Thursday, November 29, 2012

The Stag

I am not a morning person. I'd much rather rely on my internal clock and awaken peacefully and naturally than to have an alarm blast in my ear. I've tried awakening to music but unfortunately it tends to add a nice atmosphere to my dreams and is not a very effective way to get me out of bed. 

One particular morning in 2004, I stumbled into the kitchen and made my traditional morning coffee, stood there in a stupor until enough had brewed for me to pour a hot cup and proceeded to stumble into my office to boot up my computer.

As I staggered back in toward the kitchen (I told you I'm not a morning person) I glanced out into the backyard. The rays of the rising sun were beginning to filter through the trees and burn off the early morning mist. 

I continued on through the dining room when I did a "double take". I looked back out into the backyard and saw a deer out in the middle of the yard "grazing". I seriously wiped my eyes to make certain I was seeing correctly.

This may not seem odd or unusual to some, but at the time I lived in a busy 1950's subdivision with fenced 1/2 acre lots. There were 17 trees in the backyard teaming with wildlife but, I'd never seen a deer in the neighborhood in the five years I'd lived there. I knew that the area had been overdeveloped and that urban sprawl created a serious issue with local wildlife. Deer populations had surged, likely because its natural predator the coyote had been killed off or pushed further out during development. 

I stared at the deer in a stupor from my dining room picture window and suddenly it looked straight up at me. As I sipped my coffee, we stared at each other and I can't say for how long. I kept thinking "thank you for joining me this morning for coffee". I was so grateful. 

Finally, our gaze broke and the deer continued investigating my yard until suddenly it sprang into action, leaped the fence into my side yard and out into the street. I ran (ok, shuffled) out the front door to the porch and two other neighbors had emerged from their houses to watch it make its way right down the middle of the street, eventually leaping into another backyard.

I had much to reflect on that morning. It seemed like a gift yet awakened me to the blight of these creatures due to our poorly planned, excessive development. I sat down at the computer and did some research.

In Celtic tradition, the Stag can represent strength, virility and the freedom of the woods. It is a powerful ally to have when journeying into the depths of the Other World or in facing a problem which requires particular strength and stamina. It can also represent the cycle of death and rebirth, as it sheds its' antlers in the Springtime.

Within a week, I'd contacted the National Wildlife Federation and created a Backyard Certified Habitat. I also contacted Cornell University and participated for the following three years in their annual bird migration count program.

When I had to sell my house in the "burbs" the next year, I found the certification to be an asset. It stays with the property and not only was the buyer impressed but was all too glad to maintain the status and carry it on including 19 species of birds, squirrels, groundhogs, raccoons, rabbits, garden snakes, butterflies and yes, deer. 

While progress is slow to be made for the environment with hierarchal government agencies, at the grassroots level, it's alive and kicking. Monarch butterfly migration backyard habitats, local wildlife habitats and preservation of indigenous plant life are being created and protected by homeowners and tenants like you and me.

Needless to say, I felt very honored that a Stag joined me for "coffee" that morning and its presence changed my perspective and life.

Click below to find out how easy it is to create your own backyard habitat - then scroll down to this link to get started - NWF’s Certified Wildlife Habitat® program

                 Click this bottom left box of screen to view

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Muscial Interlude: Philip Glass (Tirol Concerto)

They say a picture paints a thousand words, how many words does a combination of notes depict? A galaxy of them perhaps.....listen and enjoy, especially the second movement, music accompanying our friend's escape in the "Truman Show".........maybe a similar type of music will be heard in the not too distant future once more...........

First Movement

Second Movement

Third Movement

Saturday, November 24, 2012

All the World's a Stage

"Ladies and Gents, Boys & Girls, roll up, roll up, come all yee, of curious and brave minds, for we have wondrous places to go"

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"

Everything has its original - and every original has its multiple copies, one is authentic, while the other, or indeed others are of far lesser value.  It seems creation alternates between these two states of  duality, the original and the copy, the self and the shadow, truth and falsity, the everyday world, and that of the imagination - everything except the "Other" as it is in itself  has its opposite, inverse number in the Cosmic fugue of life.

The "Other" which is everything or indeed everyone which is other than itself - is like saw dust on a Carpenter's floor, it is the whole mundus imaginalis of Being and non-Being, in this place one finds all those fragments of creation that were used to create or indeed destroy life, all the thoughts, dreams, fantasies and nightmares of reality exist, not like ghosts, in the realm of the "Other," for just as we need air to breathe every moment, so likewise we couldn't exist for a single moment, even at the most basic level of insects, if this mirror to creation didn't exist (in a sense Actors have always been closest to this realm, as it's their natural home).

The "Other" transcends life and death, for it is everything and nothing, it is the light and the dark, it is matter and spirit, male and female. Yet, we cannot perceive directly, what it is that actually creates all the wood cuttings on the Carpenter's floor, we seemed to be barred from knowing what it is that is actually doing all this creating in the very heart of creation itself, it's only through our dreams or by visiting, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, can we hope, despite the ancient advice given at the door concerning this virtue, to glimpse larger fragments of the primordial glass that was shattered, by necessity, on the first day of creation.

So "Ladies and Gents, Boys and Girls, please take your seats, take a deep breath, close your eyes, have faith and not hope, for the journey is about to begin...."

                                           "All the world's a stage,

                                           And all the men and women merely players.
                                           They have their exits and their entrances,
                                           And one man in his time plays many parts,
                                           His acts being seven ages." Hamlet

Timewave Graph November 21 thru November 30

The waves are getting very choppy up close, but from afar, from, say, a few years ago, these vicissitudes would have looked like a bunched up cluster that looked no different from (t, 0). There's something to be gleaned from it.  Synchronicities are unfolding all around, and they're reverberations of Novelty.  They're communications from the Cosmos, if you will, from the inner Cosmos of your Mind and the outer Cosmos of your Body, resonances, deep, musical, harmonious resonances, co-compositions of a wonderful, ineffable, Comedic Opera.  An Opera with lots of wonder and laughs for those who are ready for change.  

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Children of the Gods: Part 4

It was just gone 4.00 when he gently arose into the pleasantly yellowing half light of the afternoon- below the mouldering colonial balcony window of his apartment he could just make out the “mock” quarrelsome voices of Jose Henrique and his perennial side-kick, Pacho “the patch” Fernadez outside the cafĂ© “La Torreta.” Who knows what they’re talking about, those two ancient Senors, he thought…until he heard the familiar crash of the cafe shutter hit the pavement with considerable force, then more voices, a bit less audible this time, keys being fumbled with, locks being turned, the usual … he thought, the second always a bit slower to turn because of the rust, more exclamations, then finally success! Laughter, the rich waft of a cigarette just lit, listening half-absently until the two Senors’ melodious voices became more and more distant as they rambled on down the street, towards their homes for a few hours of rest. It was now official he thought, Antofagasta was having its daily siesta, who needs the boring precision of clocks, when you have immutable characters like that, and, yet his whole professional life was nothing more than a titanic wresting and balancing of calculations and mappings, of measurements and predictions from a force, whose nature, could only ever really be grasped, he often thought, in those unguarded moments when you where looking elsewhere, when the illusive original answer would become apparent, like some girl you chased in your dreams for years, only, for her to finally accept you, but in a totally different context ... ! And we all know that never really works out ... !

Perhaps, Perhaps, he thought the Cosmos does have sense of humour after all, and maybe there is something of Don Quixote’s jousting at windmills in at our all endeavours….but what else could I have done with my life? … he mused, no point in "what ifs" now.  “Yes, I need a coffee, a large one at that, to hell with my blood pressure, besides the antioxidants cancel that out, they say, whoever they be!” he mumbled quietly to himself.

4.17 and all the pretty little streets lay quiet and deserted, save for the regular hum of the local police chief’s diesel patrol which had to do the rounds through the city, even during the siesta, just in case, there was an Earthquake when everyone was asleep, and apart from the red, white and blue bunting flapping in the ocean’s breeze for independence day, nothing else much stirred. There was relative peace in such moments, moments to muse upon the previous night’s work just gone, and, what lay ahead next evening, as he snipped the coffee, not too hot, not too cool, just right he though as he surveyed the empty city street from his balcony; the Sun disappeared westward towards the Pacific. Yet, despite the peace, his head hurt in some inexplicable way, as he continued pondering more of the data he had taken from the previous night, the thoughts of that peculiar dream, with its uncanny emblems, also seemed to undercut, in discrete fragments, elements of what he was trying to comprehend  ... until his musings were broken abruptly by the phone.

“Bob, I hope you're up and decent.”

“Well, I’m up, acclimatising Boris, before yet another night of fun and games.”

“Fun and Games, you're right on the money there, Comrade!”

“Why what’s up, wait …. don’t tell me, Boris, I know you’ve finally been recalled to Russia, as they’ve decided that you would be an excellent person to send up to the International Space-station, I always knew they’d find a spot for you.”

“Haha, very funny Saint Anthony, anyway, listen my friend, myself and Doctor Appledon went through some of the data you gave us this morning before you left … and we spend the day, checking and rechecking the stuff, and to be honest, we’ve come across, what might one call them, ah yes, 'anomalies' in your data.”

“What do you mean 'anomalies'?”

“Bob, it’s simply better that you get your 'ass' as they say in America back here asap, I mean you have too see it for yourself, the data is just so strange, that if it were true, well it would mean ...”

“Boris, old comrade you’re beginning to unnerve me, ever so little!”

“Listen, I’m not messing for once, myself and Liz have said nothing to anyone else here.”

“O.K, O.K I believe you, give me an hour and I’ll be there.”

The phone shut off abruptly, what the hell, he thought, as the relative peace of the afternoon lingered on, beyond the balcony, he snipped the coffee once more, almost cold, pondering what it all could mean …smiling, thinking that the crazy Russian really was as “mad” as himself, but, Liz, no, she was sane and serious to the core, so perhaps there was something to it, he thought as he gulped down the last remnants of the cold, treacle like coffee.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Annus Mirabilis (2005)

Was it 1905 that the quickening of the world

Became so apparent- when a mundane tram journey

Led mankind from the secure measurable feel of things

To horizons bound by nothing more than abstract light?

Between the bookends of a mere average existence

What prompted his thoughts to ponder those infinite breaths

Taken in immeasurable magnitudes? Was it this, that perverse gallery

Of the everyday, worn through faces reflecting humanity’s static light?

100 years "come and go" the trams keep rolling like some antiquated Victorian mill

And visitors come paying their respects to “something“, for even the greatest,

They shrewdly know must eat, must wash, must defecate and must die, like everyone-

He surely was not, just the mere passing reflection of that quickened light?


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Timewave Graph November 14 thru 20

Wars, airstrikes on Gaza, unrest, climate vicissitudes, rising Schumann resonance, the last solar eclipse, so much could be packed into interpreting the graph in this neighborhood of time, but, interestingly enough, even though we're already in the domain of Novelty proper, there are still rises to Habit and and dips into Novelty in ever increasing flux.  Perhaps it's the death spams of the dying Eon.  

In Memory of Ted Hughes: Welsh Lullaby

Listen and you can hear it too

The naked hedges bristling through

The thoughts of another year gone -

Cannot unmake the swallow’s nest

Or uncoil the primal mind to grasp

And endeavour time like the clouds

Frigidly woven through the November hillocks -

And through the valleys, generations laboured

From the immutable inheritance of field,

From the grudging farm made in the image

Of that painful marriage, between God, Man and Death

This is what they toiled for, it was written after all

And so it was true, he insisted, eyeing the rain

Upon the Church slate, like it was a miracle

That Life could not be anything more than this brutal

Simplicity - leaving it with nothing but his sacred duty,

And that everyday contentment to “let things be” -

And listening you could hear it too

Not that Natural silence, intermittingly

Breaking to reform, like the rhythmic waves

Of Cardigan‘s distant cliffs, but another greater silence,

Left in the vacant gaps, of hedges, of nests, of fields,

Of villages and of minds, where all things come to pass

Like the November wind motioning to Winter's coming light. Ted Hughes & Shamanism

Monday, November 12, 2012

The Christ That Never Was

We live within a deep dream, dreaming the dream, asleep and unaware that we see it through a glass darkly, and the so-called fall of mankind was nothing more than a falling into the dream now we know mistakenly as life, if we dream a different dream the world would change overnight, yet could we imagine a state of being where we actually woke-up the next morning?? for the first time collectively in human history, perhaps? Just "imagine" such a world, my friend.... From conversations with a Russian prophet, Recollections of the Motherland, 2010.  (J Henry)

I remember vividly standing upon the railway platform of a remote Ukrainian station late in October some years back, and just standing there, waiting, under the steely grey skies, waiting under the arctic breeze breaking without interpretation upon the flat, endless, monotonous plains of this region. Waiting for the relative, warm, comfort of that train, as  I  just watched, almost transfixed by the flakes gently swirling and dancing  about the numerous openings through the old wooden platform sides, and, here and there, the stooped black figures of old women and men would appear, generally lugging parcels of food or logs, only to suddenly disappear, like mirages, into the whiteness of it all once more. After a time, all that was present was the vague outlines of the station, the railway lines themselves had long ago vanished, like the people into that strange silence and vastness that only can be experienced in such moments of absolute singleness. Yet, despite the coldness, and almost near total isolation of this outpost, there was something about it that induced that vital sense of being really alive which in the course of my "normal" everyday life, I rarely had felt before, and it reminded me vividly of a conversation I had early in my travels with a Russian "sage". Although the gentleman in question modestly described himself as a true Christian of the only true faith that ever existed on the Planet, namely the Russian Orthodox Church, he nevertheless displayed something of that nomadic, Shamanic, wanderer, so much at home within the Russian land and mindscape.  He told me, in rather matter of fact terms, about his incredible wanderings he undertook across vast areas of the former USSR, and, its former "colonies" and about  the person who "always arrives in the place where they're meant to be" and that it was "the Christ who never was", that guided this true prophet on his solitary vocation. At the time, I didn't really grasp (due to translation and vodka issues!) what he really meant by the Christ who never was, who was his only true  guide on his spiritual wanderings. Why I began pondering these cryptic thoughts once again in the middle of a blizzard, in the middle of no-where, seemed at first just a coincidence, however as I continued peering into the vast whiteness, hoping against hope to see the engine light gradually appear from it-  his thoughts began to weave into my mind, as I waited for the illusory light to appear. "My Friend" I remember him insist, "I am a non-believer in Christ, the Christ who guides me cannot be believed in-at all - what you need simply is faith, the faith that doesn't need to be believed in, what you need is to be open to what simply is,  as it's in the cracks where the divine often comes to light." And as I waited, I just pondered these very "unwestern" thoughts, until the light of the train eventually came,  until the old people re-appeared from no-where and exchanged places with other elderly people departing the train, and the guard shouted "Odessa," seat 5, please.... and the station faded like a black shadow in the white splendour of it all. 

In Between

In the middle of shadow and light, filled with restless energy, but no will to move.

No solace in the dark, no joy in the light.


No despair.

Listening to the silence in the midst of a symphony of sound.

Best laid plans burned to ash by lack of desire.



A Song From the Heart

It's a gray afternoon in February.  The North wind whips up the litter and it spins across the highway like a mini-tornado.  I drive numbly past, oblivious to the cars and trucks around me.  I hear a riff on the radio, a familiar tune that I haven't heard in a while. My heartstrings vibrate like those on the guitar enveloping the car.  I turn it up so loud the bass vibrates my feet, and my soul.  Eddie Vetter cries out the first few words as tears spill over my eyelids and down my cheeks. ..... "Unsealed on a porch, a letter sat, then you said ... "I wanna leave it again"..... Once I saw her on a beach of weathered sand, and on the beach I wanna leave it again"..... I search my purse for a tissue and only find one, partially used.  No choice. It's not so much the words, it's the tune, the music, the sadness.

When I was young, I was told to quit crying.  I was asked what I was smiling about and told nothing was funny.  I was told not to be afraid; there's nothing to be afraid about.  It's not ladylike to be so angry.  You can't say those things. Limits, limits, limits everywhere I turned.  Eventually, I learnt not to feel; not to let my emotions show.  I cried in the silence of my room in my pillow where no one would hear.  I laughed inside with a straight face. 

I learned to experience my feelings through control; a control with a time delayed sensor.  Sometimes it would be days or even months before I would allow myself to feel an emotion, long after the event that sparked the feeling was over.  My spirit had become chained; locked away inside a human shell. Often it screamed from inside uncontrollably at the worst possible time; in a grocery store, at a movie, at a customer appointment or at a party.  I've left many a grocery cart sitting half full of groceries in the middle of an aisle, uncontrollably laughing or crying or in a panic. I allowed myself to be pulled into horrid places by people with their own desires at heart.

In the last few years, I taught myself to feel the emotions so desperate to be felt.  The medium I used was music with all it's sadness, anger, joy, love and fears.  Guitar strings pulled my heartstrings, drum beats fueled my confidence, ivory keys tickled my fancies, bass bumped my hips and voices and harmonies healed my soul. My eyes opened to see through illusions that had spun a thick web around my face.

Confrontations were faced head on tossing fear to the wind, rediscovering laughter with the delight of a child in a toy store. And, I cried ..... I cried from the depths of my soul and melted into the Earth and she comforted me with her lushness wrapped around my being.  

And, now I sit in the Doctor's office and listen to my Father ask about his diabetes medication and why it isn't working for him. "Why is this bruise still on my foot? And, why do you think it won't go away? And, yes I'll be going to chemotherapy tomorrow and I'm riding down with my Daughter to the mountains this weekend to pick up my Mother."  How can he ask these questions when the bruise on his foot is a result of the chemotherapy? The diagnosis of terminal cancer is a fated ticket and knows he's going to die.  Is he in denial? Does he not know the bruise on his foot is the least of his worries? Or has he acclimated to his disease and wants to live as much as he can until that day?  Holding my emotions at bay, I don't ask because I don't know. I draw upon my old skills of how to crack a joke and say, "I've decided not to get diabetes.  It's way to complicated for me to figure out."  My Dad, the Doc and I laugh and outside I tell my Father I'll see him later tonight with a strong, caring voice.

And, as I get into my car I begin to shake. Turning onto the highway on a cold, gray February afternoon as the litter flies across my car I hear a song on the radio and the tears spill down my cheeks "real time."  Play the song here. 

As I fumble for a tissue in my purse, my sadness, sorrow and anger floods to the surface and I feel it with every inch of my being.  And, Eddie Vetter cries out over the airwaves along with me and I feel peace and solace.  I feel!  I feel .... and, I think to myself, "I should remember to carry tissues with me now."  .... "Ah yeah ... can you see them? Out on the porch, yeah, but they don't wave. I see them, round the front way, yeah ... And I know and I know I don't want to stay ... Make me cry...." 

Copyright © Anna Laura Webb 2002-2012

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Obama Act Two: American Ramblings

"The hell's the matter with you? Stupid! We're all very different people. We're not Watusi. We're not Spartans. We're Americans, with a capital 'A', huh? You know what that means? Do ya? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We're the underdog. We're mutts! Here's proof: his nose is cold! But there's no animal that's more faithful, that's more loyal, more loveable than the mutt." ("John Winger" Stripes)

There’s a show called American Pickers, a “reality” show of a couple of antique-collectibles store owners who drive around the U.S. looking for rare “Made in U.S.A.” Americana.  When you reflect for a minute, you see how apocalyptic the show really is.  They’re going through the wasteland of what once was, picking through the American-eschatological rubble for items made in the U.S., because such things are as scarce as hen’s teeth nowadays.  

I went to the supermarket the other day and saw a large, rusty, metallic ad of some kind of BBQ product.  Its color was all red, white, and blue, and it displayed an anthropomorphic Star Spangled Banner waving a smaller version of itself, and the name of the product was “American BBQ.”  I’m sure that if we were to check the label on the bottom, it’d have the indelible “made in China” on it.  And that’s the state we’re in, so to speak.  What’s that flag waving itself for?  What’s so American about a BBQ product made in China?  Why is the anthropomorphic flag so proud of itself?  Why is it called ‘American BBQ’?  Just by default, because the company is based in the U.S.?  Because simple folk will fall for it and feel patriotic when they purchase it?  It’s all a shameful sham.  How dare they deceive the simple American folk who have been reduced to powerless peasants scrambling for work, for cheap wages.  

Wasn’t the econo-apocalypse of Detroit the sign of what was to follow?  How dare they blame it on the “illegal” human beings who kept the prices of groceries down for the rest of us consumers, who worked so hard from the crack of dawn to dusk, with minimal pay, at jobs Americans were too prissy to do?  Sure, the corporations will create more jobs the more they profit, especially from tax cuts, yes, for sure, that is, more jobs in China, South America, India, Philippines, and wherever else wages needn’t be “minimum,” wherever there be peasants and children who live in piss poor squalor, willing to slave away for peanuts.  Everywhere but here, in the U.S.A.  

Be aware, Americans, because the economy is the very basic, basic, grossly basic foundation of our subsistence, and future.  This incessant war isn’t helping matters either, which no one addresses much any more.  No one wants to be “unpatriotic,” but how patriotic is it to not show boys and girls coming home as casualties, or in a box, because those things would infuriate the public and start the Peace movement all over again?  A sixteen-trillion dollar debt?  Something’s got to give.  

So what if the solar system itself is heating up, why is it such an either-or, that we can’t do our best to not exacerbate an already dangerous situation?  The bulwarks of the U.S. have slowly been removed, pieces at a time, and more and more pieces are getting taken away.  At least the Obama second term victory was a morale booster, but still, Americans hobble about like tattered zombies, trudging about, no longer caring about appearances, no longer able to afford much of anything any more.  And yet there are uneducated, disinformed, zealous Tea Party type hordes out there ignorantly praying for the demise of their own country.  

America. What makes America so great?  Never mind patriotism and all that psyched up bravado. They’re all meaningless fluff and hot air. It's not great because of "freedom."  No one uses that word much any more anyway, because they know it's just a euphemism for deregulated capitalism at best, if not just Orwellian doublespeak.  Is it great because it's a land of opportunity?  That's just a 1950's pipe dream. And it’s definitely not great because it’s a fucking “bible” based christian country; that's the stuff fascist totalitarianism is made of.   

But Obama got it right when he said that it’s a nation of great diversity, in terms of nationalities, beliefs, and sexualities. That’s what America is all about, it's what makes America great. If America is the spearhead representation of that diversification on this planet, if America is the concentrated locus of the interfused human Mandala, then that is what makes America the greatest country in the world. Let there be no denial; that's just a default that's working its own teleology (and there are xeno- and homo-phobic tribal-mentality cave people who would want it to stop), and you can't keep waving a flag too long in puffed up pride over a mode of being that is merely a default.  There's a whole lot of waking up to do first.    

Monday, November 5, 2012

Bunk Bed Hideway

I had a secret portal that nobody knew about. It was my fortress. My habitat. Nestled away ever so discreetly in the corner, it was impenetrable and only I could access its mystic wonders. I would dive down deep into the depths of The Great Barrier Reef, soar through the intergalactic worm holes of the cosmos, trudge along the dense ferns of the North American rain forests. It was a spaceship, a yellow submarine, a canopy of foliage. It took me anywhere and transformed into anything I desired. Time held no value inside the portal. It was my sacred space, safe and completely obscure to the outside world and forever incognito. The domain and safeguard; It was my Bunk Bed.

The bottom floor of my double-decker steel bunk bed was concealed beneath a layer of bedazzled curtains my mother had hand sewn for my 8th birthday. Upon entering, one would find the interior lining of the bunk was veiled in a trail of multicolored Christmas lights. Ticket stubs, safari posters, Hello Kitty wrappers, tempura paintings, and letters from distant relatives blanketed the walls held up with sticky tack and push pins. The bed frame was lined with particle board in order to provide optimal hard surface for the purpose of making arts and crafts. A small foam sleeping pad that smelled of Fritos took up two thirds of the bed frame. Atop the pad perched my extensive stuffed animal collection which mostly consisted of beanie babies and a various assortment of heart shaped pillows. The excess particle board surface was adorned with my Poly Pocket play sets, miniature polymer clay foods, crayons, paper, porcelain teacups, and a compact TV with obnoxiously long antennas that bent every which way. Each piece of my meticulously organized fort, had been thoughtfully put together by me. I would sit in the bunk and I would escape.

Upon waking in the wee hours of the morning, I would cautiously creep down my bedside ladder and crawl into my special space. Nestled in the comfort of my cotton fluff friends, beneath the dim yellow glow of my Fisher School flashlight, I would draw. Endless landscapes of purple canyons and marmalade waves would freely flow from my crayons. Watercolor paintings of lily pad ponds and gumball storms. I would enter my world. It was in these moments of solitude, in the wee hours of the morning, huddled in my safe place, that I would learn to express and create.

Found Objects of My Desk (.01 micropen, 8.5x11")
I no longer sleep in a bunk bed and yet reminiscences of my original habitat still remain in my places of creation. My current desk is decorated with mementos and childhood knick knacks for inspiration and sometimes mere entertainment. The surrounding walls contain whimsical posters; brightly colored and depict images of children’s illustrations. A foam pillow sits on my desk chair to provide superior comfort when sitting stagnant for long periods of time. A dim yet sufficient light remains on my desk. All these beloved objects are fragments of what the hideaway was. 

Now I understand that in creating a comfortable and treasured place wherever I am, I then enable myself to access the creative and authentic part of my being. I am the little girl waking from a dream and drawing the landscapes of my mind. I am venturing into the abyss, diving in the milky way, climbing a great redwood, because they are all a part of me. I no longer need a secret portal in order to access the places of imagination and insight because it is within. It is me.

College Desk (.01 micropen, 14x22)

Timewave Graph Nov 3 thru 7

If you are in the U.S. then I suppose you would interpret the dips in the neighborhood of November 5 with respect to election 2012.  The graph for November will start with the first day of November; all three waves make very sharp descents around November 4, then all three begin to rise again toward Habit.  But 'Habit' at this point of the game is a very, very relative thing to be sure.   

Sunday, November 4, 2012

On Truth and Fact

Truth is inarticulable, that is, in everyday language.

1 + 1 = 2 is fact. It is not truth.  This is because it is very easy to devise a formal axiomatic system in which 1 + 1 ≠ 2, because the very foundation of metamathematics cannot be mathematical, i.e., if circularity of reasoning is to be avoided.  A definiens cannot contain the very term to be defined. Hence mathematical "truth" falls into the domain of fact; it is not Pythagorean reality, it is not Platonic agathon. And even this fact of 1 + 1 = 2 is relatively factual with respect to the formal system in question, and does not necessarily apply across the board of mathematical logic.    

Facts and truth must be distinguished.

Truth is suprarational (which does not preclude the rational).  Facts are rational.

To say, 'Is it truth?' is different from saying, 'Is it a fact?'

Truth is a disposition, not a statement.  Real Truth is paradoxical.

The concept of Truth is abstraction.

Fact is exoteric, Truth is esoteric (which subsumes the exoteric).

Fact is verifiable, Truth is transcendent and immanent.  

A person might be willing to die for a Truth which they embrace; no person would be willing to die for a fact.  

Fact is epistemic, Truth is existential.

Truth is inarticulable in everyday language. One can assert logical "truth," such as
(x) [P(x) .. Q(x)] .. [P(x)  Q(x)],
but such tautologies are simply facts in the well-defined, conventional domain of bivalent propositional logic. I am not speaking on the other hand of the possibility of Kantian synthetic a priori either; such logically tautological statements as in the example above still pertain to factual assertions, to "facticity." "Truth" is too big a word.

Truth subsumes fact.  All the facts in the universe can be subsumed in a single Truth.

"Truth" pertains, with respect to existential comportment and disposition to the Totality of being-as-such, to modes of human being such as "honesty," "integrity," "authenticity"; otherwise Truth pertains to "being," "reality," and so on. Truth in this ontological sense is an aspect of the absolute.

Facts are "true" only within the scope of an agreed-upon paradigmatic universe of discourse, specific conceptual schemes in question, and their inherent (relative) grammar. But absolute "Truth" is simply a through line of all universes of discourse, paradigms (no matter what),  grammar, and of course, everything else.  

Truth is vibration, and vibrations in secret fields. Truth is the pink Noise of the universe. Truth is sound, word, and reality. Sound is speech (vibration), word is mind, reality is the body.

Truth is sound, word, and reality themselves, all as one. Thus, Truth is inaccessible to articulation, since Truth is the very substance of the possibility of articulation itself.

Fact pertains to the surface, ostensive, referential dimensions of objects and events.

Truth can have a strongly subjective allure to it; it is the stuff of ideology.  But Truth cannot be trifled with in such things as ideology, with impunity.  Truth is not for humans to tamper with.  It is an aspect of the sacred apple of the Cosmic eye.     

From George Orwell, 1984 

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Ode to Fuckhead

Elohim essaim
Elohim essaim
I seek, I invoke.

He at one time sought to save all, even those who used needles to shoot shit into their bloodstreams, those who vomited booze then drank bong-water, those who sat in the mucus of their own torpor as if they were jailbird comrades, those whose pressure-cooker exploded with revelries of perversions, those who obeyed the momentary musical gathering of hordes, as if there were leaders leading the herd, as if there was "a tender of the light at the end of the tunnel" (H.S. Thompson), as if the thrill of the moment were to carry them through a continuum of which they had not a glimpse or understanding.  

He at one time sought to save all, and was inundated, deluged, and then crushed by the weight of all who would be saved: demons, djins, imps, ghosts, pretas, gods, goddesses, titans, ghouls, devils, angels, spirits of darkness and spirits of light, energy-fields without form and energy-fields which chimerically combined and transformed, ghosts of the past, yokais, ultraterrestrials, chthonic hell beings, shadow-beings fading in the twilight, netherworld judges and administrators, hollering tricksters, dybbuks, succubus, incubus, and sick giants who are wheeled in netherworld gurneys to infernal hospitals for illnesses worse than death.  

He at one time sought to save all, and was crushed by the force and weight of suffering.  So great was the suffering, so heavy was the need, so cosmic was the call, he could not endure it, and he fell to his default.  He thought he was Iron Man, only to realize that he indeed was, but a head on a stick-figure made of iron bars. He sought his Mother, the place of his origination, for there was nowhere for him to turn. His Father was a Madman, his mother was a wallflower, so he sought and cried forth to his cosmic Mother: I'm coming home.  

He at one time sought to save all, but returned home to his Mother instead.  But that was alright. That was good. For there is no further provenance, no further wellspring but the Continuum of the Cosmos who is Mother.  There was refuge there, there was healing, and from there he went forth, his strength absolutely precarious, utterly tenuous, to preach the word of his god.  He had forgotten his Mother.

He at one time sought to save all, was crushed, was healed, then went forth to save all again. He believed in Logos and sought its thorough and exhaustive application in all, to find the foundation of foundations in Logos, so that he could save all, and teach all, and bring all to the world of salvation.  No one understood, no one heard, no one cared, for no one hears the Logos but the Logos of their own understanding, for Logos is but a partial aspect of the cosmic Whole, just a minor functioning principality exalted by the ancestral Patriarchs as Zenith, the primordial alpha and the terminal omega.  

He at one time sought to save all, was crushed, was healed, went forth to save all again, and then was imbued with Fear. Fear of being that which he did not want to be, that which he thought was the Shadow, that which he thought was against himself, that which he thought would destroy his identity as the savior of the world. The Fear became magnified, telescoped, and finally, came over him as did the deluge of god, angels, and saints with assignments of duties, obligations, and missions beyond his strength, beyond his capacity, beyond his time, beyond his space.  

So he walked and walked, and kept walking.  

Arthur C. Clarke

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic" 

"Neither technology nor magic have any intrinsic propensity for good or bad, both can be easily manipulated by the weakness or strength of those who commune with such powers"

"For all their faults, it's the male of the human species with their natural boldness and curiosity, who've actually led humanity from the ancient caves to the stars above"

Friday, November 2, 2012

Mitt Romney Video Rant: The Return of Christ

Typically, the religious affiliation of a President doesn't affect his ability to do his job. After all it is written: "No religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States." -Article VI, Section 3, United States Constitution. However, when I viewed and listened to the video shown at the end of this piece, I did hear statements that caused me great concern.

If a President runs the risk of being excommunicated for making a governing decision that goes contrary to the laws of his Church would he decide according to the laws of the Church or would he do what's right for everyone? We'd all like to think that he'd do what's right for the whole and not a portion. However, some religions are so specific in their beliefs that it may not be possible.

Dome of the Rock

The Dome of the Rock was the first great work of the Islamic Culture and was built in 636 C.E.

It is traditionally believed in the Islamic faith that the prophet Muhammad, founder of Islam and descendant of Abraham, accompanied by the angel Gabriel, ascended from this site. And, this is the site where many modern day Christian religions believe Jesus Christ, descendant of Abraham, on the non-Islamic side of the family, will return. And, his return is anticipated soon since we are at a 2,000 year mark.

Many modern day Christians believe that approximately 6,000 years ago God created the heavens and the Earth in 7 days and that Adam and Eve are the parents of all Man. It is believed that approximately 2,000 years later (2,000 B.C.E.) the floods came and Noah rescued two of each animal on Earth. 2,000 years after that Jesus, the Christ child, was born. And, that coming soon, will be the return of the one true Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Here's what Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., the founder of the Mormon religion, has to say about all of this:

"Before the Lord Jesus descends openly and publicly in the clouds of glory, attended by all the hosts of heaven; before the great and dreadful day of the Lord sends terror and destruction from one end of the earth to the other; before he stands on Mount Zion, or sets his feet on Olivet, (the Dome of the Rock) or utters his voice from an American Zion or Jewish Jerusalem; before all flesh shall see him together; before any of his appearances, which taken together comprise the second coming of the Son of God -- before all of these...

...there is to be a secret appearance to selected members of his Church. He will come in private to his prophet and to the apostles then living."

Reference: As Quoted by Bruce R. McConkle, The Millennial Messiah, pp. 578-579

Does Mitt Romney - former Bishop and Leader of the Mormon Church - as he states in this video below - believe that he is one of the elite that will be visited by Jesus Christ himself, prior to his return to the Dome of the rock in Jerusalem? And, that Israel should be protected no matter what regardless of its views and politics of other Countries in its region - including Iran, Iraq (old Babylon), etc.?

In this video, we witness a very passionate Mitt Romney. There is nothing I respect more than someone who is passionate - whether job, cause, religion, family, etc. But here we see Mr. Romney passionate about NOT discussing Mormonism or his beliefs and roles in it. In fact, it appears less passionate and more fanatical; religious fanatic.

Definition- Fanatic: A person filled with excessive and single-minded zeal especially for an extreme religious or political cause.

Timewave Graph Oct 31 to Nov 2

October 31 to November 2 being a three-day continuum of a highly refined, ethereal time and space of what we could perhaps call "transitionary phase," which is also known in terms of having Samhain, All Souls' Day, All Saints' Day, the Day of the Dead (see Anna Webb's excellent post [link]) as different names of the same three-days-or-so transitionary phase, we see somewhat of a skyrocket to Habit in the neighborhood of October 31 and then a descent toward novelty again in the days following (with the exception of the Watkins wave, which takes a completely different turn).  We are of course looking as it were into a telescope at the Timewave, so these divergences and discrepancies are very fine vicissitudes and perturbations that take on subtler and subtler dimensions of meaning.  That's the process only we ourselves can explore by not only looking without, but in conjunction also looking within.  Deep within, into the inner Cosmos.  Don't be afraid of its ego-exploding vastness.  This transitionary phase is a very good time for "self-scrying," for self reflection in the mirror of mind and life, also as a catalyst for the days to come. 

Thursday, November 1, 2012

All Saints' Day, Samhain, Day of the Dead - Nov. 1st: A Day of Remembrance

The first day of November marks a holiday for many people around the world. It is a sacred day, for many, whether honoring martyrs (saints), loved ones who have passed on or a good harvest  - it's a day to reflect, revere and especially to remember. And, it seemed appropriate to review the history of these traditions so that we can remember more accurately.

All Saints' Day

In the Roman Catholic religion All Saints' Day, or Hallomas, began as a celebration in the form of a Feast honoring more than 10,000 saints, many of whom were persecuted during the period of late Roman rule. Traditionally celebrated on May 13 and 14, All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day were moved to November 1st and 2nd in the 8th Century by Pope Gregory III to coincide with the Celtic/Gaelic (or Pagan as some consider) harvest celebration of Samhain. It was not unusual for the Church to relocate its Holidays to coincide with pagan holidays in order to convert them to Christianity. Christmas was officially set to December 25th to coincide with the Winter Solstice celebration of the Celts. 

All Souls' Day

All Souls' Day was initiated the day after Hallomas to specifically honor and pray for Christian souls in purgatory. Suffering and repentance plays a big role in Catholicism and it is believed that many souls end up in a place of repentance before they can enter Heaven, and that it is the role of those Christians left behind to pray them on to Heaven. Good works can also be performed to offset the sins of loved ones.

The idea of wandering Spirits was an unchristian idea but the Church could not rid people of this supernatural belief. By the early 300 C.E. period, the ancient Greek God, Pan, and the ancient Celtic God, Cernunnos were still worshipped by many throughout Europe and the Mediterranean countries and the Church began its demonization campaign of these pagan gods. 

Celts, Greeks, Ancient Cultures and Christianity

Cernunnos is the only pre-Roman, free-Celtic period spiritual deity(1). He was depicted in rock inscriptions as having stag horns and hooves and usually accompanied by a horned stag and horned snake. The earliest recorded depiction is on a 4th century B.C.E. rock carving at Paspardo in Camonica Valley in Northern Italy. On the Gundestrup Cauldron which dates as early as 4th to 3rd century B.C.E., Cernunnos appears cross-legged with two twisted torcs (Celtic neck rings - necklaces) and antlers and is accompanied by the stag and snake mentioned above. In following centuries, he's depicted with many other types of animals  and "beasts" of the day.

He was the "Lord" or leader of animals and could shape-shift, or become any of the animals which made him a man/God and animal as he could easily be either.

Similarly, the Greek God, Pan (pictured left), was depicted as half man/half animal. He was a shepherd, played pipes and loved nature. Ancient cultures recognized that life and Nature went hand-in-hand. Cycles were observed of life, death and rebirth as in the seasons when life would die and regenerate in Spring. It was a fact that Pan was the most popular Greek God as stated here:

"It's a fact that there are more dedications to him than to any other..." (Pitt-Kethley xi).(2)

As Rome began to convert the Celts, Greeks and other cultures to Christianity, they introduced a new man/God, Jesus, and demonized the old man/Gods as the devil. Thus, we find the devil always depicted as Cerunnos or Pan - with horns and hooves.This demonization was no accident, but rather a deliberate twisting of pagan ideals as Christianity spread its influence throughout Europe.

After the Council of Nicea issued the Nicene Creed and the Roman Catholic Church was established in 325 C.E., Christian theologians (beginning with Eusebius) transformed Pan from a benign nature god to Satan, the great Adversary....because he was an adversary to the Church. He was the competition and the major challenge to converting the masses.

The only issue the Church had with melding these man/Gods into Christianity was how to create an emergence of the ultimate man/God without allowing the reproductive aspects of these gods to come through. Nature is prolific and so were Cernunnos and Pan. Most times they were depicted with phallic symbols, representing fertility. This presented a quandary in converting the old belief systems into a new one. The Church believed it needed to control what they perceived to be hedonistic behavior - sexuality. Taking up most of the first millennium, the Church achieved success.

In order to demonize the Gods and substitute Jesus it had to make the nature of us as sexual beings taboo and in doing so demonized women as dirty temptresses in the process. But the Church was patient to achieve it's goals of control.

During the Renaissance period, Greek and ancient Roman gods began to regain some of their fame. The Church was anxious to prevent Pan from slipping back into his harmless nature, and so commissioned works of art appropriately: "Pan's knobbly horns...took on a newly, diabolic meaning in Christian art...such examples are not "misinterpretations" of classical content but purposeful...Christian diabolization of pagan forms" (Camille 103)
(Above photo - Greek God Pan as Satanic - Christian art 1580's period)

Dia de los Muertos - Day of the Dead

It is, therefore, no surprise to find Dia de los Muertos or Day of the Dead also celebrated on November 1st. Primarily celebrated in Mexico, Day of the Dead is the celebration of loved ones who have passed on. The Mayans, Aztecs, Incans and other Central and South American have gotten a "bad rap" with regard to violence, hatred and sacrifice.

When the Spanish Conquistadors arrived in what is now known as Mexico, they found the natives practicing a ritual they perceived as mocking death.(3) The Aztecs kept skulls of loved ones as trophies which were used to represent death and rebirth in this ritual. Unlike the SC's who viewed death as the end of life the Aztecs seemed to embrace death as a continuation of life. "The pre-Hispanic people honored duality as being dynamic" states Christina Gonzalez, senior lecturer on Hispanic issues at Arizona State University. "They didn't separate death from pain, wealth from poverty like they did in Western cultures."

In the process of converting these cultures to Catholicism the Spaniards found it a challenge to stop the ritual. Their solution was to move the date to that of All Saints' and All Souls' Day November 1st and 2nd from it's original date of the beginning of August. (Sound familiar?)

Dia de los Muertos is a colorful celebration of the Mexican people of their loved ones who have passed on. Creating altars on honor of them is a key part of the tradition and decorating the altars with flowers, art and colorfully decorated skulls  still plays an important role in this celebration.

It may seem dark and ominous to the observer, however, it is a loving tribute and traditional to their culture. Much of Mexico is now christian so today's celebration, while retaining it's tradition, is a hybrid combination of the pre-Hispanic ritual and Catholic tradition of prayer and repentance.


The Celts believed that for three days beginning November 1st the "veil" between the worlds is its thinnest for the entire year. This just may be why these Holidays are so meaningful. If a person can celebrate the lives of those gone by, they very well may also feel their closeness to them through a thinned veil.

Regardless of belief or religious affiliation, culture, genealogy and traditional values, November 1st is a day of celebration. It's a day of the celebration of life, death and rebirth. Whether celebrating and honoring people past or honoring Nature present, today is the day to celebrate and remember life.

"For life and death are one, even as the River and the Sea are one." ~Kahlil Gibran

1. Kisma K. Stepanich - The Ancient Oral Tradition of Ireland
2. Kevin Hearne - The Demonization of Pan
3. Carlos Miller - The Arizona Republic - Day of the Dead History; Indigenous people wouldn't let Day of the Dead die.