Thursday, May 30, 2013

Genie Us

                                      

Do it with flair, do it with abandon, do it with pain, frustration, and HIGH DRAMA if that is what you prefer. Just do it! Do it now! After all, there is no other time frame in which Genius can or will play itself out.

Start something, let it flow, set it aside, let it glow. Every vision that is well begun is already half done. Don’t push, don’t rush, and please don’t hesitate. Just keep moving. Keep bobbing and weaving, like “Rocky” dancing in the ring! Your only opponent is self-doubt and false humility.

I’ll end with a favorite prayer that I once heard spoken, in the movie “Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.” It was an invocation, that called forth the genie (whose name was Barani) from the bottle that held him captive. Speak it with me, when you feel ready. I’m sure he is still listening.

“From the land beyond, beyond... from the world past hope and fear, I bid you Genie, now appear.” Now. Stand back, close your eyes... BELIEVE and speak your first wish.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Two new tracks!

One is super duper processed, other was all recorded on a real guitar and drums, played by me!
Broken Drum Fuzz: Outside:

Clearing a Thick Poltergeist Field

I'm being purposefully vague and ambiguous here, but I've been in the midst of an intense ongoing practice, and it is still going on.  Fields, energies, and consciousnesses accumulate and compound, as do ramifications of rippling effects of the accumulations, nonlocally.  Along with the "settling" effects, there are also "unsettling" effects and fields which also gather-accumulate, it's par for the course for this kind of practice.  So something has to be done to release the "unsettling" accumulations.  When they gather, trouble begins, and the "reminders" begin, calling out as it were for help.

There is something that can be done which acts as a release-valve of accumulated pressure, and it's the "hungry-ghost feeding rite" (Segaki).  While I am to do it daily as a protective measure, due to a very heavy schedule, I became remiss for over a couple of weeks.  The result was becoming palpable, day by day, and the visceral effects started to show.  

This is a practice that's been in the making for decades now, literally, so things are coming to a head, so there's no room for inadvertence and forgetfulness.  There are protocols with built-in failsafes and protections, and it's a perilous business to bypass them.

One of the least unnerving effects was that poltergeist-like noises started. I wasn't the only one who started to hear thumping, bumping, dragging-furniture kind of noises in the daytime and early, early morning (between 4:00 to 5:00 in the morning), on the roof and in the garage.  E heard it and was wondering about it, and after the last time I heard it, which was almost as if a trick was being played on me, I did a Segaki rite, which completely stopped the things-that-go-bump noises.

When entities, energies, fields, beings, consciousnesses, ghosts, demons, yokais, et al. accumulate, a practitioner does what a practitioner does: throw a banquet, resonate with the cosmic telos, and stay on course.   




Monday, May 27, 2013

Little Green Men



Yumma, Yumma, We Are Your Friends....Yumma, Yumma, We Come In Peace

I sometimes speak to stones, I sometimes speak to open skies, I sometimes speak with the birds that fly, I sometimes speak with all manner of beasts, I sometimes even dane to speak with two legged bipeds who squeak...

And so, it was dear friends, that I set off up to visit the legendary KA, the one eyed blind sided transformer of worlds, the drummer of the dead and the living, of those in between states and minds, of those neither visible but not invisible.......... The KA of tobacco smoke, of drink, of many partners, of reverie, of divine laughter...of divine angry, of molten steel and solar fire, of aqueous serenity and its deep dark blue.  And so I hiked through the lowlands of spring grass, supple with all classes of domesticated life, the timid newborn lambs, not long for this world, the calves, less timid, but familiar with their boundaries, and through the quiet sparse hills of pine and spruce I walked, and walked following the course of the river that eventually became the stream that led to his place, the hut of huts, in the wood of woods is what he "named it", the eye of the needle, the speck against the sun, the portal through the centre.

KA welcomed me into his hut, that night we talked, smoked, drunk, danced a bit, I chatted with his "wives" and with his partners both here and in the in-between of dark and light spaces. During one of his trances he spoke with the Green Men or rather they spoke through him. At first their language seemed familiar, a bit like a voice from a cartoon show, but, there was something different...hmm...yes, it was better modulated, and, it seemed both serious but also slightly mocking!. Anyway, after my ears had adjusted, they began talking about humanity's general ignorance and forgetfulness (this is something KA said often his visitors liked talking about, in fact, at times he got a little bored by it) of nature's laws, however, after a while they began speaking about their own existences. Apparently, the Little Green Man of UFO legend wasn't as a ridiculous idea as many modern people now think, in fact, the archetype of the Green Man was deeply implanted in humanity's shared common collective imagery. The imagery came in fact from a very early association with these classes of beings, many of thousands of years ago, and, now their distant memory was only preserved through their dim imagery in myths, or, through their sudden re-emergence in modern form, but often in a totally transformed or altered way. They explained that the Martian, Little Green Men, fables of the 1940s and 1950s were an example of this, and that humanity's foolishness about trying to prove their existence lay in our "fascination" with trying to capture what cannot be grasped, for they don't exist in our realm, but conjoin it when they please!! They seemed to find our attempts to control their processes amusing. 


After a while behind the dance and the drum beats, the voices became more disparate, until eventually again a more distinctive voice emerged through KA's mouth. This time, the voice was of the Green Man himself, it was firm and insightful, and he spoke about the evolution of intelligent life on Earth. Originally, there was to be no humanity, in fact, there was to be no animals at all, the cut off point in the Earth's biospheric evolution he stated was to be in a permanent equilibrium between plants and insects life. Intelligence on Earth was to culminate  in a system of mutually inter-dependent networks with no particular centre or control in any given place, all would be one, and one would be all. However, the Green Man said this couldn't happen, as it soon become clear that for intelligence to develop beyond the point of mere global awareness, it was necessary to develop beings, like those on other planets, who could develop and create consciously from themselves. In those fair off distant times a race were conceived that indeed where of part plant and animal, they were indeed the original Green Men of fables, their skin was green with the chlorophyll of plants, it was hoped they could live directly from the Sun's energy, however every generation wittered away at a certain point.

At this stage in the trance, KA was becoming drowsy as morning was eventually breaking through the valleys of the mountains across the plains from KA's hut, yet, still the voice of the Green Man continued with his tale, and so we were told, as the daylight shone more and more outside,  of that new race that had to feed upon the flesh of itself (animals) so as to make that energy for the necessary organs of the intelligence that was needed upon the unique system of the Earth. So, it was that man eventually came to be, and that the Shaman here in his trance was the embodiment of the animal, plant and mineral spirit in man. The Green Man's voice then just gradually faded, however, when KA awoke again, he seemed to be aware of his or their presence, in fact KA thinks of them as natures guardian spirits, yet he can see them as aliens from our past and future too, or, as the Little Green Men that played with our imaginations in the 1950s. Next morning I returned home, my head aching, saying Yumma, Yumma, We Are Your Friends....Yumma, Yumma, We Come In Peace...but still as I looked out at the morning sky I couldn't really tell myself honestly that there aren't those other less benevolent GREEN or GREY MEN OUT THERE!!



      

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Practice of Sleep

Practice of Sleep: I perch my right temple to the feather pillow beneath my neck and close my eyes. My head tipped up in receiving the cold night breeze blowing in from my bedside window. The yellow light from the flickering street lamp is but a dull glow behind my tired eyes. I draw my legs in beneath my curled body and cross my ankles. It is here that I forget the trials of the day and succumb to my worn and depleted state. In reflection of my habitual routines and anxieties, I exhale and I forget. I feel nothing except the body I inhabit. Like a swan sheltering itself behind its ivory plumage, I pull my blankets over my head and fly into the forgotten.


Official portfolio of Emi Hensley:
emibree.tumblr.com

Peggy Lee - Black Coffee


Thursday, May 23, 2013

Dreaming and Awakening

Dreaming and Awakening

Emi Hensley
Pacific Northwest College of Art
2013
Stabilo Pen, Nupastel, Chartpak Marker

A short graphic novel final project for my Time Arts course.

Official portfolio:




















Saturday, May 11, 2013

Haunted?

I have never been much of a "seer" when it came to ghosts. While almost always aware ... almost always being able to feel, and sometimes hear ... there have only been a dozen or so times that I have ever laid eyes upon a ghost. The first time it ever happened, I was a young girl, and my great uncle passed away. I loved him dearly, and he visited me for a while. You can read that story here. A doorway was opened, and it led to those other viewings, but it has never come easy for me since the first time.

My husband, Jack, is an excellent seer. He talks frequently of those around us, and I can feel and hear them ... but it is hard for me to see.

At night, my bedroom is thick with them at times. I usually cannot sleep well on those nights. The constant feeling of being watched is unnerving. No malice ... usually ... just ever present watchfulness.


Jack has often spoken of the little girl who hangs around here all the time. We have no clue why she is here. Nothing major happened where we live, and while the county I live in has an interesting past, my exact area is a bit of a reach from where those interesting things happened. Jack never described her to me, but Alex saw her when she was 5 or 6, and would talk to her. To be honest, it freaked me out. I never saw her myself at that point, and to have both of them constantly talking to her or seeing her, while I could not, made me decide to just ignore the whole thing, for my own peace of mind.

That all changed a couple of weeks ago.

I have been struggling for a while now (you can follow my blog here, but I warn you, it is a heavily loaded blog at this point in my life), and I stopped sleeping deeply, or for very long. I was uneasy, and could not seem to get comfy. The temperature of the room was always way too cold or way too hot, no matter what I did.  I would doze in 30 to 45 minute increments, and would wake up in a slightly alarmed state. For no good reason. The 3rd or 4th night into this sleep pattern, I was startled into waking, and Alex was standing in front of me, on my side of the bed, staring at me.  I jerked back, and reached out to touch her, and my hand went right through her. She slowly faded from my sight. I was frozen in place for a moment, and then I bolted out of the bed and hurried across the house to Alex's room.

She was sound asleep in her bed.

I tucked the covers more tightly around her, and went back to bed. There was very little sleep for the rest of the night.

A couple of nights later, it happened all over again. I wake up, startled, and Alex is leaning over, staring in my face, I reach for her, my hands pass through, I run to check on her, and she is asleep. I was very confused, and a little worried.

It happened twice more, a couple of days apart, before I realized it was not Alex. This little girl, while adorned with long blonde hair, as Alex is, did not have the same hairstyle. In fact, it was a hairstyle Alex had never worn.


The shirt the little girl wore was always the same. A fairly modern fashioned T-shirt, with narrow grey and white horizontal stripes on it. Alex does not own a shirt like this. The biggest giveaway that this was not my little girl, and what should have been the first thing I noticed, was the black pools where her eyes should have been.


There is nothing evil about the girl, but it bugs me that she is right in my face when I open my eyes. She fades within a few seconds, but I can feel she is still there.

I finally asked Jack to describe her while Alex was at school, and he gave me the exact description of what I saw beside my bed. I asked Alex that afternoon, while she and I walked home from the bus stop together, and she described the same girl ... with one difference. To Alex, the girl's eyes were blue. Not the black pools Jack and I see. I am not sure if that is so the girl will not scare Alex, or what.

I am not sure what to make of it. It has happened a total of seven times in the last couple of weeks, usually about every other night, sometimes three nights in between. However, I have not seen her in about four nights now.

As an aside, Alex, who is 8, no longer needs to sleep with a bright light on for the first time ever. Now she uses a little 2-watt night light. This also started four days ago, the last time I saw the girl.

Jack says she is harmless, and as I said, I feel no particular sense of malice ... just a bit uneasy because of the way she presents herself to me.

Even with the ghosts I have seen, and the ones I feel, I have never considered myself to be haunted. For the first time since I became aware ... I wonder if I am ... or if it is the house ... or if it is random. I wonder what she wants, or does she want anything at all? Maybe she is just checking us out.

I wish I had more insight to this kind of thing.

For now, I just hope she stays wherever she has gone off to, so I can get some decent sleep at night!

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Devo - Freedom of Choice



IN ANCIENT ROME / THERE WAS A POEM / ABOUT A DOG / WHO FOUND TWO BONES / HE PICKED AT ONE / HE LICKED THE OTHER / HE WENT IN CIRCLES / HE DROPPED DEAD / FREEDOM OF CHOICE / IS WHAT YOU GOT / FREEDOM FROM CHOICE / IS WHAT YOU WANT

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

The Primal Scream



The slated Roof-Tops tiled
         With orange fading black mosses
                And panes shattered like cold
                      Rain droplets falling with the regularity
                            Of the nimble urbane Tom-cats
                                   Pausing like drunk gents, gap-to -gap
                                          They know their way home too well


Somewhere a piercing scream from far below

             A Child? A Women?, A form of silence
                   Is broken, stolen by a force not its own
                        The Toms move through to some elsewhere
                             The Gulls static like concrete sentinels watch
                                And are likewise watched, by what I observe
                                      Through the enclosed frame, somehow with them.

Cruel Nature We Watch


The picture burns an essence
Like incense irritating the eyes

No oil dissolves the visceral pain
Piercing like hot rods at the flesh

The prehistoric razors has it prey
In the precision ruthlessly tearing it

Asunder, it will be brought under waters
By degrees revolving round muddy degrees

Like a perfected machine it has no mind
For any other, struggling against what we see

Hopelessly, it will go remorselessly under,
Conceived barely on an indifferent Earth.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

On A May Evening





It is hard trying to imagine - just being here-
It’s only when I hesitantly arrive, Do I know
That there are places, realer than any other-
And what meets us, on our own solitary terms
Can never be understand as a fact of life,


For there is no language, private or otherwise
That can read the smell of the approaching rain
That can paint meadows the exactness of green
That can intone the Kingfisher’s unique song,
For we are the boundary that can but observe


The critical difference between us and them
For there can be no crossing to that other side,
Without going back to places that never were,
For there is no art realer than can we imagine
In the unwritten acts of nature coming into being.


Monday, May 6, 2013

Monologue in a Cosmology Lecture Part 1

Leonard Susskind
 
The question does not equal its answer.


 
 
They will come to understand
That not all forces are equal
That equilibrium is a rare rule
That reality is indeed a graduation
Abstracted like rings on the bark,
We imagine what we cannot know
And we know what we cannot imagine,
That islander not under the same heavens.
 
 
He says, there is a measure for all things
And for all things there is but that time
For some there is more, and for others, less
In the singular bonds of every attraction
We were bound toghter in that same fate
Of rough beginnings, middles, and endings
For this is the common stuff of everything,
The vicissitudes of myths and men, and their dreams
Glowing like primordial sparks in the dark matter,
Compelling, Us, for a second, to be something more.

 
The question does not equal its answer.

 

Sunday, May 5, 2013

H├Âlderlin’s Last Line (Before the Brown Shirts)



Madness like beauty can so be wise
Like barrages festooned with tourist’s faces
And buses flagged with token gestures
Is there something inexplicable to despise?
In the mythical Rhine browned with faeces
Before the same shirts floats Orpheus’s head
In a thousand folded octaves he still cries
The hymn to their submerged father-land,
In the sun-light, vines shine from your wines,
You, who imagined Patmos to be close to hand,
An exile and curiosity in your own home land

You who entered that silence from your first lines,

The domain of Gods,  not for us, should we know their signs.


 

The Curious Case Of Otto Stein




 

Otto Stern was born with a very unusual condition. Stern whose Father died when he was only a young lad, was brought up after the age of five solely by his mother, Anna, and his older sister, Eva. His mother, Anna, was a sensible and sensitive women, who possessed that well balanced combination of everyday Bavarian practical sense with a considerable degree of artistic talent.

For years, and particularly during the last few years of Otto senior's gradual "fading" (as they called it politely) from his environment and family, Anna, had gradually submerged her whole being into every facet of the family's daily existence, until she totally forgot about those remote interests and passions. At times, young Otto would remember his mother simply standing, motionless for long moments, over the old clay kitchen basin sink, as she just watched the winds come down from the Alps and play amongst the branches of the majestic apple tree in their back-yard. Then suddenly, the spell would be broken, and she would awake, not like the pristine sleeping princess of fairy tales, but more like a dowdy Cinderella, being brought back to the reality of peeling spuds and cleaning dirty clothes for a whole household.

And yet how any life can pass so quickly this way, she would ponder, looking down at the aging skin upon her now not so tender hands. Yet, how could it be any other way, for despite everything she never failed to love what she received in life, Otto was still a good man, brought low by that terrible curse, which, if anything re-enforced her affections for him, and for the children, both who were healthy and unusually intelligent. Eva was the quieter of the two, older by four years, introverted, and something of a loner, even as a baby, she seemed to always eschew the company of others, preferring to observe her surroundings without the need for direct human involvement. She, was nevertheless, close to Otto, whom she often referred to affectingly as the “baby”, even after he had reached the age of ten, and, this could annoy him grealty.


Young Otto, took after the old man in many ways, he enjoyed the outdoors, and, would ramble for hours, often with Jess, their old black Labrador for hours around the village’s surrounding woods and hills. During his ramblings he’ll gotten to know from an early age a lot of the folk from the hinterland, at times he’ll spend the entire afternoon for example in Siegfried’s blacksmith workshop, where the lad was always welcome, so long as he didn’t ask too many questions to the old man when he was busy, as Siegfried could on occasions bark and curse at the implements of his trade when things went wrong!. Still, Otto never minded the old man’s curses, they were amusing and colourful to him, to Otto the process of wielding in definable shapes the raw materials of life, was akin in his young mind to some type of magical process, which old Siegfried had observed in the child from his wise side way glances on occasions. Another, favourite hideaway Otto liked visiting on his ramblings was the boathouse on the lake of a local prince’s estate, here everything in the world was clam, serene, wonderful, here he could spend hours under the distant canopy of the Prince’s castle, letting his ideas form like the tiny ripples that came and went with the wind and the harvest men.



It was to such places that he had hidden away in again, when, eventually Otto senior in the early September days of Autumn 1955 finally passed away in the late evening just as darkness fell. Although, Anna expected it to happen, his now, actual none living presence, confirmed by the black coffin in the house for a few days after (as was custom in these parts) shocked here more than she ever thought possible. And so, half in a desperate need to escape the narrow confines of customs and memories in the village, she decided shortly after Otto's funeral, and, after many years of neglect to take the two youngsters a couple of times each week day to a place she visited years ago, hidden deep in the surrounding woods, a secret place known only to a few, a place where she half remembered miracles once happened. So in the succeeding days that followed, all three of them, set off, a few times each week, with paints and canvasses, and with that vague hope that she might be able to teach them something other than the unbending customs and habits of place and time. This is what she believed painting could do for people, let them see again, that's what she thought!... let them see the world as it is…..and yet how innocent she was to believe this too… a mature women, with her husband just dead... at least this what some of the villagers thought as they saw her, almost without a care, strolling off each time...what was she really up too, some of them shrewdly wondered. It's not natural to be so content after a bereavement, is it??


Yet, she didn't care any longer what they thought, still, if only in the beginning she knew where her paintings would eventually lead, to those domains, few imagined ..... the strange tales and stories that would brew, one wonders would she have begun in the first place. However for now, Anna, was beginning to feel oddly light, fresh, even young again...she still loved her dead husband's memory ..... however as time went on, his passing became to her a kind of blessing, she felt at times a little guilty about .....

Saturday, May 4, 2013

The curious case of Otto Henry

Otto was born with a condition which was indeed considerable.  His father, who was a dentist, always had the hope for a son who had a knack for stock brokering.  One day, it is true, his father did tell him that he was going to be too old some day to pay the price, and when that happens, we all know that he's the one who will be paying the piper.  This is what he said.  So when Otto was the age of four, he began to make songs.  He wrote them on wadded pieces of paper that were wadded first.  So much so was his obsession at the time, that his parents decided to take him to see a cultural attache.  But we all know what happened after that, his father went up the ladder, and so on.  This was the enigma, folks, which we all know, but when Otto said it was up for grabs, he was being sincere.  Who wouldn't?

 
(Dedicated with a wink to my friend James Henry)