shamanism

IA CTHULU

Something black in the road, something that wasn’t a tree. Something big and black and ropy, just squatting there, waiting, with ropy arms squirming and reaching. . . It came crawling up the hillside. . . and it was the black thing of my dreams – that black, ropy, slime jelly tree-thing out of the woods. It crawled up and it flowed up on its hoofs and mouths and snaky arms.
Robert Bloch,


Perception, reality and synesthetics

Human consciousness has evolved along survival lines. Our senses exist primarily to warn us of imminent danger, and our brain is primarily wired to process this sensory input in a manner that prioritizes threats. Humor, beauty, sensuality, pleasure and even raw emotion are learned, imprinted on us after birth. They certainly do exist, but they are far outside the “natural” blank slate state we’re born with. They’re all matters of perception.

When we re-wire our brains, whether its through the introduction of entheogenic substances (drugs) or guided self examination (meditation), we radically alter the way in which perceive the universe around us. When we become bogged down in endlessly striving for that which is “real,” we’re simply trying to go back to that emotionless, survivalist form of our newly-born mind. We can’t go back. We can’t kill off our hunger for beauty, wonder and magic. When we force our minds to stop working in the threat assessment mode and similarly force it to rewire itself, we are perceiving reality in a new manner. Sounds may indeed have “tastes” in this new perception of reality because we’ve forced our brain to process the signals in a manner in which they are not traditionally routed.

Venetian Snares and Aphex Twin have already demonstrated this.

I care because you do.


Magick appeals to both authoritarian and anarchist elements: either it’s the anarchist element, with “I am a slave to no demon, devil, god, angel or supernatural being” or it’s the authoritarian element– which takes the previous statement and appends “…but they are slaves to me!”


Muddying the definition of “states rights”: How Ron Paul exploits potheads to advocate for segregation

When did people forget that “states rights” was the battle cry used in the 1950s and 1960s in the fight against integration, the equal rights amendment and being federally prohibited from abusing people based on their skin color?

When did “states rights” change into a byline for slack-jawed advocacy for cannabis legalization?

Maybe they didn’t forget. Maybe they’re exploiting the fact that younger persons of voting age never had to live through any of the battles and bloodshed around civil rights– and instead realize that the way to having th’ gummit stop enforcing labor laws, reproductive freedom laws and anti-discrimination laws is through a bunch of kind-hearted but naive stoners.

The irony of the fight for cannabis legalization through states rights is ironic, considering that cannabis will never be legalized unless it is dealt with on a federal level. The placement of cannabis on Schedule I of the Controlled Substances Act is at the behest of congress. This means that actions that sound as simple as “abolishing the controlled substances act” or “rescheduling cannabis” require the full approval of congress– the president can not do this act alone, nor can the president issue a decree ordering congress to repeal a law. For all of their moping about “restoring the constitution,” paultards seem to be blissfully unaware of the separation of powers– no one branch of the government makes the laws; they are created in concert with all three branches of government, and unless a majority of the 535 members of congress are all progressive-minded enough to support a liberalization of existing drug laws, nothing will happen.

Working around the controlled substances act and reclassifying cannabis as a prescription medicine is the most effective way to achieve partial legalization, and to reduce the social stigma of cannabis– which certainly does still exist in many sectors of society.

The other side of the coin is one that advocates for cannabis legalization seem to overlook: are the 535 members of congress sufficiently conservative enough to support legislation that repeals federal regulations on racial discrimination, child labor, abortion rights, gender discrimination, labor rights and prison terms? My point being, of course, that states will see abortion, homosexuality, unions and race-mixing outlawed and criminalized well before cannabis legalization is ever considered.


Well, you learn something new every day.

And today’s lesson is: Jason Thompkins of Harvest Rain is a hitler fetishist. No, really. You know, an actual “esoteric hitlerist“. There’s no weaseling out of this like people like to do with Death in June or Boyd Rice–he’s not utilizing fascist imagery in a completely unoriginal attempt to shock his audience, he honestly belives that adolph hitler is/was the tenth and final avatar of Vishnu, come to earth to end our current age of the Kali Yuga. Furthermore, that link I posted is him bragging about how he’s hand-translating The Golden Ribbon: Esoteric Hitlerism, which was written by another hitler fetishist, Miguel Serrano.

This makes me feel bad that I spent a grand total of 10 dollars picking up two of Harvest Rain’s releases out of the used CD store. I really don’t want this nazi trash in my house, so watch this space as I post the results of their complete and total ontological destruction.

I will remove their artifacts from the physical world, and, in so doing, stab at their heart in the spiritual world. No pasaran! The date and time has been set: January 23, 2:39 AM EST, when the new moon reaches its time of maximum darkness.

Or, if you’re a nazi piece of shit, I’ll sell you each of these at $100 USD each. I promise to donate that money to your local ARA so they can kick your face in.


Happy Solstice!

Great Falls Aqueduct Dam, June 1999

Great Falls Aqueduct Dam, June 1999

The sun is coming
The dragon flies
His breath will drown
This world with astral fire

The sun is coming


Indulge me.

Oh lord, it’s another post speculating about the nature of existence. Pack up your bowls and bear with me.

Perhaps what we perceive to be “gods” in nature are emergent gestalt entities born of similar, complimentary thoughtforms.

Perhaps “thoughtform” is not an adequate term, inasmuch as other living creatures most likely do not “think” in the same manner as humans– but we mold our perception of their so-called “mental” behavior into forms and mannersims that easily relate to our own experiences. A tulip probably does not have a conscious or subconscious mind, but perhaps it possesses an internal “dialogue” about how it must react to the world around it, possibly as a byproduct of the transmission of its sensory data. Thus, there is some worth to the notion of “inherited memory” that tells plants when to move from a vegetative to flowering state– or that wild animals have instinctual knowledge not to eat particular bugs or plants. Feeling “god” in nature can probably be attributed to the act of experiencing the cacaphony of this unrestrained proto-mental traffic. This is not to say that the gestalt “godform” does not exist, but it is such a primitive conscious force that assigning names, dogmas and ideologies to it is a product of narrow-minded anthropocentricism. “The Forest” as a singular, conscious entity does not have opinions about human morality, finances or arbitrary dietary restrictions– but is instead primarily concerned with its own survival. It does not see the act of burning incense and ringing bells as a signal to confer wealth or luck on the hapless hippie performing these silly incantations. The most any of this sort of action can achieve through any manner of ritual is to make a subtle suggestion to the immediate nodes of the primitive consciousness that surrounds them that they do not wish to be perceived as a threatening entity. This attention can hardly be classified as the same thing as the cartoonish summoning of swirling cosmic vortices typical in Anime or comic books. Oh, sure, the Magicqkican will claim that only they can see these “energies” and that they’re quite real to the initiated– but this deliberate fuzzy thinking is (at best, anyway) a form of self-induced schizophrenia, no different from the gibbering masses at Benny Hinn revivals who swear they can see the holy spirit manifested in front of them.

The whole point of this is that if there are extra-dimensional beings out there, it’s incredibly arrogant to assume they’d take any form that’s in any manner comprehensible or understandable by humans. “It” isn’t even of this physical dimension!

Assuming there is any higher thought-form is taking a big leap, but that big leap involves considering other aspects: namely, this extra-dimensional 10th plane-of-existence being probably doesn’t have anything resembling “manners.” Hell, its “hello” might consist of frying your central nervous system– but “it” most likely doesn’t have any concept of how to hold a seminar, make videos or run a publishing company, which should speak volumes about the type of people who attempt to pass themselves off as human vessels for “alien entities.”

Look, if there is an extra-dimensional consciousness, you wouldn’t need some bum in a sparkly blue leotard to speak for it. It’d speak directly to you. The most you can do is realize that there’s going to be no way to relate your experiences to anyone else.


Stripped

Wintertime wants you to think it has sucked all of the life out of the air. It wants you to think it’s a harsh, unlovable beast that only serves to thin the ranks of the sick and weak. Winter is depressed. Winter has to carry out the unpleasant, unenviable task of stopping life, stopping growth and placing everything into a forced dormancy where a certain percentage of hibernators will not reawaken. It strips the peeling paint from the creaking, tired walls of the forest and primes them to be refinished come spring.

wind that murmured through the leaves now stabs through the whistling wood

wind that murmured through the leaves now howls through the whistling wood

The voice of the forest is silent. The chorus of agitated rustling has broken for a seasonal intermission. Now, naught but the pure, quiet song of the sky fills our waiting ears.