Abyss

I tumbled out of bed at 8.30 the other morning, then staggered across the cold, hard floor into the bathroom. I had hardly slept a wink; when I dared to peer blearily into the mirror, it showed. My dried-out hair was flying in every direction, like an elderly Warhol gone wrong. The rims of my half-closed eyes were red, the eyes themselves shot through with fatigue. Sinuses were up, and my brain felt dessicated. In many ways I resembled the sunken-eyed protagonist of the chapter that I had read the evening before, the main prior condition for my nocturnal disturbances. The main difference was that he had, the day before waking in his Los Angeles apartment, jumped into an abyss thousands of miles away in the Mexican desert. Despite the plenitude of suitable precipices within a two-hour drive of my bathroom in northern Scotland I had done no such thing. Not to the best of my knowledge, at least.

The very mention of the word 'Castaneda' provokes a veritable avalanche of views, feelings, opinions and counter-opinions. Scattered across the face of the globe are the remains of those once-believers who still reel in confusion at the discovery that maybe not everything Castaneda wrote was true in the literal sense. These people feel betrayed, victims of a pseudo-spiritual conman par excellence. I find this slightly perplexing, or at least not very clever. When, along with a close friend, I first came across the writings of Casaneda in the mid-1970s, we did not question the literal verity of the books. There was the unmistakeable mark of authenticity about them, they resonated with something within us. And that was the most important thing. The tantrums of the disillusioned are not, I suggest, the mark of emotional maturity.

It occurs to me that people claim to learn plenty about life from Shakespeare, or for that matter Buddha, without resorting to literal verity. Fundamentalist Shakespeareanism is not commonplace. So why apply this criterion to Castaneda? 'Ah' the smart will pipe up. 'Shakespeare didn't pretend that his plays were real. And Buddha goes back so far that we don't know for sure. But Castaneda passed off his writings as literal accounts. They formed the basis of his doctoral degree. He was dishonest in the extreme, and a very bad man.'

This is the crux. People have a crisis of faith, not because the lack of literal truth makes Castaneda's work any less valuable, but because they feel duped. This pseudo-shamanic bastard has got one over on them. He has insulted their intelligence, their ability to discern. He has well and truly humiliated them. What a great teaching this is! Ego mortally bashed where it most hurts! They don't realise it, but these Carlos-knockers should be truly grateful for his artful piece of sorcery; it has done more good than a wheelbarrow load of books on self-improvement could ever do. And as for writing a thesis built on fiction - another master-stroke. If Castaneda is out to demonstrate anything, it is that our linear, 'rational' mode of experience is only one of many. Don't reify that university view of life as the biggest, best, or one-and-only, please. Should you do so, it's further proof that you haven't done your Castaneda studies properly yet.

Many are the critics and detractors from Castaneda's life and work. There are the knockers of literalism and academic deception that I have just written about. Then there is Amy Wallace, She was one of Castaneda's inner circle of witches, and has written a book about life with the Great Shaman, majoring on his sexual preferences and propensities, not generally in very glowing terms. There are others still who point out that Castaneda died in a way unbefitting a great Sorceror. Instead of living to 110 years old in rude health, then disappearing into a rainbow at sunset, he was afflicted by a particularly nasty form of cancer of the liver, and died at the unremarkable age of 72. What's more, rumour has it that he spent a portion of his last period on Earth watching war films. Most inappropriate.

Without wishing to exonerate Castaneda at all, I am left with the unavoidable impression that the criticisms of Castaneda say more about the critics themselves than about the object of their ire. Their presumptions, prejudices, preconceptions about what sorcerors do and how sorcerors behave. They are all, as Don Juan puts it in an early chapter of 'The Active Side of Infinity', making 'figures in front of a mirror'. Making their own show, their own display, saying 'look at me, with my shit-hot intellect, my shit-hot reason, my shit-hot debunking of this loathsome fraud and trickster.'

For worthwhile critique, there are John Lash's thoughful and thought-provoking articles on the themes in the 'Gnostic Castaneda' section of the Metahistory website, communicating more sense than most of Castaneda's critics put together. Meanwhile, it remains for me to say that, in my view, there is one fatal flaw in the Castaneda world, a flaw not uncommon among the moulders of spirituality of a certain generation. Needless to say, it is a topic that appears to have passed Castaneda's hardcore detractors by. I shall return to this topic at a later date.

In the meantime, the volume giving rise to my early morning horrors is 'The Active Side of Infinity', in my view one of the finest and most important volumes in the Castaneda library. Written during the final passage of Castaneda's time on Earth, it catalogues the 'memorable events of his life'. The creation of an album of these memorable events is, according to Don Juan, a vital piece of work for the warrior-traveller. Having read the book several times, and on each occasion spellbound, I begin to understand just why.



  

    



  

  

Down By The Riverside

Oh please. Just a few small ones. Please...... please!!!

On another occasion my wife and I were walking beside the river when we spotted four seagulls standing in the shallows. Nothing unusual about that: seagulls are all over the place hereabouts, even viewed as a pest by some people on account of their learned behaviour of dive bombing unsuspecting victims for their sandwich. On this occasion, however, the four seagulls were totally immobile, standing perfectly in line, all four pointed in precisely the same direction, and all standing on one leg. It was a sight both comical and magnificent in equal measure. We were not the only ones to notice the remarkable sight: a young male tourist was down by the river, camera in hand, smiling as he looked in their direction.

We watched for a moment before preparing to continue our walk. I then noticed something a little strange about the tourist with camera. Surely plenty of time had passed for him to take his photos, but he hadn't moved from the spot. What's more, his smile had hardened into a broad grin that had taken on imbecilic proportions. The birds were amusing, but not that amusing, I thought. He was beginning to look quite idiotic. It was at that moment that the truth dawned on me. The young man with camera wasn't taking photos of the gulls at all. In all likelihood he hadn't even noticed them. What he was taking was a selfie.

An Unholy Trinity

Nigel Farage. Jeremy Corbyn. Donald Trump. Not the kind of dudes who normally check in to Pale Green Vortex. They do, however, have more in common than may appear at first sight. They deserve their day in the sun (kind of).

One region of common ground is the way that they have the habit of uttering utterances that are not fashionable, devised for media appeal, not even politically correct, goddammit. In the face of that monstrous juggernaut that is global imperialism, they dare to speak their mind. Sometimes, anyway, and to a degree. All three demonstrate a certain fearlessness in putting their heads above the parapet, to utter things loathsome to the orthodoxy. Regardless of how we may feel about the content of some of these utterances, we should feel grateful that there are a few high-profile folk around who speak their mind - or, indeed, have a mind of their own to speak about. We live in times when such people are sorely needed.

While Mr. Farage seems to have gone into hibernation, Messrs Corbyn and Trump hit the headlines, in Britain at least, on a daily basis. The amount of outrage, venom, scorn, and holier-than-thou righteous indignation spewed in their direction by large sections of the mainstream media is truly jaw-dropping. The attack is relentless and unrelenting. This, in itself, should alert us to the possibility that they might actually be onto something.

Last week it was Corbyn, daring to suggest that bombing the hell out of a place that British forces have no god-given right to be bombing might not be the brightest idea. This week it's been Mr. Trump with his idea of banning Muslim immigration into the USA while they sort out how to deal with the threat of terrorism. What is most revealing is the viciousness with which the guy has been attacked. In this way, the underlying problem shows itself. Headlines have appeared openly and shamelessly in the mainstream media: Trump a bigger threat to the USA than terrorists. Large numbers of people who have surely lost their own mind are baying for him to be banned from entering the UK. Hang on a minute, folks, let's get this straight. The guy's not actually going around shooting Muslims, or threatening to do so. He is simply expressing his point of view, that's all.

Thus does truth emerge. As pointed out previously on Pale Green Vortex, the mainstream agenda isn't really too concerned about terrorism. Look just below the surface, and you will find that it can be found funding groups engaged in terrorist activities. Furthermore, the occasional terrorist outrage provides a ready-made raison d'etre for our western governments to continue  their policies of aggression and increased control over the general public - all in the name of national security, you understand. These are all players on the same ball park, playing a game that they all know only too well. Terrorists and the executives of global imperialism understand one another's games intimately.

No, folks, the real war is not on terrorism, but on those who dare to point out that the emperor wears no clothes, and his naked body smells bad. On those who dare to insinuate that the war is on independent minds and independent thought, and it is a war bent on the destruction of the magnificent human spirit. Anyone who deviates from the mean is deemed dangerous, a threat. It's bizarre, but Trump now finds his place in a lineage that goes back to once-most-dangerous-man-in-the USA Tim Leary - and way beyond, of course.

Here in Scotland, our local chief executive of global imperialism, Nicola Sturgeon, has weighed in with her voice in favour of exclusion of Mr Trump from these fair shores. At the same time, procedures are now being put in place for refugees to be able to enter Scotland openly and 'legally' with fake passports, or no documentation at all. There will be proper prior checks on anybody entering, we are told; but these 'checks' are ones that appear to me to be, well, not exactly bomb-proof. Always one to jump on the right-on politically correct bandwagon, Sturgeon is allowing anyone in who passes themselves off as a refugee - while simultaneously wishing to bar someone else simply for their views.

There is a strange schizophrenic attitude to Islam. On the one hand, a number of 'believers' are held responsible for 9/11 and nearly every other terrorist atrocity of the past fifteen years. At the same time, any discussion regarding Islam and its adherents requires the wearing of kid gloves. Criticise at your peril. Above all, we must be careful not to offend people of different faiths. Here on Pale Green Vortex, it's always been pretty clear. Monotheisms - the main ones today being Christianity, Islam, and Judaism - all score badly on a range of scales, in their exoteric forms at least. They all have the tendency to persecution, suppression, a neurotic need to convert or exterminate non-believers. No monotheism gets the vote on Pale Green Vortex.  

Hate speech, hate crimes. These, too, reveal their true nature. While their public, 'official' aim is to protect those in need of protection, in reality they are used to suppress  views and opinions inconvenient to the dominant worldview. Few pieces of legislation are as full of ill-will as those rolled out against 'hate'. A look at various cases from around the world demonstrates how this type of legislation is used, not just, or mainly, against those who propagate violent terrorism, but against people who criticise the actions or ideas of certain groups of people, particularly Jews and Muslims as it turns out. 'Hate crime' legislation is a brilliant piece of work, perfect for shutting people up and ensuring that their opinions are not heard. Truly Orwellian.

While speaking of things Orwellian, here is a newsflash! Even as I write, news is coming in from the grand finale of the Climate Change Conference over in Paris. At  the very last minute, a deal has been brokered to Save the Planet! Well, thanks, guys and gals, that's great. Here at Pale Green Vortex we really appreciate that. We especially liked the photos of you giving yourselves a standing ovation. Fully deserved, I'd say. The planet is saved - fantastic!

Oh, hang on a minute. The bullshit-ometer in the corner of the living room has gone onto maximum red alert. It's started shaking and shuddering. It's gone completely off the scale. Oh no! This can mean only one thing. Oh dear! Now it's completely exploded, splattering nasty little gooey bits all over the carpets and curtains. This is going to take a while to clean up. I'd better sign off now........




      

Bunches of Bullshit

Frome time to time the dark clowns like to get together, to have a chinwag, solve the problems of the world, sip port and nibble caviar together. It gives them reassurance, makes them feel good about what they are doing. One of their favourite jaunts is to the occasional conferences that take place on the subject of climate change. For example, the one in full Parisian swing at the moment. In this case, they emit enormous quantities of carbon dioxide jetting around the world, to be able to sit down and talk about the evils of emitting carbon dioxide.

Any regular visitor to Pale Green Vortex will, I hope, have taken in the reality that most of this is complete bullshit. Another classic case of things not being what they appear to be. Not one little bit. Thankfully, there is an excellent summary debunking most of the false claims made by the anthropogenic warming crew. It's linked to below - find Christopher Booker's article for early December this year. For his tireless and excellent work on this most tiresome topic, Christopher Booker gets heartfelt thanks from Pale Green Vortex. For services rendered to the pursuit of truth, he deserves a decent rebirth.

So read, and all will become clear.......


www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/columnists/christopherbooker/

image: tapnewswire

Conspiracies and Strangeness on the Earthship

Image: truthandaction

"To see what is in front of our nose needs a constant struggle"  George Orwell

"All the great events have been distorted, most of the important causes concealed...... If the history of England is ever written by one who has the knowledge and the courage, the world would be astonished"  Benjamin Disraeli, former British PM 1868, 1874 - 80

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly"  Marcus Tullius Cicero, 106 - 43 BCE

Part One

'Ah, Pale Green Vortex - another conspiracy nut job.' I expect more than one innocent web surfer has stumbled upon these hollowed pages, skimmed a couple of articles, then moved hurriedly on, remembering to delete it from their browsing history.

Is Pale Green Vortex a conspiracy site? I can't say. Partly because I don't really know what 'conspiracy theory' means. It seems that the terms 'conspiracy theory' and 'conspiracy theorist' first came into widespread usage following the untimely death of President Kennedy. They were employed to describe anybody who dared question the official mainstream story of the incident. The terms served the purpose of suppressing any questioning of the narrative by depicting sceptics as odd, paranoid, likely messed up, and possibly dangerous (this is a conspiracy view, by the way). 'Conspiracy theorist' comes dripping with ad hominem connotations, aimed at marginalising the person who  questions what we are told 24/7 through the organs of officialdom, the mainstream media.

Pale Green Vortex isn't interested in fitting into other people's twisted categories of humans, human thought and behaviour. Personal investigation over recent years has, however, alerted us to three related truths. Firstly, that the narrative relentlessly pushed in the mainstream is frequently one-sided, very partial, or plain untrue. Believe nothing without checking it out. Secondly, that a lot more is often going on than people let on - or that most people know is going on. The populace is presented with a very surface layer of reality, that's all. Thirdly, that many events that are put down to coincidence, or as 'just happening', are anything but that. A lot more planning, premeditation, and organisation are involved than we are told. Not always, but frequently: major international events don't usually 'just happen'.

The notion that there are forces at work darker even than the Camerons and Merkels of this world may be difficult to stomach. But the model is actually out there is the world already, recognised and assented to by millions of people every week. It's mainstream - remember Orwell's quote above. Take James Bond, for example, and Doctor Who - it's the same old theme. Weird, quite nasty, things are happening  - people dropping dead in large numbers, getting strange diseases, mutating at the drop of a hat, this sort of thing. Our hero sees that there's something seriously wrong, even if everybody else remains oblivious to the reality, and steps in to check it out. Overcoming fearful armies that possess an array of deadly weapons, blasting past terrifying monsters with eyes all over the place, our great hero finally reaches the inner citadel, the secret room at the centre of the spaceship, or whatever. Breaking in, he finally comes face-to-face with the little, bald scary guy, who just happens to be Controller of the Universe.

The thing about the scary guy is that he doesn't quite look and behave the way we expect the Master of All to look and behave. And the other thing - most important - is that his existence is barely known or suspected by anyone else. The vicious armies, the psychopathic monsters are all, seen from this new perspective, nothing more than sad and unwitting victims of somebody else's game, pawns and puppets in a bigger agenda they are oblivious to.

People love this stuff, lap it up. Maybe there's a subliminal recognition of truth there. Reality served up as entertainment. As if confronting the truth directly is too painful, too incongruous with what we are led to believe. Instead, reality presented as pure escapism. Harmless fun, ridiculous fiction. Brilliant. In the meantime, apply the James Bond model to present-day world affairs. It works, down to the finest detail.

Part Two

I try to proceed from a foundation of 'intelligent intuition' - a sense of whether things feel congruous or not. Intuition can be a more reliable guide than reason alone, since the rational faculty so often puts itself at the service of the most irrational ideas, ideologies, feelings and prejudices. Reason can be used to justify anything. so I mostly look out for a sense of strangeness, listen out for things that don't sound quite right. This is my normal starting point.

Here's a case of high strangeness. It concerns a burning issue of today, the so-called migrant crisis or refugee crisis. During the course of this year, enormous numbers of people have entered Europe from Africa, the Near and Middle East, by boat over the Mediterranean or over land through the south-east of the continent. Some are from Syria, others not. Some are genuine refugees, escaping war-torn areas, others are not. Some have real passports, some have fake passports, some have nothing at all. Most of them have their origin in countries that are well-known as hotbeds and breeding grounds of Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism. Nearly all pledge allegiance to a religion that is not top of the list for tolerance of other cultures and religions, or for encouraging multiculturalism on its home ground. Nevertheless, it has been pretty much open doors for these people, entering Europe without difficulty, being left free to march across the face of the continent to Germany, Sweden, wherever. Come on in; you are welcome.

So I find this strange, that people can just turn up at random, while western Europe is apparently at war with terrorism. Yet it passes without serious comment as to its 'rightness' in much of the mainstream media and in the utterings of the majority of politicians. That, too, requires some serious questioning. There have, in fact, been large demonstrations in several European countries protesting against the uncontrolled influx of migrants, but these gatherings have gone largely unreported in the mainstream. Funny, that.

At the same time should I, fully armed with my UK passport, wish to travel anywhere outside Britain, I shall be subjected to ever-more stringent controls and security checks: shoes off, bag search, pat down if I'm really lucky. You see, it makes no sense at all.

Here's another strange thing. How come ISIS (or ISIL, or IS. IS Cream?), which was completely unknown a few years ago, has turned into the most feared organisation in the western world so quickly? How is it able to hold the whole of Europe to ransom? Where does its money come from? Did they all work extra hours in Debenhams to fund their activities, their weapons? Isn't it all a bit,,,er... strange?

Then there's Syria itself, awash with a hotch-potch of rebel groups. Turkey aids rebel groups A,B, and G. The Saudis favour groups B,C,F, and G. The CIA covertly supports A,D, and E. Western governments indirectly help fund C,D, and F. It's a bit like shying at coconuts at the fairground: choose your target and have a go. And since rebels are known to quite easily change allegiance from one group to another, and that money and weapons are likely to flow freely as a consequence, the boast of various western governments that they support nice rebels while opposing nasty ones doesn't add up at all. We might almost start to wonder whether it's all a smokescreen, and that somebody stands to benefit from the chaos and confusion. Hey, shut up - that's conspiracy stuff.

The one consistent foreign agent appears to be Vladimir Putin, who at least says 'rebels are rebels, end of story.' And amidst the mess, everybody has conveniently forgotten there is a President of the country with as much legitimacy to go about his business as most of those in the nations all around him.

So it's all highly bizarre, taken on the surface level at least. You might end up feeling that there's more to all this than meets the casual eye. That there are forces, designs, at work that the BBC and Daily Telegraph, Cameron, Obama and the rest aren't very up front about. Maybe they don't know exist themselves.

One of the 'conspiracy' (read 'nuts', 'crazy' to the mainstream) notions relevant to the interrelated messes detailed above is that of 'white genocide'. Bit of an emotive term, that.  The story goes that there is a conscious, deliberate attempt to wipe out white, European cultures, and that the ideal of multiculturalism, pushed relentlessly despite the unfolding mess that it has spawned, is part of this programme of racial removal from the face of the planet. Crazy. Nuts. Lobotomy case.

I do not intend to present any opinion here. But I feel it is incumbent on any responsible individual, concerned about the state of human affairs today, to avoid knee-jerk reactions and at least check this kind of idea out. Don't try wikipedia, which is fine for births, marriages, and deaths, population sizes of cities, that kind of thing, but not fit for purpose otherwise.You need to go closer to the source; Red Ice, linked to from Pale Green Vortex, has little else nowadays. Some of the articles listed there are good, others moderate, others prejudiced trash; but it's up to the individual to discern. There's plenty of other stuff on the internet, easy to find if you only dare. 21st Century Wire is another news site worth looking at to get different angles on the global political game.

Another question - bit of a taboo, maybe slightly less so today - concerns the role, if any, of Zionist Jews in the current poisonous soup. Check it out. there's no need for immediate conclusions. Put it in your bag of possibilities and get on with your life. That's the method.

Having said that, I am going to make a few tentative suggestions which, if adopted, might help bring a bit more sense and humanity into these subjects. Firstly, that the world stops feeling sorry for the Jews. If I look around, I feel they are doing very well for themselves, thank you. By the same token, I propose that people of Germany abandon the attitude of eternal guilt and atonement for the sins of the past. Most people alive today weren't even born when World War Two ended. These are outdated attitudes that continue to be promoted by those who stand to benefit from them (hey, that's a conspiracy view if ever I heard one). Time to move on. Maybe it's also time to stop blaming the former imperial powers of Europe for all the woes of Africa. I am aware that many nations of Africa continue to be fleeced, manipulated, blackmailed by global financial institutions, but the time comes when personal, or at least national, responsibility needs to come to the fore. Most African nations were granted independence half a century ago, plenty of time to do something. Yet many continue to live at a level of conflict, division, and general viciousness that the imperial nations could not have dreamed of. It's time to go Zen: look at the present, live in the present. Anything else is a self-indulgent luxury we cannot afford.

And that, folks, is it for now.......





                        

A Few Demons Revisited

Part One

Mountains, the natural world in general, may enthuse and inspire. They can do many different things. They are certainly not essentially 'nice' or 'benign'. If anything, nature manifests a complete indifference to the cares, worries, and tribulations of humanity. It may or may not have a wider programme at work. But it comes dancing in all manner of moods and guises; some of which may be to our liking, others less so.

I go to the mountains; nowadays it is tantamount to a personal need. But not all mountains or mountain places are the same. Some appear designed to evoke happiness, relaxation, uplift. Some have little 'atmosphere' about them, to me, while others knock me over with something or other. And others still have a supernatural quality about them that is not obviously benevolent. It may be hostile, or may exude love in the toughest of disguises, enough to provoke mental breakdown.

Find Ullapool on a map of Scotland - a little fishing port on the north-west coast - then trend south eastwards for a number of miles. The first sizeable mountains you will come across will be the cluster referred to in the mountain books as the Beinn Dearg group.

During the first years of my living in Scotland I made several expeditions into the Beinn Dearg group. On one occasion I went in late winter. It was a glorious morning, the landscape resplendent in Highland sun. Then I turned a corner into a dark, awe-ful valley of the shadow of death. Ground still frozen hard, no rays of sun penetrating, bearing down on me with heavy oppressiveness. I was relieved to get out of that place. On another occasion I visited following a particularly harsh winter. After squelching across a seemingly endless stretch of peat bog, rendered especially squelchy by the ample snowmelt, I almost stumbled over the freshly dead body of an adult female deer. Her eyes still bright, wide open, she had given up the unequal fight against cold and malnourishment. I sat beside her body, spontaneously chanting some mantra (what else do you do?) before walking sombrely on. On yet another occasion I set off to climb Beinn Dearg itself. I had spied previously a graceful, airy ridge that would provide a far more exciting route of ascent than the path normally taken by mortals. However, once on the ridge, I found it to consist of enormous angular boulders, an almost impossible nightmare to traverse. Stumbling and struggling, trying not to twist knees or ankles, I considered it one of the least pleasant mountain ascents of my life.

Then came the end of May 2009. A friend of mine was keen to do a slightly adventurous multi-peak walk, including some rough and rather remote terrain. Was I interested? The question was rhetorical....

The first hill was fairly grassy, but from there we descended into a wild and lonely gap, crossing the outflow from a lochan in remarkable surroundings. From there it was a steep and rocky climb up a pathless ridge onto the summit of arguably the finest of the Beinn Dearg peaks, that of Cona' Mheall. The trip thus far had taken longer than anticipated. It was already late afternoon, and we still had the descent to do, along a narrow ridge, then down the steep, blunt end, whence it would be two hours across the moor to return to the road. It was while we were walking along the airy ridge that I had a freak accident. The bow in one of my bootlaces got caught in an eye on the other boot. This meant that, when I went to stride forward, one foot failed to move ahead. At the same time, momentum plunged the upper part  of my body forwards, then quickly down towards and onto the rock beneath me. I have never hit the ground with such force in my life. I fortunately got my right hand in front of me just before I smashed onto the rocks, otherwise my skull might well have been splintered into pieces. As it was, my wrist was unmoveable, various fingers refused to do what they normally do, and the lower arm didn't yield very pleasant sensations at all.

In the early evening, we scrambled across the ups and downs of the rocky ridge, then began the precarious descent. Steep, stony, slippery, it required the use of hands for security. Ouch,ouch, ouch. I moved gingerly, painfully, but we eventually reached the bottom of the ridge. All along, the surrounding scenery was magnificent in the extreme, seeming to add to the gravitas of the situation. Once off the rocks, we were dismayed to find no trace of a path. Though this route appears in the definitive guidebook to such exploits, it seemed that we were the first humans to actually ever do it. By now the light was fading, and we were pretty exhausted. Still, nothing to do but to walk, stop for three minutes for a rest, then walk some more. Light faded, and we reached the car.

The following day at Accident and Emergency, I was told that, amazingly, I had no fractures. The consultant seemed slightly disappointed. The fact that I am a pretty lightweight version of human made all the difference - less impact on hitting the ground. Still, I was in pain and discomfort, restricted by a splint-like thing on my lower arm, for weeks.

After that, I decided to give the Beinn Dearg group a miss. There are plenty of other mountains around, which seem to bode well rather than ill. Until September of this year, that is.....

Part Two

I felt strong, well, changed since the Cona' Mheall mishap, and the perverse idea manifested within my mind to revisit the Beinn Dearg group. Thus it was that I set off up a long, slowly rising glen, first through forest then across open hillside, on a day that was far gloomier than the weather forecasts had predicted. Cloud hung over the mountain tops, refusing to disperse. I had actually passed this way many years previously, on a walk that I didn't even bother recounting above. But it was a day when I had been beaten back by strong winds and horizontal hard hail and sleet cutting my face raw. On that occasion I had found the glen bland, devoid of real interest. Today, however, it appeared in a more enticing guise. Waterfalls and rockpools punctuated the water tumbling down the glen; rocks and high cliffs marked the upper parts, conveying a sense of quiet awe to the place.

I climbed the steep end wall of the glen, to emerge on a high, lochan-studded plateau which serves as a kind of crossroads, with Munro-sized mountains to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. On my right, the summit cliffs of Beinn Dearg disappeared into thick, grey cloud, still displaying sizeable accumulations of snow left over from the spring (and this in September! Global warming, my friends...). Instead, my attention turned to my left, to a mountain I had not visited before. Up I went, soon on the flat but rocky peak, with a view over monochrome grey hills, glens, and sea lochs beyond. The ridge continued to another unvisited hill, but I looked back. There, appearing like an uninviting pile of scree from this direction, was Cona' Mheall. It had not been my conscious intention to climb Cona' Mheall, but suddenly the urge took me over, irresistible. I had to revisit the scene of my accident.

The route to Cona 'Mheall was longer - and took more time and effort - than I expected. I wondered whether I was doing the right thing, with this spontaneous add-on to the day. I climbed rapidly up a rough rocky path, to clamber over boulders at the top and finally emerge on the familar ridge of Cona 'Mheall. I gazed all round. My heart missed a beat or three, my stomach churned, It is indeed a magnificent place, a surreal spot in which to have a freak accident. 3000 feet up, and hours of walking from the nearest habitation. The funny thing is that I was able to pinpoint the precise spot on the ridge where the accident had occurred those six years ago. It is as if even mild trauma leaves a deep imprint in the mind. I wandered around the place, silently nodding my head. Then I went off down the ridge a way, to take it all in, and to let go of the trauma still lingering from the events of 2009. I spent a while at the summit, reviewing our trip of that day. What a marvellous landscape we had passed through. The only change is that, on that day, no wind farms were visible from our route; today, no less than five could be seen from the two peaks that I visited. Even the newly-built obscenities of low-grade humanity could not detract greatly from the magnificence of the location, however.

I retraced my steps to the scene of the accident once more, then headed downhill, across bog and rock, towards the plateau. At one point I was aware of being watched, and looked up to see an enermous mountain goat standing on a boulder scrutinizing my moves. While deer tend to watch with dreamy eyes, with an alert yet languid attention, the mountain goat seemed focussed, ready for action, not to be messed with. I moved swiftly on.

I felt that a freedom had been released in my mind following the revisit to the ridge of Cona' Mheall. There are times when demons of the past need to be revisited in order to free their grip, however subtle and unrecognised, on ones consciousness. I felt happy, relieved even, to have encountered once more the spirits of Cona' Mheall, and the Beinn Dearg group, and to find that they are not necessarily out to get me. Maybe I'll be back next year.....


 

       
    

Beneath the Surface: Jim Morrison

What price reputation, that most fickle of things? Fame, infamy; praise, ignominy. Where does it begin? Where does it end? Who creates it anyway?

I have mused over recent times on the incomplete, uneven, unpredictable beings among us. These occasional wonderings and wanderings have led me back to a mercurial spirit, a shooting star, as those who turn up, do their thing, then exit this life in a flash are sometimes named.

Jim Morrison has appeared on Pale Green Vortex before ('Bright Midnight', June 2011, and 'Ship of Fools', Sept 2012). You either get Jim Morrison - and by extension the Doors - or you don't. I know one person to whom the mere mention of his name is enough to precipitate a tirade of expletives; he is, to this person, pretty much the most loathsome being ever to walk the surface of the planet. Morrison seems to touch many sensitive spots in many people. For my part, I know the music of the Doors less than a few people, but better than most. I have read less about Jim Morrison and the Doors than those few same people, but again more than the majority of folk. I have books of Morrison's words and poetry, which I have dealt with cursorily. There are a number of biographies. Some people consider Stephen Davis's to be 'authorative'. I would beg to differ. Should you wish to know where the Doors were performing when, and which concerts Morrison was too drunk to sing properly, this is the book for you. However, in terms of real insight into who Morrison was beneath the skin, and what made him tick, aside from a small number of purple empathetic passages, this book is remarkably lacking.

So, who was Morrison? According to the mainstream viewpoints he was singer, writer, poet; drunk, slob, bar-room brawler who burnt out real quick. To the more romantic among us, he was also of a mystical and shamanic mentality unique among the 'rock stars' of the time. Fame and infamy: in the media version of the life and death of Jim Morrison, he is a sensational and salutory example of how not to do things. For my part, I followed the official paper trail to a tee. In 1968, Jim Morrison was the closest thing to a god that there was in my life. Having shed his pretty-boy rock-god image, he was sexy in a way that was both tough and beautiful, charismatic, possessed of a marvellous voice, and wrote memorable songs with a dark and primal edge to them. If you wanted to be anyone, it was the Jim Morrison on the cover of 'Waiting for the Sun'. By 1970, though, Morrison was the last person I wanted to be. He became fat, grew a shaggy beard, looked twice his age. He was into alcohol, had up on charges of obscenity on stage in Miami. He was, in my mind, uncool and irrelevant. A new generation of long-haired skinny guitar heroes was emerging, playing music far more cutting edge than the not-very-progressive songs of the Doors's final two albums.

Time changes perception. That new generation of guitar-wielding young dudes has largely passed into oblivion, while Morrison, the Doors, the words and music have endured. In some respects, Jim Morrison was way ahead of me. At the tender age of seventeen I just couldn't get a lot of what he was wrestling with. But, in the on-off romance of 45 years that is my relationship with Morrison, I find myself appreciating more and more of what he was about.

To return to my question two paragraphs back: who was Morrison? Is there any reason to trust mainstream rock press more than any other mainstream media? They need sensation, a good story, to survive as much as does the Sunday Mail. During the period of Jim Morrison and the Doors, there was a perception that rock music, and everything associated with it, was a force for good. A perception which, it turns out, was naive and distorted, to say the least. Particularly, perhaps, with regard to its public relations and media emissaries. So - where else can we look for an inner view of the life and times of Jim Morrison? Let's get personal....

First stop: 'Strange Days' by Patricia Kennealy Morrison. Patricia purports to have undergone a Celtic handfasting marriage with Jim Morrison in 1970, and her book is subtitled 'My life with and without Jim Morrison'. She has some vicious detractors, mainly females who continue to spit venom through the medium of the internet. This alone suggests that there is something in Patricia's story. My suspicion is that what she says is considerably embroidered and embellished; yet there is the ring of authenticity about her book as a whole. What seems to be problematic for some to realise is that there was a bundle of young ladies in the life of Jim Morrison, all of whom had their part to play. Their error was to fantasise of themselves as the one and only. Whenever in the shit, Morrison returned to Pamela Courson, long-term muse and chain. In 'Strange Days' Morrison comes across as a proper human being, not as a rock god, rock devil, or whatever. He can be remarkably kind, sensitive, and gentle, and is intelligent and articulate. Yet he can also behave like a narcissistic, cowardly bastard. All are parts of the emanation that was Jim Morrison.

'Strange Days' at least provides an insight, albeit one-sided, from somebody who knew him, and knew him in intimate ways. Where else can we go?

Second stop: 'A Feast of Friends' by Frank Lisciandro. There is a recent edition, which is fairly expensive. However, I got hold of an earlier one through Amazon for 37 pence (less than one dollar to our transatlantic readers). It arrived quickly and was in tip-top condition.

Frank Lisciandro was a friend of Jim Morrison. A few quotes from his opening chapter tell the story, I suppose.... 'Like other rock heroes whose lives ended too soon, Jim has become a cultural icon. Now the tabloids and magazines, Sunday supplements and MTV devote columns to recreating the Morrison myth. For a friend this should be welcome news. Don't believe it. I find very little truth in what I hear and read.'  And again.... 'As the misinformation barrage about Jim increased, I noticed that the people who should be heard from - the people Jim trusted and worked with and tripped with and those he shared his time and thoughts with, his friends - were not being heard from at all. So I began to contact and interview Jim's friends one by one.....' Such is the content of this unique little book.

In the standard renditions of the life of Jim Morrison, he often disappears, for days on end, much to the frustration of the other musicians, the record producers, and suchlike. It's as if the 'disappeared Jim Morrison' is a non-entity, doesn't count. Which is an interesting perspective, since when a person 'disappears' they turn up, appearing, somewhere else. Where Jim Morrison 'disappeared' to was sometimes solitude, but often it was to the company of his friends, that part of life outside the limelight. 'A Feast of Friends' goes some way to filling in the gaps: when he was 'disappeared', Jim Morrison was frequently most himself.  

The Jim Morrison who emerges from 'A Feast of Friends' is not without his warts, his problems, especially his drinking problems. But he is a human being of humour, capable of decency and generosity of spirit, imbued with the passion for discovery, for pushing the boundaries, confronting people with the poverty and mediocrity of the culture. A free spirit indeed.

In the end, Jim Morrison had to go. Listen to the succession of songs on 'Absolutely Live', from 'Universal Mind' ('I was doing time in the Universal Mind, I was doing fine....'), through 'Dead Cats, Dead Rats ('Fat cat in a top hat, thinks he's an aristocrat, that's crap....'), down to 'Celebration of the Lizard ('Lions in the street and roaming, dogs in heat rabid, foaming, a beast caged in the heart of the city....'). Nowhere else in live recorded music have I sensed energy like this: electric, dangerous, about to explode. Controlled, but barely controlled, chaos. A layer has been tapped into which threatens the status quo. Jim Morrison becomes one of the dangerous men of America, alongside the likes of Timothy Leary. He has to go.

There are different ways to get rid of a person. One is to persecute them, play on and destroy their sense of omnipotence. Hound them out of existence, watch them implode. Such was the case with James Douglas Morrison. 'A Feast of Friends' is, maybe, the closest we have to a meaningful epitaph. Thanks, Frank. And thanks, Jim.



                          

But Why Oh Why Oh Why?

Part One: Things Sure Are Hotting Up....

Some time ago I was engaged in conversation with a friend about politics, parapolitics, personal freedom, that kind of thing. All of a sudden my friend blurted out the question: 'But why windfarms?' I was slightly taken aback by the directness and immediacy of the enquiry. You see, although he now lives in southern England, my friend was not, unlike me, born there. He actually comes from far, far away. So, if he wishes to communicate, he doesn't beat about the bush for days, weeks, months on end, being abstruse and indirect, the way that a certain type of southern Englander might. No. If he wants to say something, he does so. If he's got a question, he asks it.

Nowadays, I far prefer the approach of my friend. As Buddha, Castaneda, and others have pointed out, life is short, and we have little idea when our last dance on Earth will take place. So live every moment to the full, and stop faffing about.

So, why windfarms? I told my friend that there are bits and pieces scattered throughout posts on Pale Green Vortex: put them together and a pretty good picture will emerge. Furthermore, I might provide further clues shortly. As time has passed, I have reconsidered. Why not try to put things together into a coherent piece? It's a subject that I approach with a heavy heart, but tough luck! Don't be lazy, Pale Green Vortex Man. The result is something of a summary: potted and incomplete, no doubt, but covering the main points, to the best of my knowledge so far. It's a bit long, so make yourself comfortable with a cup of tea (brewed with water most likely not boiled by wind-generated electricity), and go....

During the 1970s, when I was studying climatology as part of my degree course at Oxford University (we bring you only the best on Pale Green Vortex....), passing reference was made to the theoretical possibility of increasing atmospheric CO2 having some warming effect. However, there was far more fear those days about the Earth becoming colder as we prepared to enter another Ice Age or mini-Ice Age.

Fast forward twenty years to the early 1990s, when what has become the modern environmental movement, fuelled in good part by now fully-formulated global warming theory, began to go mainstream. In 1989 the Berlin Wall had come down, followed in 1991 by the final demise of the Soviet Union. A certain kind of global conflict was coming to an end, ushering in an era when a new level of globalisation appeared more than just an idle pipedream (OK, Vlad Putin has come along and spoiled the party for now. But hey, you can't win them all).

In 1991 the Club of Rome published their document 'The First Global Revolution'. There are some oft-quoted passages that are telling. Here is a bit: 'It would seem that men and women need a common motivation, namely a common adversary, to organise and act together..... The need for enemies seems to be a common historical factor...... Bring the divided nation together to face an outside enemy, either a real one or else one invented (my italics) for the purpose.... In searching for a new enemy to unite us, we came up with the idea that pollution, the threat of global warming, water shortages, famine and the like would fit the bill. The real enemy then is humanity itself.'

It's worth taking a peek at who and what the Club of Rome is. There's nothing hugely esoteric about some, at least, of what think-tanks such as the Club of Rome gets up to. Anyone with a search engine and an ability to join up the dots can get an idea. But, while not all hush-hush, the activities of such think-tanks will not be confined to a chat about the weather over tea and scones. The Club of Rome's membership has included such luminaries as Al Gore, Mikhail Gorbachev, Maurice Strong (head of the UN Environmental Programme), David Rockefeller, and our old buddie Henry Kissinger. This group has had a significant influence on the birth of the modern environmental movement; along with its 'sister clubs', of Rome and Vienna, it boasts a galaxy of international heavyweights - people who make the running, or do the running for other people.

This was followed swiftly by the Rio Earth Sumit in 1992 (there is a strong message in the choice of venue here), including the birth of Agenda 21, and addressing the issue of alternative energy sources to replace fossil fuels, which delegates linked to climate change. In 1997 the Kyoto Protocol was designed to try and pin it all down.

I think we can note the flow of dates and events in this unfolding scenario. Twenty years ago much of the theory and mechanics had been put into place that is creating part of our world today. Approach quotes as supporting 'proof' for these carefully, I suggest, since you can find something to back up anything if you look hard enough. Having put down this proviso, however, I recommend checking out some quotations which are scattered across the internet supporting my thesis (Red Ice is a good source for stimulating quotes generally). Here are just a couple:

'We've got to ride this global warming issue. Even if the theory of global warming is wrong, we will be doing the right thing in terms of economic and environmental policy.' (Timothy Wirth, President of the UN Foundation, and former Under Secretary of State for Global Affairs in the Clinton admin). And....

'We need to get some broad based support to capture the public's imagination.... So we have to offer up scary scenarios, make simplified, dramatic statements and make little mention of any doubts.... Each of us has to decide what the balance is between being effective and being honest.' (Stephen Schneider, Stanford Professor of Climatology, and lead author of many IPCC reports)

To be effective, globalisation, whatever its motivation, requires global issues; and in human-made global warming it had found the perfect global threat.

Part Two: Here They Come

The invasion of the windfarms can only be comprehended, I submit, if seen in this light. The modern wind turbine is a technological 'response' to the perceived universal peril. With the Soviets dead and buried, we needed, and found, a new enemy: human-generated carbon dioxide. Soon the mantra was out: 'Renewables good, fossil fuels bad', bleated by the masses in an echo of the sheep of 'Animal Farm' with their 'Four legs good, two legs bad' (there is plenty that is Orwellian in our story). No mind that, as an energy source, wind is totally unreliable, depending on the vicissitudes of the weather. No mind that wind turbines and farms are not particularly friendly ecologically, their construction requiring materials whose mining causes much pollution; their building destroying huge peatlands, the temperate climate carbon sinks equivalent to the Amazon forest; the destruction of forests to make way for windfarms, the destruction of wildlife, their noise and flicker affecting the health of humans who live nearby. Etc etc etc. All this is irrelevant: 'Renewables good, fossil fuels bad' is the thing.

It is no accident that wind energy has been foisted onto the public largely in the form of large windfarms, rather than smaller and more truly local initiatives. This keeps power and capital moving through the same few hands as run oil, coal, nuclear and the rest. Energy production remains centralised, and the System of Control, if you will, stays,er, in control.

That wind energy is expensive and unreliable in a world where we 'can no longer use coal' is again no accident. Perceptions of scarcity are an important weapon in the armoury of control. Perceived scarcity keeps people in fear, and easy to manipulate and control. Imagine how 'the whole shithouse would go up in flames' (to paraphrase Jim Morrison) if we could all produce our own energy cheaply or for free. 'OK, political dudes, super-rich energy companies, we don't need your services anymore. Goodbye.' This is a state of affairs that, irrespective of the real state of technological knowledge, cannot be allowed to happen. And imagine the geopolitical implications. Our friends and allies in Saudi Arabia would not be pleased that their resources are no longer needed, their source of wealth irrelevant. What would they make of it? The barrier to local production of cheap or free domestic energy is not, at root, primarily scientific and technological: it is political/a matter of global control.

Windfarms will never do what they are publicised as doing. Instead, they are part of a kind of synthetic simulation, as discussed in a previous post. They dupe large numbers of people by pretending to be something they are not. The deception can be seen through easily, if only you try; but it is good enough to take in a critical mass of people to be able to get the job done.

In reality, they achieve the opposite of what they purport to do, in classic simulation style. They prolong scarcity while claiming to relieve it. They destroy the planet while pretending to save it. Stand on top of any number of mountains in northern Scotland nowadays and take a look. The notion that this industrial carnage is planet-friendly is clearly ludicrous.

And all the while rather complex forms of subsidies are in place, ensuring that the flow of money is moving smoothly in the right direction.

Part Three: Further Benefits

So, to recap: windfarms keep money and control in the hands of the few; they maintain scarcity; they do the opposite to what they are officially supposed to do.

There is another brilliant move that the global warming/ windfarm story has facilitated. It has enabled literally millions of people who might consider themselves to be 'against the system' to be seamlessly brought on board. 'We don't like men in suits. We don't like petrolheads, gas-guzzlers, Jeremy Clarkson. We take a stand against bankers, capitalists, greed, excess profits. We are decent people - of the people and for the people. We like the planet.' All these people, once considered, and still considering themselves to be, against the System of Control, are now - without even realising it - central to the fabric of Empire. Green Party people are every bit a part of the System of Control as is David Cameron. Every bit. It is indeed a move most brilliant.

Related to this is the increasing role played in the game by organisations such as charities and global institutions such as the UN. With the credibility of orthodox, old-style politicians at an all-time low, the moment has come to pass the baton, in part at least, to organisations that are held in higher regard by the general public. Windfarms are promoted relentlessly by charities like the WWF, the 'story' being that they are necessary if we want to save polar bears and dolphins, it seems. The popular perception of the UN as a grouping of great people intent on ironing out international problems and bringing peace to humankind works in its favour. Some UN folk are well-intentioned, I suggest; others less so. It's worth taking a few minutes out to check the profiles and histories of some of the movers and shakers in the UN. There you will find some members of the Big Happy Family, using the global perspective of the UN as an ideal vessel for furthering wet dreams of greater global control.

Mention of the UN inevitably brings us to Agenda 21. Rolled out at the 1992 Rio Earth Summit, this document is regarded by some as one of the sneakiest, most sinister things produced in modern times. I have not investigated Agenda 21 in detail, and it is a tricky one. I actually agree with some of the document's aims, and some of the people involved are, I suspect, well-intentioned. It is, however, another case of twisting a noble ideal with the use of simulation, 'Think globally, act locally' is a motto that seems to make fantastic sense; and it can. However, Agenda 21 takes it up, and distorts into 'We have a global programme; what's more, we have figured out a plan as to how to implement it down to the smallest, most local, detail.' Agenda 21 is a top-to-bottom programme. Its impact on windfarm promotion comes, according to some commentators at least, in its apparent intent to get people off the land and into the big cities. Rural living is untidy, while people crowded in huge conurbations are far more easily managed and controlled. While this may sound like a far-fetched fantasy of paranoid people, it is given credence by the direct experience of visiting a large city when you normally live outside. There is the unmistakeable sense of sheep squashed together in a confining pen. So, one way to get people out of the countryside is to make rural living more unattractive. Spoil the quiet, destroy the views, bring in the metal and concrete, the migraines and depressions created by the subliminal noise and flicker from windfarm activity.

It's been a bit of a long trip to get this far. But, as a former work colleague used to say when about to engage in some slightly dodgy personal project, it needs to be done.....

Photos: The graph I include, not as a final demonstration of 'the truth', but as a reminder that we need to get out there and discover for ourselves what's really happening, rather than relying on propaganda in the papers and on the television.

For the other image: Peter de Vink on thinkscotland   (thank goodness there are at least a few people here in Scotland who are thinking...)



              

      

           

Message From Goethe

It's the country life for me.....

Lest we sometimes feel discouraged, dispirited, dejected. A failing in spirit and motivation. 'Is it all worth it? Why bother? What's the point?' Probably most readers of Pale Green Vortex have been there. I have, and still make the occasional visit. Here are some words from Goethe that I came across, which may spur us on:

'Truth has to be repeated constantly, because Error also is being preached all the time, and not just by a few, but by the multitude. In the Press and Encyclopaedias, in Schools and Universities, everywhere Error holds sway, feeling happy and comfortable in the knowledge of having Majority on its side.'

These words are remarkable for a number of reasons. Spoken around two hundred years ago, they remain absolutely and precisely true. The press - we know about that: the encyclopaedias - use wiki with discernment, and don't believe something just because wiki says so. The schools and universities - don't be taken in by academics. Falsifying and skewing stats, data, rewriting history (remember how the medieval warming period was about to be written out of existence).

Goethe's words tell us that nothing much has changed. We get caught up and taken in by the new, by 'progress', but from one angle this is all bullshit. The game of Empire and control is an ancient game - some say it goes back to the Egyptians or beyond. We are participants in a long, drawn-out theatre. We do well to remember this.

    

Down on the Farm

It was a couple of months ago that we were returning to the Scottish mainland from the Outer Hebrides. While on the ferry we fell into conversation with a crofting couple from those famed Western Isles. The ensuing communication I found to be fascinating, thought-provoking, an eye-opener. About how, for example, the Crofting Commission attempts to encourage a continuation of this form of agriculture, while EU regulations of the one-size-fits-all variety create all kind of obstacles and difficulties for crofters, thereby hastening their disappearance into the history books.

The modern-day crofter does not come reeking of peat smoke and looking like they haven't had a wash for weeks. Our crofting couple were a rather well-dressed dapper-looking pair in their late middle-age. While the male stayed full-time on the farm, the lady divided her time between Edinburgh and the Western Isles.

Crofing is an endangered species. Its roots lie in the mistreatment of native inhabitants by large landowners in  the past. Today it represents a way of life and of farming more in harmony with the rhythms and cycles of the natural world than do most other agricultural systems to be found in north-western Europe.

One topic of conversation that particularly piqued my curiosity was that of Gaelic. This is the language traditionally spoken in Highland Scotland, with its current existence restricted mainly to the far-flung regions of the country. The crofting couple were openly dismissive of Scottish misgovernment's efforts to revive the language. 'It's people in Glasgow that are learning it, while the culture and traditions that actually produced the language are dying out. How can you really know Gaelic when you don't know about peat, kelp, the sea? It's being preserved as a museum piece, not as a living part of a real culture.' This got me thinking....

Frothy surface substitutes for the real thing. It's commonplace. I notice it, and painfully, with regard to eco-stuff and the environment. The green people. Not all of them, but many propelled by an idea of the environment, thought up in a second-floor apartment in the middle of the urban jungle. Similarly with those people guzzling organic juice while living completely synthetic lives in a totally synthetic big city environment.

The difference between an idea of a thing and the thing itself is not experienced at all by many of these idealistic yet, in a way, alienated folk. They don't know the difference, or realise that there may indeed be any difference to distinguish in the frst place. It may be an experience that is not readily come upon - it was unknown to me before my early twenties.

Frothy substitutes, mistaken identities. They all lead me back to the vexed subject of the archons....

A fellow blogger and occasional correspondent included the following instructive take in a recent piece of communication about one of my posts. My recent Gnostic/archon references went, he said, 'a bit further than my curiosity on the subject, and were filed as..... beliefs and belief systems that both of us seem to find an encumbrance.' He is correct - and I'm certainly not in the business of replacing old belief systems with new ones (if you have had direct personal experience of the archons' existence, that is another matter, I suppose). However, putting aside the question of the literal existence of archons, I submit a useful tool to be the adjective derived therefrom: archontic. The archons, according to the Gnostics, are inorganic beings, and the mode of experience they transmit, archontic, is inorganic. It is not direct, real, but fabricated, inorganic. Archontic denotes a type of experience that is virtual, synthetic, substitute, and - this is the trick - without the experiencer realising this to be the case at all!

There is one aspect of the archontic mode of experience - the dominant form of experience of most people embedded in western civilisation, I propose - that proves particularly useful here. A favourite tactic of the archons, it seems, is that of what is called  HAL in the Coptic language - translated as 'simulation'. John Lash explores this in brilliant fashion in 'The End of Patriarchy', chapter seventeen of 'Not In His Image'. "In Gnostic terms the replication of nature in lifeless forms exemplifies HAL, archontic simulation. In the shift from organic form to abstraction an entire range of values is lost, and other values contrary to organic life are adopted as if they were equal, or even superior to, the lost values." And again, "It is as if you mind-modelled nature and then imagined that the lifeless model in your mind itself produces nature."

This is not easy material to get to grips with - not for me, at least. The quotes need reading and re-reading, the ideas need time and energy to be cooked, digested, in the mind. But I feel this material is extremely important, since it describes the mentality that increasingly comes to create the counterfeit world we inhabit, without our even realising that it is counterfeit. The material lays out the mechanism whereby the synthetic world comes into being. Sustituting EU directives as superior to the direct, organic wisdom of the crofters. Promoting Gaelic outside its genuine context, while doing little to fertilise its roots in the lives of men and women in their relationship to the land. A web of synthetic theory based in HAL, simulation. Furthermore, it is a pivotal aspect of much modern 'environmentalism'. Programmes, agendas, abstractions dreamed up in centrally-heated offices. Bereft of direct contact with and real love for Gaia-Sophia, they substitute it with a virtual environmental reality, one that produces the opposite of what it claims to promote. It's all in the archontic mentality. But more of that in the future, folks.

Photo: undiscoveredscotland



      

And Some Truths Just Never Exist

This is what people come from all over the world to see

Last week, my wife bought a copy of a local newspaper. She doesn't normally do this, but there was a promotional offer, with a packet of biscuits given away free with every newspaper sold. She fancied the biscuits....

On page 27 of the 'Press and Journal', September 11th 2015 edition, were the usual 'Letters to the editor'. Among them was a communication from a lady from Corwen in North Wales. For the past fifteen years, she wrote, she had holidayed in Scotland with her two sons, enjoying the magnificent landscapes the country had to offer. She would be doing so no more, however. During their last visit, up the M74, through Glasgow and on to Oban, they had been kept company by windfarm after windfarm, and they didn't come all the way to Highland Scotland to look at industrialised landscapes. Visitors were being treated 'with utter contempt' by the Scottish Government, she concluded (not just visitors, I would add, but residents of rural areas), 'I've had enough of being taken for an undiscerning fool' she signed off. Spot on.

The impact of windfarms on tourism in Scotland has recently come increasingly into the spotlight. This I actually find a bit strange. From day one, anyone in their right minds would see that windfarms would damage tourism, in rural places at least. I have yet to meet the people who come all the way to the Scottish Highlands for the privilege of opening the curtains in their bed and breakfast to stare out at an army of enormous metal constructions gleaming in the morning sun. But this is a perfect example of the process described in my most recent post. Enough slimy ideologues and profiteers were able to deny the obvious for long enough for the windfarm invasion to get into top gear. Even now, reports are commissioned into the question. Findings published. Findings questioned. More reports commissioned. All the time, the windfarm programme is proceeding apace. In layman's terms, delaying tactics. A facade of consultation and democracy hides a pre-planned programme being put into place. Even now, the Scottish misgovernment insists that windfarms and tourism can flourish side by side. And white is black, dear friends.


Last month I spent a few days in the Big City. It was great to see one or two friends and family members. But for the rest it was the predicted psychic disaster. After ten years of living away from this environment, I have become a slightly different type of being to the typical big city resident. If I wished to have children (a bit late now, I know....), I could not do it with a being from the Big City world. They are a slightly different species. I do not live out in the wilds of Highland Scotland, but on the edge of what is a small city. Nevertheless, substantial daily contact with trees, hills, rivers and streams, cloud, rain, wind, occasionally sun, have altered my experience of myself and of the world. I am in communication with the natural matrix out of which I have come, and which continues to sustain me. For the majority (there are some exceptions) of inner city inhabitants this is not the case. The enfolding environment is relentlessly synthetic. and this makes a difference. As Jim Morrison once sang: not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, nothing left to do but run, run, run. Without that contact we are alienated, lost, hopeless in our quest.

While walking the Big City streets, I couldn't help but notice the number of organic food and healthy eating establishments that have popped up in recent times. Swathes of the City appear to have been given over as shrines to the body fit and healthy. It is better, I am sure, for people to be eating quinoa burgers than snacking 24/7 on artery-clogging factory stuff. I observed a few of the people in the organic shop opposite to where we were staying. Knocking back carrot juice and something made from chia seeds while making a frantic phone call, sending a few hurried text messages, dropping the device on the floor, paying the bill while making another frantic phone call, leaving the establishment at full pelt, only to return twenty seconds later to pick up the bag they'd forgotten. Trying their hardest, in a certain way, to be healthy, natural, organic, while living an almost entirely synthetic life.

Inhabitants of the Big City seem to be in a continual hurry, mind turning over at a rapid pace, and engaged in a project that is clearly extremely important. It's just that I've lost all memory of what that project is....

I used to think that, despite their imperfections, the Big Cities represented the zenith of human progress. Our greatest cultural achievements, embodying our finest dreams. The City marked an evolutionary step, as technological advance released the population from the toil and slavery of the land. I'm not at all recommending slavery to the land, but suggest that this story we've been told might be a little simplistic, let us say.

The people of Highland Scotland live at the bottom of the pile. There are those who will bleat and protest at this statement, but this is what I see. Your little bed and breakfast in danger of economic ruin because of a bunch of wind turbines up the road? Nobody gives a shit. It's the same treatment for people living on the rural margins all over Europe. While we're all supposed to throw our arms up in horror and beat ourselves up because of refugees and illegal immigrants from Syria and North Africa, we never hear a thing about the village folk of the Greek islands, Sicily, and elsewhere, who wake up to another boatload of people turning up on their beach with nowhere to live, nowhere to go. Scant sympathy for the many folk of southern Spain, Greece, and elsewhere, thrown into sudden, apparently insoluble mass unemployment and general economic ruin exacerbated by the countries' membership of the EU. Juncker and his EU cronies are keen on throwing money in the direction of our new arrivals, but lift not a little finger to help those who are supposed to be part of their own big family. These are, I submit, genuinely nasty people with genuinely nasty agendas. And that's it for now.....

Photo: Lochluichart Windfarm. Alpin Stewart, via Creative Commons

     
      

.... And Nothing But the Truth....

Part One

Truth. To most of us it's one of the big words. Or should I say Big Words? Words like Freedom, Justice, Goodness; Love, Wisdom, Beauty. Words with capital letters, that resonate with the very best of the human experiment. Not everyone sees Truth in this exalted light, however. In the eyes of Empire, the System of Control, the higher echelons of Establishment, call it what you will, it is something quite different. For them, truth is a dispensable commodity.

For the Control System, 'truth' does not need to be really true. And it does not need to stay true for all that long. It just needs to be believed by sufficient people for long enough to accomplish the current move in the game, before shuffling on. As an example, let's take the 'truth' of human-made global warming and the panic created by this terrible truth. This first hit the mainstream big-time about fifteen years ago, courtesy of a bunch of global heavyweights. The truth and the panic went viral with Al Gore's 'Inconvenient Truth' blockbuster. If you were able to look beyond the hype and the hysteria, the 'science' propounded by Gore was always a bit dodgy, but no matter. The show was good enough to get on board a substantial number of 'people who really matter', along with a mass of well-intentioned but existentially confused and emotionally insecure and/or naive other human beings. Things were up and running. A global peril for a global worldview, uniting us all in panic, fear, guilt, and insecurity. If you dream of global government, a global problem is what you really need, to bring humans all round the planet together. And, following this, a wide range of measures can be introduced to safeguard our endangered world, to shore us all up against the impending destruction about to be wreaked by human-caused global warming. Expensive 'renewable' energy, bleeding dry ordinary people in places like Western Europe and North America, simultaneously lining the pockets of those whose pockets are already lined. Extra green taxes, international deals on carbon trading, permitting the circulation of money as you want it. The list goes on.

The wheel has been falling off the global warming juggernaut for several years now, at least in terms of rational credibility. Here's one clue: global climate does not appear to be behaving at all the way that the fearmongers have predicted. Never mind. There are still loads of blinkered ideologues around, prepared to continue paying homage at the holy shrine of global warming. And, by now, there are loads more folk with a strong vested interest in maintaining the fraud. 'Sorry, everyone, I messed up. Got it completely wrong. Bring down the windmills and solar panels.' You don't hear politicians, bureaucrats, business people, speak like that. It's not in their repertoire of possibilities.

More fundamentally, it doesn't really matter now if the whole thing is generally accepted as deceitful bullshit. It's too late. The thing's moving well into place; the juggernaut is moving forward with enough force to be pretty much unstoppable. OK, everyone, it's crap and was a bunch of lies all along, but tough luck: that's what you've got. This is your world now, so just shut up, pay your taxes, and get on with it.

The same principle applies to other 'truths' that have been seriously contested by sober, intelligent people for ages. Let's say that it was one day proven beyond reasonable doubt that JFK wasn't assassinated the way the official story goes. Let's say it was the CIA. While a small percentage of the population would grasp the significance and gobsmacking consequences of this, the story that most people would buy goes like this: 'It all happened a long time ago, things have moved on since then. We can't do anything about the past, and people don't behave like that any more. What's on the tele tonight?'        

9/11 is another obvious example. The geopolitics of the early part of the 21st century have been largely moulded by the fallout from 9/11. Terrorists, terrorists, terrorists. The unending, unwinnable war. Be afraid. Very afraid. Enormous numbers of people who have taken a look at the evidence for the official 9/11 story have found it riddled with inconsistencies, improbabilities, impossibilities. Conan Doyle wouldn't get away with a story like that. Still, no mind. It's still the mainstream narrative, beamed across the world in shock and awe by the big guns of media, that holds sway. In the case of even this most momentous of events, it's kind-of too late. The shape of the world, primarily emotionally and psychologically, has been changed. Mission accomplished. The bullshit has worked.

A vital reality to absorb is that, for anyone whose main thing in life is power, influence, and control, morality doesn't exist. For such people, being 'moral' or 'immoral' is not an issue; the distinction is not acknowledged. Good, bad; right, wrong: that's not the name of the game. The game is not immoral, but amoral - that is to say, morality is of no significance, has no relevance. In this instance, the control freaks are truly psychopathic, according to some definitions at least. So playing the good-versus-bad game with them doesn't work. It's not the appropriate game. A friend of mine has challenged me more than once about why I don't rail more against capitalism on Pale Green Vortex. This is why. Of course, all manner of exploitation and injustice has been brought into being under the umbrella of capitalism, especially corporate capitalism. It's a philosophy that can bring out the worst in people. But if you dismantle capitalism, the banks etc, guess what? You'll soon find the same Empire impressing itself upon the world in a different guise. It's a dark chameleon, using whatever's available at the time. Capitalism, socialism? Liberals or Tories? Democrats, Republicans? No worries, all completely suitable for the power project. And this, by the way, is the same reality that makes those folk who camped out in public places to protest against the banksters so naive. Their solution? More government control over the nasty capitalists! Purleeeez! The state less immoral than the capitalists? Move over. I thought the idea went out with Stalin.....

Part Two

Light versus dark, good versus bad, right against wrong. There is an archetypal response elicited in most of us by these basic dualities. They manifest in mythical material from all around the world and through the ages; nowadays they are splashed across screens large and small in offerings from Disney and Hollywood. It's a universal sense that transfers readily into the arena of sports: Barca or Real Madrid; Federer and Nadal; Springboks and Kiwis. Then we have the other 'dualities' that are presented for our archetypal edification. Clinton or Bush; Tory or Labour; independent Scotland or part of the Union; capitalists or communists. It is almost as if..... as if..... it's all pre-designed to absorb, suck up, our instinctive feeling for duality. For right and wrong, good and bad. To channel it into a false place, all the while misleading most of us into believing this is the real thing.

And all too many folk fall for the ruse, the simulacrum. Taken in, they live as if these false, pre-packed dualities are the real thing. Meanwhile, with the mass of humanity distracted like children with toys (who similarly believe their dolls and toy soldiers to be fully real), the game can continue undisturbed. That game proceeds step-by-stealthy-step, below the surface that it has created as its disguise. It's artful in the extreme, and has most people completely suckered. Mention this, and people go crazy, get mad at you, say you're certifiable, or have a nervous breakdown. Understandably so.

The game of games, and the only one that really matters, concerns the distinction between a system intent on ever-greater control, and the flight of the free spirit. It's the one thing that Empire won't tell you: that human beings have a divine spark, if you will; a spark that can be fully ignited; and that 'purpose', should there be one, in human life consists of exploring the nature of that spark, developing that flicker into a burning flame. Discover this, and the layers of Empire become like dust, rubbish, uninteresting, irrelevant. Tories and Labours: green politicos or gas-guzzling politicos: it's all a stupid charade, and I'm not playing that nonsense any more. We begin to understand why mystical groups have needed to go quiet, underground. Our own unique authentic being: it's the one thing that opposes the System of Control, the one thing that terrifies Empire. They'll do anything to keep that knowledge away from you. Wanna get political? See the disguise, the blanket of deception, for what it is, and develop your own uniqueness, your own unique and direct connection with the sacred, the divine.



     





  
 

The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships

In 1970, age seventeen, I went vegan. True to form, I did it quickly and in extreme fashion. Overnight, I changed from sausage, bacon and eggs for breakfast to muesli and a molasses drink. Not only did I change the content of my diet, I began to carefully ration it out. While spending a long time organising and preparing my meals, the end result was simple and sparse. When you are seventeen and active, and a bit on the skinny side to start with, this is not really a good idea. I became bone-thin, and started to exhibit signs of being undernourished. My ankles swelled up. No matter - I was certain I was doing the right thing. Blind to reality. One evening, my father came up to my bedroom. "Your mother is downstairs crying. She's so distressed with the way you've become so thin. She thinks you're going to die." With this, the spell was thankfully broken. A few days later, eating vegetarian but amply once more, I felt a spring in my step again.

My idealism knew no bounds; but it became entwined with some sort of emotional complex - one that, to this day, gives me some insight into one form of anorexic tendency. Looking around me, I saw myself surrounded by a world of greed, selfishness, war, viciousness, and general unbridled negativity. I tried to compensate. I wished to embody the polar opposite. I felt the urge to counter the darkness in the world with my own purity, which would be purer than pure. I would have none of the unwarranted horror of the world around me. Balance would be restored through my own life. It didn't work.....

I was reminded of this salutary episode in my life when, a few days ago, I received an email link to an online petition urging the UK misgovernment to take in more asylum refugees, as they are being called this week. It is, I was informed, our moral obligation. The email was sent by someone who knows me, but clearly doesn't know me that well.....

Taking away the sins of the world seems still in fashion, in some parts of Europe at least. I shall die, so that others may live; Europe as saviour. I thought the notion of Europe as cow of plenty, or much good at all, had disappeared, but it clearly returns to haunt us when convenient. There is a psychological attitude - a collective complex (of guilt, maybe?) - in many Europeans that can be tapped into if required. Dying for the sake of others - the ultimate sacrifice of self - was the grand experiment of Jesus Christ, of course. Two thousand years of power struggles, needless violence, killings on a massive scale, tortures of unbelievers and burning of witches, corruption and accumulations of vast wealth by churches, cardinals, and the rest, all demonstrate what a miserable failure the experiment has turned out to be.

A few days ago a photo was splashed across the front pages and television screens, in the UK at least, of the dead young son of a would-be migrant from Syria being held on the waterside. 'Even Europe couldn't save him' was the headline in at least one paper that I saw. That such a poignant and emotional - and highly manipulative - image was presented to the globe in the very week that the flood of migrants into Calais, on the borders of Hungary, Bulgaria, Serbia, wherever, was saturating mainstream news outlets, and reaching an unprecedented crisis level was pure coincidence. Wasn't it? Surely? Funny, that.

Come on, Europe. Time to make your sacrifice. Put on your coat of horse-hair, take up your cross. You're a bunch of bastards anyway, not like the rest of the world. Feel the guilt. Do your moral bit. And this is only the beginning.

This is the other thing that my petition link reminded me of: how ignorant many generally decent, sensitive people remain about the reality, or warped reality, that constitutes mainstream 'news'. I'm amazed that people still fall for the stuff spewed out of Sky, the BBC, the Telegraph, the Guardian. It's not nonsense or lies 100% of the time, let's get that clear. But its prime aim is to create a reality for the viewer and reader. "This is what's really happening, folks. This is what's important; and if we stuff it down your throat frequently enough, you're gonna end up believing us."

In this day and age there is, frankly, no excuse to be taken in by what passes as 'news' in the mainstream media. For long I have myself resisted, but it now becomes clear that, with this topic of migrants, refugees, there is some kind of agenda at work.

Is it ignorance, forgetfulness, or fear of the truth, that prevents people from even looking for a moment outside what the BBC and the Guardian tell them? To extend their vision just a teensie weensie bit? I am no expert, and spend a very limited amount of time and energy on these matters. But it doesn't take long to at least get another perspective. And just check out a few questions about some of the vital elements in the current situation. The Arab Spring, that supposed upsurge of native feeling, bringing freedom, democracy, all those great things, to the enslaved nations of north Africa. Who were the 'rebels' really? Who was supporting them? Funding them? And what the hell's happened to it all now? Then there's ISIS, ISIL, god knows who else. Who are they? Where did they come from? How did they manage to get hold of all those weapons in the first place, and be in a position to apparently hold the western world to ransom? And what about Libya? Gaddafi. Seems like a lot of these unfortunates turning up in Sicily and Greece in boats, or ending up at the bottom of the Med, come from Libya. What's the story here? Who really took out Gaddafi? And how come the country's just been left to wallow in post-Gaddafi ruin? And Syria. This is the big bogey place of the moment. What about this Assad guy? Why's everybody got it in for him? Not a very nice guy, for sure, but no worse than a bunch of other nasty dudes littered around presidential palaces across the globe.

The funny thing is this. Scratch below the surface - just a little bit, you don't need to do an MA in it - and something a bit weird emerges. All these warring elements seem rather more interconnected than we have been led to believe. The CIA, US government, ISIS, UK and other western governments, Arab 'rebels' - they're kind of all the same! So many permutations normally presented as enemies turn out to be interchangeable, and mutually supporting if it suits them. It's not a game of right and wrong - of good guys and bad guys. This is just a gloss put on things to make it acceptable to the masses out there. It's a matter of cui bono - who benefits.

One night recently, in a crazy flight of fancy, I almost entertained the possibility that it's all a bit planned and pre-programmed, and that there are people out there who actually want to destabilise the entire region for their own good. Surely not! Perish the thought! But the reality isn't the slightest the one presented in the headlines. Not the slightest. Something else is going on, and it ain't pretty......