Altered States, Shamanism, and the Joy of Psychonautics

Altered States, Shamanism, and the Joy of Psychonautics

Few among men cross over to the other shore;
the multitudes who remain run to and fro on this shore.
-the Buddha (Dhammapada, canto VI:85)

Throughout human history, our instinctual drive for spiritual truth has often driven
members of our species to the painful edge of rational knowledge and sensation. We have always been compelled to directly discover and face the bogeyman hiding off in the trees, or the great force who lifts the sun out of the darkness every morning. The record of our spiritual yearnings is as old as the record of human civilization- man, as Aleister Crowley said, is "a spiritual animal." Since as far back as we can tell, there have always been those who have journeyed to the pale of known things and found that netherworld wherein forms change into their opposites and our very characters seem to be reflected back at us in inanimate objects.

We have chanted, drummed, prayed, flagellated, spun, smoked, tripped, fasted, meditated, and pounded ourselves throughout our known existence, at all places, for just one shred of light to make its way from that ethereal paradise into the mundanity of our everyday lives. We have always sought altered states of consciousness, self-induced or not, drug-inspired or not, in order to get to that place where we might encounter the truly sacred, where we might encounter what the Hebrews call kadosh; the awful otherness of God.

In our modern, scientistic, technocratic paradigm, long-steeped in Protestantism
and capitalism, the pursuit of altered states of consciousness in order to achieve spiritual union or rapture is generally frowned upon. There is a long-standing taboo against ingesting naturally-occurring, psychoactive substances which, I believe, stems from the history of 'civilized' people trying to distance themselves from the 'uncivilized' of the world. Smoking a pipe or ingesting an entheogenic mushroom, especially for religious or spiritual reasons, smacks of primitivism; there is no place for that in the synagogue, the mosque, the church, anymore than in the statehouse, the capitol, the schoolroom.

However, the objective sought in fasting, holding 'all night vigils' as the fathers of Eastern Orthodoxy and Islam did, in praying in a desert for forty days, or prolonged chanting and drumming, is all the same; that of the elevation or temporary disintegration of the conscious, logical mind, or ego. Why attempt this? Because, as is phenomenologically available to every person, when we push ourselves to the fringe of 'normal' consciousness, and maybe past that frontier, a vast and terrifying, awe-inspiring world of real Gods and Devils, of real reality, real life and real death, is experienced in a so-real way. The dream state is similar to this, but its chaotic and generally baffled nature is due to the lack of conscious intention. Experiencing a state of non-regular consciousness deliberately brought upon oneself, with a stated purpose, is far more powerful than normal dreaming, although dreaming can actually be, just like every second of one's life is, an incredibly powerful place to do spiritual work.

The endeavor of this paper is to explore the use of altered states of consciousness,
in many of their various forms, for psychological healing and spiritual work, what we
have always called "initiation" or "salvation," in some form. I want to also explore the office or role of 'shaman,' in indigenous cultures such as the Amazon basin or the highlands of Siberia, and then in a modern context, to try to see if the responsibilities and journey of the shaman might be realizable within our modern, exhausted paradox. I will try to present a few simple ideas about how this could manifest in our cities and suburbs, in our bedrooms, at the supermarket, at the nightly serving gig.

It is my knowledge that, underneath, or in-between everything, "all . . . existence
is pure joy; that all the sorrows are but as shadows; they pass and are done; but there is that which remains (Liber al vel Legis, II.9)." It is "that which remains" which we want to extricate, or rescue, from the passing shadows and phantoms of this earthly kingdom. Once the 'other world' is glimpsed, once its breeze is felt on one's skin, once one soars through its skies, and sees how much more painfully real it is than the earth, it is very difficult to ignore and not long to return to. It is an alchemical pursuit; to free spirit from the "loathsome lust" and cold confines of matter. And it appears that the shaman, in addition to the western Magician, eastern Yogi, or any other brand of mystic, happens to be somewhat of a professional in this field of mind surfing, or 'psychonautics.'

In The Invisible Landscape, Dennis and Terence Mckenna write that "the vocation
of shaman is found in nearly all archaic cultures, from Australian aborigines to the Jivaro Indians of central Ecuador and Peru to the Yakut tribes of Siberia (p. 9)." A certain kind of power is held by the shaman, a power seldom understood to us moderns. He is able to access planes of awareness, levels of consciousness, or other dimensions than the rest of the tribe. He is able to see the spirits of the dead, or those that have "wandered off" from their bodies, as in coma or possession. He is sought by the members of the tribe as a source of wisdom beyond their scope, and often to divine the future, or the inner, unseen turmoil and dis-eases of individuals. It is this power which demands of a shaman. He must be 'a sick man who has been healed,' one who has seen the 'other side,' 'born again.'

According to anthropologist Michael Harner, the main defining characteristic of a shaman is that he or she is someone "who enters an altered state of consciousness . . .usually induced by monotonous drumming or other percussion sound, in order to make
journeys for a variety of purposes in what are technically called the Lower and Upper Worlds . . . to interact consciously with certain guardian powers or spirits there (p. 3)."

The shaman is usually a character on the outskirts of the village, as well as his society or culture. He is a silent presence, yet more powerful than the chief or king, wielding a power which all must obey. Often, a shaman has some sort of predisposition to mania and/or trance states, an almost anti-social focus on the unseen. He sometimes undergoes a serious sickness or horrific accident, barely escaping death, and after beating the scythe is thought to be imbued with supernatural powers or insight. A future shaman might be born deformed, or with some sort of taxing physical issue, which might set him apart to the tribe as 'special' or 'different,' much like the "village idiot," "fool," or "jester" of the European middle ages.

The shaman's over-arching purpose and field of influence include nothing less than the spiritual evolution of his tribe. He has made himself identity-less, an empty
vessel which has become a conduit for the "crazy wisdom (Schmidt)" of the otherworld,
the spirits, or 'the collective unconscious.' As one heretic explained, "unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 18:3)." The shaman is a psychopomp who maintains the spiritual equilibrium of his people, through ritual, healings, divination, and prophesy, using altered states of consciousness to bring what we call divine Wisdom down into three-dimensional space/time.

The anthropology of shamanism a vastly important key in the study of the shaman. From the infinite varieties of the role in the world's cultures, from the Hebrews
to the Tamang of Nepal, the Lakota Sioux to the ayahuasqueros of the Amazon basin, all reflect each other in many remarkable ways, from the minutiae of ritual elements; to methods of entering and maintaining trance states, to their place and function in society, and so on. These subjects can be explored in many interesting books- the best of all, even though dated in its outlook, might be The Golden Bough by James Frazer. However, our purpose is to explore the dynamics of the shaman's use of altered states of consciousness in order to achieve certain ends in this consciousness.

First things first, we need to define "consciousness." Consciousness, basically, is
thought. It is made of thought- the chitta or 'mind stuff' of the Hindus, or pure
information. Each of us, through our nervous systems, and really at base in our DNA,
have access to a particular band of this spectrum. We can think of the spectrum itself as 'god' or 'the source,' for now. Our species, naturally, has evolved and is always evolving to be availed of a particular channel, or frequency, in that spectrum, much as the color yellow is a particular frequency of the electro-magnetic spectrum. Each of us, due to biological and neurological constitution, with some variance but not much, participate in a kind of consensus reality, or realization of consciousness, which is basically homogenous. We call this "ordinary," "waking" reality.

This "waking" reality can be seen to have a huge variety of influences- from eating a gigantic meal, to falling in love, or climbing a 14,000 foot peak, or losing a loved one. It can also be tampered with mechanically, chemically. A certain amount of alcohol can bring exalted inspiration and artistic genius, that of marijuana allows for increased sensory receptivity and a certain lightness, the ability to derive creative images and ideas, motifs and systems from experience with delightful ease. A dash of cocaine can send one's internal chariots into the flames of adventurism, scrambling up trees and through books and ideas with an unquenchable zeal. Five to ten hits of LSD seemingly allows your nervous system to reach out and actually touch the world, and to be presented with incredibly beautiful, incredibly present and real, multicolored matrices of light and impossible patterns, the ability to be made aware of all of one's true faults and blocks, as well as one's true strengths and purpose. There are countless others. I only spoke of these
as a means of distinguishing the shaman's use of entheogenic substances from those of the rest of us.

The extensively-documented use of psychotropic, or entheogenic substances
amongst shamans, as well the history of this phenomenon, are the focus of several classic books. Among them are Robert Graves' Food for Centaurs, Gordon Wasson's Soma:
Divine Mushroom of Immortality, Mircea Eliade's Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of
Ecstasy, and Dennis and Terence Mckenna's The Invisible Landscape. There is ample
evidence that, for instance, the inspiration for the Vedic civilization and Hinduism was the amanita muscaria mushroom, spoken of as "soma" by the Rig-Veda. Speaking of this collection of second-millennia Indian scripture, Wasson states that "the whole corpus of hymns, and the Avesta [Zoroastrianism of Persia] as well, must be re-read in the light of the discovery that a divine mushroom was in the center of these religions, was the focus of these poets (Wasson, 68)." The use of ayahuasca and psilocybin by Amazon basin and other indigenous American shamans is "widespread and occurs in every region of the globe where the plants occur (Mckenna, p. 15)" Amongst the ancient Hebrews, the priests were known to wear elaborate hats which closely resembled the amanita muscaria. The record of the use of these substances, from the ingestion of ergot (the fungus being the chief ingredient of LSD), two thousand years ago on the sixth day at the mystery schools of Eulysis, to the peyote sacrament of the Native American Church, is a rich and intriguing account. It would behoove us well to explore these frontiers, as the proud pioneers of the home of the brave and the land of the free that we are.

For now we will move onto the main objection of this paper, which is to explore
altered states, specifically in their efficacy towards spiritual wisdom, or gnosis.
Much attention is paid to the supposedly daring or dangerous use of psychedelic or
entheogenic drugs in modern culture, and in what could specifically be called 'alternative spirituality.' However, as aforementioned, there have always existed groups, from "primitive" to "highly civilized," who used these substances in order to attain to certain states. The altered states were a means to an end, and that end is, in short, to do spiritual work in rarer dimensions of consciousness. This work has been highly developed and brought into extremely complex, scientific structure by many cultures in history, such as Raja-Yoga in Hinduism, Ceremonial Magic in Europe, and as Shamanism amongst indigenous peoples.

We know that there are three basic brain states, or frequencies; beta, alpha, and
delta. These are electro-magnetic wave frequencies which can be mapped by an
electroencephelograph (EEG). The beta state is normal waking consciousness, the one we drive around, go to school, and wake up in. Its frequency is anywhere above 12 Hz per second. The alpha state represents the state usually associated with daydreaming, sleep dreaming, trance states, and so on. It is characterized by high activity in the visual cortex during an idle state. Its frequency is between 8 and 12 Hz per second. The third state, delta, consists of frequencies under 3 Hz, and is present in stages three and four of deep sleep, dreamless sleep, non-REM sleep.
It appears that the middle state, alpha, is particularly conducive to doing work of
an imaginative, creative, or spiritual nature. There is a certain power in this state; the mind creates what it wants, reality seems to bend into strange and impossible forms, and we come face to face with the images and emotions arising from the unconscious. One can attain to this state anytime one wishes to. Common means are prolonged chanting, drumming, or any kind of rote activity which one can 'lose oneself' in. I used to mow lawns every week and could easily get into this state when I was doing that- the body still operating properly and with precision, the mind in a fantastic netherworld. There is ample evidence that certain ascetic practices such as fasting and abstaining from sleep, or standing on one leg for a long time, bring about the alpha state as well.

The recent interest in "lucid dreaming," one of the more popular in the new age
bazaar of ideas erupting into mainstream consciousness these days, necessitates this brain state. By simply using one's own imagination, and through consistent practice in prolonged concentration and holding thought-forms in the mind, it is possible to place oneself in a psychodrama, which can be guided or not, and can turn into a gate through which one can pass through the doors of imagination, and into a truly different world- a world obviously not merely of one's own imagination. Carl Jung referred to this as "active imagination," and insisted upon its importance in working with the psyche.

Having introduced my ideas of the nature of consciousness, and the simple mechanics and potentialities of the brain using the alpha state, to say nothing of "drugs,"
as well as a note on shamanism and the function of the shaman in society, I wish to speak briefly of two spiritual traditions which correspond interestingly to shamanism. The focus on 'altered states' continues.

Ceremonial magic could be called the yoga or shamanism of the West. It developed into a high peak during the seventeenth century in western Europe, with an obvious and considerable widespread rise of Rosicrucianism, re-interest in alchemy, and
in the dealings with angels, demons, and other praeter-human entities. It undoubtedly had a characteristically Christian flavor. Many of the 'adepts' of this tradition, from Cornelius Agrippa to Eliphas Levi, Charles Stansfeld Jones to Dion Fortune, considered themselves first and foremost to be Christians, and secondarily magicians. Even "the wickedest man in the world," the Great Beast 666 known as Aleister Crowley, quotes the Bible in his mammoth corpus of writings with more authority, understanding, passion, and frequency than any "occult" authority I have read.

The object of ceremonial magic, much like shamanism to the shaman and yoga to the yogi, is to seek and acquire knowledge, wisdom, or gnosis from these other planes,
entities, and/or brain states. Whether they are projections of broken-off pieces of the psyche, or they are actual independent beings existing on other planes, is immaterial to the practitioner. Although its a fascinating question, I think it can be more of a stumbling block than anything. These are the kind of metaphysical staggerings which the Buddha admonished his followers to disregard. The truth is, we have absolutely no good way to describe these phenomena, and when we start trying to cram them into our logical little idea-boxes, we run the risk of disfiguring them. There must always remain room in our conception of reality for the inescapable mystery.

But, the alpha state is necessary for doing magic. More than any ritual, tool, or
means of invocation, the alpha state is the lynchpin of doing magical work. In his Magick in Theory and Practice, Crowley wrote that The whole secret may be summarised in these four words: "Enflame thyself in praying." The mind must be exalted until it loses consciousness of self. The Magician must be carried blindly by a force which,
though in him and of him, is by no means that which he in his normal state of consciousness calls I. Just as the poet, the lover, the artist, is carried out of himself in a creative frenzy, so must it be for the magician (p. 129).

Ceremonial magic is cultivating within oneself this state, and performing meditative practices and psycho-dramatic rituals, much in the same way that a Catholic priest performs rituals for his congregation. Instead of relying upon the supposed saintliness or divine inspiration of a priest, though, the magician initiates within herself the journey to the pale of normal consciousness, in order to increasingly know herself, to heal herself, and to know more about the universe around and within her. This is why witches, magicians, alchemists, seers, and mystics have always been burned alive at the stake: they provide an example which, if caught on to by a critical mass of the society, might ensure the dissolution of that culture's need for an organized, dogmatized religion, and most importantly; its attendant priest classes. The great psychotherapist and occultist Israel Regardie provided the following explanation of magic in his The Middle Pillar: Every technique of Magic is intended in various ways to widen the field of vision of the conscious ego to the deeper, more spiritual aspects of the divine nature- which, in reality, is his true or higher Self . . . [enabling] man to become an engine capable of harnessing and directing the enormous power that lies within. A multitude of basic principles are utilized to this end. Adoration, which is essential to attaining a sense of unity with Godhead, concentration, development of will and use of it to accomplish a given
purpose, achievement of self-awareness, and the ability to breathe properly [are the outcome of even basic magical practices] (p. v).

The means by which one, when practicing formal, ceremonial magic, might attain to a desired altered state is through the manipulations of his surroundings. He creates of
his sacred space an almost laboratory-like environment, wherein every aspect of the space is aimed towards the evocation of certain feelings and mental states. For instance, if one were to desire a better understanding of communication and speaking, of finding and nurturing one's own inner voice and allowing that voice to be heard it should be, or perhaps of mediating conflict and understanding the dynamics of intrapersonal communication, one might consider the following. There are god-forms, god-names, incenses, stones, colors, numbers, planets, symbols, shapes, metals, drugs, scriptures, and the like which correspond with the addressing of such problems. Mercury, Hermes, Hanuman, Odin and Thoth relate to communication and speaking in some way.

According to The Table of Correspondents (Crowley), the correspondent stone is opal,
the plant moly, the perfume storax, the color orange, etc. Using these details, the
magician would affect his ritual space accordingly, the idea being that all of these affects, and the more and dramatic the better, will have an impact on his unconscious which will bring about the desired change in the psychological constitution. Evocation is the process of bringing a piece or complex of one's mind out into the open- perhaps even materializing in incense smoke or as blue light hovering in front of one. The idea is nothing different than performing surgery on the psyche. There is an unhealthy trait, memory, or hateful grudge of some kind which one wants to get rid of, and so one uses magic to evoke the "demon" (archaic terminology) in order to fully see it for what it is, and finally banish it for good. Of course, chanting, drumming, circumambulation, and the like have their place in ceremonial magic as well, and are quite common means of bringing about an altered state; especially when working with a group.

Magic is a system of applied psychotherapy, and can be done individually or in a
group. All of the ritual elements listed above are a means of bringing about an altered state of consciousness wherein the block between conscious and unconscious mind is temporarily removed; much as is necessary in hypnosis or psychotherapy.
We can see even from this terribly brief perusal of the subject that ceremonial
magic is very similar to shamanism. In both, the practitioner must enter into an "exalted" state, "enflamed," in order to seek and gain conversation of the disparate intelligences existent in his psyche (or in the universe at large). These practices cannot be accomplished without entering into this altered state. All of the tools, weapons, paraphernalia, utterances and details are secondary to the swoon.

Another science of psychonautics, which developed in a very different part of the
world from ceremonial magic, issuing from a very different kind of culture, is that of Yoga. Meaning "to yoke" or "to bring into union" in Sanskrit, Yoga is an art and science which was first admitted to paper and set down into concrete structure by as early as the eighth century AD, with the Yoga aphorisms of Patanjali. It has many different schools or branches, all of them being the freeing of the spirit in man from the chokehold of body and matter.

In its more available and popular form in the west, yoga is most likely thought of
as a series of bodily exercises consisting of hold the body in cantankerous, pretzel-like positions for extended periods of time. There is a school of yoga, the most basic, called Hatha-Yoga, which consists of stretching the muscles, massaging the organs, and gaining physical strength, flexibility, and health. Hatha-Yoga also consists of learning to breathe, sleep, sit, stand, and eat properly, in a way which fosters and maximizes the health, awareness, and efficiency of the body. However, there are many branches of yoga. Of the ones higher on the metaphysical tree, the most rarely sought and most potentially rewarding would be Raja-Yoga. Raja-Yoga consists mainly in working with the mind to attain states of consciousness whereby one becomes aware of the true nature of his mind, and importantly, how to 'stand behind the mind' and witness its leaps and bounds, its weaknesses and potential. The Raja-Yogi trains his mind through concentration, meditation, withdrawal from the objects of sensory perception, etc, in order to push his mind out of its imposing restrictions, allowing it to 'expand out from the brain', as it were.

Swami Vivekananda, the great patron saint of yoga who delivered so many talks and
wrote so many books to a western audience at the time when World War I was ravaging
the western hemisphere, speaking of the aim of Raja-yoga while perhaps unknowingly
addressing the shaman as well in a particular statement, in his Raja-Yoga said that "the aim of all training should be to make the man grow. The man who influences, who throws his magic, as it were, upon his fellow beings, is a dynamo of power, and when that man is ready, he can do anything and everything he likes (p. 239)." This is exemplified by Christ's retreat to the desert to meditate for forty days. It is this type of mental training which, in the case of Raja-yoga, reaches a highly scientific form.

The itinerant differences between shamanism on one hand, and Yoga and ceremonial magic on the other, is that the former has usually always come from societies without a written language, and hence no written record, whereas the latter have come
from highly literate and record-keeping cultures; India and Europe. Ceremonial magic
and yoga, due to the development of book printing and its increasingly efficient means of transmitting information, had the opportunity to refine themselves and change in an academic way, whereas classical shamanism hasn't been afforded this exposure to widespread evolution involving a large (comparatively) segment of the population. It can be seen in these three instances, however, that altered states are not only an intrinsic part of deep, life-and-world-changing spiritual work, but they are a means to that end, the vessel by which one goes out into the black ocean of the collective unconscious.

A friend of mine named John described shamanism as the "granddaddy of all religions," and I think there might be some truth to that. He said that "a shaman is
someone who walks between the worlds," who is an "intermediary" for the tribe. I
question whether the role of shaman is available to us today, in our concrete and neon mazes.

Keeping in mind all we have covered, I think we can come up with some idea of how to seek and converse with one's own shaman-self, if you will. It is obvious that there
is a particular brain state which allows one to use one's own imagination towards, well, a lot of different ends. But our purpose is to understand how these states allow us to affect change in our lives, using supposedly "mysterious" ends. Its all very simple; the experiences which occur as a result are gigantic. Let's say there is an aspect of ourselves we wish to heal, a wound that was caused long ago and we haven't the courage to face it, to go back into that space. Often, shitty things that have happened to us, even if we don't think about them consciously very often, can have disastrous affects on our lives.

Whether it was early childhood or a year ago, we all accumulate baggage which proves to be quite heavy after some time. We've all heard about "venting" and "letting of some steam," either through playing football, the drums, shooting off a gun in the desert, punching a wall, or boring one's coworkers to tears. This is healthy, but it doesn't do anything to get rid of the simmering pot or the water. One has to get at the root, like with a weed.

A way of 'getting to the root' is to first of all find a space where one can be
undisturbed for a little while, and arrange it any way one likes; it should be a temporary representation of your inner temple, if you will; an extension of that just as much as for some a truck might be an extension of their character. Sit down, lie down, stand, it doesn't matter. Just be comfortable and aware. Close your eyes, and just let your head soar for a while. Observe the flow of thoughts as you would observe a river from the bank. Then start to rein in the monkeys, as it were, and focus the mind. It could be on a mental image, shape, idea, word, it doesn't matter. Just try to get all of yourself focused on one thing, and keep doing it for a little while.

Then, slowly enter into the imaginary mental space you decided upon beforehand as correct for confronting this person or issue face to face. A statement of intent for doing the meditation before starting it is pretty important. Just as a scientist wouldn't just wander into a lab and start carelessly and indiscriminately playing around with the equipment laying around, we shouldn't either when entering deep mental spaces.

Anyhow, once one is sufficiently in a trance-like state, 'lucid,' is when to initiate the confrontation with the inner dirt one is trying to bring to up into some light and face it and digest it, finally. The nuances of the way that a meditation like this might be set up and executed are legion. That's up to the individual. I am just trying to explain the general mechanisms involved, as I understand them.

Other means of initiating the closer connection to mind and matter is to go into this state and, again, if one is sufficiently 'daydreaming' and lucid, then just ask out loud or inwardly to see what is inside of you, what voices and roles exist in there, the collection of which you think to be a singular entity, "I." Personally, I find myself in a state where I am not in a forest or a room necessarily, but in a more or less deep-spacefeeling, weightless, hallucination chamber, best I can describe it. In this state, I can basically ask questions, and images fly through the brain which seem to relay, later on in a normal state, wisdom on the question.
There are elaborate dvd-cd-cd-rom software, virtual reality, and probably video
games to do this stuff with, and you can buy them. But its pretty simple to explore
yourself. Hell, when I was a little boy, when I was going to sleep, I would imagine that I was looking down at myself from the ceiling. I would fill in every detail as it would appear from that perspective. After a short time keeping to this, the imagination becomes dream, and there one is, floating at the ceiling, bumping into the walls.

The size of this work provides merely a theoretical skeleton, at best, of the use of
altered states by shamans and other mystics; it is really just a jumping board into the subject, and there are an infinite amount of resources on it. The important thing, to always keep in mind when exploring these realities, is to be able to keep one's feet on terra firma, as Dion Fortune said, and not to "confuse the planes" as Crowley said. Whether one ingests five dried grams of psilocybin, a "heroic dose" according to Terence Mckenna, or one is simply exploring "imaginative" mind-worlds on the bedroom floor which are neither 'out there' or 'in here,' one must keep one's wits, and sense of humor, about oneself. I've seen a lot of 19 year old wannabe gurus in my time, and there's nothing more embarrassing than that.

Sources Used

Shamanism. Compiled by Nicholson, Shirley. (Wheaton, IL, Quest: 1990).
Regardie, Israel. The Middle Pillar. (Saint Paul, Llewellyn: 1978).
Levi, Eliphas. Transcendental Magic. (York Beach, Weiser: 2001).
Crowley, Aleister. Magic in Theory and Practice. (Edison, NJ, Castle: 1991).
Crowley, Aleister. 777 and Other Qabalistic Writings. (York Beach, Weiser: 1999).
Crowley, Aleister. Liber al vel Legis. (
Vivekananda, Swami. Raja-Yoga. (New York, Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center: 1973).
Wasson, Gordon. Soma: Divine Mushroom of Immortality. (Harcourt Brace Javonavich).
McKenna, Dennis & Terence. The Invisible Landscape. (New York, HarperCollins:
1993).
Dhammapada: Wisdom of the Buddha. trans. by Kaviratma, Harischandra. (Pasadena,
Theosophical UP: 2001).

Good Morning!

Hello!
And what is your name?
It’s great to see a smile on your face!
Can I make you a beverage?
You just woke up?
Would you like an omelette?
I want to know all about you!
Would you like to go to the museum?
It’s raining, so we might take in some culture.
I would like to have sex with you!
You want some tea?
I can turn on the bath for you, get the water going.
Let’s traipse all over town today!
Maybe tonight we could eat king crab on the beach,
with a couple bottles of a nice Sauvignon Blanc?
Whatever you want!
I want you!
Are you a Gemini?
I knew it!
Here, have a Marlboro red.
What’s that?
Yes, I’m always this excited!
We can do whatever you want.
I just like basking in the glow of your occasional smile.
Hmm?
You want some space?
Ok.


You still there?

On This Balmy Night

on this balmy night,
amongst the chirping of cicadas and
careful ashing of in-bed cigarettes,
the thick memory of eucalyptus and
the absence of cell phones ringing,
into the deepest and richest waters I am sure,
you are meant, here in this life, to wade.
but a fear of life's more powerful gifts
keeps you in an emotional twilight,
some shadow of longing distrusted.
you surely will sometime scoop the deep rich black silt
at the base of your riverbed,
but opt instead for the oily illusion on the surface.
i am not the one to show you these things.
i just see them.
your infinitely enjoyable body tells stories
there are still no clever plotlines,
or easily definable heroes or villains for.
you are part exhausted canvas, and part empty pallete.
you hover uncomfortably in-between.
almost broke out, but still so solidly held in.
won't you tell me your story?
i wait in the darkness, in the ambivalence of your embrace,
on this balmy night.

Sometimes the Good Lord Lets the Sun Shine Down Upon You Again

Fall came, and found me sleeping in a park close to the bar I cooked at. I would come to work every night with my sleeping mat and all my stuff on my back, saying that it was a yoga mat and I had just gotten done with class. I would fall asleep under the lights above the spot next to the storage shed I had deemed most safe from being spotted by cops, yuppies walking their dogs, and the occasional, random, homicidal maniac. I would wake around six every morning, with the next twelve hours to spend walking around the city, at the library reading every newspaper in stock, at the coffeeshop writing my book, at friend's houses, anywhere, until work that night. I could at least get all the food I needed at work, and surreptitiously stock up on various foodstuffs while there.

I finally found a room in a punk house on the northeast side which cost $250 a month, an amount I was able to pay as I had gotten paid as soon as it opened up. I moved in there, to great delight. It was nice to sleep inside, especially as it was getting quite cold and wet in the Pacific Northwest, being October. It was me and a couple of other kids that lived there, all potheads with no jobs, just sitting around watching old horror movies and listening to NPR all day.

In a couple weeks after I was living there, the house was foreclosed on, and its ownership was returned to a bank. We got an eviction which said we had to be out in two weeks, or the Sheriff would remove us. By this time, my friend Jesse, also homeless, had started staying there, in the living room. My other two official roommates moved out, but Jesse and I stayed and squatted the place for as long as the coast was clear, which turned out to be longer than we had been told, as the gears of beurocracy turn slowly with such matters.

It was December first that we had to be out, and I remember laying on my stained mattress in front of the TV, watching Barney on public television, now out of a job, smoking pot with Jesse. We didn't know what we were going to do. We had to be out by nine in the morning, and had nowhere to go, and not enough money to get anything between us but a shared, fleabitten hotel room downtown with crackwhores and other bums for neighbors. Despair hung heavily in the air, despite our wanton attempts at wafting it out of the room.

There was a knock at our door. We both flinched, figuring it was the cops, and that we were going to get into some kind of trouble. Army crawling over to the window, I crept up onto the couch to see who was parked outside. No squad cars. I rose and went to the front door, peeking out of the peephole. It was our next door neighbor, Noel. I opened the door, relieved.

"What's up, Noel?" I said, as Jesse emerged from the darkened kitchen, where the back door was.

"Nothing much. I was wondering if you guys had any grass? I'm all out and I'm freaking over my day at work today," she sighed.

"Of course we do! Come on in," I said, waiving her into the living room.

She plopped down on the couch. Noel was an old hand from the Portland crust/metal scene. We were both kind of in awe of her. She had run away from home and hopped trains at the age of like fifteen, and had tattoos all over her face, crummy dreadlocks, and a very warm presence. I had hung out with her only a couple times, but I didn't know her as well as Jesse did, and he barely knew her. I walked over to the other couch and plucked a mangy bag of nuggets off of the coffee table. Searching around for my pipe and finally locating it, I jammed several pieces in.

"Thank you so much, guys. I am so stressed out I could pull the bumper off of my car with my bare hands."

"No problem. You know you're always welcome here."

She lit the pipe and pulled in a hefty load of black smoke, allowing it to just waft out of her mouth for several seconds of its own volition, then collapsing in a coughing fit. Recovered, she passed me the pipe, grinning. I took a pull off of it, passing it to Jesse.

"So when are you guys out of here?" she coughed. She knew our predicament. Her and her roommate had been scheming to steal the dryer in the basement for several days, before the cops came.

"Actually, we gotta be out tomorrow morning. 9 am. And, we don't know what we're gonna do. Jesse might have a closet he can sleep in in St. John's, but I don't know where I'm gonna go at all. Probably go back to Fremont Park for a little while."

"Well, there's an old RV parked in my backyard that we're not using right now. Nick was staying in there last month but I kicked him out because he was always up in my shit, never respecting my space, always wanting to sleep in my room and shit. Pissed me off."

Jesse and I crept closer, shivering, our breath hanging in front of our heads momentarily in the freezing, trashed, Victorian living room.

"Are you serious? You wouldn't mind? We could pay you money and everything," Jesse said, rubbing his hands together and brandishing the pipe to his lips.

"Yeah, actually. I would like someone to be living in it, and I could definitely use a little more cash right now, with Tieren's school supplies and everything." Tieren was her eight year old son, who I had watched a couple times while she was out at the bar. He was uncannily bright, once correcting me that "a spider is NOT a bug, you dummy! Its an ARACHNID!"

I looked at Jesse, and he nodded approvingly. "Well, let's have a look-see," I said, setting the pipe down on the coffee table, stuffing the bag in my pocket.

We walked next door, to her backyard, to see our new prospective home for the next month. It was a 1970s Ford RV with a bed above the driver's and passenger seats, a sink, cabinets, another space in the back for someone else to sleep, rugs, and a power hookup that ran into her house. Turning on the lights, and surveilling the place, we looked at each other, thinking "holy shit...we've got a place to stay in december! Hell yes!"

"We'll take it," I said, scoping the place out, beaming.

"Ok, well, you guys can decide what you want to pay me, but I would like $100 total for the month. I don't know what's going to happen with it in January. There is a chance you could stay, but I think Dumpy's coming back from Minnesota and needs a place to stay then. Its not that warm or anything, but the power should support a small space heater, and maybe a radio or something. But you can have it."

We stood there silently, looking around, and told her we would give her $200 in the morning, after cashing our checks.

It was a cold December, sharing that RV with Jesse. But the Lord was with us, and there was much late night laughter, bent over a Scrabble board, with the all-night classical station on the clock radio, and the vague idea that something out there was watching out for us.

Why, or what, we have yet to figure out.

Assasinations and the Creepy, Bizarre, Evil, Tall People

I had killed someone. I was on a contract job of some sort for some shady group of people I barely knew much about, just needed the cash. I didn't even know the guy I was killing, just a time and a place I was supposed to be. He barely finished his sentence before I took this odd device which, once a button was pressed, shot out a nine-inch long thin metal spike. I put it through his neck. He looked incredibly surprised, and cursed and twisted on the ground while bleeding to death. I took off running, but somehow the cops saw, and began to chase me. Trenchcoat billowing in the wind behind me, i ran through a nondescript rainy European capital, hopping over trashcans and cars, over walls, until they got in their car. The tried repeatedly to run me over, but I supposed it's impossible to actually die in a dream. After failing at squashing me, I hopped onto a nearby taxi, perched atop, clutching th lighted sign. The cops crashed their car over and over into the car I was on top of, still to no avail. My adrenaline was pumping out of my ears. I literally flew off of the car, over a wall with concertina wire, into the parking lot of a giant american style grocery store. I ditched the trenchcoat and tried my best to just calmly walk in.

There was a little dopey cafe area in the back, with hot dogs, nachos, and soda, with yellow plastic booths. All my friends were there, drinking soda, hanging out, jokin.' I sat down next Kar and we began chatting, and I poured her a Coca Cola Classic from a two liter bottle. We then decided it would be a great idea to go get a room at a hotel across town which was extremely luxurious. I remember that the price of the room was $2,000 a night, which I gladly paid, as I had just made a small fortune from the slaying in the rainy street.

Next thing I know, its the next day, and we are walking down a busy street ensconced by gaslamps and grey stone buildings. I hold her hand as we walk, busily chatting about something or another. This man approaches me, in his fifties, plump, wearing an odd, almost RENN FAIREish out fit, and points to my chest, saying "I like it" and nodding approvingly. I look down and I am wearing a grey sweatshirt with the text from Liber Oz printed on it. I look back at him and say "Yes, thank you! 93, brother!" and he looks at me confusedly and walks away. As soon as we turn to continue walking, we are surrounded by extremely tall people, with very long, cartoonish, very creepy faces. The are upwards of twelve feet tall, leering over us, silent. I am leading Kar through this increasingly creepy and bizarre crowd, and turn around and say "are we in some kind of crazy Alice in Wonderland dimension?" Mirroring my thoughts, she nods, wide-eyed, aghast. I am very scared...there is something deeply, repulsively evil about these tall people in casual business attire, stopping over us, leering.

Then my best friend Skyped me, jolting me from the scene.

Happy trails!

Under the Ponderous and Watchful Eye of the Universe

A sweet envelope encases me, a new, fond perspective on all of the universe's gifts. I will be no longer bothered to oscillate between the good and the bad, the triumphs and the tragedies. I will no longer see the world surrounding me as a perpetual series of games and events with which to grapple and struggle with. I will no longer thrive on self-satisfaction, or temporary boons to my bloated ego, or compliments, affections, and delighted caressing.

I think, this morning, I figured out how to stand above the duality of pain versus pleasure, of happy versus sad, of intimacy versus lonesomeness, of companionship versus abandonment. I am beginning to know that I am here to accept the gifts the universe hands me, and to learn from the fleeting agonies, with the sole purpose of prospering as a rejoicing being who was shuttled back into this time/space continuum once again.

For "all existence is pure joy, the sorrows are but as shadows, but there is that which remains." Existence itself, and the way I now know I must interact with it, is not dependent upon whether or not my infantile self sings its praise, but that it is I myself who is dependent upon whether or not I sing its praise and rejoice in it. I have been handed the gift of life, and I can freak out over it and whether or not I like it, or I can lie down in the light and grin.

I am laying down in the light and grinning, although I accept any and all things that may come. I only wish to be a vessel which is as open as possible for the life that the Lord may pour into it. I do not wish for attachments, or security, not health, wealth, family, or friends, but to allow for that golden spark which comes and peeks out every once in a while, that "bluebird in my heart," to continue thriving and growing and chirping ever louder.

A moment of bliss goes a long way. An unexpected epiphany establishes empires in the soul. No one can give you that realization which throws you back into a state of total awareness...you earn it. My problem was always looking for it in other people.

I have not resentment towards anyone. Even my biggest enemies have my blessing now. I do not want to tread this earth with antagonisms, or with debasing attachments to others.

Into the arms of the Savior within may I instead tread, ever towards that whose name I do not yet know, but whose face I have once again glimpsed, and have found myself rejoicing.

It is within, not without. What a nice fucking thing to finally grasp.

For all we have here is rejoicing.

And, brothers and sisters of the light, who are my fellow beams of that primordial light, may we indeed rejoice.

By the way, I'm making margaritas this weekend at Hyundae beach. Come and enjoy yourselves.

Happy trails, and all the Love...

Sometimes the Good Lord Lets the Sun Shine Down Upon You Again, If Only Enough to Know He's There

Fall came, and found me sleeping in a park close to the bar I cooked at. I would come to work every night with my sleeping mat and all my stuff on my back, saying that it was a yoga mat and I had just gotten done with class. I would fall asleep under the lights above the spot next to the storage shed I had deemed most safe from being spotted by cops, yuppies walking their dogs, and the occasional, random, homicidal maniac. I would wake around six every morning, with the next twelve hours to spend walking around the city, at the library reading every newspaper in stock, at the coffeeshop writing my book, at friend's houses, anywhere, until work that night. I could at least get all the food I needed at work, and surreptitiously stock up on various foodstuffs while there.

I finally found a room in a punk house on the northeast side which cost $250 a month, an amount I was able to pay as I had gotten paid as soon as it opened up. I moved in there, to great delight. It was nice to sleep inside, especially as it was getting quite cold and wet in the Pacific Northwest, being October. It was me and a couple of other kids that lived there, all potheads with no jobs, just sitting around watching old horror movies and listening to NPR all day.

In a couple weeks after I was living there, the house was foreclosed on, and its ownership was returned to a bank. We got an eviction which said we had to be out in two weeks, or the Sheriff would remove us. By this time, my friend Jesse, also homeless, had started staying there, in the living room. My other two official roommates moved out, but Jesse and I stayed and squatted the place for as long as the coast was clear, which turned out to be longer than we had been told, as the gears of beurocracy turn slowly with such matters.

It was December first that we had to be out, and I remember laying on my stained mattress in front of the TV, watching Barney on public television, now out of a job, smoking pot with Jesse. We didn't know what we were going to do. We had to be out by nine in the morning, and had nowhere to go, and not enough money to get anything between us but a shared, fleabitten hotel room downtown with crackwhores and other bums for neighbors. Despair hung heavily in the air, despite our wanton attempts at wafting it out of the room.

There was a knock at our door. We both flinched, figuring it was the cops, and that we were going to get into some kind of trouble. Army crawling over to the window, I crept up onto the couch to see who was parked outside. No squad cars. I rose and went to the front door, peeking out of the peephole. It was our next door neighbor, Noel. Whew. I opened the door, relieved. "What's going on, Noel?" I said, as Jesse emerged from the darkened kitchen, where the back door was. "Nothing much. I was wondering if you guys had any grass? I'm all out and I'm freaking over my day at work today," she sighed. "Of course we do! Come on in," I said, waiving her into the living room.

She plopped down on the couch. Noel was an old hand from the Portland crust/metal scene. We were both kind of in awe of her. She had run away from home and hopped trains at the age of like fifteen, and had tattoos all over her face, crummy dreadlocks, and a very warm presence. I had hung out with her only a couple times, but I didn't know her as well as Jesse did, and he barely knew her. I walked over to the other couch and plucked a mangy bag of nuggets off of the coffee table. Searching around for my pipe and finally locating it, I jammed several pieces in.

"Thank you so much, guys. I am so stressed out I could pull the bumper off of my car with my bare hands."

"No problem. You know you're always welcome here."

She lit the pipe and pulled in a hefty load of black smoke, allowing it to just waft out of her mouth for several seconds of its own volition, then collapsing in a coughing fit. Recovered, she passed me the pipe, grinning. I took a pull off of it, passing it to Jesse.

"So when are you guys out of here?" she coughed. She knew our predicament. Her and her roommate had been scheming to steal the dryer in the basement for several days, before the cops came.

"Actually, we gotta be out tomorrow morning. 9 am. And, we don't know what we're gonna do. Jesse might have a closet he can sleep in in St. John's, but I don't know where I'm gonna go at all. Probably go back to Fremont Park for a little while."

"Well, there's an old RV parked in my backyard that we're not using right now. Nick was staying in there last month but I kicked him out because he was always up in my shit, never respecting my space, always wanting to sleep in my room and shit. Pissed me off."

Jesse and I crept closer, shivering, our breath hanging in front of our heads momentarily in the freezing, trashed, Victorian living room.

"Are you serious? You wouldn't mind? We could pay you money and everything," Jesse said, rubbing his hands together and brandishing the pipe to his lips.

"Yeah, actually. I would like someone to be living in it, and I could definitely use a little more cash right now, with Tieren's school supplies and everything." Tieren was her eight year old son, who I had watched a couple times while she was out at the bar. He was uncannily bright, once correcting me that "a spider is NOT a bug, you dummy! Its an ARACHNID!"

I looked at Jesse, and he nodded approvingly. "Well, let's have a look-see," I said, setting the pipe down on the coffee table, stuffing the bag in my pocket.

We walked next door, to her backyard, to see our new prospective home for the next month. It was a 1970s Ford RV with a bed above the driver's and passenger seats, a sink, cabinets, another space in the back for someone else to sleep, rugs, and a power hookup that ran into her house. Turning on the lights, and surveilling the place, we looked at each other, thinking "holy shit...we've got a place to stay in december! Hell yes!"

"We'll take it," I said, scoping the place out, beaming.

"Ok, well, you guys can decide what you want to pay me, but I would like $100 total for the month. I don't know what's going to happen with it in January. There is a chance you could stay, but I think Dumpy's coming back from Minnesota and needs a place to stay then. Its not that warm or anything, but the power should support a small space heater, and maybe a radio or something. But you can have it."

We stood there silently, looking around, and told her we would give her $200 in the morning, after cashing our checks.

It was a cold December, sharing that RV with Jesse. But the Lord was with us, and there was much late night laughter, bent over a Scrabble board, with the all-night classical station on the clock radio, and the vague idea that something out there was watching out for us.

Why, or what, we have yet to figure out.

Puttin' the SMACK DOWN

When I began teaching here in Busan, I arrived at the school straight from the airport, to observe two 45 minute classes, as I was to start with my own classes the next day. Of course, my head was not the clearest, after having been up for about 40 hours, traveling. I had told them I had no experience, but it didn't seem to matter. The next day I showed up, freshly shaved, in shirt and tie, nervous as all hell. I was handed about 12 books for the six classes of roughly ten kids each, told which pages to start on in each of them, and shuffled off to the first classroom.

Of course, it's not that difficult to explain the difference between a list of present and past tense verbs to anyone, unless they talk constantly in a foreign language, point and laugh at you, and sometimes jump up out of their seats and tag each other. It could be incredibly exasperating at times. There were a couple days when I was walking to class thinking "what did you get yourself into THIS time, you dolt!" I don't want to make it sound like they were all bad days. But there were enough of them to make it really hard to enjoy. The first day in class with your new students is crucial- it decides how they perceive you and if they are going to take you seriously or not. And I was far too lax that first day. I mean, I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I had those students for the past seven weeks.

But yesterday, I got ALL NEW students, 70 of them in total, among six classes. This was an opportunity to change the way things worked. I walked into the first one, with a big goofy grin on my face and said "HELLOOO!!! HOW ARE YOUUUUU? MY NAME IS ANDYTEACHER!!!" They were very excited to see who their new teacher was and laughed and screamed and whispered to each other. I walked up to the front of the class and asked them all how they were doing. I told them I was very happy to be their teacher and looked forward to getting to know them. Then, I turned around to the dry erase board, and made a big 1, and a big 2 underneath it. I said "there are two rules in my class, ok?" They all nodded expectantly. I said "number one is that you don't speak korean in my class, unless you are helping one another, OK?" I wrote it next to the big 1 on the board. They all understood. Then, I said "number two is that you raise your hand when you want to ask a question, or answer a question that I ask of you, OK?" They all nodded. I thought "we'll see how this works.

They were the most orderly, well-behaved, and quiet classes I have ever taught. I taught more in those six classes than I ever had in any class in the past seven weeks. It was a joy. I realized how much more I would enjoy my work now. I had put the SMACK DOWN on the first day-- the crucial ingredient.

Our new story book we read twice a week in class is taken from Disney's Atlantis, a movie which I had actually rented and watched with my best friend several years ago in Kansas City, when we were REEAAALLLYY high. So high, that the choice, which took upwards of an hour, was between "The Land Before Time," "The Jungle Book," and "Duck Tales: the Movie." We sat wide-eyed, compelled at the story. I think I even cried at one point. So, I knew the story and really liked it. Anyhow, the point is that yesterday I successfully explained this concept to 70 korean children:

that millennia ago, a highly advanced island civilization existed, until it was threatened by a giant tidal wave, coming to swallow it up. A glowing, blue crystal which was floating in the sky over the island-city sent down beams of blue light, which raised the queen up into the crystal, while her baby daughter, the princess, called for her mother. then, the crystal shined more blue light down over the island, forming a giant "protective bubble" around Atlantis, shielding it from the tidal wave which seconds later crashed against it. the island was saved, however it sunk deep into the ocean, a lost city hidden from everyone and everything else.

yeah, sounds like a crackpot scenario, right? well imagine trying to explain it to a bunch of kids who don't know 80% of the words involved. through drawing pictures, gesticulating wildly, and making myself hoarse, I got the kids to wrap their little heads around this story. I actually felt quite proud of myself.

Today, we're learning about musical instruments. All of my classes now are in the same grade, so I only have one lesson plan and three books to work with all day, teaching the same material six times in a row. Its pretty nice. I can show up in class far more prepared than I was before, when I had four different grades.

So, things are going much better now. Now I just have to learn all their names.

Happy trails!

Some Updates On the Brewing Tension On the Korean Peninsula

It is going to be a tense weekend/next week here on the Korean peninsula. North Korea has recently announced it's plans to launch "a satellite for peaceful purposes between 4-8 April," according to a two days old BBC News article. I have found no apparent explanation for the purpose of the launch on the part of the North Koreans. However, it appears that "the United States, Japan and South Korea say the North will in fact use the launch to test its Taepodong-2 missile." From a bout of cursory research, it appears that the Taepodong-2 is capable of traveling a maximum of 2,300 miles (falling short of Anchorage by several hundred miles) and delivering a payload of around 500 kg. It is unsure whether or not the Taepodong could support an alleged North Korean nuclear warhead, as so little is know about the North Korean nuclear program. A US spokesman said that "two destroyers were sent out from the South Korean port of Busan," but that they were headed into an area near North Korea for monitering purposes only. In fact, US Defense Secretary Robert Gates said that the US would only shoot down the missile or become involved if "we had an aberrant missile, one that looked like it was headed for Hawaii." Japan has stated that they will shoot it down if it appears that any piece of what is launched by Pyongyang will fall anywhere near their territory. South Korean President Lee Myung-bak said that it was "not in anyone's interest to test-fire a missile, or whatever it is." However, he also said "What I do oppose is to militarily respond to these kind of actions."

It seems like the only real danger is in another country stepping in and shooting down the launch, depending on what it is. I have not looked through the relevant international laws yet, but this could be called an act of aggression enough to validate an even greater response by Pyongyang, and that's where things could get pretty hairy.

We'll see what happens.

The Stuff That Happens to Me in My Dreams is WAY Cooler Than in Waking Life

It was my first night at a new job as a server at a very fancy restaurant/hotel in the southwest. I was living at the hotel also. There were three showers and two bathtubs in my bathroom. Decked out in a tuxedo, I worked my dinner shift with
relative ease, even though it was first night. I am pretty sure that the dream occured in the eighties. I had one cantankerous table of three men, two white one black, who were argumentative businessmen. they drank old man drinks and
bitched about their steaks the whole time. After I got off, I strolled back through the humongous old hotel to my room. From a room across the atrium from mine, I heard an old woman scream. I ran over to her room, and the door was open. I walked in
and an old black woman was screaming, pointing towards the door of her closet, which was shaking violently, on its own! She was deathly afraid but I was very excited. I thought to myself "I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE THIS TYPE OF SHIT!" Then, I pointed at the door, and in my most intense commanding voice, said "GET OUT. YOU ARE NOT WANTED HERE! GET OUT!." It stopped shaking.

I tried to calm her down, and got her out of her room. She sat down in the atrium and I remembered that Angela Lansbury, from "Murder, She Wrote" lived next door to me. I jogged over and knocked on her door and she opened it, exasperated, saying "Oh what do you want this time, Andy?! I'm watching a move!" (It was Titanic). I told her about the ghost and she said "I'll see about it tomorrow," and waved me away, slamming her door. Then, a very stern man walked towards me and the old woman, and began to explain about the ghost. He said that a man had lived in that room "centuries before," who had a baby formula business. It became known that he was putting chemicals in the baby formula which would give children an odd deformity, being born without nipples, which had become very common in the town back then. An angry mob stormed his place, and he was strangled in his own closet.

I walked the old black woman to the front desk to assist her in getting a new room, and then went back to my room, tossed my shoes in the corner, and laid down to go to sleep.

That's when I woke up.

An Interesting Dream

Super intense dream this morning.

I worked at the school I work at but it was in a bank. One day this old arab guy came in with explosives packed all over his chest, mumbling. I saw him first and screamed to my coworkers and we all ran to the back of the building but he just kept walking towards us, then he blew up. Then, i am outside the building asking my coworkers what happened. No one is hurt. I tell them i have to ask them because, as i said in the dream, "My life is like a dream, and I never really know what happens."

They tell me that everyone is ok and the man with the explosives died. Then, it is the evening and I am back at the school I work at, and they have invited some american buddhist guru guy to come speak to comfort us or something. I am cynical at first, but then i become filled with emotion and sadness and grief over the failure and darkness in my own life, and begin sobbing. He quits talking, gets out of his lotus position on his pedestal, and comes down and puts his hand on my shoulder. He is full of truth and i am very intensely moved by his words and presence. I love him like a best friend, or a god. Our eyes communicate volumes in seconds. He seems like a much older me, and I know this deeply. He gives me a book that he wrote which is very very long. He also gives me some way of getting a hold of him that I can't recall and tells me we can talk "anytime." I am crying. I thank him and stumble out of the building. It is by the beach. On my way to the subway, the book starts falling apart in my hands, and by the time i get to the platform, it is in tatters. Then, a young woman comes up to me and gives me a note saying she would like to go out on a date. I study her ass as she gets on the subway. On the subway, I run into one of my students, who is with his dad. We chat casually about the finest restaurants in Busan, which I somehow have an encyclopedic, detailed understanding of.

Then, i am woken by korean pop music on my alarm clock.

Happy Trails!

When Life Hands Me Lemons, I Chuck Them at Unsuspecting Passersby

Yesterday I spent my time lounging around my apartment and watching political documentaries. I made myself breakfast, I made myself lunch, and I made myself dinner. The whole day, to myself. It was nice. Around midnight, I hopped in the shower and wasted so much water I should be in jail for it. But hey, if you had a full length mirror in front of you in your shower, you'd just stand there, lathering forever too, wouldn't you?

I sauntered out into the balmy, tropical, foul-smelling Busan night with several gin and tonic's worth of pep in my step, playing air guitar to Mastodon and dodging the ubiquitous food vendors, young men on motorcycles, and piles of fruit all around. I stopped into the phone booth and called my dad, and had another always appreciated conversation with him. I love my dad. I wish everyone had parents as great as mine.

Continuing on to the bar where I spend several nights a week, Kino-Eye, the sure place of meeting up with new acquaintances, I gleefully romped through the rain and thought of all the people I miss. Like Keith from Taos, whose stories of his time in Vietnam and lack of teeth, his instantly recognizable cackle and stories of bedding Deborah Harry in a fabled 1970's Brooklyn brought me back to a warm friendship and an amazing person I wish I could still be downing MGDs and chasing coyotes with. Sometimes I think that my best memories are my worst enemies, because when you leave behind outstanding people and experiences throughout your roaming, you inevitably come up sadder than if you had simply not tried to have all that awesome shit in your past.

I arrived at Kino-Eye and it was packed to the brim. Or, as Michael Steele would say, "off the hook." I spotted my new friend Muran, a Turk, across the bar and went over and sat next to him. He was unusually enthusiastic this evening, despite having just had his girlfriend walk out on him. I tried to console him and tell him that it always happens that way, that love never came without loss. I didn't want him to feel bad...I had known too viscerally how much love, when it goes away, hurts in the past year. He shrieked in laughter and yelled in my ear, like you do when in an impossibly loud room, "BITCHES, MAN! BITCHES! I WOULDN'T WANT HER BACK IF SHE HAD THE SUN FOR A PET AND SPOKE PURE GOLD IN HER SLEEP! I GOT ALL I NEED RIGHT HERE! AND SHE'S NOWHERE TO BE FOUND!" I clapped him on the back and congratulated him for his quick, if obviously dishonest, recovery. He bought me a drink and we shot around the usual bull, after which I dismissed myself and went over to the other side of the bar, where a beautiful Korean woman was sitting. I figured I might explore his logic.

After ordering a rum and coke and sparking up a Marlboro, I leaned over and asked her if she was enjoying herself this evening. Either she didn't speak English, or I bore a striking resemblance to Gallagher at that moment, because she erupted in rancid laughter and continued talking with her friend next to her. "Alright," I thought. "That's enough of that."

I sat nursing my cocktail and bruised ego for several minutes. The place was really hopping. I looked around the packed room of wannabe mooks and nubile young bodies and tried to understand how it was that such an impossibly charming, perfectly eligible suitor like myself could spend every night alone. I mean, come on, the tormented, existential, loner man thing only works like five days a week, right? On the other two you want something real, soft, warm, alive! Someone to share grapefruit, omellettes and coffee with in the morning!

At that moment, a drop-dead gorgeous Alicia Silverstone lookalike came stumbling over to me, pushing her hair out of her reddened, glassy, inebriated eyes. She sat right down on my lap. She was muttering unintelligably and I was waiting for some man to come over and punch me in the face. I put my hands on her shoulders and said "you look like a lot of fun, darling, but I think you need a cab home." She could barely sit properly. She kept putting her hands to her mouth as if expecting a volcanic eruption to occur from it any second. I asked her if I could help her in any way, like get home or at least down to the stream of waiting cabs in the street, and she just continued mumbling and flailing about, crushing my genitals with whatever was in her back pockets.

She abruptly stood up and staggered over to a bouncer like person standing by the door, and began grinding against him and doing this comical reprisal of what would have been a very sexy dance if she wasn't well beyond her quota of liquor for the evening. Then, to my simultaneous excitement and horror, she began trying to wrestle herself out of her shirt, without success, and promptly vomited all over herself, and the built young korean man she was trying to make an impression on. She continued puking, all over the floor, the bar, people standing nearby, chairs, and the stairs to her side we would all walk down on our individual ways out that night. Her hair was covered in barf and she was laughing hysterically. And, I mean it, this woman was beautiful. It was like seeing a bunny rabbit ran over by a hummer.

But I didn't feel anything.

I paid my tab, put my jacket on, and, sidestepping her gastrointesinal refuse on my way out, walked home, alone, again.

I awoke thinking of where she went last night, and if I would ever see her again.

HUMANITY FIRST br Aleister Crowley

I was just reminded of this document, published in 1917 in the periodical The International, by Aleister Crowley. It is called "Humanity First, and was written within the insane cultural milieu that was Europe engulfed in World War I. It is one of the most important documents to me that exist in the world. It is one of, if not the most, prescient pieces of writing to have ever found paper. And, I think the ideas it presents are the most important for us to understand and rally around in these deeply troubled times. Please enjoy, and ingest!

" All advanced thinkers, all men who realize the divine plan, desire and intend the solidarity of humanity; and the patriot in the narrow and infuriated sense of that word is a traitor to the true interests of man. It may be necessary, now and then, to defend one's own section of mankind from aggression; but even this should always be done with the mental reservation: "May this war be the nurse of a more solid peace; may this argument lead to a better understanding; may this division lead to a higher union."

"A man's worse enemies are those of his own household," and the worst foes of any nation are its petty patriots. "Patriotism is the last resort of a scoundrel."

The deliberate antagonizing of nations is the foulest of crimes. It is the Press of the warring nations that, by inflaming the passions of the ignorant, has set Europe by the ears. Had all men been educated and travelled, they would not have listened to those harpy-shrieks. Now the mischief is done, and it is for us to repair it as we may. This must be our motto, "Humanity first."

All persons who generalize about nations: "Germans are all murderers" --"Frenchmen are all adulterers" --"Englishmen are all snobs" --"Russians are all drunkards" --and so on, must be silenced. All persons who cling to petty interests and revenges must be silenced. We must refuse to listen to any man who does not realize that civilization itself is at stake, that even now Europe may be so weakened that it may fall a prey to the forces of atavism, that war may be followed by bankruptcy, revolution, and famine, and that even within our own lifetime the Tower of the Ages may be fallen into unrecognizable ruins.

We must refuse to listen to any man who has not resolutely put away from him all limited interests, all national passion, who cannot look upon wounded humanity with the broad, clear gaze, passionless and yet compassionate, of the surgeon, or who is not single-minded in his determination to save the life at whatever cost of mutilation to any particular limb.

We must listen most to the German who understands that England is a great and progressive and enlightened nation, whose welfare is necessary to the health of Europe; and to the Frenchman who sees in Germany his own best friend, the model of science, organization, and foresight, which alone can build up the fallen temple anew. We must listen to the Englishman who is willing to acquiesce in the Freedom of the Seas; and to the Russian who acknowledges that it is time to put a term to the tyranny of arms and the menace of intrigue.

The yelping Press of every country, always keen to gather pennies from the passions of the unthinking and unknowing multitude, will call every such man a traitor.

So be it. Let the lower interest be betrayed to the higher, the particular benefit of any given country to the Commonwealth of the whole world. Let us no more consider men, but man. Let us remember who came from heaven and was made flesh among the Jews, not to lead his own people to victory, not to accept that partial dominion of the earth, but to bring light and truth to all mankind.

Had the Saviour of Humanity deigned to accept the patriotic mission of driving out the Romans, he would have united his nation, but man would not have been redeemed. Therefore, his people called him traitor, and betrayed him to their own oppressors.

Let those who are willing, as He was, to accept the opprobrium, and, if need be, the Cross, come forward; let them bear the Oriflamme of the Sun for their banner, for that the Sun shineth alike upon all the nations of the earth; and let them ever flash in the forefront of their battle this one redeeming thought: "Humanity First."

Happy trails!

Finally, I'm Not Hacking Up Green Slime

I was sick for about a week and a half, up until this past weekend. Finally, my cough has subsided. I had a hard time last week, dealing with classrooms full of screaming kids, with no energy and a feverish constitution. It was incredibly hard to sleep because I was so uncomfortable. But now I feel like a million bucks again.

Because of my condition, I mostly stayed in all week, eating miso soup and kim-chi dumplings every night, finishing up the book I am reading, catching up on television shows from the states and watching Alfred Hitchcock movies from a collection I borrowed from a friend. I LOVE Alfred Hitchcock. I just recently watched "The Lady Vanishes" and was floored as usual. No one else ever made movies like him.

I went out to eat last night with a friend, to a place I had never been before, an "American Style Chinese Food" restaurant. It was delicious. I haven't been going out to eat very much because I never know how to order anything, and I never know what is in anything I am ordering. I mean, I am fairly adventurous but it gets old not knowing what you are going to be eating and paying for all the time. There are some places where I know what to get but I don't want to eat there all the time, and I'm not going to eat at Outback Steakhouse or TGIFridays, or any of the other American chains here. I would just feel so cheesy. Plus I save much more money eating at home. But the Chinese food last night was great. We ordered stuff like Kung Pao and Cashew chicken, saddled with monstrous bottles of Tsingtao. It was a nice sunday night out.

I am kind of enjoying being reclusive lately. Especially after having spent the majority of the past several years being fairly involved in always being around a crew of friends and partying and always being out somewhere. Nowadays, I am perfectly fine staying home and reading every night, seeing no one else for twelve hours until work the next day. The past several years were so chaotic and filled to the brim with experiences and different people and crazy situations that it is very nice to just sit and listen to all Celtic radio online and doing hatha yoga on the floor. Plus, I am living by myself for the first time since 2004, which is SOOO NICE. I am basking in it.

The weather is really great now. Its usually about 65 degrees and usually sunny. It still smells like sewage and rotting eggs half the time when walking the streets, but I'm getting used to that. On Friday night I was about to cross a street and was standing over a grate, and this powerful torrent of rotten egg and sewage smelling air rushed upwards, enveloping me, and I almost puked and fell over. It even made my soul feel dirty.

Well, its time to put my pants on and get ready for work. I've got a three day weekend next weekend and I think I'm going to go out to the country and visit some temples, maybe stay at one or two of them. I think they let you stay if you promise to wash the dishes for a couple days or whatever. It sounds like a good idea right now.

Happy Trails!

A New Age Army

I recently ran across a fascinating little tidbit relating the "New Age" movement to the US Army. Its called the First Earth Battalion, and its an Army program which aspires to make soldiers into "warrior monks." Here's the story.

In 1979, Jim Channon, a Liuetenant Colonel who had done service in Vietnam, proposed to the Army, specifically Army Intelligence, a set of ideas he had developed about training the soldier of the future. He called this proposed new Army unit the First Earth Battalion. It is unknown whether or not the Army actually created an official Battalion of this name, but it is certain that they tested and adopted many of his ideas.

He had spent the seventies tooling around the states, mostly the west coast, to the places which are credited with having been the forerunners of the New Age movement in America, such as the Esalen Institute at Big Sur. It was this extensive research which Channon had gathered that eventually was distilled, through his perhaps unrealistic yet reaching mind, and put into form in the First Earth Battalion Manual.

The manual is called "The Journal of Non-Lethal Combat: First Earth Battalion," and is a tour de force explaining all of the methodologies and ideals of the FEB. Among them are yoga, tai-chi, macrobiotic diet, primal scream therapy, meditation, chakra work, animal tracking, etc. The ideals behind the FEB are that we need to move past war as a way of solving our problems, and that if soldiers focused on helping others, such as planting gardens, or building houses and schools, then the earth could ascend to a higher consciousness. From the manual:

"Chinese monks were often attacked by robbers. They developed a new fighting system based on using the force of the attacker against him. Likewise the soldiers of the First Earth will learn martial arts with the same ethical basis. No Earth soldier shall be denied the kingdom of heaven because he or she is used as an instrument of indiscriminate war. The conscience will be developed together with the ability to neutralize the opponent."

Also:

"Just like many systems… when a nation or government becomes old, it is so full of its ideas [that] it has no room for new ones. Well, there are New Age ideas with great power for the first body that decides to systematically use them. THE EARTH BATTALION WILL HEAR THEM ALL."

Channon wrote that soldiers should do things such as, when entering a hostile or enemy territory, carry a lamb in and set it at their feet, and, glassy eyed, hug them, while a speaker on their pack is playing indigenous music and words of peace. If the enemy is hostile still, then the music should change to disconcerting sounds such as out-of-key acid rock, animals being slaughtered, or some such thing (interestingly enough, the FBI blasted the Branch Davidians 24 hour with tapes of rabbits being slaughtered, jets engines, monks chanting, and the Nancy Sinatra song "These Boots Are Made for Walking." The military also uses these tactics against prisoners in Iraq, Afghanistan, Gitmo, and god knows where else.) Of course, according to the manual, if the enemy continues to be hostile, you shoot them in the head. The idea, though, is to use psychological force, instead of brute force, and to prepare one's mind to be capable of high psychological powers.

One has to read the manual to get the full effect. It outlines basically every aspect of how to become a "warrior monk," and how to effectively change the world after doing so. As nutty as all of this sounds, it sure would be better than the current paradigm in the US military, which, sadly, is still DIVIDE-LOOT-RAPE-TORTURE-CONQUER.

One of the more interesting things that came out of the FEB that the US Army actually spent years testing, and is apparently still testing, is the power of psychic powers to inflict harm on an enemy. At Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Army Intelligence had a room with a goat, and men would sit and stare at it, trying to "hone in" and stop the goat's heart, psychically. Allegedly, this happened at least once in the eighties, although the guy who dropped the goat suffered "sympathetic damage" and had heart problems as a result. A book was written by UK documentarian and author Jon Ronson, called "The Men Who Stare at Goats," about this phenomenon. Actually, it is being made into a feature film right now with George Clooney, Jeff Bridges, Kevin Spacey, and Ewen McGregor.

More on New Age high wierdness to come!

Happy Trails!

Poem by Charles Bukowski

I just had to post this piece by Charles Bukowski, this poem. It's my favorite poem in the whole world. And I don't want to say any stupid thing about it. Just, please enjoy.

Happy Trails!

Conflicting Views on Ideal Political Theory, part 2

In part one of this post, I confessed that although I consider, most of the time, Anarchism to be the ideal political theory we have yet thought up, there are times when I think that some new, computerized, "New Age" Fascism might be eerily necessary and, sadly, perhaps more appropriate in the current global social climate.

In this post, part 2, I wish to explore Fascism, what its primary ideological facets are, and why I might think it to be a necessary, or inevitable, evil at the present time.

In Part 3 of this post, I will explain why this is so, why all of this one world government, "new world order," global fascism thing might actually be necessary, given our current straits. I am as against the idea of this as anyone else is, and has had my thumb on the pulse of the "new world order," in all of its forms, for many years now, but it is starting to look like it will be necessary...like we asked for it, or enough of us did. And now its happening. I will be examining the ways that political and cultural power is manifesting and conglomerating itself right now, and how various sub-cultures are dealing with it; some aligning themselves to it, some vigorously fighting it, and many blissfully unaware.

First, I need to define what I mean by "Fascism." In common parlance, the term "Fascist" is usually used as a common insult, such as towards someone who tries to control or dominate someone else, which is vaguely correct but distorts the truth. Also, it is usually thought that Fascism and Nazism are coterminous, but this is not the truth either. Nazism was a particularized form of Fascism which realized itself from the years of 1933-1945 in Germany. For these reason, widespread understanding of the term is virtually nonexistent.

A good, clean definition of Fascism is something which has been hard to discern by historians, political theorists, and the social sciences in general. However, there are several key characteristics of Fascism that have been adequately located by several scholars, chief among them Italian semanticist Umberto Eco, and American academic Robert Paxton. According to Eco, Fascism has these key facets:

1) It has an obsession with tradition. The ways of the past are held as being more informed, and more correct, than any kind of progressive ideological, philosophical, or spiritual advancement. The old informs the new, and "as a consequence, there can be no advancement of learning. Truth already has been spelled out once and for all."

2) Modernism is rejected, an obvious development of an obsession with tradition. In other words, to advance on an already present technology is considered insulting to tradition, and those that came before. Cognitive dissonance alert: The Nazis were famously technocratic, and developed many of the technologies which we take for granted today, such as plastics, television, air travel, and propaganda. However, as we said, the Nazis do not fit the perfect mold of Fascism any more than any of its other permutations do. The important point Eco makes is that while extolling the virtues of technological innovation, they primarily worshiped "blood and earth," or blut und boden, and considered removal of humanity's focus from the primeval technology of nature itself as being, basically heretical. In other words, the trees and streams have provided us with all we need; clocks only take us away from our terrestrially-based consciousness.

3) Fascism holds that action exists as an end in and of itself, or "action for action's sake." We do things because we are called to, because we must, because only action can yield life. Any kind of activity which has no kind of utility in space-time, in waking life, is uselessness. So, art, or meditation, or sexual pleasure, or rest itself become obsolete within the Fascist mindset. Only that which has observable, tangible, material results is worthy of doing. As Eco says, according to the Fascist mindset, "thinking is a form of emasculation." We are not to ask why, or to what end, we are doing something; we are simply to do, do, do...to work, work, work.

4) Making distinctions, or comparing and contrasting, are a waste of time, as well as mental energy. This follows from number three. The qualitative, or aesthetic, difference is unimportant and ultimately unreal. It does not matter how one feels, or how one perceives something, or if one feels something different to be true: if it is commonly held that 2+2=5, then 2+2 absolutely equals five.

5) Building on number four, to actively perceive differences between different things is a sign of a mind which can potentially hold diverse ideas about the same thing, and this is not allowed within the Fascist mindset. Diversity is dangerous; the ONE reigns. There is ONE idea, ONE leader, ONE way of looking at things, ONE kind of right, ONE right action at all times. It comes from an obsession with reduction, of reducing the multiplicity of seen and unseen creations to one possible explanation. There are no moral quandaries, or difficult questions; there is just one right answer to every problem.

6) Fascism finds its power in the frustration of a particular class, or ethnicity, or persuasion, of a group of people. Some group has to be pissed off for Fascism to become a reality. Historically, Fascism derived its efficacy from the anger of middle class groups at the lower class under, encroaching upon them, and the upper class above, enjoying fruits which they could only dream of. Fascism is not borne out of contentment, or apathy, or social harmony. One group, or groups, must be pitted against another for Fascism to occur. Interests must be de-harmonized, and unfortunate circumstances within the whole community must be present. Fear is also a very influential factor in the fomenting of the Fascist mindset. The grass must ALWAYS be greener on the other side of the fence, and for seemingly introvertible reasons. You must not be content with what you have. Taking action against your social discomfort is the ailment to inner, unspoken inferiorities.

7) NATIONALISM IS THE ONLY REAL IDENTIFYING FACTOR FOR THE PERSON. Your country, and the acceptable occupants within its borders, are the most trustworthy and real of your brethren. Those whose domicile lies outside those borders are fundamentally different, weird, other, and untrustworthy. This is called xenophobia. If you are Norwegian, then only Norwegians are "real," "good" people. All others are odd, and most likely out to get you.

8) THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CLASS DIVIDE. The wealth of others must horrify, and incense, you. You must be obsessed with the wealth of others, with the more upwardly mobile segments of the population of which you are in some way not a member, and they must be made enemies. It is unacceptable that someone else should make more, or be financially worth more, than you. This is one of the more seemingly socialist or communist aspects of Fascism, except it really just has to do more with old-fashioned jealousy. The wealth of others matters, in this case, in a deeply emotional sense, because in a Fascist culture, material wealth is an omni-powerful yardstick for measuring self worth. The idea of accepting the wealth of others in plain sight of one's own potential squalor is not found in a Fascist worldview. There shall never rightly be rich, or poor, or monk, or tycoon, but only an (ultimately impossible) perpetually self-maintaining middle class.

9) Fascism implies the paradigm that life is struggle, that "there is no struggle for life but, rather, life is lived for struggle." Struggle is not a means to an end, but an end in itself. It is similar to the Social Darwinist view that competition is the rule of nature, and that cooperation can have no place in culture except amongst those whom one considers oneself to be in the same petty struggle as oneself, i.e. a nationalist war. The ideal is eternal struggle, for the sake of struggling.

10) ELITISM AND THE "CONTEMPT FOR THE WEAK." A Fascistic worldview inevitably will see a certain group or other groups as being weaker, or see themselves as being forever alienated from the weak, because there is no perennial equality amongst people within a paradigm which thrives on elitism. Also, as Eco notes, a Fascist leader's, or dictator's, power is not earned but taken by force, so the masses "are so weak as to need and deserve a ruler." The power of those in charge is dependent upon the ostensible weakness of those under their rule.

11) Heroism is gauged by how heroic of a death a person strives towards. Living a heroic life is not really the driving motive in a Fascist worldview; it is dying a heroic death that is important. There is a serious difference between these two. The former advocates life and the realm of the living as being the paramount seat of moral efficacy. The latter worships death, and as Eco writes, "the Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death."

12) Worship of permanent war and heroism are simultaneously paramount, yet entirely difficult to maintain beside one another, so the Fascist transfers his worship of power often enough to the sexual domain. It is this psychological countenance which allows for 'machismo' and a fundamental hatred for women and the feminine, as well as "intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality." It is the emotional, dreamy, sensuous, liminal, and receptive aspects of the feminine which Fascism will always be fundamentally at war with, as it is at war with the external always, so it is the feminine within all that Fascism finds itself psychologically, and sexually, at war with.

13) In Fascism, the individual is nothing, and "the People" are important only qualitatively. In a democracy, "the People" are important in a quantitative sense ("one dollar one vote"), ("one person one voice"), but in a Fascist culture, "the People" only exist as a monolithic phenomenon who are always expected to merely actuate the whims of the Zeitgeist, regardless of internal opposition or diversity of opinion.

14) Fascism relies on what George Orwell called "Newspeak." According to Eco, "all the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning." We see this everyday, in the coinage of civilian causalties as "collateral damage," of the use of force as "terrorism," in corporate media conglomerates calling themselves "fair and balanced." Indeed, "we must be ready to identify other kinds of Newspeak, even if they take the apparently innocent form of a popular talk show."

In Part 3 of this post, we will examine why it is that Fascism seems to be an inevitable, and therefore somehow acceptable, political and cultural form of viability. It is a difficult, and thorny, discussion. And, I must say, by posting these pieces, I am coursing through these ideas for my own clarity. This is far from the pledging of a manifesto, or edified philosophical/spiritual worldview.

I will just leave you with this. At about the same time that we started saying "One Love, One Heart, Let's Get Together and Feel Alright," we started seeing the real machinery of a ONE WORLD GOVERNMENT, or NEW WORLD ORDER, come into place. A curious fact? I think so! An unfounded coincidence? Well, after night after night of reflection, no, I don't think so...

Keep yourself posted!

Happy Trails!

My Goddard Thesis Presentation is Now Online for Your Viewing Pleasure

I just uploaded to Google Video my thesis presentation I did to graduate from Goddard College in February, 2008. It is entitled "Initiation in Light of Religion, Ritual, Mythology, the Tarot, and the Spiritus." It explores the phenomenon of initiation within religion, the occult, mythology, the tarot and yoga. It's fairly sloppy in many parts, but it generally presents the main idea, which is that all true spiritual paths, like rivers, find themselves, sooner or later, dissolved into the ocean of Divine Consciousness. Humankind has always looked to the blackness beyond the stars and wondered the reason for our earthly existence. The variegated spiritual traditions of the globe are and have always been technologies for reaching higher states of consciousness, which peculiarly place us within the direct presence of what we have always called Spirit, or the Absolute, or God. I define initiation here as the absolutely unique and individual process of gradual illumination and inner unfolding of spiritual awareness and expanded consciousness within the human, usually marked by custom, symbolism, ritual, altered states of consciousness, ecstatic or ascetic practice, the ingestion of entheogenic substances, or any other technology available. It is that process which I investigated in my thesis, and that is investigated in this presentation. It would have been much more lucid and orderly if I hadn't been up all night snorting Klonopin and chugging Franzia with a psychotic yet gorgeous stranger the night before. Enjoy!

Happy Trails!

Typical, Hilarious, Supposedly "Anti" Drug Commercial

Besides being extremely hilarious, this supposedly "anti" drug commercial from the eighties is a great example of usual American "war on drug" culture. Its like that D.A.R.E. program we all went through when we were little kids in school, and the police officer would come in the room with a suitcase full of drugs, and show us what they looked like, what the street name was, what they did to you, how much they cost approximately, and whether or not they could likely be found in the surrounding area. Now, if that isn't an advertisement to do drugs, I don't know what is. Couple this irony with the fact that, at this point, approximately 10% of young people are on prescribed psychotropic drugs, mostly Adderoll, which is like really good cocaine which lasts seven times as long, and in pill form, hence, doesn't make your nose bleed. I've had it as an adult, and I can't imagine what it would do to an eight year old body, especially regularly, over a sustained period of time.

Take this video. They tell you that about one third of Americans do cocaine, from every walk of life, and then that wanker says that it feels like a sexual climax "times 100." Then they tell you that laboratory rats would rather have cocaine than food or water. Sounds pretty great, right? Like a mysterious, wonder substance?

What they don't tell you is that it makes you stand around the table or kitchen counter where the bag is for hours, with people you probably can't stand, talking about stupid shit you're supposedly going to do to save the world the next morning, and that once its all gone you have to get more, that you grind your teeth and develop odd, anti-social ticks, that once you fall asleep, you wake up the next morning with a marble-sized booger in your nose, that you will have to sniff for two weeks to keep snot from falling out of your nose, and that your nose will bleed randomly for said time, that it will shrink your penis and suck all of your money out of the bank. But they don't tell you that in the video. They just say how great it is, and then insinuate that it's bad, vaguely, in some kind of wishy-washy, Peter Pan way.

Then they throw you in jail for trying it. Great system.