past experience, and to bring that 'gonzo' style to advanced psychoanalytic film theory, to show that drugs needn't make you stupid, but smarter and that finally, that you could be sober for ten years, doing the whole AA spirituality thing, and not demonize past excesses or become a dour killjoy. 
Jason Banker's Toad Road reminds me a lot of the years above, with the chilling caveat that we looked great to ourselves, but to a sober older civilian we seemed, no doubt, decadent, loud, shocking, full of ourselves, and erratic; and in its amateur found footage style it reminded me of my own early films, on super 8mm; they started as slasher parodies and ninja epics while in junior high and ended up in college as chronicles of drunken binges in college. In one film I lost a drinking contest of doing 162 proof Devil's Springs vodka shots with our band's guitar player (only because he cheated - eating a bunch of pasta beforehand while I was already drunk and still drinking, though I'm sure I was being obnoxious). Fellow Jasper grabbed my camera and there's this shot of me in the hallway, face down in my own puke, while someone brings my desk light close to my face, back and forth. Of course we screened the film a zillion times so even now I know the scene by heart:
Jasper: We're here at the end of the drinking contest with our current winner, Erich Kuersten. Erich, Erich!, Erich, tell the audience, are you ever gonna drink again? 
Erich: (pause, rolls over on floor) N-n-not after tomorrow night.
Jasper: Here that folks? He says he's never gonna drink again. Erich how do you feel? 
Erich: I feel.. (starts to sing) I feel / Like I been tied / to the whippin' pole / tied to the whippin' pole /tiedoodawippapoe (pretends to pass out while Jasper and filmmakers laugh / cut to Jasper rolling a fat joint of worthless homegrown leaves - film ends)
Even that drunk and miserable in reality, having thrown up and lying on my right side on the filthy wooden floor in my own vomit, I was still acting drunker, faking a slur, for the camera and refusing to renounce booze. as the next night was a big party and, even in my deplorable condition, I was looking forward to it.

Chronicling one's druggy excess changes the experience, flattens it, nails it to self conscious 3-D space time. But if you manage to get really out there, it definitely helps but have some record of the beyond. Without the record, you will only remember it from one angle, and subjective filtering will gradually reduce it to a few mental images stacked in a mental box in a mental safe in a mental storage unit. It was once testament to my being a badass, it's now--to me--just looks like I was being reckless, sad and dumb.

There's a huge beautiful old grave yard adjoining Syracuse campus. In 1987, I shot a film of a shrooming odyssey there (it's on youtube, but I can't find it). A big rolling hill graveyard where few people ever go is the best place to be 'enhanced' or to bring girls or wander at night in perpetual despair. The night after I first hooked up with this girl in 1989, when I was a senior at the heart of my boozy, shroomy powers, we went to the the H.B. Crouse tomb, on a nice little sloping hill, perfect for laying around on with the tomb of a 19th century Syracuse mayor to prop our backs against. I had always been able to climb through the narrow windows of the stone edifice, empty but for a small altar and raised plaques. But when we looked through  the coffins had been broken into, likely during the dead of night, while she and I were hooking up; through the cracks of the shattered coffin you could see a skull with a thin layer of flesh over it, and long thin strands of hair... I thought instantly I should climb through to get this skull for an art project, but this girl said please don't. And because she was hot, I agreed. We left. I imagined a film where me hooking up with this hottie after our band's party cross-cut with some black-robed frat pledges breaking into a tomb and smashing the concrete slabs atop the coffins with a sledge hammer.

The next day we heard of a freshman named McQuain up in my old dorm, Flint Hall:
The police were notified after Mr. McQuain's roommate smelled a foul odor and looked in a pot of boiling water on top of a hot plate in their room. After seeing the skull, he alerted a dorm supervisor. 
The body-stealing charge, a rarely filed offense, is considered a Class E felony, the lowest-level felony, and carries a maximum sentence of four years upon conviction. Mr. McQuain told the police that he removed the skull from the John J. Crouse mausoleum Monday night and planned to use it as a model for an art class. Mr. Crouse, who died in 1886, was Syracuse's Mayor from 1876 to 1880. (NY Times, 1988)
It just goes to show you how hotness has its own premonitory powers, because in many other respects this beautiful girl was a real dope. I had actually been mad at her for not letting me grab it. She was so hot, though, and in this case, right, so I moved in with her.

After Toad Road I wonder... the hottie in that film and this girl I refer to were similar in hottie appearance.

Poetry was my thing freshman year, but in a very snide careless fashion. I was determined to prove it a lot of rot and prove is well that one might write gibberish, intentional nonsense, surrealistic automatic balderdash, and then, some subsequent evening, to the delight of some chippie, analyze it on the spot to mean some deep and abiding truth not approachable from any other direction. Meanwhile my depression freshmen year was so bad I'd wander the Syracuse quad late at night and stuff snow down my pants and my shirt and try to make myself throw up, just to feel that brief flicker of endorphins; my brain's miserly pharmacist had to be shocked and alarmed before it reluctantly opened its cobwebbed vault to disseminate into my neuron webs even the basic levels of joy most humans enjoyed.

But when I took shrooms for the first time at Student Union double feature of Yellow Submarine and Head in the spring of 1986 my life was changed forever. The door on the endorphin vault was laughed off its hinges. I was more or less struggling through a regimen of booze, music, socializing, cigarettes, micro-tripping, weed, sex, W.C. Fields movies, and writing, to keep that vibe alive in the subsequent decade. Even so, it eventually dissolved in my grip as if a life raft made of cardboard on a solvent salt sea.

One of my ancestors was once accused of having a blue boar come out of the woods and crawl into her window in Salem MA in the late 1680s. I imagine the witness to this as having some credibility: was she hallucinating on mushrooms, hunger, madness, or the ergot-ish mold of stale rye bread, as often happened accidentally in those times? Was she just malicious? Was it a hallucination that had underpinnings in transdimensional reality? Maybe there's a way to collapse the difference, wherein the brain stem reptilian vision of hallucination is and is not a conduit into higher intelligence, an ability to perceive the raw chaos of transdimensional existence.

Worse in some ways than jonesers, we dealt with buzzkuills like this a lot during our 'acid tests' my sophomore year.  Jonesers were annoying because they never brought anything to the table, but they didn't refuse it when offered either, and they knew it was share and share like. But the buzzkill is also worse than the wally, who is just plain clueless, unable to see or hear the music of the spheres. But the buzzkill has heard it, and stopped, often because his absentee parents found a joint in his drawer over summer break and sent him to rehab, mainly so they could go to Saint Barthes without him because if you know him, so would you, but now he's a holier than thou lecturer on mutating DNA and liver damage. But he still hangs out all the time anyway, usually because of a girl he likes who doesn't like him is too wasted and nice and young to just tell him to fuck off. She just wants to party, man. As Lou Reed once sang, "she wants to make love to the scene." I seem to the guy most annoyed by him, so he becomes an obsession.

I'm using the 'he' here because I'm describing also James' character, but I've also known the reverse: my sophomore girlfriend was this clingy insecure item, who lived to drag me away from parties right when they were getting good, so we could go back to her place and fool around, but she wasn't fooling me. Once or twice I had to lie next to her after we'd finished balling when it was only two or three AM, hearing the party still going on down the street or next door or downstairs, considering myself too much the feminist to get dressed and race back. But one night after a big show we played in this huge attic space, this other girl gave me fat blue-veined shroom stem as soon as I offstage and I washed it down with beer before my bitch girlfriend could see, and the girlfriend dragged me back to her apartment as usual...

But then, magic. The shroom kicked in right as our nightly fight began, and the psilocybin spirit gave me the strength to snarl "I'm going back to the party and if you don't like it then fuck off!" I ran out the door of her apartment to the sound of smashing plates, hurling salt and pepper shakers down the stairs after me, screaming so loud I could hear her all the way across the street, and right back into the warm and waiting arms of 614 Euclid, and the girl who'd given me the stem.

I'd never felt freer.

That stem was like a concentrated six years of therapy - it took one look through my eyes and said, well this shit has to stop, let's get out of here, and tell this bitch to fuck off.

So fuck off, James!

The thing you must know if you have not had one of these experiences is that the dimensions of a hallucination/vision are not the same. You can't begin to 'imagine' the hypercomplexity of infinity as it's represented to your third eye. You can only witness it, on a level similar to how you see and hear within your dreams, merged to enhance the outer view of the real. The combination of the two, when in perfect sync -- all three eyes, so to speak -- reveals there is no outside to these shapes, that's the thing, only fractals above and below the levels your senses can perceive, as well as in within that sensory spectrum.

When you get lost in the webs of the machine elf spiders you become aware of the great love and the great sense of security, but also of existential loneliness, and the thought of a finite event on the horizon, a realigning of good and dark forces - not in the fantasy where good guys win and bad guys vanish, because reality is a complex impermanence constructed and maintained moment to moment --nothing is permanent, and nothing ever dies for long. Good and bad must always be integrated, and/or disintegrate mutually. Any repression eventually swells and erupts into the thing that has repressed it. When all is good then the less good becomes the evil. Balance demands extreme counterweights. One must befriend and include the enemy -- you have to make sure the power stay fluid, let him win a few hands if he's behind. Otherwise, the game gets boring. 

That sort of thing is what makes allies for life, not the cessation of fighting, but the removal of fighting from the realm of fear and hate and into the realm of sport, of joy, of loving your enemy even as you swing your sword down upon his screaming children.

I offer these four things to keep in mind while chasing this golden ladder:

     1) If the full truth of existence, the inescapable Lovecraftian horror, was truly and totally comprehended, you would go insane - that's why your brain hides it from you. Your brain is set up so it can't abide this truth for long - in fact the whole brain and its blinders-based perception decoding is a defense against this realization. Be grateful then that you never find what you are truly looking for, because unless you've got a lot of experience with meditation and are in a good place emotionally, you will be as freaked out and panicked as an off-meds schizophrenic, or someone on a really really bad trip who can't ever look forward to coming down.

     2) There is no 'total truth' that's fixed in time and space - you can reach nirvana one weekend, find the Elysian fields and see beautiful suns, then go back the next and find just ruins dotted with ozone-bleached faun skeletons. A week passes like centuries in that dimension. Who knows why they were wiped out by evil reptilian interdimensional brigands? Did our precieving these realms alert the enemy? No answer is suitable. 

     3) When prophets speak of eternity in hell and heaven they really just mean timelessness. A minute can feel like a year when you are outside the time-space continuum and vice versa. The month I spent outside time and space in the fall of 2012 (triggered by the galactic alignment) lasted longer than the entirety of my life up to that point x two.

4)  We all wish we could live 'in eternity' somewhere nice - but the one constant of the universe - and all its parallel dimensions - is that absolutely nothing ever stays the same, and that by running from pain and pursuing pleasure, pain seems inescapable and permanent, while pleasure is fleeting and quickly forgotten. Reverse the strategem! You can never escape pleasure! All pain is fleeting. Enlightened monks embrace the most ungainly and humiliating chores as if gold. 

5) Avoid wallies, glommers, parasites, energy vampires, sleazebags, murfs, jonesers, copy-cats, nagging harpies, vultures, buzzkills, scammers, junkies and baseheads AT ALL COSTS. Cut and RUN.

6) Learn from the poor girl in TOAD ROAD: she so desperately needed to get rid of this glomming wally she vanished beyond the 7th Gate of Hell rather than endure him a moment longer! But do it with love in your heart, and above all firmness. Trying to be nice is a big mistake - they feed on that. If anything, tell them the truth about why you don't like them, and how they should change (get therapy, etc.) and believe me, they'll keep away. 

Friday, September 11, 2015

Our forefathers took drugs... and you probably don't even know who your Father is.

An Alternate History for an Alternate Future!

Everything on here is true, just slightly warped. I heard this album over and over years before getting into UFOs or drugs. "Thick as clown milk, judge." Hearing it again, I realize my whole first novel's concept, of a patent medicine man whose snake oil tonic has psychedelic properties that put him in contact with Mexican shamen, was wholly mine own, slightly borrowed from my own brief operations and Carlos Castaneda! And I never would have thought to have the Don Juan stand in talk like an old Yiddish man ("follow da snake!") And of course there's: George Washington's hemp, EK's Snake River Canyon jump, Gas Music from Jupiter ("all must learn to play the piano") and the 1897 Alien buried in Aurora TX Cemetery, abduction narratives, and Ingo Swann.

 What a fetid fervor of freedom! Watch out because these uploads carry mid-term ads in addition to those for the usual Bear-Whiz Beer.

 "No true Mississippi cowherd would leave his wine cellar unattended in this desperate time!" Shit's solid as ink in an flash frozen prehistoric giant squid, El Rey!


Friday, August 21, 2015

The Me who Regrets His Future Selfless Self's Sacrifice

The goal of demons is beyond just possession, but to create in general a backlash against all spirituality. When priests or beloved childhood figures like Michael Jackson, Cosby, etc. are revealed to be sex offenders, our sense of trust in our fellow man dwindles. The devil takes steps to rob us of the ability to enjoy God's grace. Overpopulation makes even the beauty of childbirth seem selfish. The animals we love to eat are given soulful sad eyes all the better to haunt us with--all various components of the devil's plan to shrink our soul from wispy stratus clouds into contracted dense purpose cumulonimbus so when it rains (i.e. you die) the soul falls, and the water is collected for Hell's steam engines that run the THEY LIVE mind control force field. The agony of collected souls, each trapped in its own isolated battery cell, slowly burned into nonexistence to fuel the steam engine that keeps them in dominion over us.

Thus, these daily horrors the devil inflicts are his and his minions' version of a rain dance.

Human sacrifice involves the idea of throwing another soul under the bus to escape being ground up oneself in the steam engine, being able to hold onto one's evil self, the liquid condensation of the evil ego making all sorts of harmful deals rather than surrendering.

 But there is in the end one soul, so every victory of the demons is another square mile of our precious rainforest lost. That's why we, when our souls are rising and almost up and out of the wheel of woe, so often turn around and go back to help others along. I've done it three times already! And once I'm back down, buried under the mystery misery I always kind of regret that decision, or rather the ego, which returns, inevitably, convinces 'me' to regret it. The 'Me' who regrets isn't the me who made the choice to stay, it's the difference between a terrified kid on his first day of school and a graduate with a million friends, the difference between a selfish thug and the benevolent social worker trying to reach him. You can't get to heaven without becoming a selfless being of pure love. The trouble is that once you're that selfless, you hesitate to go to heaven when so many of your denser soul fellows are still suffering. The rich man can't enter the kingdom of heaven anymore than a camel can go through the needle, etc. Once unburdened by wealth, the needle threader pauses and looks back to make sure he's not needed. Is this wisdom, compassion, or another devil sucker play?

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Space is the Place (All right all right) Sun Ra Vs. Matt McConaughey

How can String theory and Einstein's space-time continuum be explained via the music of Sun Ra? I think by now you know the answer. Space is the place and free-form jazz is all about time, but it just has to go. And now there's more visual aids out there in the form of INTERSTELLAR, particularly the 'bookshelf' segment. If you haven't seen the movie yet well its entirely your own fault. Time is something you've had lots of... the aliens of your future self’s subconscious are scraping at your cellar door of dreams, so let's dig in... or out. First up is to see this confirmation of how time-space looks when you're able to step outside of it, by which I mean, out of time and space into the nowhere of in between. Observe the video still above of a cougar and a horse running, with each 'moment' captured as time and space move forward (see below video). We can easily imagine these slices in terms of music (the beats) or a strip of film (each frame a slice). In both, if we watch closely (this effect is slightly lost on video), we can imagine we see the slice of black silence in between each snapshot, the flicker of time and space our mind empties out -- death at 24 frames a second.... life on a 4/4  count... or whatever tempo Sun Ra's working on, or celestial frequency tuning into. Near a black hole or outside of space time, of course, the old notes stay around, they don't vanish as each new one comes along, and every image projected onscreen stays there, with the new ones lapping over it.

Now, if we take this 'slicing' of time space and examine the bookshelf scene from INTERSTELLAR we see what time-space's snapshot slices might be visualized as - an interlocked room of bands of time and energy across which one's astronaut mind is fused to the building blocks of the universe time-space itself; the observer defining the observed through the act of observing. When good jazz musicians tap into this, a strange magical kind of ESP forms between the players. They lose themselves in the group mind and their music interlocks perfectly.

But when I saw that  crazy bookshelf room in INTERSTELLAR I knew I'd been there. Mine, instead of electric brown, yellow, and gold bands was brown, yellow, and red Tibetan demon lizard god faces, all breathing in and out and watching me with their mouths open, impassive, their strange breathing blowing me around the space as I floated similar to Matt McConaughey in that room. Here's a collage I did trying to give an idea - as you can see the part in the middle is supposed to indicate depth, like a 3-D room, but I ran out of energy. Still you get the idea.

Imagine floating through this like a giant gas bag, breathing in and out like every demon is watching you yet also not watching you. How do I know - I've been out there, bro. Maybe you have too... if it looks familiar you've been there. Even Lenny's been there in Simpsons.

Now, take a look at this other still below -again of the cougar and how it would look if it was running towards you:

Now imagine you're from some ancient culture in India, or a prophet in the Old Testament, as I discussed in the Black Hole Hindu Ganesh Ezekiel Connection... and you meditate and fast or chant your way outside of time and space; as your third eye opens wide and transcends and replaces your working normal physical eyes, essentially aligning your entire self, conscious, unconscious, sleeping, waking, dreaming so that you see the same thing with your eyes closed or open - this weird effect, the 'trippy' effect generated in old Doors videos (and in the cougar and above images) and so forth, manifests...and we get a glimmer of this zone...

how a single astronaut entering a black hole would look to a distant observer (theoretically).
As time dilates and slows the astronaut's past ceases to erase itself, leaving the refracted image of himself
behind for all eternity.
horse walking as seen from outside space time continuum as per above PBS video

(from third eye) Kali (a two armed deity outside time and space raising and lowering Her arms)
You dig the similarity? The same thing would go for Ezekiel seeing the multi-faced beings and the wheels within the wheels, the multiplication of arms and heads is a result of the trans-space/time affect. What's fascinating is how the meditating yogis know this about the multi-arm illusion caused by this time-space dilation, but the casual Hinduism enthusiast thinks the being just has all these arms. But that's a tangent for another day, bro. Gotta focus... gotta get back to SUN RA.

Well, I mean, I guess, that's it - it's just jazz man. I don't like Sun Ra's music that much --in that i love it for two minutes--then it sounds like a six year old banging pots and blowing kazoos to drive me crazy and get me to take her to Disney World. BUT if I ever decide to leave again, to spread out over the outer rims, as it were, I'd love it as I used to - for space jazz, sky church music, as Hendrix called it, reaches out to the beyond times, collapsing normal senses of melody and structure and creating sacred spaces outside therein... like the INTERSTELLAR book nook. You got to get out there before you can get into the sky church music - otherwise it just sounds like noise.

from top: Interstellar, Ezekiel seeing the wheel (folk art?), Sun Ra
I admire that Sun Ra doesn't actually, like a crazy street person, believe he's from Saturn, but he believes in the power of myth, of fiction, to recreate himself as a myth. The one time I saw him in 1989, singing at a Polish union hall in Syracuse, it was adorable as in this dinky dusty rattletrap lodge hall suddenly there are twirling dancers and all this pageantry (no fancy lights or anything), then Sun Ra comes up to the mic and in this sweet tiny voice starts singing "I am not from here," to "Space is the Place" or whatever his theme was, "I'm from out there," and in this dingy gray place where you'd expect to see, say, a Varsity awards dinner or some union lodge meeting, or an Elk club smoker, a rinky dink piano in the corner, etc. In the freezing hellish snow of Syracuse, those words took on great meaning - a denial, a refusal in a way, that is the heart of meditation, astral travel, music and art - a denial and refusal of the banal limitations of our own place in the time-space continuum, of being black of course, born in the South. Sometimes we love being here - other times, non. But the Exit door is never locked... space is the place - from which no traveler returns unchanged....

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

"I hope to God it's a fake" (Why Hoaxers rule and Mythbusters suck)

"Your eyes can deceive you, don't trust them." - Obi Wan Kenobi

Some folks may groan, but I consider myself a true skeptic. By true I mean the Sherlock Holmes type: I don't 100% believe nor disbelieve anything. I also adhere to the writings of Patrick Harpur, that sometimes the tools of fakery reveal great truths. Just as artists use paint to convey masterpieces, the occult forces use charlatan's trickery as a gateway into this world, kind of like, for example, science fiction may inspire scientists towards new technology, charlatanism and hoaxers straddle the line between them, instead of worrying or hoping fiction comes true, we try on believing our own eyes for size --if this really happened, how would we react? As long as every effort is made to pass it off as truth (the way parents might with Santa Clause or the Blair Witch promoters with their 'true' web site), we can 'go alone' and enjoy the benefits (fear, presents), without the worry.

The title of this post is a quote from Whitley Streiber when he was shown the controversial "Victor" footage and asked if the alien being interrogated looked like the ones who have been abducting him.

Rock or Man? (Mars) depends on
whom you ask
Example 1: I'm a Pisces, a twin sign, so I'm very comfortable with paradox, hence I don't believe in astrology even though I know it's true. That may sound like a paradox fit to blow the gasket of a Star Trek android, but twin signs have no problem with it. And when I hear that advanced atomic physicists are beginning to make connections between the smallest human emotion and the vastest star -- the fractal butterfly effect at last cohering into mathematical equation -- I wonder if science will catch up to astrology within my lifetime or at least realize there's more to it than just mumbo-jumbo (not that it's not).

Example 2: I've been friends with a few super intelligent paranoiacs and narcissists, charmers who believe crazed ex boyfriends or girlfriends are stalking them and leaving cryptic messages. Some of their stalkers have vanished simply by adjusting their meds, but others --who knows? At any rate, I love to listen to their crazy tales of strangers stalking them through SPAM e-mail codes, microphones in their molar fillings, and/or breaking into their apartments just to move a few boxes from one end of their closet to the other. Because... in the end... who knows? Maybe they're right. They can be very convincing, these paranoiacs, and listening to them my blood gets cold, like it used to when at summer camp in Maryland hearing tales of the Goat Man around the fire. It doesn't matter if they're crazy or not - if the stalking is real or not, the chill of the possibility is what myth, what campfires, are all about.

cropped pic of dead alien sometimes passed off as authentic photo from 1947
uncropped 'bigger' picture - Roswell museum
Are a bane to the existence of legitimate researchers in fields like ghosts, UFOs, demonology, and occult conspiracy. And yet their real crime is only in getting caught in their lie, and even then only if they fleece some suckers out of money, or if anyone believed them in the first place to the point their excitement at the lie's possible truth was killed by the news of the fakery.

Maybe I'm lucky in that having done so much acid in the past and hallucinated so very damn much (decades ago I'll grant you, but I did a lot of it over a 13 year period) I don't believe anything I see. If I took everything I saw at face value, I'd be in a straitjacket, like some of the lightweights who didn't know how to surf the wild sine waves. If my years as a psychedelic warrior have taught me anything, it's not to trust my own senses. Descartes didn't either and though he clearly never dropped acid he correctly pinpointed the pineal gland as the seat of the soul. He too knew not to trust his senses, for in demanding we take their perceptions as gospel truth, they doth get cocky. The third eye never makes such claims. Descartes is often misinterpreted as a kind of materialist dogma, but  just because I see it doesn't make it real; just because I don't doesn't make it false. Anyone who 'only believes what they see' is delusional, though those who stick to that concept, i.e. reductive or eliminative materialists, are clearly in their coded way begging someone to hook them up with a tab so they can finally get a higher vantage point on what's going on in their brains that they don't consciously know about. Honey, I want to tell them, your brain is like a cheating spouse, you don't know nearly as much about what's going on with it as you think you do.

But I still hate finding out some engaging mystery that beguiled me was just a trick, either of a prankster, attention-seeker, profiteer, or just misidentification of weather phenomena. I feel a knee-jerk anger when something that was blowing my mind is dashed against the rocks of scientific grounding, snarky prank laughter, or contemptuous "Myth-Buster"-ing.

Take for example the high strangeness of Saturn controlling the Earth via the Moon, as told by the amazing David Icke. I love this guy, but his latest book is so crazy I had to quickly shelf it and wait for a time when my mind was more stable. The deeper into the rabbit hole he goes, the crazier he sounds, but it's the kind of crazy that makes my head vibrate in uncomfortable ways, the imprisoning frequencies of Saturn punishing me with a remote controlled dog collar zap to make me put the book down, the way I might walk to the other side of the street to avoid a maniac shouting about lizard people stealing our souls. As a Pisces, I can believe he's right AND he's crazy at the same time, and vice versa. If I don't, the world will seem unendurably depressing, and I'd lose my few threads of remaining sanity--so it's not that I don't believe him, to an extent, it's just that I can't, for my own self-interest.
Eliminativists argue that modern belief in the existence of mental phenomena 
is analogous to the ancient belief in obsolete theories such as the geocentric model of the universe - Wiki
It's because I am psychedelically experienced and a Pisces and studied a lot of Jung and Joseph Campbell, meditated, astral traveled, and had nervous breakdowns and periods of intense 'blood of the lamb' enlightenment that I've perhaps come--in however small a way--to understand how myths help cement our dreams and imagination to reality, to physical manifestations, how we organize our thoughts and our lives, how one begets the other through conscious shaping of matter. Myths are the phantom missing link wherein the unknown elements of external reality link up with our unconscious, they are the water that goes down to nourish the roots of our garden. Without them, a Rodin sculpture is just polished stone -- if we see a nude woman in it, well, we're idiots who can't tell a real woman from a rock -there's no middle ground.

In other words, dreams aren't less 'valid' than 3-D waking life reality. Nothing is 'just' a hallucination.

Don't Touch that Dial!
Imagine consciousness and 3D space time as a radio we got for Xmas. We've had it all our lives, and yet we don't even know that we can adjust the dial, change the channel to a different station from the one we're on,  lets call it 'Hot 97 FM.'  To the left and the right of the dial wait crazy radio stations  that can take lifetimes to tune in, or can be found almost immediately on reception, only to be lost when we turn back to Hot 97 and then try to find them later. At the far end of one direction, we can tune into channels full of light and angels; god, loved ones who've departed, heaven. In the other direction, darkness and demons, in between, a million permutations.

But are those other radio stations real as the average person defines real? How do we know if we never try to turn the dial? If we never try, the only possibility of us ever seeing these other channels is when we either die (or have an NDE) or suffer from a high grade fever (or are psychic, schizophrenic, or suffer a head injury).  But to deny their possibility is like saying no other radio station can exist because it's not on 97 FM, and hence it does not play all the hits / all the time.

We know the appearance of solid matter is itself an illusion. This is scientific fact: matter is just energy on a very slow vibration. If we moved the dial so that we saw even ancient rock as vibrating energy, wouldn't that in fact be 'truer'?

BUT --if everything supernatural and paranoid should--hypothetically--turn out to be false, then hoaxers (and mis-identifiers) are the true saviors of our temporal realm. Without urban legends, high strangeness and unexplainable monsters, the world would be a much more boring place.

DECASIA (film decay, not the ocean floor)
For example: I think maybe Bigfoot is some kind of actual being but not exactly as we understand being, not fixed to time and space as we understand it, he's a channel surfer on that above radio metaphor, he lands on our channel only while there's a commercial on the one he generally listens to. So I don't think we will ever find the bones of one in the swamps because if they could die, they'd have died out long ago. We see him and he sees us but only on rare occasions, the way we might see the faces of a family driving in a different direction down opposites sides of the highway, for just  a brief spate of time, then they're gone.

Maybe outside of our temporal realm 'life and death' as a duality is transcended into a kind of continual in-between state of non/existence. Our life span is short, artificially instilled by our Tyrell-ish Anunaki god to weed out the problems with the previous model (i.e. bigfoot is our ancestor with abilities intact that are artificially blocked in our DNA to keep us from escaping them across time and space as he does).

I believe our government did the right thing burying the Roswell event in 1947. We'd just been in a war. We needed the rest. We still do. I believe they haven't really hid anything from us, just cloaked it in enough disinformation and doubt that those who want to believe it was a balloon can go back to sleep, and those who want to seek the truth can find it, more or less.

It's like if you're five years-old and always pestering mom about where babies come from, or rather, as I would phrase it: if I came from your stomach, mom, how come I have dad's features? That was my question since I had dark hair like my dad and my mom was blonde. My mom fielded the questions the best she could while I bounced on their king size bed and she got ready for whatever Mad Men-era bridge party that night. She never lied, never talked about a stork, but just fed me tiny pieces of nonsexual info, and let my curiosity and kids in school, fill in the blanks. When another kid told me the gross mechanics involved, of course, it was so horrifying to imagine (that's where you pee out of!!) we accused him of lying, or getting the facts wrong.... until gradually we accepted it with our changing hormones... and health class.

"It took me sooo long  /  to find out /
but I found out"
If mom had given me those grotesque facts at five years old, I wouldn't have been able to deny it, couldn't accuse the kid at school of lying, and I'd never be able to look my dad in the eye again. In other words, Mr. President, plausible deniability leaves room for gradual acceptance without psychic scarring. Just apply the child asking "where do babies come from?" sort of plausible deniability to American's empiricist answer to the question "are we alone?"

Okay, so one day the parents thought the kid was still in kindergarten but he sneaks out and comes home and finds his parents stark naked in the living room, going at it hot and heavy. Busted! The parents don't say "well now you know, now you figured out the secret of why you have your fathers' eyes, welcome to adulthood son." No, they quickly yell at the kid to wait outside, run upstairs, get dressed, come down telling you to forget what you saw. You need to find out about this stuff in pieces, some kid with a dogeared Playboy here, confusing scuttlebut on the playground there, if you stumble on the truth, deny, cajole, diffuse.

In other words your parents probably don't want to keep you in the dark about sex forever, but they don't want to be the ones to tell you, at least not until later. And that is correct of them. They are your authority, your arbiter of the real. Until they confirm or deny what you heard in school, you can relax in the idea the kids MIGHT be wrong; you can imagine or puzzle out the mystery of procreation with your friends, but if it's too much to imagine, or accept, you can deny as their version is unconfirmed, and unsubstantiated by evidence. You can't deny your parents.

Eventually you won't need the parents to confirm or deny, but no one can tell you when that will be, that's the whole point. When you don't need their confirmation to believe it's real, you're ready. 'Disclosure' is always 'about' to happen, but it never can, by it's very definition. We each have to make our own paradigm shift on an individual-by-individual level.


In this sense I've always felt the Mythbusters were doing a great deal of harm to the world. In venting their own juvenile destructive desires on our most precious illusions they rob us of our freedom to perceive life as it it really is, dangerous and full of unknown quantities! Clearly, there's a need for UFOs whether they're 'real' in your definition of the term or not. If you have cable you can find a paranormal show of one stripe or another nearly any time of day. The only bad ones are the ones with some smarmy so-called skeptic folded into the investigative group by bet-hedging producers. This is usually a white college-educated male who acts like his believing witness testimony is the most important thing in the world. He's hostile to anyone who saw anything; until he believes it, it's not true. See my Zealot of Doubt: why skeptics are the new cranks.

That's fine by me. I just won't watch your show, but know one thing, Mythbusters and UFO research team 'skeptics' you are not TRUE skeptics. You're an atheist, which is its own kind of fundamentalist zealot. Atheists are not skeptics, nor are smarmy hipsters who think their science degrees mean they can't even address the ideas of ghosts and aliens without snarky laughter and derisive eye rolls. That's not skepticism, that's condemnation based on one's own false impressions, or snap judgments of 'the type of people who believe that rot.' They're just parroting whatever will get their paper a gold star from the thesis prof. There are far more true skeptics in the UFO community than outside it. The naysayers are so rigid in their conception of reality that it threatens to shatter with the slightest stress. A true skeptic is open to all possibilities and that means never committing to one organization, theory, sponsor, guru, religion, or point of view, regardless of sensorial evidence.

In admitting eyes and ears are deceiving we don't close doors to perception, we open them.

In short, I don't care if you made your ghost story up, so long as it feels real to me, so I get the shivers, the pleasant spine tingle that makes me check the door locks and grab onto the cat for support. As a man who considers the art of telling ghost stories a sacred rite, I know it's always twice as scary when they feel true. No ghost story is scary if the teller prefaces it with: "I just made this all up, so don't believe it." It's always "this totally happened to a friend of mine's aunt and uncle..." or "in these woods, I heard this happened." And you can't lock the door at a camp site.

In other words, this idea that it needs to be possibly true, that it may have happened, is what myth is all about. After all, most kids suspect Santa Clause is not really real once they turn three or four, but maybe he is... and maybe is enough for the magic to work, the doubt brings the magic. It's that pretending to believe in him that gets the presents without us having to thank mom and dad, which is awkward.

Washington could not tell a lie... and he says he met
a Nordic alien in the woods at Valley Forge
I'm into that 'maybe' aspect.  I live for it, and I revile 'scientific' pseudo-skeptics who take it on themselves to debunk, to make sure it's etched in stone in front of City Hall that there are no ghosts, no Santa, no God. If there's none of these things, what do they care? Would they go to Disney World and make sure the kids know all the pirates and monsters are animatronic mannequins? Would they carry signs "Santa isn't real!" Would they make sure everyone at the Louvre knows their precious Rodin sculpture is just a giant hunk of stone?

Don't worry, we'll keep fogging the line between the real, the potentially real, and the maybe. It's all we ever had. If we just remain open to every possibility we widen the band of our station until all is revealed as it really is -- potential energy manifestation, expression, rotation, revolution, collapse, and super Nova, and then back around again. And there will always be someone telling someone else about it, on a cuneiform tablet, over and over, until we can't be sure if if it really happened or not, and when we're able to live in that potential, to exist inside Schrödinger's box with the cat, we'll know where kittens come from at long damn last.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Sunbeams and Airships

(haven't posted on here for awhile so I'm cross-posting an old piece on Aurora and demons I wrote for the C-Section a dozen years ago... enjoy!)

An interesting episode of TV's 'UFO Hunters' described the trouble and 'blocking' Ufologists received at the hands of Aurora, Texas residents when trying to exhume an alleged 100+ year old little Martian body from the local cemetery. The researchers even detected radio active metal under the ground by the grave, which was allegedly removed in the night through some tubing (?) by some agency or local weirdo, so that the next day the detectors detected nothing. All this intrigue made me think of Lovecraft stories like "The Shadow over Innsmouth," wherein the few non-sea monster-hybrid-townsfolk are tight lipped and standoffish to curious visitors, lest they find themselves washed up against the docks the next morning, apparently drowned, their lungs filled with seaweed.

So what non-Lovecraftian elder god's threat reason could the Aurora townsfolk's have for refusing the Ufologists? Is it that the locals are afraid there's some truth to the legend, that hellfire will rain down on the desecrators for their blundering scientific disrespect? Where does disrespect end and legit quest for understanding begin? It's a bit like those old 'tests' to prove witchcraft, like throwing the alleged witch in the lake and if she sank and died, she was innocent. The ufologists want to prove 'the truth' to themselves over all, and to help write a new history of tomorrow with physical evidence. Meanwhile, the evidence is already in and overwhelming if you're willing to accept it, to make the connections. What good is one more smoking gun or man going to do? What's wrong with the smoking gun of Dr. Leir's alien implants? What more do you want?

Another analogy on hand is a recent short film I saw recently on TCM, wherein a journalist is sent to cover a magic act, and ordered to get photos explaining how each trick is done. It doesn't occur to him or his editor that they'd be destroying the magician's livelihood. Who cares? It's the old western compulsion to cut everything open and see how it works, robbing every last corner of the world of its foreboding mystery.

So what does it take to make you/us switch out paradigm to accommodate the truth of extra-terrestrial visitors? Or to let somethings be a mystery? Or to heal the wound between science and supernatural? To stop trying to do the math, to see the ancient astronaut writing on the wall, and stop waiting around for 'how the trick is done'? Imagine the average layman being told that finally, no the earth is not flat like we thought, does he instantly demand evidence? What good would lectures on magnetic fields and revolution matter to an illiterate 17th century servant?

Another last example of the importance of mystery is the spiritualist's use of props and intentional fakery--projections, crystal balls, plastic skulls, etc.--to create real magic, the rift where genuine strangeness may seep through. Or at any rate, its sometimes easier to hear the ugly truth if it comes from Tarot cards and not a 'worried' friend. I'm always using the analogy of a dog trying to understand physics by chewing up a math book. Not only can't the dog understand it that way, but in chewing it up destroys the book that might have illuminated others.

I support the Aurora choice to let their demon stay buried, in other words, rather than let the dogs chew up the math book. And as far as Ufology goes, I understand the need for it, and I feel indebted to researchers and cutting edge thinkers on the subject... but at a certain point each seeker needs to stop searching for more evidence and ask him or herself on an individual basis: how much is enough? What do YOU believe? And in the end, do you really need everyone else to believe it first? Are you afraid to pick a truth and make the jump, to just answer your own multiple choice rather than spying on all your neighbor's papers? In the end, the universe is subjective and, as science gets closer and closer to this realization, science itself begins to disintegrate, so it quickly backs up, like a polar bear on a melting ice floe.

Similarly, the more ufologists bicker over their own hypotheses, the more they  sound like regular bullshit scientists... the ufologist becomes like Uncle Tom in the ghetto of para-science, trying vainly to impress the mainstream by being rigorous and empirical rather than intuitive. But alas, this is one butterfly that can't be pinned to any board, for in examining it clearly one must first through away the pin, the board, the jar, the net, and even one's own two eyes... transcend space and time through meditation, lack of sleep, entheogens, madness, only then can you can get a horrifying (third eye) glimpse of it - the terrible void around which all the spiderweb illusions are spun as bedeviled protection and the only thing that can possibly float us past the mandibles of the Other is love and complete surrender.

How do we know when we have achieved this complete surrender, trust, and universal love? My final metaphor of the evening involves camping in the jungle and waking up in the middle of the night in your tent to find a giant tiger on top of you, licking your cheek. If your knee-jerk automatic response is to scream in terror and try to push it off yourself (who would blame you!?), you will be ripped to shreds, but! If your first waking knee-jerk response is to rub it behind the ears and go "aww pretty kitty" you will gain a fuzzy ally. The tiger is merely responding to your energy. This is something you can't 'fake' - it takes surrender. You might say yeah but what if it still attacks? There's nothing wrong with fighting back, just fight back with love in your heart, respect for this beautiful worthy opponent.

Can you go do the same when moving in your astral body past the demonic gatekeepers of the eternal moment? It's hate and fear that make us dense enough to be eaten. Not even the hungriest of tigers can eat a sunbeam. And that, my friend, is what you are.