Earthship Notes for Lammas

Highland Scotland in twenty years' time?

In the beginning (well, fairly near the beginning) was the Club of Rome:

'Men and women need a common motivation, namely a common adversary against whom they can organise themselves and act together...... Bring the divided nation together to face an outside enemy, either a real one, or else invented for the purpose...... In searching for a common enemy against whom we can unite, 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.' (italics mine). This is an extract from 'The First Global Revolution' 1992 report by the Club of Rome, self-appointed group of VIPs which, along with the sister organisations the Clubs of Budapest and Madrid, apparently numbers among its members Henry Kissinger, David Rockefeller, Mikhail Gorbachev, Al Gore, Desmond Tutu, Bill Clinton, and the Dalai Lama.

Even NASA, some of whose folk have been at the forefront of the Human Global Warming scare, has conceded that the situation is not quite the way they thought it should be. A new study in the science journal 'Remote Sensing' (peer-reviewed, so it must be true - ha ha!) reports that NASA satellite data from the years 2000 to 2011 show the Earth's atmosphere is allowing far more heat to be released into space than alarmist computer models have predicted. The study further indicates that far less future global warming will occur than UN computer models have forecast. This real-world data contradicts multiple assumptions fed into alarmist computer models. 'There is a huge discrepancy between the data and the forecasts that is especially big over the oceans.' (Dr Roy Spencer, report co-author).

You might think that such findings, impacting deeply on the future of humanity on Planet Earth, not to mention the way that billions of pounds are scheduled to be extracted from our pockets in the form of planet-saving carbon taxes, and the further huge amounts of our money that are going to subsidise painfully expensive and inefficient forms of energy production (planet-saving, of course) that litter our beautiful landscapes with trash, would warrant a mention in the mainstream news. Not so. The BBC (now officially an abbreviation for British Brainwashing Conspiracy) failed to report it. Strange, that.

Just in case anybody hasn't got it yet: the whole Anthropogenic Global Warming scare is a fraud, a total fraud. I could spend half my free time cataloguing the evidence on Pale Green Vortex, but it's all out there for everyone to find; it just needs a bit of personal homework. Plus, the prime purpose of this blog is solution-oriented, rather than intended to dig up more and more dirt on the Control System and its tactics, a depressing and never-ending task. To paraphrase the alarmist twisters-of-truth, the science seems pretty settled, for the time being at least. Which is not to say that humans have no effect on the climate - I don't think anyone makes that claim - but our impact is relatively small.

Sadly, our modern 'environmental movement' is an archontic construct. It bases itself on computer modelling and other artefacts of one-eyed science, and is a deception away from real environmentalism, which has as its root what John Lash calls 'rapturous bonding with the Earth'. The real thing is an empathetic emanation from direct experience, not a product of database and pathological fear, paranoia, and hatred of humanity. It embraces and celebrates the multidimensional magnificence of Gaia, instead of reducing her to single-dimension points on a computer graph. Believe in the Great Fraud, and you have been well and truly suckered. It's as simple as that, I conclude.

Place of Power, Part One

First acquaintance was, I think, in 1968. August school holidays with my parents in north-west Scotland. By now, my father probably regretted deeply the moment when he first introduced me to mountains: now, while he wanted to read his newspaper in peace, and my mother potter about the holiday cottage or caravan, I was champing at the bit to climb a few more peaks.

One warm, grey afternoon (typical Highland fare in August), my patience ran out, and I took off alone. I followed a dry and narrow stalkers' path winding through the heather. After what seemed like hours of snaking across lonely moorland, I suddenly found the ground falling away in front of me. An awesome prospect opened up below and beyond. It was as if I had stumbled upon some unknown, or at least long-forgotten, paradise, a shangri-la placed to one side by modern civilisation. A broad but deep valley stretched out below me, containing a lone distant dwelling place, beyond which the enormous shapely spire of a mountain lifted upwards. The mountain was green - all was green - unlike the rocky landscapes I had become accustomed to around Torridon further north. Everything was still and silent; I stood entranced, for once my hyper teenage soul at peace.

A few years on, I went into self-imposed exile, renouncing the mountains and wild places in favour of a life dedicated to truth, realisation, and other big words based in the big city. For thirty years, the vision remained buried beneath the untidy pile of urban life. Until, one day about six years ago, the wheel revolved full circle, and I found myself taking up residence not a million miles from Shangri-la.

I declared the best part of my first year of living in the Scottish Highlands a sabbatical. I was in truth an urban refugee, bruised by too many years of the big city nightmare and by the death of both my parents. Into the open space that I had created slowly re-emerged the vision of that solitary walk more than thirty years ago. It was a memory etched more deeply into my mind than any other from my teenage mountain years. Surreptitiously, I set out to rediscover the location of this magical place. Poring over the maps during the long Scottish evenings of winter, I eventually had a hunch.

In mid-January, a period of cold, crisp, heaven-blue weather descended upon northern Scotland. The wind was from the east, which meant that the skies would be clearest on the west coast. Feigning nonchalance, I suggested to Martha an overnight stay in a place she hadn't visited before (always an irresistible carrot), with a little walk thrown in for good measure. The die was cast; we were soon on our way to Strathcarron.

The ground was frozen hard as we started off through the heather. The colours were pristine, surreal, and soon we were passing through landscapes with a real remote, untouched quality about them. The serrated outline of the Cuillin Ridge on Skye appeared sharp on the western horizon.

It was not so much a walk as a slip-and-slide; progress was slower than anticipated. Huge flat slabs of ice and frost awaited us as we finally left the world of light and squeezed through the defile of the Bealach Alltan Ruaridh, a place the sun's rays never get to penetrate during the months of winter. A herd of deer disappeared silently up the hillside, and the vision opened up in front of me. The valley seemed slightly less deep than in my imagination, but I still stood there entranced; this was the magic place. A wisp of cloud hung playfully over the top of the mountain, and the hillsides, while brown in their winter raiment, seemed to glow diaphanous from a source within.

During the ensuing months, the mountain began to crowd in on me. It seemed that I couldn't climb a single hill without its distinctive cone appearing on some distant skyline or other. The mountain was mocking me. In the end, I had no option: I had to get up close - which means climbing to the top. There was one problem, however. The books will tell you that, along with its neighbour, the mountain is one of the most remote of the Scottish Munros (the highest peaks in the country). However I looked at it, I couldn't see me getting there and back in a day. Besides, the mountain demanded greater respect. So I invested in a lightweight sleeping bag and bivi-tent (a dark, rustly, condensation-prone roof over your head so tiny that you cannot sit up inside) fit for purpose. And Saturday, August 26th, 2007, was earmarked as the day for the expedition.

I radiated optimism as I approached Inverness bus station in mid-afternoon, a few light clouds racing across the wide blue sky far above me. My mood darkened, however, when the bus I was catching failed to materialise. A diminutive elderly lady shuffled across the pavement in my direction. 'Are you waiting for the Lochcarron bus? It leaves at four o'clock on Saturdays now, not three. They haven't amended the timetables yet. Very bad.'

Yes it was very bad, since the days of long evenings are well past by the end of August; I realised how tight my schedule was. The omens continued to be unfavourable when we finally set off an hour late. The blue skies above Inverness quickly gave way to a pall of grey, and by the time we reached the small settlement of Achnasheen the rain was coming down. I was disgorged from the minibus at Strathcarron station, where it was nearly dark. On hearing that I was camping out for the night, the bus driver looked back at me with an extremely odd expression. 'I wouldn't fancy that' he remarked. 'You'll probably get your tent ripped apart by a stag.'

I set off up the hillpath like a bat out of hell; or a bat into hell, more like. Ink-dark clouds scudded across a glowering sky, and the evening was punctured by a smattering of sharp showers blown in on the brisk wind. Approaching the bealach in the long, dull twilight, I could see that everything in the direction of the mountain was obscured by heavy, grey cloud. I descended to the broad, green floodplain, which proved to be swampy and less conducive to bivi-pitching than it appeared from a distance. There was also the presence of considerable numbers of tent-demolishing deer to be taken into account......

It was completely dark when I finally set up camp by a stream, where another squally shower started up as I tightened the insubstantial-looking guy ropes by the light of my head torch. The wind flapped the walls of the bivi-tent in the early night mercilessly, and sharp showers continued to punctuate any attempt I made at a decent sleep. Around 2 a.m. I ventured outside to add to the growing sogginess around, only to discover that one of the tent pegs had completely disappeared. I had camped in a rapidly-expanding quagmire of peat.

By first light, almost all energy had been sucked from my being. I had pretty much given up on climbing the mountain. As I poked my head out of the canvas, however, the wind had died, and the cloud was beginning to lift. Packing up my soggy abode, I headed straight up the hillside, which was rough, tough, and boggy. As I approached a craggy section, the cloud came down again, however. Rock faces appeared fleetingly, before hiding once again behind swirling masses of thick grey, creating the impression of a landscape of incredible complexity. 'Not good' I muttered to myself. Then another voice, maybe that of a guiding spirit, spoke: 'Chill out. Relax. Just be.'

I came off the hillside, and adopted the leisurely and mindful style, venturing still further into back-of-beyond country with my senses wide open, and stumbling upon what looked like a secret and more simple route onto the mountain. In the meantime, the magic place of power had taught me a vital lesson: respect.

Bright Midnight

They will be out in force this Sunday, I suppose, a ragbag of devotees straggled down the boulevards of Paris leading to the cemetery Pere Lachaise. Their destination will be the spot that, to the continued discomfort of the French authorities, remains one of the most-visited places in Paris after the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Here resides the grave of one Jim Morrison, and this Sunday marks the fortieth anniversary of his death.

During his brief time on Earth, Jim Morrison was many things to many people. The speed of his physical deterioration, from the lithe poetic rock-and-sex Adonis of 1967 to the podgy grizzly bear figure awash with alcohol of 'Roadhouse Blues' and 'L.A. Woman' remains difficult to grasp. Yet he stands apart from the rest of the pantheon of the era on more than one count, thereby qualifying for serious mention on Pale Green Vortex in a way that Lennon, Hendrix, Clapton and the others simply don't.

I have come across the criticism that Jim Morrison's verse reads like the poetry of a high school kid. Setting aside the question of what is wrong with teenage poems anyway, communicating as they can from a mind that is relatively fresh and uncluttered by the luggage that burdens the mind in later years, the fact remains that there is a simple directness about the best of his work that is rare indeed. A few words strung together is all it takes to conjure up imagery that is deep, vivid and powerful, a communication direct from the primeval swamp, the source of his vitality.

Unique among his counterparts, Jim Morrison was endowed with a genuine shamanic sensibility. Replete with images from the animal world and nature, his words can communicate the intense aliveness and (sometimes disturbing) meaning of the world around us. At his best, he calls up those primitive and archetypal forces that are part of our being, but which 'civilisation' has done its level best to disown. Chris Knowles, author of 'The Secret History of Rock'n Roll', shares a similar view in his interview on Red Ice Radio, Sept 30th 2010 (second hour, for subscribers only!). Speaking about the cultural upheavals of the late 1960s, including the revolution of the psyche centred on psychedelics, Chris asserts that Jim Morrison, alone among the icons of the period, recognised that this was all an attempt to reconnect with our shamanic heritage, reaching back into deepest prehistory. Its roots were profound and natural (a theme more fully elucidated for the next generation by Terence McKenna in his call for an 'archaic revival'). We can speculate that the overall failure to properly realise this ancestral birthright was a major factor in the eventual demise of the cultural revolution of the time.

Read as a metaphor, an incident in Jim Morrison's life can shed light upon this topic. In January 1966, Jim took off with a friend, one Felix Venable, heading for the Mexican desert. Their aim was to find a shaman with whom to eat peyote, the sacred cactus. However, taking some acid on the way south, they never made it beyond Arizona, and returned to Los Angeles battered and bruised (literally), having been attacked, presumably by a bunch of southerners who didn't take kindly to longhairs.

Had he reached Mexico and found the great cactus shaman, the 'total fantasy' take on the story goes, Jim Morrison's life just might have turned out differently. As it was, his own primordial visions remained insufficiently anchored, and his life began to spin increasingly out of control. Without a strong and concrete sense of connection to the gnostic shamanic traditions of the past, life can be extremely difficult indeed. I speak from personal experience here. If the archaic connection is not directly - and regularly - sensed, the individual can be tossed around like flotsam on the surface of the great stormy ocean: of inner psychic craziness, alongside extreme dissonance with Control System consciousness on the outside.

Jim, of course, was also an object for Control System fear, aggression, and paranoia. He didn't play by the rules, created trouble; like Timothy 'most dangerous man in America' Leary, he was a man marked by the authorities. Inciting kids to tribal riot wasn't exactly the name of the game; basically, they wanted him out. Their chance came in Miami, on March 1st 1969, when a characteristically alcohol-loaded Morrison went into overdrive, with the result that he was charged with lewd behaviour and indecent exposure while on stage. The surviving Doors have always maintained that the charges were trumped up, a claim laughably backed up on December 9th, 2010, when Florida State granted Jim a pardon. Thanks, Florida; that makes everything all right then.

That he had been thumbed by the U.S. authorities and stood to spend time in jail clearly spooked Jim: 'Can you give me sanctuary/ I must find a place to hide/ A place for me to hide. / Can you give me soft asylum/ I can't make it anymore/ the man is at the door' he sings plaintively near the beginning of 'The Soft Parade'. He fled the U.S.A. in March 1971 to France. With no extradition order between the two countries, it was a place he could feel safe. He spent four months in the cultural haven of Paris before dying the typically ambiguous death of a rock star, at the black magic age for that era, twenty seven. Dead most likely from heroin on top of the savage treatment meted out to his body over several years; and hastened, I would add, by the machinations of the Control System. The translation of the words on his gravestone at Pere Lachaise reads 'According to his own daimon.'

'Now night arrives with her purple legion/ Retire now to your tents and to your dreams/ Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth/ I want to be ready.' (Celebration of the Lizard)

Constructs of Consciousness

Elucidating consciousness: Neil Kramer at the first ARC Convention.

One afternoon some time back I was lying on my bed in the dark, eyes closed (as one does), when a vision appeared vividly before me. I was out in a vastness of black space, staring up at a bright elongated whorl. Composed of various gases and tiny particles of matter, it seemed to be a self-contained unit moving slowly through space. As for myself, I was standing on another whorl of material, but one of greater substance and solidity. As the image persisted, remaining both vivid and real, I became increasingly puzzled about its meaning. Then I heard a voice uttering the words 'Control System', before the vision faded, leaving me once more alone in the dark room.

I have pondered over this strange experience as the weeks have passed, slowly coming to digest its meaning, and only now feeling prepared to share it with others. It was indeed a vision of the nature of the Control System, a term coined by Neil Kramer and applied on Pale Green Vortex as most suitable for describing the matrix of politics, finance, law, media, religion, and pure thirst for power that tries to mould the human environment we inhabit. Significantly, it presents itself in the vision as a separate, self-contained unit. Although in one way we all participate in its machinations, simply through being unable to live literally separated lives, in another way the Control System constitutes a world unto itself, the various elements feeding off and supporting each other. Significantly also, despite seeming at first sight to be a huge, bright mass, on closer inspection the System is seen to be formed of gases and small particles only: it's all hot air, and insubstantial beyond its superficial appearance.

Most vitally, I have come to realise that the Control System as manifested in the vision is in turn a construct of consciousness; or, let us say, a particular form of consciousness. The social, political, and economic world we find ourselves in is a creation of a particular type of consciousness. Nothing more, nothing less. And, what's more, there is nothing fixed or inevitable about that form of consciousness and the hold it currently appears to have on the mainstream of human affairs. Ideas such as 'this is the way we were made' or 'this is the way we've always been'; ideas about 'this being human nature' or Darwinian survival-of-the-fittest evolutionary declarations reveal themselves to be merely superstitious beliefs, and/or excuses dished up to help maintain the current heartless and shameful status quo.

As alluded to in various posts sprinkled throughout Pale Green Vortex, it has become clear to me that there is nothing inevitable about the form that a human consciousness takes. The Control System, along with its concomitant dominator culture, continues to replicate like a bad habit, or some kind of malignant virus. It maintains its power by constantly feeding its own poisonous view into the popular culture, and by forcibly cutting off knowledge of, and access to, other possibilities of consciousness. A good deal of its energy goes into reinforcing and deepening a sense of unconsciousness in other human beings, as well as bolstering erroneous beliefs such as the 'this is all inevitable' one.

A deeper engagement with our own minds, achieved through courageous practice of a variety of means and techniques, especially maybe those associated with shamanic traditions, reveals the veracity of what I have written. Habits, thought patterns, begin to be seen as just that - habits and patterns only. Slowly, like peeling an onion, layer after layer of habit falls away, until the human rests in a state of pure openness, consciousness and energy tied to and identified with nothing in particular. We approach what I refer to as zero point, and thereby enter a realm of infinite possibility.

It is this, the true nature of mind, that is anathema to the Control System which, as in my vision, appears to be so strong but on closer inspection proves to be insubstantial. Living in a state of constant fear and paranoia, its tactics become evermore desperate. Too many people experience their own true nature, and the Control System will implode on itself, collapsing like a castle built of playing cards.

A well-known pictorial representation of this 'existence as construct of consciousness' idea is the Tibetan Wheel of Life. This teaching aid (which is what it really is) consists of four concentric circles, one of which purports to illustrate the six different 'realms of existence'. These are the following: devas, godlike beings; asuras or titans - jealous and ambitious warrior-types, who fight for supremacy; the humans; animals; pretas (beings with insatiable cravings); and hell beings, consumed by anguish, pain, and tortures. As believers in multi-dimensional reality, Tibetan Buddhists traditionally have no difficulty in taking these as literally different types of being. More modern western interpreters, hot on psychology but burdened with the constricts imposed by pseudo-scientific rationalism, regard the realms as depicting potentials within the mind of the individual human; the teaching is about inner life rather than outer realities. The construct of consciousness as manifested through the vision actually cuts through both overtly subjective and objective interpretations. It suggests that very different types of consciousness can incarnate in the human form. Control System consciousness (roughly aligned with the asura realm on the Wheel of Life) forms its own distinct world, to the extent that it is almost as if it has become its own type of entity. I include the 'as if' caveat deliberately; I am talking visionary/observational rather than philosophical/ metaphysical here. But I am suggesting that Control System consciousness is at such variance with, say, deep spiritual/shamanic consciousness that it is as if we have different entity forms here.

While literal detachment from the machinations emanating from Control System mentality is hardly practical, elegant disengagement forms a satisfying and realistic strategy. Weaving around and through, deftly dancing, touching and being touched without getting trapped in the tangled web.

And the vision makes clear one aspect to a recurring theme on Pale Green Vortex: how to make the revolution? The demonstration or Zen? It shows that direct confrontation is futile, since it can take place only on the terms set by the construct that is being confronted. The construct works by rules that we do not share; 'taking over' won't work, but will simply invoke the spectre of Animal Farm once again. Revolution, radical change, is first and foremost a matter for consciousness.

Faces of Glenfinnan

Tucked away among some of the roughest and toughest mountains of Western Scotland, and at the head of a ridiculously picturesque pencil-thin loch, lies the tiny community of Glenfinnan. Boasting two hotels, a railway station with several trains daily, and an old rail carriage converted into a hostel, Glenfinnan still manages to exude an air of rare calm, keenly felt as you stroll towards the loch through the higgledy-piggledy of houses half-hidden among the luxuriance of rhododendron bushes and assorted other green things.

Glenfinnan has made its mark on the more popular consciousness for two distinct reasons. Firstly, its curious viaduct, straddling the entrance to Glenfinnan proper, has found fame for its appearance in one of the Harry Potter films. Secondly, it is the place where Charles Edward Stuart, better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, first hit the Scottish mainland and, on August 19th 1745, raised his standard to claim for himself the British throne. A bunch of Highlanders enthusiastically joined him on his ill-fated venture, which came to an abrupt end at Culloden, just outside Inverness, in October 1746 when, to put it bluntly, his followers were beaten to a pulp by the government forces led by the Duke of Cumberland.

There followed particularly grisly times for the folk of Highland Scotland. Firstly, Cumberland and his buddies set out on a quest of bloody reprisals against these nuisance Highlanders that was tantamount to genocide. Efforts to completely eradicate the Highland culture were followed by the notorious Clearances, when large numbers of folk were thrown off the land, either shipped to North America or to starve, to be replaced by sheep.

While the story of Bonnie Prince Charlie is less clear-cut than some would like us to believe - he was from France, not Scotland, and a good number of Scots fought on the side of the British government and 'Butcher' Cumberland - he has nevertheless passed into folklore as an icon of Scottish freedom. Calls for the independence of proud Scots from those conquering English b*****ds down south still ring loud these days, thanks in part to the successful political antics of Alex Salmond and his Nationalist cronies. Yet I find these cries increasingly hollow. This may be partly because what I consider 'quintessentially Scottish' is a far cry from Mr Salmond and his devotees' notion. And with all this polemic about greater independence and self-determination, I find it deeply ironic that the latest wave of invaders has actually been welcomed with open arms. I refer to the multinational corporations who have come, seen, and conquered with their army of windfarms. 'Come. Rape, plunder, destroy our beautiful landscape. You have our blessing' is the attitude to money-grabbing entrepreneurs often based hundreds of miles from Scottish shores.

There is Scotland. And there is Highland Scotland. To the sharp suits strutting their stuff round the buildings of Holyrood, life among the hills and on the edge of sea lochs is a world away. From the viewpoint of the urban power base Highland life is, I feel, second class, eked out by people on the periphery. People who don't really count. Not very much.

In stark contrast to the royal treatment meted out to the new conquistadors is the dismissive approach to small communities that are unfortunate enough to be located near to a new windfarm proposal. A 'consultation process' takes place, a sop to democratic process. A closer look at what actually happens shows this 'consultation' to be similar to that which might be afforded to somebody on Death Row, asking them whether they prefer pork or lamb for their final dinner before the electric chair. The recent passing of the Corriemoillie windfarm proposal (see the link from this blog) is a typical example, where the Highland Council majority rides roughshod over the hearts and souls of many of the local inhabitants, going against its own previous rulings and recommendations as to locations suitable for gangs of turbines, to satisfy their own unspoken agenda. The cynical and heartless dismissal of local voices echoes the treatment dished out to Highlanders by Cumberland the Butcher some 250 years ago. OK, it doesn't involve rape and murder on a literal level, but it does destroy a considerable part of a way of living, and of what is dearly cherished, by many people living in the rural Highlands.

I once attended a meeting about windfarms, organised in Inverness by the Wilderness Foundation (incidentally, not one of the 30-odd members of Highland Council who were invited bothered to turn up). A man in a suit gave an excellent presentation on why upland windfarms are a waste of money, and how the sacrifice of countryside is far too high a price to pay. Then another man in a suit gave a rather defensive presentation about why harnessing the wind in the hills is so important. There followed questions and answers, generally pretty learned queries from pretty learned people. Then a man got up and started to speak. He was barely coherent, and looked on the edge of a mental breakdown. He lived in a village nearby, it transpired, had lived there all his life. Now some turbines had appeared near his house and where he walked the dog, and he didn't know what to do. His emotional outpouring had everybody feeling decidedly twitchy. It cut right through the graphs and statistics. It is people's lives we are talking about here; and no-one had the heart to tell him there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.....

This all poses a riddle to me. How can people with such a strong complex about being invaded - of having their own freedom denied them - so easily become so beastly in turn - even to those who are apparently of their own kind (fellow Scots)? Yet this is precisely what is being dished out to local communities by Highland Council, by Alex Salmond and his neo-conquistadors, and undoubtedly by others.

Is it possible that some light can be shed upon this most strange state of affairs by considering the phenomenon of 'abuse bonding', or the 'victim-perpetrator bond', as John Lash calls it? Certainly, other avenues of research fail to explain a thing about the situation. 'Abuse bonding', as applied by some modern psychologists to dysfunctional family situations and addictive relationships, observes how the abused so often becomes, in time, an abuser. Catherine Keller, quoted in Chapter One of 'Not In his Image', remarks how, in dominator cultures, violence arises ' in situations where abuse communicates itself from one generation to the next. Over and over again, we see the causing of pain - destructiveness and abuse - flow out of a prior wounding.'

Abused and abuser exist in a kind of perverted collusion, and the abused so often turns abuser. John Lash extends the analysis of this dynamic into social, cultural, and religious contexts, and we can do the same here, thus bringing light to bear on the goings-on already alluded to in Scotland. The initial instinct is to imagine that those who have visualised themselves for so long as victims will, once freed from that role, be kind, generous, and caring to others. Not a bit of it. The abused becomes the abuser; victim turns perpetrator.

Think I'm exaggerating? Ask the people of Achanalt and Achnasheen, of various parts of rural Perthshire, and a host of other communities bulldozed by Scottish authorities with an unspoken agenda. Instances are readily available: go to the Windfarm Action Group (WAG) website for starters. It is the principle at work of the sol niger, the Dark Sun: nowhere are we so unconscious as in the centre of our own current universe (which we assume we know so well), be that our individual psychology or the goings-on in the world around us. It is easy to analyse history, far more difficult to see what is really happening now, right under our own nose.

A final point. John Lash states, at the beginning of Chapter Seventeen of 'Not In His Image', that 'Monotheism begins with a god who hates trees.' He just as easily say 'a god who hates mountains'. Here is the quote, from the Book of Deuteronomy in the (Un)holy Bible: 'Ye shall utterly destroy all the places where in the nations which ye shall possess served their gods, upon the high mountains, and upon the hills, and under every green tree....' This is the pathological psychological basis of the invasion of the windfarms, dreamed as it is by a bunch of dominators with unreconstructed monotheistic egos. Perpetrator mentalities, nature haters. I rest my case (for now). And I shall return to Glenfinnan, to its hills, its lochs, and its wild places.

Note: a careful look at the top picture shows smoke from a wildfire behind the hillside on the right, apparently started by some people camping and trying to burn their toilet paper after using it ....

Plastic Mountain

No no, this is the real thing..........

Any vestige of credibility I may still cling to in the eyes of my readers probably vanished on the mountain breeze when I wrote about the archons and alien intrusion on January 25th this year. To date, however, not one of even my most erudite friends and contacts has come up with an alternative solution to the most pressing of riddles posed in that article: why can humans be so fantastic, yet be driven so easily to behaviour that is imbecilic on the back of stupid ideas and beliefs? This being the case, and with nothing to lose, I have continued to look further into archon theory. The wider context for this project has been a close read of John Lamb Lash's magnificent book 'Not In His Image'. The result of John's painstaking and original research, the work is first and foremost a presentation of Gnostic theory and practice. According to John, Gnosticism is not, as normally supposed, an offshoot of early Christianity that hasn't fared well in the Darwinian stakes. Rather, it is the mystical repository of pagan and shamanic practices and ideas that stretch back some thousands of years.

As well as constituting a masterly exposition of Gnostic vision, 'Not In His Image' presents a detailed and thoroughgoing critique of the basis of Christianity and the other Abrahamic religions (Judaism and Islam). This is necessary, since the Gnostics viewed with alarm the development of the extremist cult that became early Christianity, with its weird beliefs in an off-planet creator-of-all god (known as the Demiurge), along with the doctrine of salvation for those who embraced the redemptive nature of the son of aforementioned god. 'Demented' is a word that John Lash uses to describe how the Gnostics viewed this sect with its bizarre ideas. These pagan mystics were to pay the price for their opposition to Christianity: they were vanquished and more-or-less disappeared without trace in the wake of the juggernaut of creator god worship (incidentally, some modern Christians retain this hostility to Gnosticism: watch 'Gnosticism Exposed' on youtube; though some of what is expressed here as Gnostic does not accord with John Lash's research).

This is the wider context; but to return to the archons...... The stupidity of so many human ideas and beliefs (which in turn drive idiotic and destructive actions) is rooted, according to the Gnostics, in the Demiurge's idle boasts and the actions of the archons, who lead us away from our true path in life. To understand the way in which this happens requires an acquaintance with Gnostic error theory. Put simply, this states that mistake-making is part and parcel of our life - to err is human -, and indeed it is through our mistakes that we learn. But through the deviant influence of the archons, we fail to detect our errors, which then magnify unchecked and out of all proportion. This is how demented ideas and belief systems arise and continue to propagate.

The archons' prime means of deception and leading us astray is HAL in Coptic: simulation. The idea needs a little getting used to - hold it in the mind without judgement for a while. But it is expressed succinctly in Chapter 17, 'The End of Patriarchy':

"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. This is antimimon, countermimicking."

On reading these few lines, I felt as if I had been struck be a thunderbolt. Not only were they relevant to the arising of the Abrahamic religions with their strange beliefs; they seemed to present a precise description of the madness of that part of the so-called environmental movement which is fixated on Anthropogenic Global Warming and the invasion of the windfarms. Adopting values contrary to organic life as if they are equal to them is exactly what Al Gore, Greenpeace, WWF, Scottish Renewables, and the rest have done. For the politicians, climate change paranoia has been a useful ploy in advancing their true and covert agenda of increased control over resources and human lives. For big business, it has been a convenient cover for reaping rich financial rewards while claiming that right is on their side. And for one-eyed environmentalists it has meant blind adherence to an ideology that ends up as species-hating and totalitarian. They have been truly suckered by the archons.

All have in common the fact that they live remote from direct experience of Sophia, the living intelligence of the Earth as expressed by the Gnostics. Instead, their notion of 'environment' is a simulacrum, composed of theory and ideology; of dodgy statistics, dodgier computer models, and targets plucked out of thin air. In general, it is feigning salvation of the Planet while damaging it. And there is a special irony involved in the dynamic of archontic effects on our environmentalists. It is our rich biosphere (our 'environment') which, say the Gnostics, the inorganic archons particularly envy. How cunning to turn humans against that very biosphere in the belief that they are acting to protect it!

The archontic influence, elegantly described as "subliminal effects that disguise themselves in the routine operations of mind and imagination" is also instrumental in the creation of what we sense as 'evil'. The subject of evil has preoccupied philosophers, theologians, and others throughout the ages; the Gnostic view is pragmatic and very simple. Evil is what arises when our mistakes are not attended to, and given a further deviant spin by the influence of the archons. Uncorrected error holds the potential to morph into what we sense as 'evil'. To my mind, it may well manifest as a kind of blind and wilful ignorance, driven by unacknowledged (archontic) influences in the psyche. I recently made the bold proposition that there is something evil about Al Gore and his ilk. This is the analysis that gives rise to this notion - the reader can fill in the gaps for her/himself.

The "preference for simulation over reality is the primary risk of deviation for the human species, the Gnostics warned". Just so. And while we have an 'environmentalism' that is spearheaded by those with unreconstructed egos defined by scientific materialism and shaped in the Judeo-Christian mould, we can expect little but deceit and deception from it.

Light of the World

And God created Man in His Own Image........

I recently returned from a trip to visit family members in Colombia, South America. There are quite a number of good things about Colombia. No windfarms, for a start. Close encounters with a scaly, light-blue iguana, and the oversized toads that come out in the evening. And there exists a certain vitality among many of the poorer people that seems generally lacking in their British counterparts. Without a benefits system to fall back on, the Zen saying 'No work, no food' becomes urgently relevant. Go to the indoor fruit and vegetable market at eight in the morning and you will witness a scene teeming with folk from the countryside around announcing their wares to all-comers: 'aguacate, aguacate, mango, guayaba' they shout, as if we didn't have eyes to see what's on display today. Reeling from the shock to the senses at such a time of day, you can try to wear it off with a quiet ride on the bus. Here, however, the 'ayudante' - literally, 'helper' -leans out of the door of the moving vehicle to shout out the destination to any likely customer on the street. This would all drive our local friendly EU health-and-safety tsars apoplectic, for sure. But that is part of their job: to suck the lifeblood out of the languorous European beast. A century ago, D.H. Lawrence was writing about Europe, and how old, tired, and stuck it had become. Imagine how much worse it is nowadays! The European soul continues to be worn down by softly softly totalitarianism, rendered compliant, complacent, sheeplike, and world-weary. A trip to a country like Colombia only serves to highlight this rudely.

Unfortunately, I was not the only person to be visiting Colombia at the time. My sojourn coincided with the jet-set arrival of none other than the Saviour of Humankind Himself, Mr. Al Gore ('Just call me the Messiah. I don't mind.'). He was there as part of his global mission to save us all from ourselves, particularly through the holy medium of carbon taxes. While the idea of carbon taxes is hard enough to take in Europe, it is doubly criminal in a country where half the population can barely feed and house itself. Sadly, Colombians have a special weakness for the saviour complex (Jesus Christ and former President Alvaro Uribe come readily to mind), and the current President indicated that he welcomes Salvador Gore's initiative. To put things bluntly: in poorer countries, the imposition of yet another tax would most likely lead to many unnecessary deaths through material deprivation. The doctrine of carbon taxes is a form of hatred of humanity in action. My own feeling is that Al Gore and his ilk have something evil about them (I choose this word carefully and deliberately, and intend to expand on its use in a future blog).

It has been suggested elsewhere that Warmism is indeed a new religion. To my knowledge, however, the striking similarities between the psychological profiles of Warmist theology and Judeo-Christian-Islamic salvationism have yet to be spelt out. Until now, that is....

It is my observation that modern Warmism replicates quite precisely much of the pathological psychology at the root of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic complex (a psychology that has resulted in a great deal of human misery and destruction of the face of the Earth during the last 2000 years). I shall attempt to briefly sketch a few of the salient features below.

First and foremost, both are pervaded by a strong sense of human inadequacy and sinfulness, with all the guilt and generally feeling rubbish about being alive that necessarily accompany this assessment of the human condition. The Genesis story involving a woman, a man, a serpent and an apple is well-known as the mythical source for Christianity. In Warmism, the feeling emanates from the notion that we are destroying the planet through our actions, which will lead to us all yelling and screaming before being swallowed up in a fiery hell. We are a plague on the face of the Earth, and should be ashamed at our existence in the first place. Put on the kettle and feel the guilt; catch a plane and face eternal damnation. The Judeo-Christian complex lying unchallenged in our breasts is thus transferred directly into environmental angst and sackcloth.

This 'plague on the face of the Earth' thinking is the source of the humanity-hating that is a feature of at least some 'environmental' writing and rhetoric. We are no good, we are sinners, we are destroying the planet, it would be better if we all just shot ourselves and disappeared. I know about this, because I felt similarly myself a few years ago. Looking at the stupidity and destructive effects of the human species, I could feel only despair that sometimes tipped over into rage. I no longer see things this way: I have deeper alchemic/shamanic experience, plus exposure to the minds of some more positive souls, to thank for this change of heart.

Then there is the Apocalypse. This is an integral feature of at least more fundamental forms of Christianity, and is a nightmare fantasy that has been readily hijacked by the so-called Environmental Movement. Catastrophic global warming visions of cities going underwater, of continents of ice and snow crashing into the oceans, could come straight from the pages of Revelations. And, as with the nightmare scenarios of the Bible, the effect of these visions is to terrify and terrorise the populace, thus rendering it ripe for manipulation. Following the lead of the Christian missionaries who went before them, the Warmist zealots recognise the value of getting people young. Indoctrination of young, open, pliable minds is best. This is stated quite explicitly in the blurb accompanying the 'fact sheets' produced by Hi-Energy (Highland and Islands Scotland) for primary schools: 'Engaging with young people on the subject of energy is vital if they are to drive this industry forward in years to come.' And, given that their 'fact sheets' assert the incontrovertible truth of catastrophic global warming, we know what sort of energy is being touted here. I read that lots of kids are getting stressed out by the global warming propaganda at school. This is all shameless missionary-style brainwashing.

Fear not, however, good people. Redemption is at hand. The Saviour is with us. NOW. His name, Al Gore: Messiah for our troubled times. I exaggerate not. Al Gore has taken on the mantle completely. He has incarnated to save us from our sins; and to save the polar bears too. In common with the Abrahamic religions, there is the notion of the Chosen People. Our sins can be absolved, forgiven. Just believe, cover your mountains with turbines and pay your carbon taxes, and ye shall be saved. Isn't that great? Actually, lest we forget: there is something else that both Christian and Warmist saviours have in common. They are both total frauds.

In reality, the Warmist zealots function within a framework of what Jungians call unconscious shadow projection. Christianity does the same, manifesting the Shadow in the form of the Devil, the Anti-Christ, pagans and other non-believers. In Warmism, the complex is transferred onto carbon (black as the Devil!), users of aeroplanes, and scum-of-the-earth deniers. The intolerance demonstrated towards non-believers marks out Warmists as the true inheritors of the mantle worn previously by Conquistadors, Inquisitors, and the like. Instead of being reasonable thinking people who are merely sceptical of the official creed, those who dare to ask questions are evil 'deniers', standing in the way of the one and only truth, irritating obstacles to total world domination by those who have seen the Light.

And, once more in common with their Abrahamic buddies, the Warmists claim to be saving the world while they are simultaneously creating misery and planetary damage. Think destruction of landscapes and habitats; wiping out rainforests and food-producing land for biofuels; brainwashing and terrorising the kids.

My point is this: the pathological religious complex which has come to dominate the western world over the past two thousand years has been hijacked by our modern (pseudo) environmentalists. It is a psychology that comes only too naturally to many of us, and transfers, effortlessly and complete with all its neuroses, onto environmentalism, thus rendering this pathological as well.