on being pulled

On Being Pulled (Gravity and Intention)
notes from the digger’s manual 2 –20 –05

All beings have weight. If you throw them in the water they will cause waves. All beings have gravity, but this doesn’t just mean they fall down a lot. They each exert a field of attraction on every being, a subtle pull that influences and is influenced by the pull of every other thing. The earth pulls us to it, the moon pulls the tides and our blood, the stars pull each other and hold it all together. We are stars too, centers of our own web of attractions, and what strange attractors indeed. We are attracted through us the influence of all that crosses our attention, consciously or not, and change our relationship to the entire world in every moment. Imagine a cluster of spheres attached to each other by strings; move one and it readjusts the tension between all the rest. Our muscular system works the same way, in tensile integrity that continually keeps the system in balance (tensegrity, made known by Buckminster Fuller’s geodesic domes). The whole universe is balanced in this tension, a great nexus of affect and reciprocation. Nothing is not involved, nothing is not affected, even our atoms "know" when another moves on the other side of the world, because they all move. They are all one medium, waves in the sea of particles that make us up, and it is only our attention to the particular waves of influence that separates them into distinct beings. Attention is etymologically to be stretched away from something, to be made more tensed, to be apart from what we attract and are attracted to. Knowing is being affected, interpreting the tensions into separate things in whatever degree one can be aware of their distinct level of detail. In this sense a rock knows something about falling into Earth’s pull, if not much else. Earth itself knows what it’s like to attract countless beings to its surface and about circling the sun. We exist as nodes in this web of mutual attraction, interfaces in Indra’s network, not reflecting all the other reflections but influencing all the other influences, or interpreting all the other interpretations.

Though it is all one flow of pull, it appears to us local attractors as two separate movements. We receive the pull on us, interpreting the incoming tensions, and create a pull on the universe, extending our influence outwards. The yin and yang states of intention and extension, everything stretching into us and back out into the universe; like breathing, but on a cosmic level and with all your senses. In passing through us this flow of tensions changes us, and we change the flow, readjusting the tensegrity of all the other centers of attraction. And like breathing, we can exercise some amount of control over how we let that flow pass through us. Like Kybernos, we cybernetically steer ourselves on the waves of this chaotic sea of influence. Any object, event, or idea can be treated as an external center of attraction, a star around which we spin like planets or particles, and the tensions we channel are limited to their particular sphere of attraction, and influence. We are always doing this as particular things are always passing through our attention, and we are always reinterpreting ourselves in relation to each one, even if it’s so subtle we do not know it consciously. A loud aggressive man enters the room, your stance (and the stance of everyone else present) changes in relation to their particular gravity.

Once something has attracted our attention we react to it, either by being attracted closer, or being repelled away, which in itself is a kind of attraction. In being influenced we are moved in relation; this is intention, not some desire towards an abstract goal state, but the process which is the action itself. As Castaneda put it, "There is no technique for intending, one intends through usage." we let ourselves become involved and fall into the things which attract us. Heidegger uses the example of intending to open a door by using the doorknob. In order to break from the subject/ object dichotomy he states that our intention is not towards "using" the doorknob itself, but in being drawn through the door. The doorknob itself is only an extension, a part of the world taken as part of ourselves to stretch out our reach of what we can most directly influence.

Though we do effect everything, it has a more localized limit in which the effects are strongest, like Earth’s gravity well or a blackhole’s event horizon. It’s likely there is a massive blackhole in the center of each galaxy, keeping the stars in tight. This is the extent or domain to which we can reach, the bounds of our sphere of influence. If you stretch out your arms you can reach further, if you hold out a stick you can reach further still. If you whisper only those close by can hear you, if you use the internet people all over the world can. Technology has become a quest for more precise ways to extend our interactions with our environments. All mediums become an extension of our intent, moving us further towards our attractions, depending on what we use to move in what manner. Metachor and I were bowling, and I mused that if the bowling ball extends our intention to knock down the pins, then the pins themselves were part of that intent to bowl. They are not separate from us however, but become part of us as an extension of our intention towards playing, just as we become extensions of someone else’s intension to tell us something. Language is a tool after all. Intention stretches out of us as attraction on the universe, realigning tensions of everything in its reach. What happens then if we were to consider the wholes Universe as an extensions of ourselves, as we have attention and intention for? If we were to catch the right grooves, letting the influence of the stars move through us, could we not in turn influence their spin, or everything else for that matter? Are we not heavenly bodies too, with the whole weight of the cosmos coursing through our backs?

Magic works on the principle that we can cause change to happen in accordance with our will, that we have some element of skill over the attentions and extensions we work our intentions through. Magic is writing a letter, or casting a spell, whatever means work best to fill the specific intention, regardless of whether that means seems possible in terms of a normalized view of cause and affect. Sometimes, the more impossible, the better; the mage is also a juggler, and people go to the circus to be amazed. Magic often draws on influences so subtle and attractors so arcane as to be unbelievable, but it works because these things are all connected, intent flows through them all and moves them in accordance with each other. But whose intent? Certainly not that of a single person. Our movements are cast on the whole web of movements, and everything we do through the force of that power carries the whole weight of the universe around us. No intention is not part of the intention of all beings. We are an extension of the Universe just as much as it is an extension of us, in relation to where we set the limits of our intentions. Except that we are only distended from life when we are dead, its pull never really loses us. If we choose to be single beings acting with the intentions of single beings then our reach and power is only that which we can muster ourselves. But if we act within the intentions of others then the power has a much greater pull, and control is extended that much further. Unfortunately this force can be disastrous if not intended towards the greater good, as can be seen right now in humanity’s treatment of the planet and each other. In the spin of the universe, things sometimes die violently, and our case may not be such a tragic thing. But if we act with the intentions of the universe, with the intentions of all beings, then our reach and power and aim includes all of them. And we all get to dance together, and be content.

story of the seven sisters

technoccult jsut published a story I wrote, entitled The Story of the Seven Sisters as the first story in their friday fiction series. Which is the first thing I've had published, even if only digitaly. The story itself is a myth told within the novel I just wrote, and am currently looking for publishers for. I started looking at publishers the other day and decided my first choice will be the children's division of Harpercollins. I figure might as well submit to a big name publisher first. now to get it finished...

miller on writing

"To write, I meditated, must be an act devoid of will. The word, like the deep ocean current, has to float to the surface of its own impulse...

No man ever puts down what he intends to say: the original creation, which is taking place all the time, whether one writes or doesn't write, belongs to the primal flux: it has no dimensions, no form, no time element. In this preliminary state, which is creation and not birth, what dissapears suffers no destruction; something which was already there, something imperishable, like memory, or matter, or God, is summoned and in it one flings himself like a twig in a torrent. Words, sentences, ideas, no matter how subtle or ingenious, the maddest flights of poetry, the most profound dreams, the most hallucinating visions, are but crude hieroglyphs chiseled in pain and sorrow to commemorate an event which is untransmissible. In an intellegently ordered world ther would be no need to make the unreasonable attempt of putting such miraculous happenings down. Indeed, it would make no sense, for if men only stopped to realize it, who would be content with the counterfeit when the real is at everyone's beck and call? Who would want to switch in and listen to Beethoven, for example, when he might himself experience the ecstatic harmonies which Beethoven strove to register? A great work of art, if anything, serves to remind us, or at let us say to set us dreaming, of all that is fluid and intangible. Which is to say, the universe. It canot be understood; it can only be accepted or rejected... Whatever it purports to be it is not: it is always something more for which the last word will never be said. It is all that we put into it out of hunger for that which we deny every day of our lives. If we accepted ourselves as completely, the work of art, in fact the whole world of art would die of malnutrition... The art of dreaming will be in the power of every man one day. Long before that books will cease to exist, for when men are wide awake anddreaming their powers of communication (with one another and with the spirit that moves all men) will be so enhanced as to make writing seem like the harsh and raucous sqwauwks of an idiot."

-Henry Miller, from Sexus

a scanner darkly and other strange tales

Stumbled upon this preview for the movie version of Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly through the blogosphere. It looks fascinating, not only because Dick was one of the most brilliant scifi writiers of our time, but also because it is directed by Richard Linklater, who directed Waking Life, which is inarguably one of my favorite movies ever. It changed my life when I needed it in just the right way, and its visual style of animated film cutups is more appealing to me than any other film style. And A Scanner Darkly appears to be animated over in the same way. This leaves me tingling with excitement.

In other news, a star three times bigger than our sun decided to high tail it out of our galaxy, at a speed of something like a hundred and fifty million miles an hour. I read it in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette this morning but I couldn't find any good articles about it online, so I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.

We also got our copy of the latest issue of Adbusters, which is one of the best issues so far, because besides their regular denunciations of the corporate spectacle, including articles on brand logo tattoos and designer vaginas, a good bit of the issue was spent focused on issues of a more metaphysical and futurist bent, including an article they posted online about art and spirituality.

And a big old RIP for Hunter S. Thompson, a man who truly went over the edge.

On Lucid Living

On Lucid Living
Notes from the Digger's Manual... 1-16-04

Reality is whatever we make of it, our perceptions are shaped by the ways we approach the world and the filters we use to see the world through. Quantum physics points to innumerable different views on what the underlying reality could be, whether as shaped by our perceptions, an infinity of possible worlds, as a hologram, or colliding waves of energy. Any or all of these views could (or not) be correct in describing reality as we can know it, and may all just be different methods of interpreting the patterns we discover in the world. In this sense, anything we can imagine can be possible, as long as we develop the filters to perceive the world in a certain way. This means reforging the connections between our senses in order to perceive the subtle aspects of reality. We are raised and trained to perceive the world from certain points of view that fit together in the consensual reality, that is, our senses remain isolated from each other and we remain oblivious to patterns of energy and events that point to some higher-level structures in the organization and movements of the world.

However, we humans have the ability to imagine different realities and do so each time we create subjunctive worlds in order to prophecy our futures. These alternate realities can be simple or wild as our imaginations, and as possible as the amount of energy required to bridge the state differences. This ability to create our worlds can be turned inward to posit realities in which we can gather quite different information with our senses, These worlds are quite possible, to the extent that we can put energy into forming and maintaining perspectives which surpass those we typically use to interpret and perceive reality.

For instance we see the claims of mystics who throughout time have been able to perceive the subtle forces of energy which flow through (are) everything. Or being able to understand the synchronistic and dreamlike nonlinear causality of events and actions. In order to perceive these interpretations of reality one must create visual and mental representations through which to perceive these worlds, and constantly practice to perceive and maintain these views of the world. One has to be mindful of reality-shifting for it to occur. Luckily the resonant nature of the Universe plays in to this, for the more you look through one filter, the more the world will appear that way. But one has to look in the first place, and complacency and normalcy are just as resonant patterns if that is how one chooses to perceive the world.

Of course, It is often not enough just to practice visually representing alternate views of reality, for the bonds of our senses and connections are strong and must be cut through to truly view the world in new ways. Often severing and reforging tools are needed to restructure our minds in a way which allows the mental abstractions of alternate realities to become true perceptions rooted in the paths of our brains. Such tools would need to place the agent in vastly different positions in regards to the world so we can learn to bridge the gaps between the two in our everyday living. Usual tools for doing this include meditation and entheogenic (literally 'the birth of the divine within') drug experiences that allow us to actually 'see the light' behind the pure being of reality.

Such experiences can only work to reshape our perceptions if practiced regularly and approached with pure intentions. Thus these practices can act as gates or paths to reshape our worlds, but only if well-oiled/kept and approached with clear goals of states to move towards. One must remember that there is no absolute true reality behind the veils of Maya, but an infinity of interpretations which extend beyond our everyday sensations, so one must establish how one wishes to perceive the world before it can be perceived in that way (or in any other way than the 'normal' way). Gradually the gap between how one perceives the world and how one wants of perceive the world is closed until there is no difference between the two, and connections are formed to hold these views together.

Certainly, the human ability to forget, and the need to remember to remember play a large role in reshaping our world views. It is easy for us to forget what we strive to learn, and without constant maintenance the paths can become overgrown or lost, whether through intentional acts of suppression or pure slippage between our thoughts. We must be vigilant, or whatever we have put towards a connection will fade back into our everyday realities and perceptions. This is why such practices as meditation are important in keeping us on the right track.

The entheogenic experience is great for fast shifts in our connections, allowing us more immediate understanding of other realities, but the intensity of these experiences is counterbalanced by the speed with which they fade from our thoughts if we do not constantly practice in maintaining the visions we are shown. In this sense, drugs can break down walls and burn bridges, but without the continual mindfulness of meditation to build new paths we will just reconstruct our old ways of being again, as best we can. We must remember to remember the differences between the states in order not to fall back into our old patterns of living.

Though the practice of meditation allows us to build up new connections to how we perceive the world, we are always forgetting and therefore must constantly remember to remember in every moment. mindfulness of our being and becoming must be held in our every act and breath in order to not backslide into the sleep of the mundane. We must take care to always be waking up throughout everything we do and experience. We must truly be in each moment as it is and could be all the time. This is lucid living, the constant realization that life is a dream from which we can always be waking up. This practice keeps us on our way and completely transforms reality through how we approach it.

Of course, remembering to remember is the easiest thing to forget, as it requires complete focus of will and intention in each moment. However, the energy required to do so is in all of us naturally, making this approach an extreme possibility if it is constantly kept in mind. This is hard to do though, and requires a lifetime(s) of practice, patience, and perseverance to maintain and uphold. Nothing less than complete mindfulness will allow us to be in the world in this way. This is where the continuation of such practices as meditation and entheogenics becomes important in strengthening our will towards lucidity, either in our everyday lives or/and in short circuiting us towards higher levels of awareness to work from. It is a learning process that requires positive feedback to deviate us from normal living towards lucid living.

Certainly what makes meditation and entheogenics valuable for remembering to be lucid is that they are experiences that differ greatly from normal experience and therefore can be learned from in reminding us to approach the world anew. These are not the only experiences that carry this interstitial lesson though. Really any experience that carries differences can be used to realize being in the moment if we pay attention to the distinctions. Thus, music, dance, travel, etc... are also good experiences for remembering to live lucidly.

And beyond that, one can see that each moment is different from all others, and all experience of life is perceiving change in the differences between one moment and the next. And though these distinctions are often negligible and almost imperceptible, they can be paid attention to and allow us to remember in each moment, all the time, if we are mindful of being here and now. All living can teach us to be awake if we let it touch us this way, and all experience has the potential to completely reshape us in every moment. And allow us to reshape ourselves. We are always transforming, and always exactly who we are now.

There is no 'right' way to become, but we are always becoming. With constant practice and remembering to remember, we can be anything/everything we can imagine.

poetic prelude...

Every being is a star, the center
of their own spinning
spheres of existence;
falling through space
with the rest of the cosmos.
If one were to fall
in the ocean
the waves would not be
so big as a single smile
intended as if
everything else will smile
in return. A star's light
caresses many worlds,
but is only the sun
of its own system.
From here they are just stars,
light reflectes on the water.
Yet their spinning keeps us turning
and we are waves
to each other's gravity,
interlapping influence
as far as we can reach
until its impossible to tell
from which source
each ripple came;
and it all shimmers
together.

loose ends

I wanted to post a link to the articles on the black box that reads the future, and the global consciousness project (thanks lvx23 for sticking them in one place) not because they're "news" at this point, but because this may just be a very exciting time to be alive, and I don't want to misplace them in all the confusion.

It is possible - in theory - that time may not just move forwards but backwards, too. And if time ebbs and flows like the tides in the sea, it might just be possible to foretell major world events. We would, in effect, be 'remembering' things that had taken place in our future.

If you've been paying attention, it sure feels like we've been doing this all along, but subconsciouly at best; or perhaps we only thought we were telling ourselves stories. Either way, we're riding the ripples into the biggest stone of all, a confluence unparalleled in being so bloody obvious but utterly undefinable until it happens.

I wonder how apt Yeats's prediction will be: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold..."



I've still got a couple tricks up my sleeve... just in case.

flungness and the primacy of spiritual experience

In his now infamous(ly incomprehensible) philosophical text Being and Time, Heidegger talks about the concept of flungness, the primal feeling of finding ourselves seemingly flung into the world and having to continually reinterpret what it means to find ourselves there as beings who are and have to be. Now, if you were to only read a definition of this concept, it may not seem so readily understandable, even translated out of Heideggerian into common English. But, if you were to find yourself flung into the middle of a street with a car bearing down at you at remarkable speeds, it becomes more apparent that yes, you are there, and have to do something about it. And quickly if you don’t want to be run over. Granted, most of our experiences do not seem to require such immediate interpretation, but that does not diminish the feeling of flungness that accompanies every moment of directly experiencing the world and having to interpret ourselves in it, even if that flungness is mostly subliminal. I wake up, and for a brief moment do not know who or where I am. I wait for the bus in the snow, it shows up late and I don’t have enough change, but then some stranger offers me a ride from out of nowhere. These are moments in between knowing the world in which we feel ourselves flung to the wolves, moments that bring into question everything we thought we knew enough of to get by on.

When I was in school I didn’t think I knew everything, though there were some moments when I felt pretty sure of myself. But everyone else seemed a lot surer, not because they actually were, but because they had read enough to back up their assumptions about reality. The teachers were particularly guilty of this, and seemed to suggest that this kind of book learning was enough to get by in the world. At the time I was a young punk, not at all satisfied with sitting in class all day listening to some old white dudes lecture while there was a whole world out there to explore. Even if that meant finding a new place to go get high during lunch. It wasn’t enough and I knew it, so I dropped out and moved out, hoping to fling myself into situations and experiences that might teach me in a more direct manner. Though I didn’t learn advanced calculus or how to write a master thesis out in the world, I did find myself confronted almost every day with questions of love and communication, politics and survival that seemed to reflect a much more basic understanding of human experience in the world. Small basic truths surprisingly not taught in schools that helped define my own flung place in this world better than anything I read in a book. Not that I didn’t read, but now it was less to learn something new than to find terms and arguments in which to express my own experiences in, which often would not have made any sense without the experience to back them up. When I found myself in philosophical discussions I couldn’t quote passages to those who had studied them extensively, but I tried to enlighten the conversations with personal anecdotes that portrayed the abstract points. It took a while to get to that point, and I often found myself having to rely on abstracts in order to fill in the gaps between my experiences and knowledge; but the more I was in the world the less I had to rely on the ontological maps of others. The understanding was fostered from my own interpretations.

But then I began to experience things that were far outside any interpretation I had found read about so far, synchronicities and acts of magic that did not seem to stem from any logical cause and effect. I was now flung not in front of a speeding car but a charging seven-headed beast that forced me to not only interpret how I would get out of the way but where it came from in the first place. Despite my wonder at this new spiritual dimension the world was rapidly taking on I also felt a terror comparable to Sartre’s idea of Nausea, like when the character in his novel looks at a single stone and feels himself flung beyond any possible interpretations. The Romantic poet Blake expressed this when he said "To see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wildflower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour." Except that such abstracts as infinity and eternity were utterly meaningless in face of this direct experience and only seemed to hide the experience itself. In the same way the texts I read on these type of magical world views only seemed to hide the experiences of it behind abstract mappings and symbols, and not say what it meant and felt like to perceive so intensely.

Poetry is one of the few literary forms enamored by direct experience and split second reinterpretations of being flung into the world. Images are called up to reflect the world in a single grain of sand and flung back into the face of the unknown. But even here there is the pull to use abstracts and well-worn expressions, even to describe the vastness of the spiritual experience. Blake and the other Romantic poets fell into this, relying on symbolic interpretations of old religious texts to augment feelings that seemed too ineffable to put into words. About a hundred years later Rilke tried his hand at spiritual poetry, but broke from the Romantic’s approach of grandiose iconography to show how the spiritual breaks through in the small details of our daily lived experience. This wasn’t a new approach, as Rilke was directly influenced by the 13th Century Sufi poet, Rumi, whose body of work is filled with the idea of finding god in wine, laughter and sorrow, in the face of a friend and the turning of stars. Here were images that spoke directly to my own experiences of the world’s mystery, and offered me a voice to describe what I also felt, a light sliding through the features of all things that was recognizable only in giving myself to it fully. The spiritual experience became a continual feeling of being flung beyond all interpretation, experience that never needs disclosing because we are always here in it.

Not that I still don’t try and ground myself in attempts at understanding, but the desire to pull myself out of the air no longer feels so necessary, or the precise words so important.

***

It is night and all around you
strange shadows dance beyond
the flickering streetlamps.
One approaches in the dark
and for a moment you think
it is your death, beautiful
and mysterious in the twilight.
As you watch, in fear
and more wonder than a single heart
can hold, it takes form;
a tree, a beggar, a lover,
any of the known things
that might stumble towards you
in the night.
Suddenly you laugh
for it is a face you recognize
from each night before;
your own, reflected in the dark
glass of an empty storefront.
Who says your death
will not look that way too,
flung so suddenly in your path;
and will not your relief
at finding yourself there
be like finding yourself
each time you look in a mirror?

Dying is only a metaphor
for each moment you realize
you are still alive.
But it only happens once.
Living is to die
over and over again,
the knife's edge
of finding yourself there
always pressed close
against your chest.
Will you flinch away
or fling yourself bodily
into its embrace?

Only the young and insane
want to die so readily,
the feeling of blood pushed
so close to the skin
draws them out of themselves
and into each other's arms.
They cut their hearts out
of the mirror's glass
and polish them in starlight
so they can find themselves
in the middle of the night
and quickly die again.

on being consumed

I also was inspired by some conversations I had with the Teacher and the Fisherman last night and wrote this out a few minutes ago:

The Teacher keeps a box of worms,
which he feeds the scraps of vegetables
from our cooking.
They eat and live and reproduce
in the scraps,
till all that's left
is good earth for planting.

One day the Teacher had a vision
of a gaping maw in his mind,
always consuming itself
like the snake wrapped around the world,
hungry for its own tail.
It was like the worms,
senseless and always eating
the ground in which they live.

When he saw this mouth
the Teacher felt terror,
for it is a frightening thing
to realize you are being eaten
by your own head.

It never ends.

How do you think the trees feel
when they are torn from the ground,
or a babe born
from its mother's womb?
Scared, yes, but full of wonder.
It is only in being eaten
that we truly know
we are alive.
Terror and wonder
coming into being
over and over again
as we consume and are consumed.

And once we digest ourselves
all that's left is ground,
good for planting next year's crops.


If it wasn't already obvious, I've been reading a lot of Rumi's poetry recently. Sometimes a few beautiful lines are the only thing standing between us and all existence.

on love

I wrote a poem about love the other day, as I've been feeling very much in love with the whole world of late. I posted it on my livejournal, but thought it would probably be appropriate here too:

I am in love with the world,
but I don’t have enough words to say it.
All the people, the animals and plants,
wind, sun and stars,
I am in love with all of it
because it is all here.

I tried to write a poem
going into the most intimate of details
but soon realized
if I were to whisper my love
for one thing
I would have to sing odes
to all existence,
and never stop.

No wonder I don’t talk much.
If I opened my mouth
you would burst into flames
from this intensity.
So love burns my throat instead
and makes my fingers scream
when they are forced to take up the call.
How many notebooks filled
with futile attempts at love?
I lost count
when I started burning them
to stay warm at night.

***

What is love anyway?
Not this desire and longing
for your touch.
We are already touching
from across the room.
Love is not the passionate acts
or charming words
we use to hold each other close.
Every long mile
and aching moment
draws us even closer.

When I say we are in love
I mean we are in love,
like in an ocean,
deep and unfathomable
and covering the whole world.
We are swimming in love,
trying to hold our heads
over the waves
so we can see each other.
But when we give up and drown,
gulping down lung-fulls of love
like rich wine,
our souls stop struggling
and become one.

That is love,
being together,
submerged and stripped bare
of all boundaries.

If you can still feel my skin
pressed against yours,
we are not close enough.
If you can still hear my breath
whispering in your ear,
kiss me so I’ll be quiet.
If you can still see my eyes
drinking quick glances of you
from across the room,
close them and dive in.

through the gates of heaven: one man's journey to the center of existence

This is a personal story of enlightenment, found in a tattered notebook in the library of a burned down mansion, a long tale that seems to twist in on itself like a snake devouring its own tail. It is a map and a manifesto, but who would follow it, for it seems to be drawn inside out with the heavens in the middle of the earth. It is a stone, slammed into the face of reality and left to sink, with the ripples whispering its name across the chaotic seas of time. It is both truth and illusion, duking it out to see who will get the last laugh.


The cactus had been smuggled up from Peru, and the labels on the bags read San Pedro: Saint Peter, keeper of the gates of heaven. It had sat in the laboratory of the mansion for months, waiting for the Juggler and I to return from the West, when we would celebrate the Monk’s last days as a solitary man. After the ecstatic New Year, when he had proposed to the Playwright, we had decided the perfect place for such a ritual was out in the woods of the Fisherman’s cabin. I was still charged with the fearlessness I had found out West and the sadness at the Friend’s recent death when we packed our bags and headed out for the woods to brew the potion.

The month before, the Artist, the Yogini, and I had experimented with making the potion, settling on the acidic agent of lemon juice to activate the cactus’s subtle properties; that while a volatile concoction almost undrinkable in its wretchedness was still powerful in its effects. They wanted to spend this first experiment in their usual entheogenic ritual of practicing asanas, playing music, and painting; but soon the three of us found ourselves huddled around the heart-shaped fire pit in their backyard, loosening our ego-boundaries and plotting world salvation. Though that trip was only slightly more visual and revelatory than all the acid trips we had taken that summer, I suspected this had a lot to do with the urban and controlled setting in which they were done. San Pedro is traditionally used in a more natural context, and so I hoped the experience we would have with it out in the woods would better suit the plant’s naturalistic spirits and power, especially without prior convictions of what we might do under its influence.

There were seven of us, a fitting number for such a ritual; the Monk, the Teacher, the Game-master, the Juggler, the Alchemist, the Fisherman, and myself, all part of our close circle, and except for the Alchemist all lived in our mansion. The Alchemist was very close though, and was getting married soon as well, in fact was already expecting a son with the Dancer, so it only seemed fitting that he join us in clearing out our minds. We arrived at the cabin after dark, quickly built a fire, and set the cactus to boil. There was no running water, and the closest store was miles away, so we hoped we had enough water and lemon juice to make a proper cactus tea. Even if it wasn’t particularly strong we imagined it would still serve our intentions, so while it cooked down we sat around the table throwing cards and talking about the past and future. Births, deaths, weddings, circuses, wars, magic, and dreams; it had been a wild couple of years since I met this group, and it looked like it was only going to get wilder. So we hoped the next day would bring us a moment of peace, a still respite in which we could gather the power we needed to go back into the world in its glorious insanity and do what we had to do.

Once the liquid had begun to evaporate, the fire’s heat drawing the water away into the air and leaving an earthy mass of power cactus behind, we turned off the stove and went to sleep in the bunks to dream of the next day. While I slept in, as I am wont to do, the Teacher and the Fisherman rose with the sun and went down to the river where they caught two fish. an unwitting sacrifice to the day, and the night’s dinner, if any of us felt compelled or capable of eating later. The rest of us woke, and those with strong stomachs and high metabolisms ate a light breakfast, knowing we would need the energy to sustain us as we would not be able to eat for the rest of the trip. We put the potion back on to boil, but soon realized that if we wanted to drink it before noon as we had planned we would have to suffer through larger quantities of the vile liquid then just the pulp itself, which had been the curse of my first experiment with it. So we let it cool enough to drink and divided it into six cups, as the Game-master preferred to remain a sober and objective observer, claiming he gets enough of a contact high when the rest of us alter ourselves chemically that he does not need to take drugs himself. Of course, he’s never actually tried them before, leaving me to wonder if he truly understands what we human can go through, but it is still rather wise when stepping out of the world to leave someone behind and grounded in case an emergency situation arises.

We gave thanks and blessings and then downed the foul potion as fast as possible and with as much water as we could spare to cut the taste. The Artist had recommended mixing in sarache and vegetable juices to make a palatable V8 like concoction, but the Monk was adamant that we drink it straight, as the taste is just as much a part of the whole experience. After it had settled I went outside to do hatha yoga, which the Artist and the Yogini, had discovered was a good way to begin any entheogenic experience as the opening properties of the asanas give the chemicals more room to work into your system.

It is worth mentioning at this point that I had been doing yoga regularly at this point for about half a year, and that when the Artist had first taught me the postures it saved my life. I had spent the last several years expanding my consciousness and breaking through old worldviews with such rapidity that I had been left ungrounded and out of touch with reality, to the extent that I was often deathly afraid that I would go insane. Despite living among a close community of intelligent and compassionate people (many of whom are existential psychologists), I couldn’t quite let go of the old world and enter the next. And I spent most of that winter feeling alone and confused, and unable to fathom the Dancer’s cryptic advice that I should remember to breathe. But then I did yoga and it all started to come together. All the fears and insecurities in us are like walls (or cells) holding in the air so it stagnates and becomes the pain and tension that perpetuates the holding in. But that air is the same air that surrounds us, and yoga breaks down the walls, freeing the trapped air and allowing us to become one with the sky, and with the world. The ultimate act of surrender and letting go, and perfect before a trip to welcome the alien energies into the body.

The Juggler joined me in my asanas and while we were standing on our heads he gave me the key that would thematize my whole trip and literally revolutionize my life. While out West, he had fortuitously met the Red Mage, who besides being a gnostic, artist, and fellow dreamer, was a fire dancer specializing in the art of poi. The Juggler thought the swinging spheres would make a wonderful circus act, so he began to learn, following her advice of swinging the chains along circular planes from a central axis. The Juggler wanted to perfect this while under San Pedro’s liberating influence, but we were to soon find that the idea of spinning circles around a still center was not just applicable to fire dancing but was a pivotal interpretation for all existence.

After this we wandered down the path to the river, where the rest of the party was collecting flat stones and skipping them off the surface of the water. The Fisherman had the best arm and practice for this, spinning the stones on a horizontal plane over the water with such force that they would skip about ten times or so before hitting the opposite shore. After a few sore attempts I sat back and watched the interlapping ripples of the stones, and mused for the first time that this was metaphorical of events in time, causing rippled effects around them that were in turn effected by other ripples. So much could happen from the multiple impressions of one stone skipping through space/time, how much did our own movements effect the world around us?

Curious to find out, the Juggler, the Alchemist, and I stripped down to our shorts and waded out into the river, balancing on the mossy stones beneath while the current tried to sweep us off our feet in its passing. Each footstep dislodged dirt and small fish that were carried away in the wake of our movement. When we stood still the water’s tension pulled it up and away around us, and as we watched, the air began to do the same, breaking apart and revealing our sphere-like energy fields. Then the sun broke through the clouds and the water, and the depths became clear. We were gods, towering above the intricate worlds of the river at our feet. Looking down we could see the reflection of the trees on the river, then the rippling surface, the shimmering play of sunlight on the bottom, then the bottom itself; rocks and plants and fish and junk, every intimate detail of that microcosmic world reflecting the fullness of life everywhere around us. Bending down and moving with the water we began picking up the treasures of the riverbed, rocks and shells and water-worn bits of old machines, each movement rearranging the balance of the world beneath us. This went on for what seemed like eternity until a woman appeared on the opposite bank asking if we had seen two men pass in a boat. We hadn’t, but the interruption broke me from the spell of the river and its mesmerizing world in which we were the only humans. So I slowly made my way to the shore to see what other wonders the world had to offer me.

I climbed up onto the dock, and discovered that my body still wanted to like the water that had just surrounded me, as if the air itself was trying to pick me up and carry me away. So I let it lift my leg off the ground and spin me around, again and again, in a slow dance with the wind. As I gave myself to it I found my arms were joining in, describing circles in the air as they moved from their joints, and soon my whole body was extended out to the limits of my reach, capable of being anywhere as long as the movements spun around my center of balance. This still center was like the stones dropped in the water, and my movements were the ripples, circling out into the world around me.

Overjoyed at this sense of physical freedom and control, I sauntered up the path to share my discovery with the others. They laughed at the luxurious way in which I was moving, and I was surprised to find them all sitting around the fire. Why were they not up and dancing as well? Apparently such dancing is a common expression of the San Pedro experience, but as the only one of the group inclined in the normal world to explore my physicality so thoroughly, was the only one thus afflicted now. This didn’t bother me as everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves in their own ways, even the Monk, who had scraped the remainder of the cactus pulp out of the pots and ended up throwing up most of it in the woods. I continued to explore the domain of movement, working on moving in planes, and found that by slightly shifting my balance of my axis the alignment of my entire body would follow, moving me into another set of planes. I began to wonder that once the central point of something is discovered, the whole world can be turned around that point.

The Juggler and the Alchemist came flying back up the path at this point, their hands laden with treasures, and began laughing once they saw that all the time in water had dissolved the lines on their hands. I looked at my own and finding the same imagined that the river had washed fate away from us. I wanted to show the Juggler what I had discovered, so we headed back down to the river where he taught me a tai chi exercise to strengthen recognition of the center of movement, which he called an axis, from dancer’s terminology. By lowering the center of gravity and relaxing completely we began to sway back and forth like the river-grass beneath us, letting the motion rock the axis from one side of the body to the other, over the sides of the feet. We stood there swaying in a very zen/ karate kid type scene and then he asked if I had seen the little gray mushrooms that looked like roses. I hadn’t, so we ran up into the woods and he pointed. Looking down his arm I saw the mushroom and then looking around I saw that the woods were full of them. Once my attention had been focused on the one point, the whole world was reconfigured in relation to it. That mushroom became the axis for my mushroom consciousness as my center of gravity had become the axis of my movement consciousness.

This blew my mind open, for our group had long been talking of the essential ambiguity of existence, that reality can be interpreted in a multiplicity of ways depending on how you chose to look at it. Through the year I had been trying to formulate this into a theory that everything can thus be meaningful in its own context. That every apprehensible action, object, or idea was a medium, literally a surface between the unknowable centers of things that can be written to or affected in a way that others can read or find an understandable interpretation of. But these surfaces were also walls, layers of illusion keeping us from perceiving the deepest nature of things and ourselves. As long as we see the outside of things we are caught in labyrinthine tunnels of multiple interpretations and the chaos of all reality remains too ambiguous to understand. It is like watching the interlapping ripples of stones dropped in water without stepping back to see how each set of ripples circles around and is caused by the stone. They make pretty patterns but don’t mean much without a centered point of view. But now I was beginning to see past that, to see that all things act as an axis or guity, a single interpretable point around which the rest of the world spins in context. By focusing attention on a single aspect, which like taoist conception of te, everything becomes meaningful from that perspective. This is a thing’s domain, the magic circle that is the limits of its influence, but like the te is still an illusion and outside the central understanding of all things.

We wandered back up the path, time and space becoming laughably arbitrary concepts in the face of this unfiltered experience. At one point we were kicking around a hackey-sack, which I’d always found difficult before, but now the ball was the center of the universe and it was almost impossible not to put your foot in its path. Even when it flew over my head I jumped six feet straight up to roundhouse kick it back into the circle. This left my feet over my head, so instead of panicking as I would do normally I landed on my hands and flipped around to kick the ball when it next came my way.

It grew dark, and as the fire razed in the center of our circle the Juggler worked on the poi until he had them tracing out flaming circles along the planes around him. I picked up sticks and spun them, extending the reach of my domain until I broke through and realized this control was possible because there was no boundary between my body and the rest of the world, it was all an extension of force from my center. In the dark I could see all the possible planes pouring from my axis, line after crossing line of light, the matrix of the world. To move all I had to do was focus my intention at an intersection of the planes, realigning myself to its perspective, and then pour along the lines towards it like liquid on the path of least resistance or fire racing up a branch. At one point I put my eyes directly against the plane in front of me and dragged them across it, creating a fractalized visual ripple of worlds as they crossed the lines.

And then disaster struck when it was discovered that the Alchemist’s drum had gotten either wet or burned, the medium of its head warped in some way that it could no longer vibrate properly. Up till this point we had all begun loosing our sense of self, even the sober Game-master, finishing each other’s sentences and even sharing thoughts without need of verbal communication. But now the Alchemist pulled out, refusing to interact, and we were all suddenly faced with an extreme sense of self vs. other inimical to the whole experience. Later he said it felt like we wanted some specific response from him, which was somewhat true; as caring friends we wanted him to acknowledge that he was either okay or not. But he didn’t, and the extreme waves of his terror hooked us to him until he could not withstand the pressure and responsibility of dealing with the effects of our every interaction on the rest of the world, and fled into the cabin to be alone.

Left feeling grounded and shaken, we decided now was a good time as any to eat some food, before the cactus kicked back in again. Earlier there had been a moment when the Juggler and I had stood watching the two fish that had been caught as they struggled for breath, flapping against the tree from which they had been hung to die. The Juggler was having a really hard time with the fact that they were actually alive and would soon not be, which was interesting because he occasionally ate meat. I on the other hand had not eaten flesh in about seven years, and tried to thank the fish as best I could for the need they would later provide. But watching the care and love with which the Fisherman cleaned and cooked them, I knew he too felt the full weight and connection in this violent act and understood it was all part of the circle of life and death that is our planet. I sat there playing guitar, trying to hear how the scales and melodies reflected planes spinning about the center, and knew that before the year was up the Fisherman would get me to intentionally eat some meat he would prepare. And I accepted that. Besides the fish and some fresh ears of corn, the Monk decided to reharness just a pinch of the world’s ambiguity and invented the poach-tato, which consisted of baking a potato (campfire style, wrapped in foil and tossed in the coals), and then opening it and cracking an egg inside before tossing the whole thing back into the fire to poach. With some cheese and spices it came out quite good, even if all the food had the not so subtle taste of the San Pedro brew.

Fed now, we retired to the cabin where the Alchemist was curled up on the couch. We all sat in chairs around the living room, I lotus-style in a large chair at the end, and with full bellies and limbs tired from a day of dancing I decided to close my eyes for a moment. I do not know what the others experienced at this point, but for me the following vision became the most significant part of the whole trip.

With each breathe I felt the world spinning up and through me, as if my axis was no longer just in my center of movement but in my whole spine. Even with closed eyes I was still very aware of the waves emanating from all the other beings in the room, not just the humans, but objects and spirits as well; all breathing in unison so that the waves evened out and I could feel we were all ripples spinning together from some axis much larger and deeper than and present. As I rose through the centers of physicality, movement, power, self-hood, breath, the interpretable surfaces of things fell away and I found myself floating through a bizzare internal dreamscape of mixed sings colors and feelings, all gradually stripped away as I passed and united them. Now I was floating up through an infinite red space in which vast columns or hubs stood, each one the center of infinitely tall spinning pages on which thousands of screens flickered with all the possibilities on all the different levels of applying the idea of spinning from an axis. One column for physical actions, the next for emotional interpretations, intellectual understandings, on and on, as if the chakras or sephiroth had exploded, blossoming into a virtual library whose depth and techno-organic style later was only describable as looking like a scene from “The Matrix”. It was like a control room for understanding, but I had no time to learn any particular thing as I was already floating up and on, shedding description at every turn. I have a lifetime to return for the details, but the trip wasn’t over yet.

I now felt like my spine was strapped to the rim of the wheel of fortune, revolving me in a spiral ever closer to the axis as I flew out of the cottage and across the world. All the life of the woods and the river and the sky, all of it detailed below me, rippling in lines of light. As I passed it all spun at the same frequency and became one, no more fish, no more insects, no more trees, no more me. A flock of birds startled and we fell into each other, becoming the beating of wings through air, the currents of the air itself. And there was light, out past the sun and stars; the surfaces of all things were just a reflection of its brilliance, luminous ripples cast out from the spinning center of existence. The lines of all individual things were the radiance of this being as it was the emergent meaning of all their web of interactions. Consciousness as interpreted from the perspective of total unity. I spun closer and closer until I became the light, was the consciousness reflected in all things and beyond that was the true still center, indescribable nothingness. And then that final distinction between all and nothing fell away too…

Objectively this must have lasted only a few moments, but the reality of universal consciousness felt so much more enduring, as if it had always been there and always would. My whole life as an individual being felt like a brief dream, a momentary ripple cast out into the spin. But just as soon as I could see that I was back in the world, sitting in this cabin, in this chair, in this body. I went outside into the dark, sat by the dying fire and watched the stars in silence. Being a drug-induced experience this came too fast and strong and on such a deep and subtle level that it took months of chasing the waves afterwards to even begin to get a hint of understanding what had happened. At this point I was still in shock.

Eventually the Alchemist got up after everyone else went to sleep, and he started drawing some of the objects he had found in the river, while I watched in rapt fascination. He would find the bare essence of each thing and draw that, along with ripples dragged from his own imagination so that the drawings did not resemble the objects but were still distinctly them. He had still not spoken at this point, but when I asked in awe if I could help him paint the drawings, he smiled and hugged me. We worked for hours, laughing and talking till the sun was almost up and I passed out. The Alchemist did not sleep, and didn’t for weeks afterwards, and I believe quickly destroyed the drawings. He was still faced with the demons he had let loose in his head, presumably questions of how to deal with being in a world where our every action can affect everything . But he pulled through in time for his baby to be born, and is back and strong in the world, though his trials left me with some unanswered questions in the back of my head. I had found the same predicaments from my experience, but had spent the several years before doing the drudge-work of excising my demons and fears to be in good standing with the world. So when it was all laid bare before me I could embrace it with open arms and let go of my self. I had not known it was coming, but had always felt the forward ripples of it drawing me closer, as I already feel drawn to the next time the stone skips off the water and worlds converge, and am preparing myself again.

When I finally met the Red Mage that fall, she suggested that hell is having to suddenly face all our ingrained fears and beliefs and separating walls at once and not being able to deal with the immensity of that task. I imagine most are less open and willing than the Alchemist was to change, and wonder how they would handle the great Armageddon-like singularity of illumination that has been rippling consciousness since before we could talk. Will they too find themselves in the personal hells of a swift ego-death, or be ready to enter a heaven that may make the heaven of my San Pedro experience look like a flashlight pointed at the sun? Or is all this supposition just a wild stab in the dark?

The next morning we woke and went home, not once talking about all we had experienced. There were weddings and circuses to prepare for, all the insanity of our everyday lives in which there seemed little room for metaphysical ponderings. I carried the illumination with me until time and responsibility swept the details away. But everything was changed. There was a place in me that had fully accepted that connection to the spiritual and magical in a way that I never had before. Despite all the small ego-driven acts of being alive I knew that I could not just write off this experience as a drug-induced hallucination. I could and likely will spend the rest of my life fostering that light I found, building power and intention to be a medium for that universal consciousness, if that is what I choose to let be. Turning back to the lonely, fear-filled darkness seems rather unappealing in light of that honest reality of interconnection, even if that means taking up the responsibility for all being.

Really, what else do I have to do in my short time as a human?

be careful what you wish for, it might already be coming true

With all the recent talk on futurestance, I thought it would probably be appropriate for someone to suggest that it if you bring change into the world without the clearest of intentions and idea what the effects could be, startling and sometimes rather unpleasant things might happen. But they also might have happened in some way regardless if you had done nothing.

Time’s a slippery beast, I don’t claim to know what’s up with it. Half the time it doesn’t even seem to exist. Is what I’m doing now just the forward ripple from something that is happening later, or is it the cause of that event? Or is the water just a little too choppy from all the waves to really see what’s going on? As a writer this concerns me, for there is an interesting history of storytelling either causing or predicting real events in the world.

Perhaps the most obvious example is the Bible, but I can’t do justice to that, so I’ll stick to a more recent example, George Orwell’s "1984", that well-loved tale of the well-feared horrors of the totalitarian state. Double-think, constant surveillance and warfare the rewriting of all history. As both policeman and anarchist soldier, Orwell probably had a good understanding of what government could do wrong and a reason for wanting to warn people against that with his chilling tale. Perhaps he even caught a glance of where the future could be heading and just had to say it. Either that or many, many powerful people have decided his book was a manual for world-domination and have proceeded to implement his control-driven concepts one after one. Just what did Orwell intend by writing this in the first place? Or if it’s just ripples in the sea of possibility did it really make a difference?

This is suspiciously beginning to sound like the age-old debate of free will. Do we create change, or does change create us? Even in an acausal reality it certainly feels like my actions have some sort of effect on the world, at least on the small scale of my daily actions. I am nice to people and they are nice in return, I take out the trash and it doesn’t pile up. But what about larger trends? Most people seem to think they are rather helpless in face of say, the government, or global warming. But these states too seem to have come about by people making small decisions that have swelled over time, or the singular acts of those insightful enough to catch the wave at the right moment and steer the next events in a particular way. Perhaps state control was inevitable, but Orwell was still pivotal in defining just how it would come about. As was Vernor Vinge’s "True Names" in defining the internet, neither cause or prediction but just a clearer picture of what was already happening.

Just what is magic anyway? It certainly seems to presuppose some amount of control and direction in the outcome of events. But it often feels more like pushing the world just so as a particular peak of opportunity rolls by. The right kind and amount of force at the right time, and then change happens as we intended it. At least as long as we had enough knowledge of the force and foresight of the times to speak or act true, and not send the world spinning off into some twisted nightmare version of what we wanted. If you’ve ever tried spinning a staff you’ll understand what I mean the first time you whack yourself in the head. But with some idea of how it works and what to expect things seem to work out. A good interpretation of reality goes a long way.

This was also posted as my first article over at Key23 where there has also been some incredible disscusions about the nature of reality and transendence that all seem to be leading up to something...

moving in, moving on

Okay, things have been rather busy here in the world of janus. Not only have I been furiously trying to write up my first article for Key23 on my samahdic experience this summer, but I am also working out the details to become an inhouse artist for Konton magazine and am soon to begin looking for a publisher for my upcoming magical children's novel, "In the Garden of the Stars".



Despite all of that (and my normal working life) I found some time to draw up a new conception of the Qabalah that I have been working on, inspired by some excellent ideas at Work of the Chariot.







This diagram isn't complete by any stretch of the imagination, but it does show the tree of life with da'ath as an actuallized sphere and malkuth as the earth-matrix as a lower reflection of the ain sof or above the spheres. There are some notes around the sides, but they aren't so important if they are illegible from the scanning. Some missing things are the letterings for the paths, which I wasn't sure how to work out since the paths now cross to da'ath from its surrounding spheres and do not lead to malkuth. Also I wanted to work in the chakras, but couldn't decide to stick with the original mappings or assign them to the seven central spheres (daath would make a good throat chakra, though the geburah/ chesed level also seems to represent breathing and communication. Tipharet could bot hbe the heart and power, and hod/netzack the emotions, except that both yesod and the second layer chakra are represented by the moon. otherwise the root chakra and the foundation of yesod relate well). Some important things to notice are that the seeven central spheres are framed on two interlocking circles, which symbolicaly has a lot of balance and power (as the veseca of two interlapping circles is a potent symbol of the interaction of multiple waves from events), and this diagram does not show the tree in relation to other trees around the central axis. But it does show the axis as being the ain sof or, the nothingness in the center of all things, which I mistakingly didn't represent before; kether is still in people as a localized connection to the non-local, but it is not the center of the wheel.



I will be drawing up some more diagrams (relatively) soon, showing this tree in relation to other trees, as I am beginning to get a clearer sense of how thy all fit together.



Also, here's another little poem I wrote a few days ago:



Do you hear angels

singing on the street corners,

in every laughing ray of sunlight

that breaks through the clouds,

and pours warmth all over the Earth

like a lover's breath?



When did I die?

Heaven is right now,

we are the only gods

to pray to.

Why ask for anything else

when it is already here?

Let go of your fear

and become the sky.



Feet float off of the ground

and worlds dance

on the tips of our fingers.

Every breath feels like the first,

and carries me back to you.

a tall tale to be told soon...

This past summer I met god. Or to be more honest, I became god, breaking through the final onion-peal layer of selfhood to realize for one clear moment the total interconnection of all being. Call it samadhi, nirvana, illumination, the ain sof or, whatever; for me it felt like all the veils of reality had been stripped away and for the first time I could truly experience life in all its limitless mystery and glory, without shielding my eyes.



When LVX23 asked me to write up this experience and what led to it for key23, I first thought it would be an easy task. In the months following the event I had already begun to write an account, and thought this would just be a matter of some editing and a few additions. But on rereading it I realized that I have much more work ahead of me if I am going to honestly talk about what happened. This is not as simple as just saying I ate some cactus and saw god, for my expereince stemmed directly from all the questing and small revelations I've had over the past few years, if not over my whole life. My account was already an eighteen page exposition and had not even gotten to the experience itself when I stopped writing it. Granted, I have a tendancy of being long-winded, and I would rather tell a good story then skimp through a bare-bones outline, but for me this experience could only have happened by working through years of fear, love, uncertainty, madness, dreams, insights. I had to free all the dark, closed off parts of my soul in order to be light.



Each event of the past several years, even the smallest ones, carried a lesson, a hint at what would happen, and it was only through taking these small insights and tying them together again and again from every imaginable angle that I eventually reached the point of understanding that was my experience. From this side of it I see that they were all ripples, broken reflections of truth, cast out by this vast stone skipping across the watery face of my reality. Whether the cause or effect or refraction of my experience, these small revelations were a necessary and integral part of it and key to my understanding of what happened. Is it possible to talk about this without them? I don't know.



Do people really want to hear of my failed loves and sore attempts at communicating with and relating to others, of the twisted labyrinthian dreams that haunted my sleep and every waking moment, of the struggle of having to relearn such simple truths as breathing? Or would the details just obscure the clarity of my retelling? So many accounts of entheogenic and revealatory experiences try to get to the point too quiickly, and do not do justice to the experience or the situations from which it arose. But this was the most meaningful, the most real thing that has ever happened to me (yet), and I want to impart the full import of this in my telling, so that others might find understanding in their own lives. Or if they have, will be encouraged to share all in return.



And so I must ask: Do you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth (at least the truth I found)? Or should I skip right to the juicy bits that while just as true may leave you feeling a bit confused, skepticle, and let down without the full story to give them the meaning I found? My life is yours for the taking, if you would have it. Most of it has already been written anyway, and though long and often non-linear it is hopefully as enjoyable and insightful to read as it was to live.