Hyper-Sensitive States and Indirect Semantic Priming:
Inferring The Mechanics of Psilocybin's Novel Association Effect


Introduction:

The semantic network model, in its varied forms, serves as a metaphorical framework by which all we know of the world can be represented as a web or net of interrelated concepts, each shown as a node. These conceptual nodes are activated into associative strands during the formation of a thought, and this activation leads to the semantic priming of those associated nodes. Primed nodes are, then recognized and accessed more readily in subsequent semantic cognitive tasks.

Latent inhibition (LI) is the perceptual filter which screens from conscious awareness the stimuli which previously has been experienced as irrelevant or inconsequential. A decrease, or lowering, of this LI capacity has been linked with schizophrenia and also with exceptionally high creative achievement scores amongst high-functioning individuals. It is believed that the highly creative individual, whose attentional state is uninhibited, may thereby have access to a larger inventory of indirectly primed concepts, which may then be linked into novel associative strands. This preconscious gating mechanism, LI resembles the “Doors of Perception” described by Aldous Huxley.

in thought-disordered schizophrenic patients, activation spreads
faster and farther than in non-thought-disordered patients and
normal subjects, which results in an increased direct and indirect
semantic priming effect (Spitzer, 1996).

It seems that all interactive relationships can be thought of in terms of densities of medium and the laws that govern that dynamic fluid system. This is not so much a metaphor for the in-fluence, as a valid perspective of observation reliant on a change in scale. This macro or micro view of interactive influence, from objective to subjective, is typically not the most natural scale of perception, but one dependent on some tool, process, or technology which allows us to extend our "naked eye" vision, the inward extension of the microscope or outward expansion of the telescope. Yet, this upwards or downwards scalar reach beyond the bounds of our naked eye can apply, in just the same way, to the mind's eye. That is, that spectrum of scaled layers can be reflected along self, to extend as infinitely inwards as known observation does outwardly. In this way, relational laws of a the surface of a body of water become is not simply metaphor, but a valid perception of the interactive influence of two or more medium bodies.

A body of water, expressed as that planar surface held in tension by density, is actually defined by the air that surrounds it, that medium body of finer density. "Air," in this subjective view of social interaction for instance, can be thought of as the space between us, between two tensely bound fluid bodies, each inwardly vibrating at some periodic rate of density. Yet even this perception of subjective frequency is just one of many layers of interaction whose expression falls in accordance with the laws of fluid dynamics. In truth, when one begins to think of all frequencies in terms of densities, the implications can become overwhelming in their vastness, extending to the endless subjective expanse: the last frontier of science.

Key to a change in perceptual scale is the same acknowledgment of one's own medium, and its density. I believe that this, in most interactions, is a sign of a capacity uniquely-human. It is safe to say, for instance, that most fish are not naturally conscious of the watery medium they live and breath in. Yet, for moments of gasping confusion in a death or near-death experience, our interaction with fish brings them sudden and dramatic awareness of a different medium, one "above them," existing in a differing bound density, a higher bandwidth of molecular frequency. I imagine him getting pretty shook up by the ordeal, experiencing some serious fishy Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder! Yet it is us, the higher lifeforms, who have learned from the objective perception of that medium, that body of water, and have come to know and utilize the lower life, like him, that exist there beneath the surface.

In a way like that of the fish, we are perhaps rarely conscious of our own energetic density, the waves of influent frequency in which we bob and float. Energy, even while our technology reveals it to be awash in everywhere through and of us, we simply don't "see" it, in the same way our fish was never "seeing" water - only feeling and unconsciously moving subject to its waves of pressure and, on larger scales, its expansive currents of depth, velocity, time, viscosity, and temperature. The implication is that finer densities of energy, in the same way, exist above us as well and, to carry it further, can define the "side" of a medium suitable for the carriage of conscious life. In the same way, our own species descriptions of near-death and death experiences show similar themes: ascent towards light, crossing to some "other side," in many cases interacting with a conscious being who seems to be more aware of the boundary of those two mediums than we are.

Of course, like what we could imagine of our fish's near death experience, our flat-line crossover returnees share the same feelings of fear, as well as perhaps awe, wonderment, helplessness, direction or guidance, and, I'd like to believe, a memory and appreciation for something beyond himself. He who went to the other side, and returned to tell what he saw there. Of course, these are fantastic projections for a little fish, the core contrast, that between waves of water and waves of energy, is a meaningful one that can harvested for relevant associations between observable physical laws and our interaction with the subtle energy, the afterlife, all the classes of phenomenon which have come to define the culturally-universal human experiences of spirit.

Tags: afterlife, density

me: (just a warning)

Not Me McGee: not so sure about tonight. I am exHAUSTED

me: out of haust

11:55 PM Sorry

Busy day

?

Not Me McGee: HIGH GUY!

busy week

me: Its fine, no opresser

Not Me McGee: But yeah, busy day, too

I wrote a private entry about it

me: I mean, I will not oppress you to talk if you're really tired.

But I am here to talk, calmly

11:56 PM if that would help

Not Me McGee: what a weird way of saying so

me: it came out of my pressure typo

and maybe I feel like that

I feel like when I dont smoke pot for a long time, I get "oppressive"

11:57 PM or...dominant in unnatractive ways

Like, I dont know where it comes from, but I notice it

Not Me McGee: hmmm, that's an interesting observation

I think I can relate to that. I am more righteous and judgmental when I've been off the pot

11:58 PM me: and mostly notice it in reflections of the personality in other people...just how they respond to that ego that starts to rear back up over time

Yea...the righteous, and the insistance, and the judging, and the general stand offishness

I get damned insistant about things!

...nobody likes that. I dont like that.

11:59 PM But, somehow, certain things begin to seem real important. Certain ideas, certain needs to express.

12:00 AM I have a girlfriend

12:01 AM Not Me McGee: congratulations on your acquisition

12:05 AM Sorry that was obnoxious and oppressive, but I was only teasing

12:06 AM me: No, it was an acquisition. I own a girlfriend.

...all strings attached.

Not Me McGee: lolz

me: Hah. I think I might as well smoke more...

I have this powerful but sneaky smooth strain called Lavender

12:07 AM ...the subconscious gushes

Not Me McGee: ooh, I like the sound of that. Send me some

.plz

me: heh, oh, you cant trick me. you HATE pot! :P

Not Me McGee: hah

12:08 AM I have been smoking it in smallish doses quite regularly. It's been a different experience than before

12:11 AM me: Yea, it gets to be a pretty fluid dynamic, if you l let your personality build up before smoking again...

A lot more melts

12:12 AM ...the effect can be oceanic.

Not Me McGee: Can I tell you a secret?

I feel extremely sexy

12:13 AM me: No secret there!

;)

Not Me McGee: Yeah, it's really not a secret

me: I have lately too! I love the looks, on a dance floor...the eyes, the glances, the touches...

I felt so fucking sexy last night. Like every girl was mine.

12:14 AM Thats that dominant feeling rearing its head again...

but, its very masculine. Sometimes just letting it out can be an amazing feeling.

Being a fucking man, stomping my foot. Standing tall.

12:16 AM ...people respond to that. It is very much something felt in the room, posture and the subtle messages of voice, tone, micro-expressions of that strong subjective state. Women seem to fall into it.

In a garden of ancient carved stone and water, filled with Amazonian tribesmen, I took photographs. It was an ancient religious shrine of these South Americans, but was becoming more tourist-based over time. One of the wilder traditionally-dressed tribesmen saw me photographing him next to a mossy wall with a face carved in it. He became aggressive and, in the shot, I watched as he quickly ran towards and threw something at me. It was seeds – corn kernels, all that he had to throw or was allowed to, having been “tamed” to tolerate for white tourist intrusions like mine. The seeds fell into the water and were eaten by the large fish there.

 

It was there that I was taught the psyche of Saru, the mild-mannered, reasonable, and agreeable tribesman who, when given the power of dynamite by his white boss and “master,” changed so quickly and so dramatically. With the dynamite in his hands, this usually friendly and humble man became a megalomaniac, eager to control and sublimate those around himself – even those he loves – using the great power he suddenly wields. And so the lords of this jungle give him this power, this dynamite, once again only to show me the transformation and teach me that any power that I have is not actually mine, but also theirs.

 

In this teaching is a meaningful comparison between Saru, who I watched become something twisted and evil, and myself – who have, likewise, been given something powerful and potentially dangerous. If I simply use this powerful tool to do what is desired of me by the “masters,” then I will be rewarded and a continual and mutually-beneficial relationship will be forged between us. Yet, if I take this dynamite and use it for my own selfish ends, I will never receive it again and my ties to these great teachers will be cut.

 

While, yes, the energy and power given through me by these greater spiritual teachers, or “masters,” in the Amazon could certainly be used to control and manipulate for personal gains, this is a “small scale” control and it is a short-term gain. With the great energy and insight came intention and direction. This intention, this delineated task, took me into account as well and would be for my benefit. The difference being that this benefit was to be long term and would require more genuine attention and continual reliability on my part. Can I be a truly useful helper? If so, I will surely be rewarded at the end of the long day!

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.


Pablo Neruda

Tags: neruda, pablo neruda

Hey Nate,

I am frustrated that I am often unable to describe understandings and rationalizations concerning spirituality, ego, and the divine nature of identity as clearly and eloquently as I could when those understandings first came to me, over a decade ago. It seems when a concept goes unused, unexpressed and unspoken, it eventually fades from cognition - as if that branch withers from lack of "flow," or semantic activation, and is eventually pruned. The thought of my best and most expansive understandings of myself, divinity, and the depths of consciousness wilting before my very thought is a truly painful one, and a point of great shame. That is, those realizations which were the pride and joy of my life - those understandings which finally gave existence meaning and were to, potentially, define my worth beyond my time, have dried, cracked, and broken - no longer clearly and meaningfully expressible with the few words that remain for me to speak through. Haha - not to sound so dramatically depressing!  This is aging, I suppose - although it seems that some individuals simply age faster than others.

Regardless, even when clearly expressed through strong rapport and full understanding on the part of the listener, ideas and opinions shared in that moment rarely last and, over a short time - months even - only a vague impression of that encounter and its topic remain for that listener to recall. While I may have expressed realizations concisely and meaningfully to you, and these ideas may have resonated clearly with you, in full understanding, the greater the complexity of the idea, the less will remain the next day, the next week, the next month - until only a sort of "heading" of the idea remains for you, with little of the rationale or associations made remaining to support those conclusions you once shared in full agreeance. So, what happens to the listener happens, eventually, to the reader and, even later, to the speaker himself!

Anyway, I had read this and could not recall the clear and concise associations drawn, only that I had resonated deeply with them at one time and admired them for their sound and reasonable logic. This is a well-argued point and if you agree, specifically the opening points made in the first few paragraphs (more specifically, the important comparison between LSD, a tool of consciousness, and the Microscope, a tool of biology, and his distinctions between the self-perception in Eastern and Western cultures-which was the main area of Watts' academic expertise.)

I have put key resonant points in bold - please try not to get "sucked into" the political perspectives, as they are quite secondary to the main point of the essay. : )

Yours,

-K

 

Psychedelics and Religious Experience
by Alan Watts

(Originally appeared in the California Law Review, Vol. 56, No. 1, January 1968, pp. 74-85.) Copyright Alan Watts & California Law Review.

 

( The experience resulting from the use of psychedelic drugs... )

Tags: alan watts, consciousness, lsd, william james

In the dream, I was burning all my paddles and my guns...my direction and my defenses, to keep the fire going through the night.

The deer will approach and impart her wisdom from upstream, on an area of equal footing. Their minds are agile, their senses so delicately-tuned; ears perked with a jump at the slightest sign of intrusion or danger. This sensitivity allows the deer to know and perceive things that I cannot. This part of her world is what she will teach me, but only when I have learned to calm myself.

Slow the inverse of the room's frame introduce you to a surface, one you are descending beneath.
On slow drawn fortunes I we cross lo see lakes inner world strange and unseen realm of life.

Descend into the sub conscious medium, submerge into consciousness. The surface of the lake, our sunlight beach skin, is behind us here. We have dove in, we are going deep.

In our subconscious ocean exist beautiful and ugly creatures...neither of which we see in our finer density:Air, sunlit and self-contained. While our bodies have developed beyond the ocean, we must remember our past...that spiritual realm from which we emerged, our life a short-lived excursion up into physical land, this place and its transplendent rupture of surface, one incarnate for every consciousness.

The bound conscious, each with its inner bandwidth of sustained life. Each representing a set of frequencies, interdependent and communicative within their species bandwidth

Slow sombre sections carry the bandwidths of stones, and higher yet: the calm inwardly-emotive ocean of trees and plants.

Stkear sSRains not sored her, it only carries.

Follow a distracting torrent down towards some. Twitch

Some who, the pelvis torques out in a whirr of memory.
Take a resonating flair as a presence, A memory remaining behind a wound;
The infection of wounds untreated.
Higher densities we may travel, swimming upwards towards light far above, gracing another surface, another boundary of medium, light filtered in frequenciees, diffracted and darkened: the higher slopes and the upper light.

And somewhere there in the sound of water falling lies every frequency we could know...flowing at once, the meeting of water and air, a resonant spectrum is captured, like a hallway into frequency, into the forever resonance of light. Iwill not forget thathistory, that ancestral frequency, bound by my eyes. To this plane. Can I replayh the sexless intimage, the feltless being I have carried. Nads gnards. Gnosis Gnockers.

Untreated wound in our conscious subservice. We, perhaps, were bit once down there by a crab, or stepped on a poisonous defense., the barbs of a jellyfish or anemone . Twitch where sickness remains, where the barbs remain lodged, Stinging.

Staw born country gold aint never seen no jelklyfish round his county. I reckon you be comin from a nudder state, waay down reckon you might run inta a jellyfish. I aint seen one, but I's heard stories – mah cuzin was a sailer, a traveller who saw far distant realms and ways a knowin. They werent all so differerent, really...some were livin off the same roots as us, the cultures of ancient interaction a which we aint never formed recall. We get so distracted in our day to day jobs and place that we forget the branches of civilized expansion which exis \t beneath us...m\in mediums of air or of water, they live.

High density resonance....the density of a metal, and the conductant properties of that dencity.

Insulate the purity of tone into its shades no more. Let pure resonant tone chime down from above.

This is the meditative opoening of a bell, the calling back to a cleaner focus. The clarity of a bell's chime, the awakening that it brings to us if we let it. If we follow it in fully. It rewards in bounties of resonant warmth, a coursing of inner allignment.

Well pourn in from a puncture point, solid wire tone, clean and pure.
I'll claim my old land, the forgotten family plot.
I remember their grace, the calm protective grandparents of this old cabin.
Shining down on me, my concerned ancients whose love I carry here.
Whose eyes are not only mine, patient teachers, nudging me along.
Thank you, thank you, I love you.

And I know it is you that cry in insurmountable joy with me,
it is you who I feel who I can trust whenever I need.
I am sorry I can be such an ignorant child, so easily distracted, so rare to listen.
But please remember that moment, when I did listen and I did learn, oh how I learned!
And we connected, and you felt it, please remember I can learn like that again.
Have faith that I will be a better vessel.All that which you know I can be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There's a sharpness to chemically-induced bright eyes,
it tends to give people headaches
as the eyes flare awake in the passion of conversation.

My eyes rest nestled in a moist purple lagoon,
bags of sleep, pillows softening my waking state.
I push my eyes out of bed, but they just roll back.

I strain to see beyond the red veil, eyes rolled back.
Rolling fabric into slow forms, writing, images sounds,
each unwinding a flow show of emotion, burst open.

Harrison Bergeron

by Kurt Vonnegut (1961)
( People are different from one-another. Can you believe there was once a time we were taught to believe they weren't? )

Tags: equality, fiction, harrison bergeron, science, vonnegut

Drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest...
works for some things, but not for rotting.
The moist, the hidden, the warm, the sedentary;
these only speed the progression of the decay.

Tell me stories of hard work, of overcoming adversity,
of never giving up, of fighting for...
something.
anything.

I love these stories, these fairy tales and hero myths.
Just don't tell me the ending, please.
As happy as it may be, I'd rather assume they all die,
In fire or something about as painful.

Because I hate them...
These perky beautiful successes with faces smooth like the backs of thumb tacks.
I hate them because I remember too much
of our places and of all those games I didnt play.

Unfinished parts spread across me like scrawled impatience,
until the last of the promised simply leave.
Haha. Serious.

( Please be careful... )

Tags: 4chan, epic, image dump

The fists of the little men were not curled so tight	1
when they were infants	2
when they cried openly just to be held.	3
And if I cry openly	4
will you hold me again?	5
If I fall to your lap,	6
collapse to your feet	7
will you hold me again?	8
For you knew I was a little man,	9
you knew what none of them knew	10
You knew I was really so small	11
that I would climb inside you to sleep.	12
And if I die openly,	13
would you cry for me again?	14
If I fall to your lap,	15
collapse to your feet	16
will you know me again?	17
Remember that song I sung you,	18
about how far loneliness can reach	19
and curl into a shell.	20
and blind your memory	21
so you dont know which home	22
you're in at night.	23
And if I sing openly,	24
would you feel with me again?	25
If I fall to your lap,	26
collapse to your feet	27
will you hear me again?	28
There's a careless love	29
and there's a careful love	30
and their gaping difference	31
can be hidden in a dress like yours	32
for only	33
so long

Me and my Mormon roommate began talking about sexual perversions. His 2 closest friends described being molested from within the family. I suggested that sexual repression seems to often lead to sexually deviant behavior, to which he, disagreed – defending the self-restrictive sexual lifestyle of the traditional Christian, a lifestyle which he was born and raised into. I described desire, passion, and emotion as having a fluid nature - within each person, a river whose current is destined to flow outwards, into expression. This river has force, but this fluid conception of emotion is merely a metaphor, but that emotion literally is a type of energy, a current flowing and dispersed constantly along the minutely sensitive branches and tributaries of our nervous system. In addition, when the naturally-intended course of this “river” of passion is consciously suppressed or blocked, it's force does not simply end and forgotten, but continually and collectively builds – bound to surface up eventually; being released in some indirect, unnatural, or explosive way.

An example of this which I gave is the Freudian Slip. Lets say we see on someone's face a giant mole, with long horse hairs sprouting from it. In seeing it, we immediately suppress our desire to look at it, while our natural curious desire is to point it out, poke, prod, study, and draw attention to it. The fluid current of this desire is blocked and suppressed beneath the surface of consciousness, but tends to push upwards to that surface nonetheless - the force of that desire, instead, diverting, against all our best intentions, to an indirect release route. The near-obsessive fascination with the socially-unacceptable builds pressure beneath our conscious thought – eventually spouting out of the nearest available crack or weak spot in our semantics.

“So, how did you two meet?”
“Well, I first saw him at that huge shopping mole over in North Hampton. Umm... I'm sure you know the one, it's hard to miss!”

This is an example of that unacceptable thing we are thinking being held at the very edge of our conscious expression, but not being “officially” allowed passage through. Yet, the longer that thought remains there, supressed and forced deep into hiding, the more likely it will quickly sneak out  through our conscious control the first chance it gets. This common occurrence follows the same rules of fluid dynamics we would see if trying to restrict the flow of a river or, perhaps even more appropriate, trying to hold a pocket of air beneath water. Some of it is going to escape our grasp and surface eventually.

So, an example more closely-related to the point of sexual perversion and suppression of desire is that of the Catholic priest and the little choir boy. The population of Catholic priests practicing pedophilia and sodomy is much higher than that of the general population, but why?
The priest's natural desire, like that of any man, is comparable to the force of a river flowing: the male attention which flows naturally towards a beautiful woman. Yet, that sexual relationship he wants is unacceptable, but that does not stop him from thinking and suppressing and obsessing over that sexual act continually as the force of that unquelled human need grows within him. Following the same fluid nature as the slip, the passion “escapes” through the closest available outlet – that of the submissive boy who he spends so much time with. It is an unnatural outlet of his natural desire which “slips out,” since that most natural outlet, the beautiful girl, is unacceptable and barred to him. The flowing expression of his most basic sexual need blocked consciously, but destined to see the light of day, in this case via the closest secondary route, the obedient young boy. These examples, I said, show that there is a relationship between between sexual suppression and sexual deviance.

My Mormon friend said the water analogy was vague. We broadened the discussion from sex to nature-itself, morality, and my tendency, so he said, to associate nature with goodness. To this, I fell back on an old MSU era catchphrase of mine:

“Good and Bad are categories WE create and place on nature, which could care less one way or the other.”

That is to say Good and Bad are the outermost superficial layer, a label used for convenience and easy storage. In this way, we can "capture" nature in the net of our semantics.

I told him that the act of love is not acceptable by the Christian. Sex is a dirty word, a crude and shameful bodily act which must be “dealt with.” It is dealt with and purified by the Church, “made good” through the sanctity of marriage – God's "OK," a thumbs up from Jesus giving you the green light to start fucking.

But,there is no more natural a desire than to make love, to pursue, compete for, and impress a beautiful woman. Evolutionary biology would say this is the cornerstone of all culture, the “Peacock Show” of every generation of man - each cocky pubescent reaching prime and strutting their colors, outdoing the others in a grand display of potency. Is not every male, essentially, competing for the attention of the female in his own unique way? That young Bill Gates striving to show his superiority using the unique “colored feathers” his techno-culture afforded him? That young Paul McCartney driven to prove his abilities and, in doing so, attract the affections of millions of horny nubile virgins with his song?

This drive to impress to impregnate is a biological one and its products define the peak of all culture and civilization. The peak of a man's identity can be drawn on the same curve which represents his sexual potency, his virility a sort of fuel, heating his personality to radiate brightly. This same curve has been observed and given different names by different psychologists, as it represents so many aspects of a man's being: The Age/Genius Curve, The Age/Crime Curve, The Age/Cognition Curve, The Age/Risk Curve, all essentially following the same chronology of ascent and descent.

“But nature often not good. Are you saying a man getting angry and hitting his children is a good thing? Anger, and other emotions, arise naturally – but it is the moral and socially-responsible individual who learns to control them. This is how a good person is defined.”

I believe what you're describing is not nature VS goodness, but a differentiation between two levels or stages of the same natural progression:  ...cont'd.

Tags: evil, evolutionary biology, love, peacock theory, sex

Oh, I just wanna slap that pussy at the end.
Make him watch as I forcefeed his daughter greasy sausage.

My God...

Its just too wrong to "Favorite" but at the same time, its too rare to just let it go.

Finally arrived back home, safe and sound, from South America.
My God, robbed 4 times, beaten bloody, cheated, shamed, and raped.
I was sure the bad luck of these last 2 weeks could get no worse...

Hours after stepping off the plane, I am hit by a speeding SUV.
Drivers side door completely caved in, no seatbelt, blood everywhere - gushing from my head.
Broken ribs, badly hurt spine, dizzy, disoriented, crawling from the passenger side across red broken glass to the sidewalk...

My car insurance ran out when I was in Peru...
I am told I was at fault, even though she was doing well past 50 in a 25 MPH residential zone.

What the hell is going on?  How can so many horrible things happen in turn, one after another, so relentlessly?
It seems everything I do ends in gushing blood, pain, and loss.

I kept asking myself this: Where did this bad luck come from?  Why is this happening?
An answer came in a flash of memory, but its not an answer I want to admit.
 

 

The cleaning lady came knocking around 1 pm and so I needed to be somewhere else for a time to get out of her way. I took my new camera and my Ipod, thinking I'd go for a quick jaunt, catch something to eat, and kill some time somewhere, maybe seeing something interesting to photograph on the way. I got outside the hotel door and, instead of heading towards the Plaza de Armas, or central square, where I'd headed essentially every one of the 26 days I'd been in Lima, I would try heading the opposite way for once and hopefully find some new stuff to look at.

First, a street that seemed to sell only mirrors – hundreds in individual shops reflecting the other reflective shops on the street of self-reflecting shops. Wonderful pictures here, 3 gorgeous funhouse-style artsy numbers. At the end of this was one of these old carved stone buildings, this one had more of an Incan motif than of the regular Spanish colonial style of most older buildings. I took a few macro shots of the grotesque faces on the outside, and then went in, where a guard stood at a closed metal grid gate. He made some fuss in those Spanish words of his, and I just kinda pointed where I wanted to go and said “cuando?” assuming it was some kinda museum. He nodded slightly, so I unlatched the gate and went in where there was a beautiful sunlit inner courtyard, divided into quarters, with a Roman style fountain in the middle. There was an old fat man pushing one of those old motorless lawn mowers back and forth over one of the grassy quarters, sweating splotches through his tightly tucked tshirt. Another slightly younger slick looking man stood back a few feet, watching intently with silent approval. My God, I needed to capture that interaction perfectly! Bossman and the lowly old fatty beneath, huddled over, huffing away behind his monotony. I got the perfect shot on the 3^rd try, with the slightest of grins evident on Bossman's face. Beauty.

There were Romanesque statues all over the courtyard, arms missing and everything. A couple had dates, some over a century old. Some good pictures of an angel's wings and a broken off cock and some thought wrinkles. Apparently the place wasn't a museum, but an art school of some kind – there were classes in session here and there. I snuck up on the roof and got yelled at, but played dumb to stay and got some pics of the elaborate art school graffiti. I snuck into a plush polished oak room labeled “Director” and even got gutsy and went into his office there, but only for a brief second to snap a pic. Man, I love this new camera!

Walked into a class and said “Hola!” Young, hip-looking art students were lounging around joking. I talked with one of the girls whose eyes lit up when I said I was from San Francisco – surely some sort of artist mecca they'd read about in books. The one boy was finishing an awesome painting of bright smiling children's dolls hanging themselves. I took a picture from a weird angle along the noose rope and he liked it.

Found a museum down the road of only old machines of the Industrial Revolution, convoluted geared monstrosities which the steam punk in me ejaculated over with interest – getting 11 macro shots of just the meticulous intertwining gears meeting angled pistons and levers towering over faded needle gauges.

The streets started to get a bit more craggy, the sidewalk intermittent. The neighborhood was edging into ghetto. The next museum, appropriately, was one of Peruvian money – piles of outdated currency stacked behind plastic for the poverty-stricken locals to oogle over. If I was smart, I would have turned back here.

Exiting the museum, I saw one of the ancient cathedrals that litter the city – this one looking familiar somehow. Walking down a narrower street, I saw the buildings were dated from the 1800's and many were crooked, falling down, or completely dilapidated, but still being lived in. These photos of the living conditions of these people were my pride and joy. I had never seen anything like it, the 200 year old building, with ornately carved stone and wood, gutted with decades of electrical wires and clothes lines hanging, barbed wire and dog shit dirt over once-immaculate tiled flooring. Crooked century old stairs falling sideways, but obviously still in daily use – with nailed boards propped against them to keep the children from plummeting from their 3^rd floor living space. My God, just the collision and collapsing of ages onto themselves. I was beaming with pride – surely some of the best photography of my life!

After bravely entering 3 of these living spaces, whose doors were left open, and getting these incredible sets, I began hunting for more such open ( and assumable public) locations. This brought me further down the narrow street to where there were abandoned cars and burnt out buildings, more locks and more barbed wire that the previous street. Yea, I saw it was rough, but I was sure I was safe. It was just after 2 PM afterall - broad daylight with cars and people passing - nobody was going to fuck with me.

I saw another open door across the street. I could see it led into a sort of narrow alleyway. I walked over and hopped in, not even noticing the 8 or so teenagers who were standing on the nearby corner until they were standing at the doorway, looking in at me – a foreigner, a gringo, trespassing onto their turf, possibly right into their home! I heard from behind me “tourista” and “camera” and as I turned around, I was confronted with the largest, a heavyset boy of about 19, who spoke broken English. “My friend, how are you? You take picture?”

I edged past him and got out of the doorway back into the street, sudden aware of being surrounded by many others, all of them smiling forced menacing smiles down at me, in a playfully aggressive sort of way.

“Take our picture! Si? Take our picture. We soccer futbol play. Take our picture!!” the four main boys played along, huddling in a hug, all smiles...waiting.

My first instinct was, of course, to say I don't have a camera and to get out of there. But they had just seen me with the camera, taking the picture, I thought to myself. If they caught me lying, they would get hostile and things would escalate. I hesitated, all these thoughts racing through my head as I held my camera firmly in my pocket.

“Comeon Friend! Take our picture!!” his voice growing louder, impatient.

I took the camera out, and quickly snapped a picture of the four smiling boys. They stopped smiling. Holding the camera close to my hip, I turned the screen low towards them pretending to care to show them the picture and, mumbling a goodbye, huddling off away from them. My tense body language surely making my intimidation obvious, the inwardly-turned tightened shoulders and downturned eyes of submission surely inspired equally-obvious feelings of machismo and bravado amongst the gang and their leader, who had dominated the interaction with me. But, regardless, I had gotten away and they were behind me. I could continue my exploring.

I walked a few more blocks, an abandoned police station? Wow, yea...

Another doorway! Open, just a bit up an alley, yes! This one was beautiful, not dirty like the previous ones. Inside was a manicured stone garden and winding walkway, with an old Bonzai-like tree overarching the doorway. In the distance, a mountain seemed as if to be embraced by the reaching branches of the tree. I knelt down for the perfect angle, and a second shot of the pathway meeting the stone wall, holding my breath to carefully balance the meeting of the lines in the distance from the frame. One more, to try to capture that feeling of being enclosed by the tree, that feeling of safety - to create an illusion of safety in the photograph, yes. Satisfied, I turned to leave.

Coming out of the door, my smiling heavyset soccer friend was just walking by. “Hello. What are you doing?” he said loudly, coming in close.

As I opened my mouth to respond, a wirey shave-headed boy from behind grabbed at my wallet. I yelled “Hey!” and backed against the wall, but the first move had been made against me, I had been physically touched, which granted a sort of unspoken permission for all the others in the pack.

A 3^rd boy reached for my arm from across the leader, while the wirey one nabbed again for my wallet, this time with success! My mind was reeling fast. I reached out grabbing for him as he ran, but was held now on both sides by two of the teenage boys, others circling around. I let out a deep angry yell and elbowed the one on my right hard in the jaw and shook the other one loose.

The boy with the wallet watched, transfixed on the scene like a deer in headlights on the other side of the road.

“You Fuck! You wanna go!? Comeon!” I yelled loud, deep, angry, ready. That skinny little pissant wasn't nothing! But, permission had been granted...

I lunged hard after the wirey boy, running full tilt at him as a fourth boy grabbed at my jacket pocket, tearing it open at the seam.

From my left, a quick kick between my feet broke my lunge and sent me sliding hard against the gravel cement. From there, the 7 had me down and were quick to pounce. From the now torn pocket spilled my camera onto the cement, which 5 frenzied hands quickly grabbed at. I snatched it first and clutched it to my chest as 3 hands pried and pulled. Two boys above me began first punching my head, and then kicking, while a 5^th joined in, kicking my ribs. I screamed through the taste of blood now gushing from my nose and face “HEEELLLLP!!! HEEEEELLLPPP!!”

I could hear the desperation in this voice, the way it cracked with volume through the instinct. It was a primal sound and I heard it separately, as if from a place not in my body.

I stubbornly held onto the camera I was so proud of for long seconds – 10, 15, getting beaten with growing determination. One of the boys managed to pry off two of my long fingers while the other extracted the camera from the opening. And, like a pack of hyenas , they broke all at once and fled up the alley. I looked up and saw all of the people who had heard my cry for help and come out of their houses to watch the beating.

 

“Dada Manifesto 1918”
TRISTAN TZARA
 


The magic of a word—Dada—which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen,
is of no importance to us.
 
To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC
to fulminate against 1, 2, 3

( to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and... )

 

Tags: dada, manifesto, tristan tzara

Experimental Music: Doctrine

John Cage

 

This article, there titled Experimental Music, first appeared in The Score and I.M. A.Mag-

azine, London, issue of June 1955. The inclusion of a dialogue between an uncom-

promising teacher and an unenlightened student, and the addition of the word ”doc-

trine” to the original title, are references to the Huang-Po Doctrine of Universal

Mind.
 

 

( Objections are sometimes made... )

 

Tags: experimental, john cage

Using a metronome of a set tempo, each musician will individually play the whole of a 4/4 measured song of (# of musicians + 2) changes, each recording their parts in turn and in solitude.

I will prepare each musician individually with a 4 count introducing the first measure of the piece.

I will provide only a root key with which they may harmonize around, encouraging simplicity over adventurous or showboaty maneuvers if, for no other reason, as a sign of respect for their fellow musicians, ensuring harmonious integration with those collaborators who they will at no time throughout the recording session be able to hear.

To aid the musicians in their adherence to the root key, its frequency will be generated by an oscillator and sustained beneath the metronome for reference.

Of the (# of musicians + 2) changes, (# of musicians / 2)  themes will be developed and returned to 2 times each.

Each musician will receive a number and this number will be that of the 4 measures and subsequent change of the piece which highlights their instrument. They own these 4 measures and may express themselves with greater freedom within them, although being asked to stay within the harmonic bounds of the root key, for which the reference tone is generated throughout the recording session.

After each layer of the piece is recorded, I will arrange the parts into 4 different versions:

• The first will have each musician beginning their recording of the first measure at the same moment. This will be the resultant song expected by the musicians.
• The second will have the musician's recorded parts randomly divided into two sides - each representing a temporal stream of the same piece. I will begin the 2nd half of these instruments, that is the Second Stream, at 1/4 of one measure behind that of the 1st half, that First Stream which contains the drummer's recording.
• The third arrangement, following this pattern, will show the two streams divided by 2 whole measures.
• The fourth arrangement will, as inverse to the second, show the two streams divided by 3 and 3/4 measures - always with the First Stream being that rhythmic layer, whichever half of the tracks, by random assignment, contained the drum recording.

Tags: fluid mechanic, studios

Thnking back over the affairs of the day, and how impure I've let my tone become.

Hoarse and cracked, dry and thin – this brittle frame of the fullness which I...etc, etc...

 

My god, I pick my nose and watch the spit stains on the hotel wall vibrate.

This is the grand tradition, that of Ginsberg and Burroughs,

To find a seedy South American hotel and sit in it, alone with a typewriter, and do massive amounts of drugs.

Let them spill out like everything else, The words, the worlds, the weird fucking space conspiracies unfolding like lazer light extravaganzas for the little douche I am. We are. I was. He is. Wait...

I did it for the lulz

I remember how in the 4^th grade I would pretend to not be able to talk clearly. Stuttering with “uhhh's” long pauses andd obnoxiously drawn out “ummm's”

And then I would speak go back to talking normal.
(Speak go back would backspace backspace)

Talking normal better better best for drinky stupid-love appeal

(Subconscious dialogue: I must connect, I must connect with stupid.)

 

Dialogue, itself, looks up with its monocle and British accent.

My extended tea finger pinky is like a sensitive antenna to my deepper self

Getting readings from the surface, delicate wavelengths above.

 

How much do we truly want to know of a person through their writing?

Doesn't part of us want to be saved the embarrassing details, the ugly unsightly parts,

it is a social art, after all, lets try to show some grace, or at least save some dignity.

I'll ride up to where my nose isnt bleeding, I'll ascend the scabs like foot steps on stepping stones to cloudy thrones and saintly domes. That's the spirit!

 

Bypass it all, quick, step daintily over all the rivers of blood and ugly pain you are.

 

Oh, sweetheart, don't take offense.

You know there was a genuine layer in my sarcasm.

Trust that it shines for you under the jealousy layer. ; )

 

Fuck, I am still so thirsty!

I consider drinking the Bano water, and taste a mouthful.

A shiny bouquet of metallics and chemicals, icks...

Sure, I start thinkin...

 

Sterilize, sterilize... Oxy!

Benzoyl Peroxide, that kills bacteria, right?

As good as chlorine bleach tablets or regular peroxide for sure...

 

Brilliant! Now I have bottle of tainted disease water, with soap suds to accent the bouquet.

This shit slip n slides its way down the gullet!

 

While in the bathroom, I caught glimpse of these beautiful eyes, still fully dilated.

Like night skies shining out from the cavernous recesses of this body, there is an above within here...and how easily we forget,

the light of the moon

that guides us into dreams each night.

 

Of the differences between drunk dialing and mescaline dialing, I must say

I can't massage my eyes on the phone

 

Matt:

$$$BIG MONEY HERE$$$$

The untapped Awkward Family Photos market.

Like the Old Fashioned B/W Family Photo at the fair,

only in polyester and matching Christmas sweaters (MUST have dog-sized sweater)

$$$BIG MONEY HERE$$$$

 

 

 

I became interested in the topic of beat frequencies and the entrainment of brainwaves about half a decade ago. While experimenting in my music studio alone late one night, I began working with the single sine wave of a voltage controlled oscillator. I did not understand why, but I loved the sound of just this single tone – the purity and meditative warmth it seemed to carry in its endless sustain. Unlike any other instrument I had worked with, the synthesizer's sounds did not need to end or die down, as was so when you reached the end of your lung's capacity playing the flute, or the end of the bow of the violin. This tone was continuous and, in its unchanging monotony, seemed to have a special effect on my mind; a sort of soft lulling of attention as my mind became accustomed to the ambience of the tone. Yet, this gradual accustoming of the mind became even more intense as I slowly introduced the level of a second voltage controlled oscillator of the same waveform type. What became audible was a slight pulsing sound which, as I slowly increased the volume of the second tone, grew in intensity. I remember it being a manic throbbing in my ears that seemed to envelop my mind, and even seemed to cause my heart rate to raise to match the intensity of the tempo. It became clear, in these quiet unassuming tones, there was hidden something very powerful – a third tone, a low frequency oscillation (LFO) existing independent from the two parent tones.

I soon learned how to control this third LFO or beat frequency by adjusting the frequency of either of the two parent sine waves. I found that as I gently relaxed the tempo of this relentless beat frequency, I could feel a disorienting shift in my inward mental state, a sensation I could only describe as a feeling of inner rotation. As I introduced recordings of these experiments to my friends, their experiences matched my own: the sensation of a peculiar change in mental state which, in the lower frequencies, seemed to cause drowsiness and, in the higher frequencies, seemed to cause excitation. While their experience seemed to match my own, their reaction was not nearly as unanimous! “Kaleb! Shut it off, please! I feel like my brain is going to explode!”

This music I was making sent me into a frenzy of research, as I tried to find out what exactly was happening and why. I soon found that my “discovery” was actually nothing new, but was referred to as entrainment and had been explored by science for nearly a century and explored by in various religious practices for millenia.

The slope of cognition has two sides: the ascent to development's peak, reached around 24 years of age, and the slow decline that which follows. I am a pushy dick.

Willful, strong, and potent, like vinegar, with piss to mark all which I claim as mine. These hormones pump with pomp and stomp like a male peacock attracting the mates of his world and the eyes of ours. This peak of cognition is the peak of individual selfhood and identity as well, and represents the fruitful beauty of nature, fully ripened and alive.

When that mate is finally attracted and the seed of that fruit is passed on successfully, we finally relax. The tense deliberate show, the huff-puffing of plumage, may wind down safely – the frantic drive to impress has reached it's conclusion and we may rest soundly. Our bodies carry this slope within them, the levels of our biology are both hard-wired and softwared to it's progression. It is a wave that crashes with every generation, with every subsequent generation rising up from behind it, swelling with the same loud bravado and circumstance as their parents, and parents, and parents who have strove passionately upward against the stretches of sand since time immemorial. The highwater mark of our generation's wave leaves a minute ridged trail along the wet beach – it is where the farthest reaches of our society finally peaked, and receded back beneath, into the tumbling chaos of stirring currents and the coinciding of greater preparations.

Systems of weather, systems of sun and moon, earth and sexy swimsuit fashion models climb up onto my tall flagrant tower, the pride and joy of my sand castle. I stroke and pat the curved wall of my tower with pride, a job well done! Strong, thick walls of hard brick, a large castle to safely house and protect my children, and children's children, for generations. It is the foundation of my family, to defend against the waves of future rivals and the youthful vigor of their competition.

 

Witches do their wishin' and night spirits bring them true

 

 

Sirens sing up a fragile mask for danger,

and the dogs run out to jump and smell and know.

The dogs, like men, love the scent of a beautiful woman,

and will curl to protect a voice so delicate as hers.

 

Clothed in the glistening of the night sea, they call,

call from a place somehow beyond the rocks,

just beyond all a man could ever achieve.

Each man dies trying to protect her that he can never hold.

 

• Stop being dramatic. Your cheese is getting sweaty in the living room, you'd best eat it before it softens. Eat it all up!

• Don't hunch over like that. So you have to fight gravity a bit harder than other kids your age, you mustn't show it!

• Oh my God! You walk like you have a board up your ass. Hurry up!

The bus was named “Those Father Abandoned” and I couldn't resist. I had no idea where it went, but I wanted to see someplace different - I wanted to see the place where he had left them. Yea, they looked pretty rough and as he bus turned down a street I'd never explored, I grabbed impulsively at my wallet with a slight glance behind my shoulder. It wasn't the last time I would check that pocket tonight.

The road descended away from the lavish colonial buildings and cleanly-swept streets that I've grown accustomed to in central Lima. I became acutely aware of the time, dusk, with darkness closing in fast as the streetlights grew fewer and the road less pretty. Father abandoned these bastard children in the ghetto, where else? And I was driving straight down into it, feeling practically glow-in-the-dark white with my new camera and loaded wallet suddenly seeming heavier – with the weight of a thousand or so eyes upon it. I suspect they had always wanted a picture of father, to remember him by.

What remained of the road fell away and suddenly “Those Father Abandoned” was riding over tattered chunks of dirt and rocks and poverty. They took such good care of their desolation – carefully piling the stones and broken cement pieces into piles...so that larger stones and broken cement pieces could be placed around them, there, as a sort of decoration for their dust. As sad as the little broken shacks were, they were painted the most bright and cheerful colors: strawberry red and Barney purple, pastel blue and sunshine yellow. It's as if the paint was attempting to cover all the sadness and suffering taking place inside the house from all the sad, suffering people outside the house.
 

Drove through where, apparently, all of Lima bring their garbage to smash and burn it in the street. The street didn't even function as a street anymore, but a grimy makeshift carnival for the garbage people. What was more amazing still is that, if you fought and struggled your way through the broken glass, egg shells, and burning tires, you came to the entrance of...the open-aired food court! Dee-lish!

Driving through, I was thinking "Maybe it is wrong, or even racist, of me to see parts of a culture different from my own as 'backwards.'"

Then I saw that open-air food court in the dump and was like "Nope - this place is TOTALLY fucking backwards and wrong!"

It was dark and there was barely another car on the dirt path – the bus just continued, further and further as, one by one, the abandoned ones stepped off onto their respective driveways. I knew if I stepped off with them, I would surely be robbed blind there on any one of those dark isolated pathways as I searched for another ride. Yet, the longer I stayed on the bus, the further it descended away from the light and safety of the city. There were, now, not even the barred windows of daytime businesses or restaurants – just the shadows of those cheerily-colored little ramshackle casas and the groups of thuggish looking men I could just barely catch a passing glimpse of, leaning in those shadows: their territory.

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was I doing here? These people are abandoned for a reason! Goddamn it, this bus is going to stop soon and I am going to need to get off. The end of the line. I look over at the last fellow passenger, a young girl huddled miserable-looking in a puffy winter jacket with a skiing hat pulled over her ears. I give her a slight smile, to which she returns an unmoving icy glare – one I assume all abandoned children must learn to wear, with those other things which protect them from the cold and alone.

The bus stops. The driver turns and gives me the “No more” sign with his hands. I hesitate.

 

 

Rolling in big solitary raindrops,
in drops like teeth,
in big thick drops of marmalade and blood,
rolling in big raindrops,
the water falls,
like a sword in drops,
like a tearing river of glass,
it falls biting,
striking the axis of symmetry, sticking to the seams of the soul,
breaking abandoned things, drenching the dark.

It is only breath, moister than weeping,
a liquid, a sweat, a nameless oil,
a sharp movement,
forming, thickening,
the water falls,
in big slow raindrops,
toward its sea, toward its dry ocean,
toward its waterless wave.

I see the vast summer, and a death rattle coming from a granary,
stores, locusts,
towns, stimuli,
rooms, girls
sleeping with their hands upon their hearts,
dreaming of bandits, of fires,
I see ships,
I see marrow trees
bristling like rabid cats,
I see blood, daggers, and women's stockings,
and men's hair,
I see beds, I see corridors where a virgin screams,
I see blankets and organs and hotels.

I see the silent dreams,
I accept the final days,
and also the origins, and also the memories,
like an eyelid atrociously and forcibly uplifted
I am looking.

And then there is this sound:
a red noise of bones,
a clashing of flesh,
and yellow legs like merging spikes of grain.
I listen amoung the smack of kisses,
I listen, shaken between gasps and sobs.
I am looking, hearing,
with half my soul upon the sea and half my soul upon the land,
and with the two halves of my soul I look at the world.

And though I close my eyes and cover my heart entirely,
I see a muffled waterfall,
in big muffled raindrops.
It is like a hurricane of gelatine,
like a waterfall of sperm and jellyfish.
I see a turbid rainbow form.
I see its waters pass across the bones.

Tags: pablo neruda

For the 9th day in a row,
For the 10th day in a row,
For the 11th day in a row I have not been able to
For the 12th day in a row I have been having trouble...I....I....I ....I ..... . I .. .. .. .. I.. .. ..  ....  ..  .I
For the 13th day in a row I have not been able to

For 2 weeks straight I have been completely unable
For 3 months straight I have not, have not, have not, have not!
For seven fucking years, I have been unable to get my shit together, say what I mean, and get it fucking done!

There.
The secret's out.

Pajama pantsed up on the hill with the smoking jacket and the slowed life and mindset,

the rich old grandpa, the Scrooge McDuck we wanted to be. “He's a spry ol' devil!”

 

But these things they said of the man we wanted to be were no longer true, and were they ever?

What was the truth of my life, beneath the images of photographs and their surfaces?

Can even I recall?

 

I know some words, some headlines of script feeds from that time, but what was beneath the headline fades into lined blocks on a receding Polaroid. Glory be to the God I was prays every old gray pa on his way to sleep, resting nextled up there in polished oak.

 

And I, for as long as I remember (and now live) strove to be him, strove to be done, completed with the competing, done with the hard part, and laying back to rest, contented. I write this laying back, wrapped up warm in my bed, resting from the weary affairs of the day – a day I slept through.

 

The tones of sound of explanation are still those of declaration, and constructed of small declarative sentences. Its a person who stands his ground, a little man who explains his position, AdamAnt-ly.

 

I'll reside and watch, thank you. Side and reside, to be beside myself with emotion. To take a moment, step back, stand beside my emotional self for a moment, for a lifetime, to get perspective on things – all the things I've never done.

 

Whats all I found, what beautiful lives and possiblities were opened for me, gift after gift.

And I slept through and I broke and I fucked and I lazed to disappoint on potential, past-ripening.

We are the fruit of the spirits, to be plucked, but also planted; cared for, both watered and pruned with either side of two loving hands.

 

What is the fruit that weather permits but our greatest achievements for they to share with us, gleaming with pride behind us, on the other side of the glass. And in the construction of coincidence, they worked just as hard as we did and have reason to be proud of their labor of love, our life.

 

And so we live through our sons sons sons, forever, in cycles of pride as we watch him grow and learn the game as we, ourselves, prepare to reenter it! Knowing all we forget when the lights of the game and pressure is all on us again, out there, riding the goal lines once more.

 

It ate through her guts, but mom NEEDED coffee – 2 pots a day, and then we'd just watch her go. And go, manic, screaming through the notes and the frantic spinning of wheels. She got shit done!

 

And man I love her.

 

But get the fuck out of the way!

She's a diarrhea woman chronically on the go! Haha!

Get outta the way! She's' a spry go-getter on her 3^rd pot!

 

John

yo

10:39pmKaleb

Hey hey

Cant talk well

or much

10:40pmJohn

cant talk well or much?

10:40pmKaleb

I am feeling the jungle mescaline ow

10:40pmJohn

mescaline?

10:40pmKaleb

Spirits work through typos and freudian slips

its how they function their way through us

...andn they have beautiful sick senses of humor

10:41pmJohn

ah i see

u still in zaire or wherever u are

hah nice

10:41pmKaleb

Yea, the jungle

ie: junjgle mescaline

haha. love it

rough goin down

but damn!

“I want to make violent love.

I want to make violent lo-ove.

I want to make violent love to you.“

 

I shiver and a shake, I think of those I love and have lost, but still love.

I think.

I both attracted her and repulsed her with the same crooked mind.

She loved my brain, how it curled in around her and kept her warm in freight.

 

I am so thirsty!

 

Why did our people fuck up these people's water so bad?

Right after we had taught them how to clean it and put it into pipes too!

 

I gotta put on my headphones and smoke pot.

We'll talk later.

 

That's what I'm talking about!

 

What is the worth in that exchange, pretend poetic or otherwise?

I must make sure all I record in this medium is worthy, yea? So what's worthy? What's worth your time, as the reader? I'd hate to waste your time! With my thoughts, with their hazy words captured. I can't be pressured with your attention, I'm sorry! All of you must go home now. Thank you, goodnight.

 

 

There is a beautiful girl in waiting somewhjere in Lima, Peruj.

I blame myself.

I watched the genes manifest in their tone, each Peruvian essentially having sex in the doggy-style position right there on the dance floor.

My Chinese/Peruvian date described her life: nervous from birth, unable to express her sexual desires freely as her fully-Peruvian sisters did without restraint; having their first child at 16 years of age.

 

I loved dancing with the Peruvian girls, as the Chinese hybrid sat and watched jealously.

She insisted we taxi across town to see her Swiss friends – they sat at their empty drinking table nervously as I had imagined them. Their German leader paid me for the glass of wine he drank from my bottle and danced a soul-less German dance alone amongst the Peruvian grinding pairs. It was a sad comedy to watch, one which I was seen to join; intoxicated to the point of vomiting, being asked to buy a 3^rd round.

 

The half-Chinese Peruvian refused to let me kiss the back of her hand. She told me she was still angry that I did not buy her the 400 soles pair of boots in June, when I met her, and that she would never stay in a lowly 3 Star hotel like the one I was living in.

 

So I consent to navigate through double alone, without Swiss, Peruvian, or Chinese accompaniment.

Sure, she is adorable in her shy, self-restrictive nature, I could hardly care to care with all the grinding I was left with.

 

 

A man walks into a bar and says:
                                                Take my wife–please.
                                                                                    So you do.
            You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her
                                                and she leaves you and you’re desolate.
You’re on your back in your undershirt, a broken man
                        on an ugly bedspread, staring at the water stains
                                                                                                on the ceiling.
                  And you can hear the man in the apartment above you
                                    taking off his shoes.
You hear the first boot hit the floor and you’re looking up,
                                                                                    you’re waiting
            because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be
                        some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together
                  but here we are in the weeds again,
                                                                                         here we are
in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn’t make sense.
                        And then the second boot falls.
                                                            And then a third, a fourth, a fifth.

            A man walks into a bar and says:
                                                Take my wife–please.
                                                                        But you take him instead.
You take him home, and you make him a cheese sandwich,
            and you try to get his shoes off, but he kicks you
                                                                              and he keeps kicking you.
            You swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work.
                        Boots continue to fall to the floor
                                                                        in the apartment above you.
You go to work the next day pretending nothing happened.
            Your co-workers ask
                                    if everything’s okay and you tell them
                                                                                    you’re just tired.
            And you’re trying to smile. And they’re trying to smile.

A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:
                                    Make it a double.
            A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:
                                                                                 Walk a mile in my shoes.
A man walks into a convenience store, still you, saying:
                                    I only wanted something simple, something generic…
            But the clerk tells you to buy something or get out.
A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river
                        but then he’s still left
with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away
                                                      but then he’s still left with his hands.

Tags: richard siken

On lard foam sledge rods slide slow slabs of tone out to receiving ports Eastward and within. Distributed cost cut and organized into smaller composite units packaged for capillary consumption scales. All recent processions were bodies for recycling, like bone flesh bottles of plastic or glass. Plastic or glass, brittle or alien maliable, delicate or defensive, flexible or sharp, forever and dangerous.personality.

Sent out is identity, in the shape of a person for the first half of life, unseen remelting within the second. This is our relationship with death, this is our social life in the sun meeting our fluid unseen oceanic state, achieved within the larger system of which we remain mostly oblivious.

When we can, as a species, communicate across the frequent density medium which binds death, we can learn the subtle nature of our greater life – and come to control it consciously as we do the physical half. This is initially based on the most basic communication, however. Not first contact, by any means, but, ideally, socially-acknowledged, written contact, which, with study, has the potential to be recorded within other mediums. Audio recording of the subtle energetic members of our species and society, the dead, is a valid and, by no means, unrealistic goal. I

I respect the forest more now, I resolve to know her more closely.

I want to smile, I want to smile and be beautiful smiling.

But what torments raised me to resign, to restrict, to resent.

The same torments which ravaged that tense boy into a bright-eyed slouch of a soft-spoken man.

These are genes which bind our line to the path, a climb which can reward or punish as we either live or ignore what we've been taught from our ancient family on that unacknowledged side.

Ancestor worship, who is there to connect to now that we've abandoned our individual tribe for America? What of our spiritual lineage within the racial experiment which is America? In human history, never have so many different races of man come together; but what of the melting pot's melding of ancestries?

Spiritual lineage and divinity traditionally bind culture to race.

As ancestral ties to the land were broken by advances in travel technology and the painless migration it afforded, children of “many worlds” were born, hybrids of 2 dramatically different ethnicities and races became commonplace as generations of Americans intermingled and dissolved into meeting. This fluid interaction expanded across a cultural landscape, but the spiritual implications of this I have never seen to be considered.

Subtle conscious forces suffocate me gasping out of pre-dream.

As if I can feel their weight on my chest, feel their hands around my throat.

This is the incubus attack, the interaction of which can quickly intensify and escalate into a full-blown possession, depending on a number of factors. These factors are genetic and cultural circumstances of the set and setting which may encourage the progression of the spiritual interaction along a set of stages the degree of influence experienced across that interaction, from objective to subjective in nature. In truth, the term “interaction” only applies to the objective side of this influence, the subjective not being action between two bodies, but “intra-action” of one body within the other. This is possible as the two bodies are separated, each bound within a differing density of being. Interaction of a spiritual type is interaction across the surface of a density, our crude base physical body seeing, feeling, sensing, or communicating with a body of a more subtle nature, one of a medium whose forms are composed of particles more greatly dispersed. That is to compare the form of water to that of air, one molecular density, that of dense liquid, to one much finer, the evaporated gaseous form air. A singular element, water, cycles the same way as us, arching across the surface of a medium, existing both in one heavy physical density: the water form, and also in a more subtle finer lighter medium, as cloud and in the releasing freedom of billowing steam.

Each density of water we slowly came to acknowledge as our learning of the world expanded, refining it into the scientific systems of understanding the water cycle we came to know and define it. Yet before this refinement, back into those first observations of nature made by primitive man, as the physicality of water's fluid form which was known and mastered first. Water was and remains liquid life, the carrier of our development, both individually and culturally. We must seek it, carry it, and follow it if we are to survive.

Clouds, on the other hand, we can seemingly live without. We often do not notice them, their subtle form drifts above us, often invisible, often unseen. This is the non-physical which, as our knowledge, curiosity, and extent of our society progressed, we reached and passed an “Ah Ha!” point of acknowledging the finer density, allowing for the understanding of it's relationship to our well-known physical form within the cycles of a much greater system of nature.

The integral “Ah-Ha!” point, where the acknowledgment of our own finer non-physical form, has not yet been reached or passed by the West and it's observational science. Observation, itself, necessitates physicality, thus binding the attention of science to the physical form. Yet, if we as scientists can simply come to admit “Yes, we have a soul” and acknowledge the glaring truth that we exist energetically as well as physically, the relationship between that well-known physical form and it's cyclical counterpart of a finer density is finally opened to be understood, defined, and perhaps mapped as the interactive boundary of a much greater system of nature.

The “Ah-Ha!” point, in a way, is a moment of cultural contact, a point at which we begin “seeing above” and thinking of nature in more subtle, less obvious terms. Physicality and its dense grabby measurement and observation is, in a way, crude - but there is no reason that the bounds of our science should be limited to it. When science extended the bounds of its knowing into energy, a reciprocal effect developed between that subtle observation and the physical technology which manifested in response to aid it. That is, it was sciences acknowledgment and subsequent understanding of sound as a wave which reflected back into the physical, spurning the creation of the oscilloscope to allow our literal observation of that which we had never been able to see. We built a window in the boundary between the subtle and the physical, thus extending the range of our naked-eye's vision outwards into finer densities. In this way, we have a social perception, that perception which is aided by the advances of physical culture, and we have the lesser individual perception, that naked, unaided awareness facilitated by the physical body.

The density of particles is the wavelength of a wave. They are two perspectives on the same phenomenon. Settling into bound layers (spectrum-form), each is a conception of the vibrant energetic expressions, conscious, which travel through all known carrier mediums. Our recognition of frequency existing in all...

What is another name for this “Ah-Ha!” point, as we find it to exist in other areas of nature, along other boundaries, within different spectrums which, none-the-less, adhere to the same rules of density/frequency.

Tags: afterlife, frequency, spirit, subtle

Hey, I´m in the fucking Amazon.

The Egyptian girl had been having very negative ayahuasca experiences – each night, descending into hellish catatonic despair, seeing bloody knife murders and demons in the visions. Determined to find healing, she booked another week of ceremony.

On the first day of her return, bad omens surrounded her presence in the circle. As we prepared in the quiet dark for the session, we heard her scream frantically, jumping up and stomping her feet, hysterical. A flashlight showed the cause of the upset, a massive adult scorpion crawled out from under her blanket onto the floor. Dark tan, about 5 inches long, with small yellow claws. I watched, remembering the words of my Boy Scout leader in the 5^th grade: small claws mean big venom, the less poisonous scorpions defend themselves with big pincers. This was a very deadly creature in her bed.
 

One of the gringos got a piece of paper and slid it under the scorpion, because he was a sensitive hippy and wanted to save its life, release the fatal fucking thing safely back into the wild. It quickly scurried across the floor towards me. The old shamaness Rosa took a puke bowl and slammed the thing with a sticky crunch. It bled a smeared puddle of red. Funny, the 80 year old woman was the manliest one there, in a room of over 20 young men.

The shamans convened discussing the meaning of what had happened. It was concluded it was an omen, related to the Egyptian girl's spirits. They burned the scorpion's body to clear the space of it's spell.

20 minutes later, after we had drank the ayahuasca and laid quietly in the dark maloca, the same Egyptian girl jumped up, stomping and shrieking again. This time, a long black centipede had crawled INTO HER PANTS, where it curled and slithered in the warmth of her crotch. She was hysterical, crying and unable to lay back down on her floor mat. Who can blame her...

The shamans told her that she had angered the powerful brujo (dark shaman), Havier, at the conference and that he was sending the creatures to hurt or kill her.

Tune in next week for the exciting spine-tingling episode "Havier And The Russian Thief" or "The Painter Who Painted With Blood.¨
 

The sun blares, unabashed, alive in frequencies both loving and harsh.

I know their past, as dimly remembered as my own from this place.

I glow like a clown, my face a smile seeming theatric in height of its radiance.

Clouds no longer obscure the light of my inner sun,

my attention shines revealing all that was shadowed by my personality, opaque, now transparent.

Climb for me, the muscle flesh of mushroom straining to carry this frame upwards.

 

What is inspiration without perseverance.

The moment of birth without the work of raising up, and allowing to develop into a youth of weight and consequence.

 

There are whales which communicate along key strata of oceanic density, knowing that certain layers or bandwidths of pressure will carry their sound for hundreds of miles.

 

Our ocean, that of air, also has key atmospheric strata which, like those bandwidths of water, carry certain ranges of frequency with optimal efficiency. Tesla's life dream was to harness these areas of the ionosphere to carry communication and energy, universal and free, to enlighten and power all the world. His Wardencleiff Tower was to use both the strata of the high ionosphere and the lower physical densities of the earth's crust as mediums to carry consciousness with energy.

 

Our minds, too, are immersed and modulate in spectral densities of frequency, the bandwidths of which are oceanic, extending eternal, beyond the capacity of our meager sensation. Sacred are the key tones of inward resonance, achieved beneath distraction of physicality in meditative control. Navigation to other bandwidths of this subtle tone is attained with disciplined focus, until any brainwave state can be found and maintained with the anchor of calm.

 

Tags: iquitos, psilosibin

On the last night in the jungle, my physical and emotional bodies had been purged clean, the painful expelling of the surface layer of that negative mess had left me bare, vulnerable, and open. The medicine was strong and I told myself I would not be distracted – that I would lay calm, meditative, and let the trance take me without fighting the course it intended for me.

The old women sensed my meditative state, and shared it with me. As the energy of the medicine began to rise up my spine and fill my chest's breath with charge, they sighed with me, following the bliss of my long exhales. Gazing upwards behind closed eyes, the visions rose up with the energy, ascending along the calm breath like a long taut wire. As I reached the bottom of an energetic rhythm, the radiant smiling exhaustion of an exalted exhale, their song began. And it was beautiful.

A single woman opened her voice, and 5 others opened in turn, harmonizing upwards in echoed layers. Ethereal. These Shipibo songs, the heart with which they are sung, represent something deeply human, archetypal.Soon, I began to enter visions.

I was curled, unborn, nestled in the soft warm earth. Waiting. My mothers sang sweet lullabies to their baby and I was cared for in comfort. A grand apple tree rose up from behind me, like a past self. The lulling icaros washed me in waves of rocking memory. I was incubating, but knew I would have to awaken and begin sprouting into life soon. I could sense the moment coming in the building of their song – they were preparing me to be a man.

I began to puke and my mothers gathered around me in tone with both pity and support. They felt my pain, but were proud of their growing child for learning to get the negativity out. In the exhaustive heaves, I saw the Greco-Roman vomitorium, the grotesque faces of stone and the ornately tiled walls of the bath house. It was a place of cleansing, inward and outward. The guttural plumbing gurgled up, a public fountain of colored night streams.

I laid back, exhausted, opened, emptied, scoured clean. I could suddenly breath unlike I ever could in my life – each breath an influx of well-being and health. The air in my lungs had a seemingly-tangible charged, as if my whole chest were simply vibrant, unobstructed purity. I reclined into these breaths and wholly felt the bliss they carried through me.

I ascended upwards through frequency, climbing the song like the beanstalk, through clouds. In my mind's eye, an eye-shaped window appeared and grew. It was a window into a higher forest realm, the realm of my ancestors, The Finns. They were small and elvish, with wide moist eyes that reflected rainbows of frequency in their corneas. I was to be educated by them, a classroom was in session. It was explained that they existed of the higher ranges of frequency, a bandwidth high where sound has an inner visual nature. This is spectrum and spirit mingles interwoven there, if only I could hear it. It was said that I must learn to hear within sound, to see what is carried between harmonies in the greater ranges. It is my heritage.

The next day, I was sitting on the sidewalk at a gringo restaurant called The Yellow Rose of Texas. Next to me sat a middle aged white couple. My acai juice came and, as I read the menu, I overheard them speaking in a rhythm and tone that sounded familiar to me. I asked them “Are you Finnish?”

They quickly lit up, saying “Yes! How did you know?” I told them I was Finnish-American and was raised hearing more Finnish than most Americans and knew the sound well. We spoke for almost an hour, talking about Finland and family and education.The odds! Two Finlanders in the middle of the Amazon jungle. I asked them if there were still Shamans in the Lapplands and they told me to contact their friend, a shamanism professor at the University of Helsinki. The ancient Finns in the vision said they would teach me, and within hours they arrived to give me the direction to the school!

Tags: ayahuasca, finland, visions

Three Shipibo shaman women have been brought in from the deep jungle to live in the small house outside the larger one that I and 7 others live in. They range between 70 and 80 years old and are genuinely warm and caring. They have had little contact with the world outside of their tribe and know little, if any, Spanish – only Shipibo. They are the real deal.

When arriving to the Herbarium compound, they came to the swimming pool and became very curious. They looked at it for over 15 minutes not understanding what it was for, touching the water unsure if it was for drinking or for animals. Someone made a diving sign to them and they immediately got it! The 80 year old women quickly stripped naked and jumped in, laughing with bright toothless smiles.

Last night we took them out into town. I sat in the little motorized rickshaw with the oldest one, riding fast and rough over the bumpy potholed roads of Iquitos. Horns and exhaust and traffic, I couldn’t help but to watch her, with awe and respect – she simply sat in exalted silence, her eyes closed with a calm smile. Grace. 

We brought them to the town movie theater. I took their picture and they clapped with smiles when I showed it to them. Patiently waiting, they came into the hallway where the entrances to the many individual theaters were numbered. There they sat, waiting, ready. They thought that the show, whatever it was they were there to see, would be taking place in the hallway. I laughed and led them into the dark theater, and their eyes widened when they saw the massive wide screen lit up with animals moving. Haha! My eyes watered with smile just to see them, their adorable innocence.

The movie was Ice Age 3, dubbed in Spanish – they understood about as much of it as I did. All through the movie, I would turn around to see how they were doing. During a roller coaster-ride of a scene with character sledding fast down a snow covered hill, dodging rocks and trees, I looked to see the older shaman covering her gaping mouth, putting up her other arm as if to shield herself from the speed. During the scene of a birth, I looked to see her fully at the edge of her seat, sitting forward, half in the aisle, awash with emotion. It was really amazing to see – they are so pure and sensitive.

Fuck tonight, fuck tonight,
The fat man did sing.
Lost again, found again,
Jiggitty-Jig.

(not a limmerick)

There is a baby that cries in Lima at 4:46 in the morning.
It sounds not like a baby, but like a howling dog of a lonely fool moon.
Crying out in need, crying out in lone solitary frustration,
for this purpose he was born into, this purpose that in death was forgotten.

Death forgets.
Death is the Alzheimer's of the soul, the loss of ego to nature
no longer held within a shell, it disolves into its surroundings over time.

Disolve, love.
Disolve, memory.
Disolve, sweet life and family that held me so close.
Disolve, my wife, my mother, my dearest child.
Disolve, all attachment...

Disolve!
And become fluid once more!
Oppose solving, oppose rational,
oppose proof, oppose observation and data.
Oppose all which the sun did bring,
oppose all that the body did orchestrate.

Un-physicality, a life without ourself.
Neath-physicality, a life within ourself.
The blank side of a cycle is no less valid.
Its boundaries defined just as strongly,
however more subtle it's nature.

She loves me.
Han-Chinese Peruvian beauty.
So shy, like a China girl...
Smart with nerves firiing her into a blushed huddle, so precious.
She longs for all privacy will bring us.

I love her too,
Her shiver of trustful opening.
That which I cherish and am patient for.
She deserves only patience and encouragement.
To becknon into blossom her unsure grace.

Lima is loud.
I had spiritual dreams last night.
I will type them out later. They are big.

Here, huddled in the wet corner of some shady alley hole,
lookin for a fix, negotiating a price for a few mainline minutes.
I admit, my life is on the line.

<img src="http://i39.tinypic.com/ua8ar.jpg">

So, our heroes can't stay young, spunky, and creative forever...
We must tolerate aging rock stars too. Same sort of flaky uninspired output...

it's sometimes hard to put your finger on WHY it's different from their good stuff -
they're using the same formulas, same themes, same tricky shit that worked in the past,
but it feels different, empty of youthful challenge and the need to PROVE something.
they are just going through the routine. On Beetlejuice, he was LEARNING that routine.

4 sleeping pills.
I'm up to 4.
One used to knock me out fine, but that was years ago.
Do the darkened violet bags under eyes go away eventually? 

Finnish people don't sleep - prone to insomnia and hynagogic imagery.
Its a baseline state of consciousness with a genetic component.
There I am using that word "genetic" again - what a dirty word! 
Sorry M@.  

Tags: politically incorrect

he comes
T͓͈̱̣̯̘͙͎̲̩̮̩͚͖ͭ̒̆́̊̆̈́͌ͧ͐̒͒̓ͪ̑́̚͞ͅo̢̘͖̭̮̠͈ͪͤ̒̆ͫ̈͑̔͛͌̀̚̕ ̵̧̡̨̝̲͖̦̫̻̩̥̪̲͔̠̘̮͔̼͇̆ͥ͛ͬ̓̌̔ͫͥͣ͛̔̚i̍̾̊̋͋ͯ͛̄̅ͩ̿̽̌̈͑͊̈͏̻̝̭̹͚̖͓̟̣̺̺̥̱̯̪͎̕ͅͅn̡̞̣̦̩̪͔͚̜̮̪̥͊̒̃͋̈́ͦ͛͢v̸̡ͤ̋ͨ̿ͬ͏͙͍̹̜͈o͓̖͚̜͔̪̣̞ͣͣͯ̉̉͐͋̓͝kͣͦ̈͆͋ͬ̑ͨ̉̌͆ͫ͆̓ͪ̂̊͢҉̸̥̟̜̮͝ͅͅê̸͐̌ͩ͏̨̠̬̤̬̼̕͝ ̏͗͛̿͊ͫ͂̊ͦ̿͐̒̾̅̔̌̔͒͏̯̫͍̠̳̳̹̘͢t̵̡̫̖̯̤̹̲̼̞̲̫͎̑ͯ̈́h̢̛̫͇̫̦͖̘͍͇̼̠̟̼͎̠͚̩͕ͩ͐̔̾͋̇̚͘͜͟e̸̒͒̀҉̴̳̮̦̣͖̹̟̩͖͕͟͠ͅ ̙͖͚̜͇̹͎̉ͥ͒ͦ̃̓̇̓̾ͮͮ̂̓̆́̚͜͞͡͠h̺̲̹͚̱̺̹͍͉̳͖͖̟̞͆̓ͨͣ̄́͞i̴̿͌͊ͧͯ͛̏ͩͮ̓̓́ͮ͏̷̧̦̦̳͍̯͈͚̣̟̱̼̳̮̳͇̙v̋ͨͭͮ̄̿̅͋ͪͪͧ͋͌̐҉̧͚̼͚̯̻̩̭͍̜̭̬̀͞ͅȩ̡̛͙̹͎͍̣̬̻̙̳̖̯̭̬̈́̎͛͊͒̏̐̆͋ͪ̓̓͡͝ͅ-̠̹̰̻͙͖̥̟̻̳̥͉̜̝̈͛ͩ̽͋̃̒̓̂ͣͯ̋͋̀͝ͅm̳͚̘̺̗͙͕̼̫̘͚͗̉̉͑̏͆̉͊́́ȉ̵̢͍͈̬͕̖̟̞̬̮̺̩̙̙̘̘̗ͮ̋̑ͣͮ̅̏͒ͥͤͩ͑́͘ņ̶̰͚̪̻̲̅̏̑̄̇̕͠d̴͖͍͕̖̫̪̜̺̭̭͉̱͚̫̖̝̔͗ͬ̒ͪ͞ ̡̨͇̙̗̮̹̟̣̣̫̟̰͔̪͙̜͙̄̔̅̾̌͂̓̽ͧ̊͑͑͗̌̒̆͘͢r̵̤̫̞̳̘̺̞͕̟̻̲̥̻̱ͧ̓ͧ͋̕͜͟é̷͈͕̯͓̟̜̖̠̹̱͖̦̱̘̙ͭͩ̌̍̎̔͊̊͂͘͘͢ͅp̧̩̜̪͈͉̘͚̙̱̰̯̰ͩ̇̄͗͗̿ͭ̋͛̿̑ͤ͠͞ͅr̵̴̶̜̘͙̗͚̺̠̣͓̝̹̙̞̆̊̃̂͆͢͡ȩ̵̵̩͕͍͙̮̼̝͈̲͕̖͖͙̺̪̅̍̀̐̏ͮ̉̑̓͞s̡̾̅̆͗͆̃͒̑ͯ͏̺̩̜̗̱̜̳͓͙̪̭̥ę̨̛̦̖̜̹̼̲̺̠͍̰̺̺̻̀̈́̈́́̏ͣ̿͗ͫ̅̌͌̅ͤ̂̚͘n̨̻͖͍̺̼̟̱͂͂ͬͪ́͌̔͋ͮ͋ͮͫͧ̄̚͢͟͟t̴͇͕̺̻͖͔̱͔̣̭͉͇̠͓̭̂ͧͭ́ͬ͟į̶̼̜̮̤̖͇̱͉̙̙̜͔͎̻̬͇̯̎ͨ̓̐̾̊ͤͥ̎͆̏͑͋̏ͭ͐̓̓̀͝͝ṉ̶̵͚͓̱͍̬̦̬̮̄̈̑̿̑ͮ̏̂͂̔͒̈ͦ̚ḡ̶ͮ͌ͥͭ̿ͩ͊̃̓̑̀͞͏̠̟̹͕̜̫͓̙͓̼͎̟̬̟͝ͅ ̷̢̧̩̜̞̻̟̟̘̟̜̥̜̯̰̖͎̬̳̲̍̀̐̿̋͌̽̓͒ͩͯ͟ͅc̡̛̞̯͍͚͍̫͎̥̑̿͐ͯ̊̐ͣ͆ͩ́ͤ͂̔̈́͋ͨͧ̚̚h̸̷̵̨̩̗̭̮̫̎̊̓̓̓ͤ͐ͥ̿́ͤ̅͆̑͆͝ą̶̸̨͎̣͈̯̮̃̈̅͐̿̔ͤ́̓̊ͫ̀o̶͕̣̗̬̘͙̹̬͙̠͓̜̮̭̦͆͐̅͊̉̋ͪ͌̎̎ͧͦ̔̓ͬs̰͚̝̪̱͎͇̺̝̠͆̓ͪ̐ͧ̾́ͥ̀̕ͅͅ.̵ͣ͌̒̆ͭ̍̍̄͐̔ͪ̒͛ͦ͛ͤ̊̽ͮ͟҉͏͚̘̬͙̮̟̝͈̪̝͓̻̩
̹̫̗̞́͒̂̃ͦͣ̇̌̂̌ͥ̏ͬͧ͜Î͈̠̦̪ͯ̿̆͊̃̊̂̋ͫͮͨ̅ͧͣ̽́͢n̔̆̓ͤ́͘͞͏̸̠̰̺̟̭̜v̒̆̂͆̐̑ͫͯ̓҉̼̳̝̲̼̳͖̤̺͝͝ȯ͔͖͍̜̦͕̼̲̼͕̯̱͎̣ͫ̈́ͥ̈́̔̇̇͌̓̽̀́k̴̟̤͚̰̤̺̟̗͎̯̳̘̤̫̫̇ͬͦ̃͢͜ͅi̷̖̰̫̣̞̠̱̭̖̾ͮͤͣ̑̍̔̒̑ͭ̈͗́͢n̴̒̈́͗̔̃͜͜҉̤̗̜̫͙͙̙̦͕ǵ̈̔̎̓ͮ͑ͪ҉̷̡̺̠̭͕̤̰̲͉̼͡ ̷̆̾͗̒̋̌ͫ̚͢͏̞̤̱̞̲̟̬̣͕̹̖̩̳̬̳̺̳̦͝ͅt̡̡̯̺̫̦͈̲̦͇̠͈̰̋͊̊̉ͅh̷̡̯̝̮͙̣̬͚͇͇̙̘ͫͧͮͨ̃ͮ̽ͭ̇̀̒͑̇̍ͬ̊̀ͅe̵̳̻͔̫ͯ̋͑̿ͥ̅̀͘ ͓̳̭̤̭̓̅̊̒͐͗͂̊ͬ̎ͤͣ̀͞͡f̶̵̣̬̤͕̫͓̲̱͚ͤ̊̽͒̄͗ͭ̓̈́̀́ę̛̯̹͚̺͕̫̿͂ͦ̌̓̌́́̚͜e̸̶ͮͪ͐͂̉͆̈͋̿̅ͤͥ̃̍͌̈́̉̄̿͘҉̞̪͈͈̠͇̱͎̤͎͚̤͞l̸̋̽̅̏ͦ̿̓͋ͯ̎͟͏̣̜̬̹i̷̛͓͎͇̟̹̔̐́̈ͧ͞͠n̷̢̨̳͉͖̗͓̺͚̳͖̤̯͚̤̩̝̩͓͇̝̒ͩ̑ͧ̐̀̍̀̀̌͆͐̚͡͠g̢̙͚̜͕̖̞͈͇̭̳̩̬̣͚͔̲͗̈́̿ͭͭ̄̑ͭͪ̇͗ͨ̕͞ ̵͍̟͓͎̟͎̣̻̻̞͉̘̯ͪ̅̓̊͌ͥͯ͂͐ͭͩ́̋́ͅͅo̴̢͕͓̹̣̗̘̤̤͙̲̗̬̗̣̜ͤ̂͆̊ͥ̆̑ͧ̾̾͑ͩ̓͢f̮͖̟̬̼̞̻̮͕͓̞̬̰̺͎̒ͤ͗̅͋̈ͣ̇̎̌̋ͥ̃̌̐͌̀͡ͅͅ ̸͔̬͉ͮ͌ͨͤ̓ͩͩ͗ͬc͋̍͐̐̎̌͌̇͛͆͐͌͐̚̚͘͡͏͖͍̖̯̦̥͔͈̣h̊̒͒͋ͦ̍̓̽ͬ̈́̆ͤ҉͏̢̤͖̹̯͕̖͖̖̟̙ͅa̢̧̺͖̭̭̠̎̆̐͛̏̓̆̆͐͛̉̇͋̎́͞ơ͊̄ͦ̈̐̑ͪ̄҉̰͉̟͙̘̺̙͔̻͎ͅs̛̿̊̊͊͑́̾͑̾̀̈́̓͋ͫ̄̿̍̐̌͘͏̺͍̼͓͉͇̣̙̙̳̜̕.̸̦̼̘͉̘̝̳̗̻͚͕͈͇̇̇̒̒͐̍̄ͨ͂͊͟͜͠ͅ
̷̡̛̘͍̘ͪ̄ͩͬ̀̒̚W̸̡͉̻͙͙͍̹̟̯̩͖͈̮͑͛̆͘͡͠ͅi̽̎ͭ̑ͧͮ̑̏ͦ̉ͣͬ͆ͭ͆͏̸̹̣̰̫͇͙́́͟ṫ̵̹̩̞͍̰̪͈̠̬̻̥̙̲̑͂ͯ͊ͥ͊̆͆̉̍̀ͤ̿ͬ̂͋͠ḫ̷̢͚̩̭͈͙͎̹̹̤̓̓ͭ̏̀ͦ̊ͦ̃ͬ͊̅ͭ̔ ̗̹̝̭͚͙̬̻͎͍͚͎͔̽̎̈̃̇̊͘͝ͅỏ̶̢̰̩̠͙̽͊̊ͫ̇̀͟u͗͗ͥ̄ͣ̋͐ͮ̆ͨ̏ͧ͏̷͓̖̝̫̲̲̗̦͎̮̙̘̪̝̹̦͔̬̀͢͡t̷̺̣̲̥̙̪̄ͦͨ̌̌̃͂̈́̋̔̑̌̂͗ͬ͗̎̅̀͜ ̷̡̗̖̟̝̬͙̪͖͔͔͎͔̯ͬ͛̽ͫ̂̽ͦͯͤ̂͊ͥ̌́ͤ͆̎͜o͆̇̅́̾͌ͤͭ̕҉͍̲͉̫̖͖̜̥̠̟̰͙̪ͅͅř̷̵̺̣͎̱̪̠̩̝̋̓͐ͦͩ͐̈́d̨͍̪̪̭̙̩̩̩̃́̒̂̏̐ͣ͌ͪ̄ͯͬ́͡e̴̛͒̂̿̌̂ͥͣͭ͏̱͉̪̼̱͎̖̰͖͇̥͈͔͕͔̩͢rͮ̊̂̄ͩ̃ͭ͛̃̇ͯͯͫ́ͩ͛̾͛ͫ̕҉͙̱̳̗̮͙̩̠͎̘.͕̝̞̞̾̽ͦ̄ͪ͑̾͟
̴̵̜̹̩̜̩̤̠̞̺̣̳̙̣̟̬̰͕͓̅̀̒͊͒ͪ͊ͥ͗ͮ͂̀͊̀ͣ́̕T̢̻̲̳͍͈͔̗̋̂̌̏̓̍́̚͝ͅͅḫ̙͈̞̬̫̞̞ͣ̎ͭ̆͠ͅe͔̼͖͕͚̟̮̼̥͍̟̳̘̋̈̓̑̏̉ͩ̍͗̂͒ͥ̎̈͜͜ ̢̨̛̟̭̙̻̫͙̗̮̰͉͉̼̉ͦ̑͑ͨ̂́͐̍̂̚͞͞ͅǸ͎̳̬̣̫̰̣̥̇͂̈́̋ͥ͌̾̾ͪ͂͑̃ͯ̋̂̚̕͟ę̧̪̤̖͇̠̙̬̫͇̺͎̦͖͚͛ͩ͐ͤ͛̈́ͥ̌͌̚͢z̟̺̩̩̰̲͉͖ͨͫ̍ͫ̔̇̄̃͂ͪͣ̔̽ͥ͑̎̑͘͜͝p̶̏̈́̑̓̋͛͊҉͚̟̠͙͓͍̹̗̦͇̮̲̜̖̫̙̻̦ȩ̰̙̤̝ͯ͒ͩ̐̍͑̈̏̅ŗ̞̤̙̘̲͑́ͬ͐́͗́̅̑̾͗̅̌̋̍́͢͜d͒͊̉̿͠͏̷̷̭̻̻͎̲̫̟͖̺̝͇̹̩̥̯͞ǐ̸̸̧̙̥̮̬̫̜̱͙͕̭̞̉̽͛̋̇̊̽ͥ͂̇ͤͮͤͬ̃͠a̷̧̠̯͖̰̅̆͐̕͜ṋ̷̶̮̞̘͍̰̻͍̼͙͋̃ͦ̽̓ͫ̎̉ͪ͂ͤ̀̚̕ ̜͔͍͈̭͈͍͎̗̙̲̀̈̐̇͠h̛̦̖͖̙̦̖͋͑̃̈́̿̅ͥ̕͢i̶̮̜̳̦̺̎͒ͥ͒̿ͩ̿͌̍̑ͨͫ̊̀͜͢͠v̇̂̅̇̇ͫ̓̌̍͋ͪ́҉͟͏̭̫̯͖̙̪̺̙͍̰̘̟̮͙̱e̸͖̼͕̭̻̬͍̲̜̪̰͈̟̯͚̻̲̋ͭ͋͆̈ͦ͑̏ͩ̇̓̍ͧ̈͜͝ͅ-̵̴̠̣̤̹͖̥͈̣̎̐͆̅ͣ̒ͨ͌͌͂̈͗̿ͭ̏̃̚͟͝m̷̧̒ͯͧ͛̊ͬͮ̌̍̊͂̋͞҉̜̳̮̣̤̯̻͉̹̗̠̙̰̰̱̮̼̭̻͟ĩ̸̗̝͇̺̫̺͓̼̖̇̈́͠ͅn̝͙̭̼̹͍̬̦̯̭̪͕̬̎ͪ̑̆ͬͤͧ̐ͥ͌̐͆̚̕͞͠ͅd̈́̎̓̂̔̋͒͊̈́͋ͣͮͬ̐ͫ̿̾ͣ҉͍͔̲̥͉͔͝ ̢̧͎̩͖̰̘̄̽ͦ̌̔̑̂̅̃ǫ̖̳͚̳͈̞̳̤̳̲̞̮̭͖̦͗́̐ͩ̒̾̿ͬͬ̚ͅf̴̷̟̺̳̜̦̝̖̳̖͍̪̟͕͇͈͙́̄̿ͮͭͨͦͣ͂̈́̚͝͡͡ ̸̨̡̣̙̣͈̦̙͖̹ͮ̓͂̎̐ͯͨ͐̌͞c̡̡̡̛̭̩͉͔̲͓̈ͪͩ̋͐̈̒̊̚͢h͚͉̤̮̖͙͈͖̯̯͙͎͎̩̭̖̄ͧ͂͊̀̈́̇ͧ̒͑̊ͣ̐ͫ̒̍ͮ͆ͬ͜ͅȃ̸̀̓̈̊̿̏̔̓̋ͭ̚͜҉͜͏͎͎͚͇̟͎̬̯̥̝̳͈̟̳ͅͅo̵̷̎͆ͭ͐̔̊͊͏̳͈͓̖̖̠̣̮͕̭̫̭̝̩͍̜s̢̑͗͐̍ͤ͂͛҉̶͔̱̮̝͔̲̻̀ͅ.̷̛̳̞̫̭̭̺̗̒̂ͥ̆̑͑ͥ͒̕ ̷̧̛̬̺̟̻̥̠̰͕͖̲̤͍̮̙̬ͬ̔̂͂ͮ̃̀Ż̼̪̩̰̣͓̞̖ͭ͌̋ͬ̀ͩͫͪ̚̕͢͝͞ą̵̙͖̬̦̲̬̥̻͈̺̑̎͊̑́́͆̌͌̉͒̇ͯ̓̓̊͛ͤ͜͝ͅl̨̢͐ͪ͗͆ͤ͂͌͗̇͛ͩ̓͒͋͋̀̀̄̐̀͏̬͔̙̭͉͇͈͙͖͠g̢̗̰̣͙̱̘̟̲̣̫̘ͯͤͮͤ̈́͊̎͗́͗̅ͣ͋ͭ̃̄ͫͫ̀̕ͅo̢̹̞̭̓ͭ͛͊̈̽͌̃̌̚͠.̷̛͉͉̩̞̩̰̼̭ͩ́̇̔̆̅̉̈ͬ̊̐̕ͅ ̴̢̨͇̼̫̖̣̠̩̻͓͈̣̼̮̙̝̌̓̄ͤ̓̒̆̄ͣͬͪ̀̇͛̆͊̀ͅͅ
̢̛̜͓͔̩̻̗̻̰͔̘̽͌͂̄̿̍̌̓ͮ͐̃̈̅͛̆̂̅͑̓̀͠͡Hͮͪͭ͒̑ͣ̂̅͐͏͙̣̼̩̦͔̙̙̹̘͖͚̙͠͞ͅḙ̡͇̳͍̟̭̟̮̻̗͎͇̼̂̀̅̀̚ ̷̸̜̮̯̼̘̞̤̙̓̅̊̾̀ͮ̉̇̊̕͡w̧͔̭̖͍͕̹͚͇̹̫̯͎͔̘̠̩͚̮̄̏̀͒ͨ̋ͮ̑͒̈͘͜͝͝ḩ̵̴̵͙̣͓̣̗͙̼̓ͮ͂ͯͭo̶̭̳͚͓̭̪̟͒͑̀͗̔́͆̕͟͞ ̴̙̞̫̬̬̖̝̦̫̿ͥͯͪͦ̆̃̒͆ͬ̈́̎ͩ̏̚͢͡W̷̻̪̟̦̩͕̌̆͗ͦ̈́ͦͣͥ̃̅͟a̶̝͖̠̣͐͑ͫ̔ͯ̋ͣi̧̛̦̙̯͍̬̲̠̬̣̲̱̘̥̳̺͓̥̙̬͐̋̊ͣ̈̽͝t̛ͮͥ̄́҉̶̨̩̘̤͚̜̫͇̥̪̣s͙͇͚͍̯̗̝̝͔͉̻̆͋ͪ̋̇͜ ̸̵̢̦̦̜̭̖͕̦̤̥̝̭̥̪͈͙͈̤́̈ͭ̑ͣ̓ͣ͂ͫ͞͞ͅB̷̗͇̠͓ͣ͑ͪͪͭe̢̺̜̥͈̘̬̯͕͍ͪ̾̔ͯ̓ͮͨͮ͋ͪͪ͑ͩ̃̆̃̏͝h̸̴̰̯͖̘̞͇̥͔͎͉̮̩͉͓͊̀ͫ͋̓̇̅ͤ̓̎̽͂͂̒ͥi̡̼̭͍͚̫͎͔̻̯͍̦̞̖̱̗͔̒̇͊̐͢͝͠ņ͕̪̭̠̜̼̭͙̮͇̤̪͙͕̞̼͔ͨ̃̇ͪ̑͑̏ͧ̋̉͗͊ͪ̽̔d̨͎̙̝̳̫̪̝̍ͣ͆ͪ̀̋͂̀ ͂ͤ̂͆̌͂̌̈͒̔ͩ̅ͦ̚̚҉̶̶̴͍̭̘͕͔̣̦̼̖̗͔̪͙͠T̶̛͕͕͎̗̤̺͈͔̝̯̤̦̰͗̅̉ͬ͊͌̄̾ͥͣ̍ͮ̏ͩ͗͂͒͗͡ͅh̶̡͔̟̱̺͇͍̺̥̦͓͓̮̏̽͒̃̄̃́̚͜ͅe̷̪̲͍͍̺̤̟̬̳̫̞̺̊ͮ͋ͦ̂̇̀̌̈ͦ̅̒͋̀́͟ ͛̑ͭ̌͆̊̇̓́̚͟҉̞͚̙͇̳͝ͅW̾̍̔ͭ̇̾̂̈̍͗͂ͧ̽ͫ́̂ͮ͘͜͢͏̜̳̰͚̱̰̦̝̣̣͙͉͡ą̛̛͚̻̖͉͈̯̉͂ͬ͑͡l̈́̔͗̍ͣ͋ͯͦ͛͏͎̘̙̟̰͕̩̱̘̰̲̹̜͎̯̩̺̺̕̕l̴̨̘̥͍͙̫̬̦͚͕̙̹̳̪̝̗̩̞͒̂͊ͩ͛̿̅ͪ̈̊̕͘͘.̵̛̛̍̾͗̂̓͡͏̦͎͚ͅͅ
̢͉͈͖͕̬̩̩̍̿̆ͨͫ̕͞Z̢̨̒̿̓ͣͣ҉̫̣̥̥͍͈̹̞̪̯͉̺̤̘͜ͅA̧̡̛̙͍͎̜͙̪͈̙͚̰͎ͨ͂ͬͮ̓̑ͣ̍ͅL̨̫̱̬̖̤̦͛ͪ̄ͨ̔̈͐̑ͭ̄ͧ̍̃̾̑̊̀͋̕͜͝ͅG̢̾̿̿ͫ̍͛̿ͤ̅͋̋̋͝͏̜̪̗̮̳͎̺̲͍̥͙̲̼̥͙͈O͈̟͎̲̰͖͖̰̰͙̲̘̬̠̻̩̜ͯ̃̆͋ͫ͒ͣ͟͝!̨̻̱̙̰̯̥̭̮̗̠͓̠̏̀͋̓̆̑̌͌̉ͪͪ̒́ͬ͝

What if we were 100 people?

If the Earth population were a small community of 100 people, it would be something thus:

Sex
50 men
50 women

Population by continents
61 Asians
12 Europeans
14 Americans
13 Africans
1 Australian

Religion
33 are Christian
18 are Muslim
14 are Hindus
16 are not religious
6 are Buddhist
13 people practice other religions

Economy
41 live without basic cleaning
47 live in an urban area
6 people have 59% of the total fortune
18 live without a potable water source
18 people fight to survive with less than $1 or per day
53 people fight to survive with less than $2 or per day

Feeding
13 are hungry

Education
14 cannot read
7 have secondary education
12 have a computer
3 have connection to Internet

Health
1 adult between 15 and 49 years has AIDS
9 are incapacitated people

More data
The village uses more than $1,12 trillions in military expenses
The village uses only $100 billions in aids to the development
If you have food in your refrigerator, clothes in your locker, ceiling on your head, and have a bed for sleeping, you are richer than 75% of the whole population of the world
If you have a banking account you are one of the 30 richer people in the world

Further explorations of binaural trance and the self-oscillation state of lowpass filter envelopes.

Sadly, this was recorded direct which, while clarifying the beat frequencies of the entrainment tones, gives no hint of the beautiful percussive transients of the chugging bass hits get when amped.

Regardless, there are many solid rhythm samples in the second half, ripe for looping, re-amping, and layering. (Aaron)

http://rapidshare.com/files/244673330/Bathtime_Swarm.mp3

Tags: analogue, binaural, mp3

The progression of science into prominence, and approaching dominance, of Western culture has been a century of rapid exponential development fueled by exchange with technological innovation and invention - the manifestation of the meticulous details of scientific research and understanding. Yet, this developmental progression of science has been in one solitary direction: outwards, exploring the observable world in every scale of its complexity. The object of this scientific study has been of just that, objectivity, to the point of object and study coming to be inextricably linked in the semantic associations of our culture, in the same way as the words observable and science have come to be conceptually related. This branched collective of social consciousness surrounding the core of scientific investigation has come to limit our potential application of her principles and methods to measurable physicality, binding her critical gaze to the set of quantifiable external surfaces.

Surface/Depth

There is a boundary, that fluid surface between the objective and subjective, with which we have unnecessarily come to interpret as the limit of what can be scientifically understood. I like to think of this boundary as the surface of that ocean we wade into on a sunny day at the beach. The ocean is our ancient source and I feel rejuvenated by being near it – hearing it's sounds, feeling the cool tingle of its water rise up from below as I descend into her, letting the energy of her frequent and relentless waves envelope me. This is how I think of the unseen subjective world we may similarly immerse ourselves in – the deeper realm of experience which exists beneath the surface of the ocean of consciousness, in all its depths and fluid currents of bobbing, waving frequency. This is a safe analogy which carries many rich associative revelations within it, associations to be harvested and applied to our conception of spirit, consciousness, and the subtle systems of the electromagnetic spectrum.

Figure 1.

The idea of a beach, of entering the water - that meeting of 3 different densities: sand, water, and air.

I would like to be able to show a man entering the water...perhaps being waist deep.

Figure 2.

Maybe another perspective of seeing an entity in the water, looking at it from the surface above -- an obscured almost-visible conscious creature, a fish or perhaps a man. His figure seeming faint or distant through the density of the oceanic medium we struggle to see through using our external physical senses.

3 Densities Metaphor

1)Air – Medium of fine density defining the consciousness of the visible spectrum and observable physicality.
2)Ocean – Medium of subjective depth, intermediate fluid density beneath the observable "surface" of physicality.
3)Ground – Medium of gross density whose frequency of energetic carriage is of a scale beyond the capacity of our immersion, providing a solid base to support  both the physical and non-physical self.   “The Ground of Being.”

Meditation is like the act of a curious diver, closing his eyes to the external, paying attention to his breath, and “diving beneath” to see what can be seen and explore what exists beneath the surface and the loud people of that crowded sunlit beach. Diving beneath, the barrage of light and the emotion of their music, speech, and intentions fade from his perception, becoming distant to the new inward focus. To him, the subtlety of the previous-unseen subjective world is revealed in all of it's glorious depths and wonderous organization. Here, immersed within the ocean of energetic currents beneath the baseline of waking physical consciousness, intelligent and sentient lifeforms of a multitude of non-physical phyla and species are described univeresally, to some degree, among cultures of every time and location of the world. Interaction with these intraterrestrial entities is a central component forming the core of most spiritual and religious belief which extends beyond recorded human history and civilization.

The depth and rate of one's breath decides how deep one may truly dive in the act of meditation. A whale is a mammal who lived and thrived upon the land, only to turn around and return to the depths from which he had crawled. The whale can go deeper than any other mammal for its immense volume and expanded rate of breath. Yet it does not perhamently inhabit these depths, for it is always a creature the finer density, air, from which it chose to decend back into the oceanic medium.

From this aspect of the metaphor, the relationship between the potential depth an entity can explore subjectively and the rate and frequency of their breath can be drawn, with the associated relationship between breath and depth of consciousness being a measurable test of the direct proportional nature of their inter-influence. That is to say, electroencephalographic (EEG) monitoring reveals the energetic medium of our perceptual experience in  the consciousness medium as a brainwave frequency. As we know, our breathing decides, to some degree, our internal state of consciousness – slowing to calm as we descend into lower states of consciousness each night, being immersed into the spectrum of discrete bandwidths which compose the subconscious realm, our metaphor's underwater realm whose flowing current depths are divided into inner energetic layers, serving individually as a bound carriages of subconscious perceptions, like spirit or dream.

In trance, the shaman voyages into this “underworld,” beneath surface, intent to see and interact with the entities of that fluid underwater density. It is with the aid of consciousness-expanding medicines, like ayahuasca, that the shaman attains a hypersensitive state of awareness to the sub-physical or “intraterrestrial” realm of subtle energetic existence and the conscious manifestation of life which thrive there (our non-physical selves included). Indigenous spiritual men refer to this sudden and often overwhelming flood of energetic perceptions of the afterlife as “The Small Death,” implying a temporary transition into the subjective realm of spirit facilitated by the entheogenic medicine.

The heightened state of sensitivity induced by the ayahuasca medicine facilitates not just the inner journey through the depths of subjective existence, but  an enhancement to the shaman's objective perception as well, reportedly allowing him to see or hear more. WIth his eyes open, the shaman claims to sense the location and nature of disease in the sick; illness which he can then carefully “extract,” with all the careful preparation and delicate precision of a surgeon. The evidence supporting the legitimate benefit resulting from this “energetic surgery” is becoming less and less anecdotal, more and more empirically measured and documented as medically effective as more and more researchers risk their academic reputation on what anthropology had, for decades, essentially disregarded as a primitive tribal narcotic which incapacitates the Indian witch doctor, inducing meaningless hallucinations, temporary psychosis, and delusional thinking.

Tags: ayahuasca, densities, intraterrestrial, science, shamanism, spirit, subjective

The NorthEast must be cut, the SouthWest must be trusted.
Surrender the self to the journey there,
to the river's flow which can either carry or destroy and then carry.
The river nourishes the open palm fingery roots,
or smooths the closed fist's stone and it's fight, it's clutching desire.

So minute a soulform, this leaf, fluttering madly in the flow's wind,
seeing only isolate other leaves thrashing sharp edges away and towards
on a branch so easily forgotten.

So grand and wide a soulform, this proud and vibrant tree standing tall radiating resonant our fluttering lives.
This is the sustaining civilization which grows as us and whose organization comes not of us, but of the flow, the xylem and phloem drawing and carrying the pulsing tides of continuity inwards to nourish the expression of life to unfold in receiving, like the palm's open graditude in that universally-understood gesture of sensitivity and acceptance.