Thought Crime, Extremists, and the Dark Sorcerers

Part One
                       
It's a book that I might well have read long ago, but didn't. So it is only recently that I got hold of a copy, and made my way through the enthralling prose of '1984'. During the first few chapters especially, where Orwell lays down the bones of his dark vision of the future, shivers went down my spine as I saw how precise his crystal ball had, in many ways, turned out to be. I mean, he could see all that, way back when. That in itself is worthy of serious contemplation in regard to how history unfolds.

Not all of Orwell's predictions were spot-on. In particular, his vision of deliberate abject poverty for the masses and overt, vicious brutality towards large sections of the home population have not come to pass. Control System has become more clever than all this. Murdering your own kind in large numbers is not likely to be a successful long-term strategy. And it is the continual creation of material goods - consumerism - that provides the ongoing fuel necessary for Empire's well-being, not utter deprivation and poverty. In other respects, though, 1984 is 2015. I could do worse than quote from the wikipedia summary of the book: '..... perpetual war, omnipresent government surveillance, and public manipulation, dictated by a political system euphemistically named English Socialism (or Ingsoc in the government's invented language, Newspeak) under the control of a privileged Inner Party elite, that persecutes individualism and independent thinking as "thoughtcrimes".'  That's a long sentence, the type I try to avoid writing myself nowadays. But sound familiar? Perpetual war (anyone who thinks all these wars are still 'necessary' in our modern day and age I would kindly request to think again); government surveillance; discouragement of thinking and living 'outside the box'.

It is in the region of language that I wish to focus a few thoughts. Orwell is chillingly strong on the importance of words in his vision of 1984. They stand peerless in the weaponry of those who would control us all. In Chapter Five, Winston Smith, the 'hero' of the book (should be there such a thing), meets Syme at lunch. Syme is busy at work on the eleventh edition of the Newspeak dictionary. Newspeak, so goes the vision, will eventually be the only language spoken; and, as Syme points out, the vocabulary of Newspeak becomes less by the year. Nuances of meaning are not needed. Syme explains concisely the aim: 'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten.'

'Rubbed out and forgotten': take away the means to conceptualise an idea, and the idea eventually goes away. Though obviously not presented in this guise, the notion of 'thought crime' is more and more a feature of Control System strategy nowadays. More and more things are not permissable to express; and if you can't express them for long enough, the thoughts will disappear, and it's as if the entire thing never existed. Much modern thoughtcrime manifests under headline terms such as 'sexism' and 'racism' these days. Nobody wants 'sexist' or 'racist' on their CV, do they? They are the worst things possible. So you'd better be extremely careful about saying anything about perceived differences between people. Certain groups of people are especially sensitive subjects: Zionist Jews, for example.

A look at humour is instructive in seeing the advance of thoughtcrime policy over the decades. Watch almost any comedy programme made for British television before 1980, and it's full of stuff that just wouldn't get written today. People wouldn't even think about writing it (you see, that's how it works). A lot of it is awfully 'sexist' and 'racist' by the standards set by some people today, believe me. About three years ago I managed to offend a woman I was working with by imitating a person from China, Japan, or Korea (I can't recall which) speaking English. Now, I spent more than a decade as a language teacher trying to teach people from across the world how to speak and write English. Begin to study English language, and you begin to realise what a difficult language it is in many respects. Some nationalities - Swedes, Italians, Brazilians, some Poles - manage to grasp English relatively painlessly. But for some people, from Eastern Asia especially, it is a truly monumental task. Grammar, syntax, pronunciation, are all very foreign to them. So it is hardly surprising that their efforts to speak the Queen's English are sometimes less than perfect. Now, when I did my imitation, there was no malice involved whatsoever; if anything, it was a recognition of their genuine difficulty with this thankless task. Should I ever decide to learn Chinese, I hope I would provide a good laugh for some native Chinese speakers. But no. You just didn't do that any more - apparently. It is no longer permissable to communicate the truth - in this case, the realities of language learning. Thoughtcrime, reality control.

Part Two

The question of thoughtcrime is uppermost in my mind at present as I consider the Extremism Bill, the draft form of which was proposed in the Queen's Speech this Wednesday, all part and parcel of the Brave New World package of the new British conservative government. Measures include closing websites, prohibiting people from speaking at public meetings, and the like. "Plans have been introduced in the context of increasing Islamic extremism, but cover the 'harmful activities' of all extremist individuals - including those that pose a risk of public disorder or a threat to the functioning of democracy." (The Independent) "For too long we've been a passively tolerant society, saying to our citizens 'as long as you obey the law, we will leave you alone'" said David Cameron, referring to the good old days, when obeying the law meant that you could be left alone. This is all due to change, he implies. So, get this: it's not gonna be good enough for government for the nation's citizens to obey the law, They want more now. And it ain't pretty....

At the same time, Home Secretary Theresa May assures us that "(The measures are part of a) bigger picture, a strategy which will also have as a key part of it actually promoting our British values, our values of democracy, rule of law, tolerance and acceptance of different faiths." (The Independent)

Now let's get this clear: Cameron says that obeying the law isn't enough, while May says we are promoting rule of law. Cameron says that extremist individuals, whatever their form of extremism, should not be tolerated, while May says we are promoting tolerance. This is not a metaphysical exercise demonstrating the paradoxical nature of existence. It is linguistic black magic with a dirty stink about it, of the same kind as the three great slogans of the Party written on the face of the Ministry of Truth in 1984: 'War is Peace; Freedom is Slavery; Ignorance is Strength'.

Another spell cast by the dark magicians is that of changing the meaning of words. We've already seen this in the case of 'racism', 'sexism' and 'discrimination'. So get this. Quote again from the Independent: "At the National Security Council today (May 13th) Mr Cameron unveiled a series of measures that he said would crack down on people holding minority 'extremist' views that differed from Britain's consensus". (italics mine). Now, get this. Britain's consensus. 'Consensus' means 'general agreement, unanimity'. But black magician Cameron is changing it to mean 'anybody who doesn't buy into my own version of reality; anyone who disagrees with me.' Minority extremist views are out, it seems. Extremists are people who don't go along with Cameron's version of a democratic society, which is not actually democratic at all. Minorities are out. Remember the wikipedia summary: '....an Inner Part Elite that persecutes individualism and independent thinking as thoughtcrimes.' This is, 101%, what is being attempted at present. A momentous shift under the false guise of 'combating terrorism'. Hey, what happened to that tolerant pluralistic society?

To get another thing clear. By the new definitions that our lords of darkness are trying to push through, Pale Green Vortex, and me personally, can well be classified as minority extremists. Most of the basic assumptions of mainstream Control System life are questioned and rejected on this site. I will be, by the new Orwellian definitions, what Niall Murphy/Opaque Lens terms a non-violent extremist/domestic terrorist. So, for that matter, will be many of the people alive on this planet who I most respect and admire. All excellent people, but extremists through their questioning of the mainstream narrative (this is the new definition of 'extremist'). I urge anybody reading this to kick up a real stink as the Extremism Bill comes closer on the horizon. As Niall/Opaque points out on his fine programme on the subject, there's a point where the Control System inadvertently poos in its own pants (my image, not his....). It is not all-powerful; it just wants us to think it is, A plan can be so stupid, so extreme, that the population at large says 'no'. Poll tax is an example. So I hope that masses of people are going to object to this creeping totalitarianism, and hit its perpetrators where it hurts. Inaction hands consent to those who would be overlords of darkness.

I recommend a listen to the podcast on the topic on 'Shamanic Freedom Radio'. Heartfelt, and an excellent demonstration of how humour can be the best of weapons. Follow the link on this page.



       

              

Cairngorm Spring - Part Two

It's five weeks since my last visit to the Cairngorms (see April 18th post). During this time the seasons do not appear to have advanced very much. Large snowfields are still in evidence. There is a fresh dusting of snow over the summits, and bucketloads seem to have fallen recently over Braeriach (or Mighty Braeriach, as it is called by those in the know).

I climb, initially steeply (an appropriate shock to the system), the path leading up the left flank from the ski centre in the direction of Cairn Gorm summit. Cairn Gorm itself is a bit of a mess. Its surface is littered with bits and pieces that constitute the skeleton of the winter skiing industry. The path I am following weaves in and out of wooden fencing that is falling over; the general scene suggests neglect. I cast my eye towards the funicular railway that plies its way up the hillside towards the Ptarmigan restaurant high up on the slopes of Cairn Gorm. It has its vocal detractors; for myself, I remain agnostic on the subject. It is far less intrusive than a windfarm, and at least serves a purpose, to introduce people to the mountains who otherwise may never go. Plus, it grants access to those whose bodies are too frail to get up there under their own steam. I may be grateful for its services myself one day.

When I stop for a breather and to take in the scene, I am conscious of the grandeur and spaciousness of my surroundings (photo one, above). The funicular might slide up and down the hillside, the ridges might be plagued by industrial junk, but still the mountain wind blows, the ptarmigan scuttle and squawk, the rarified air of the hills invigorates.

I spot a small party of people ahead, slowly climbing the upper slopes of the mountain, and Mallory and Irving pass through my mind on their fated climb into the mists of Everest, never to be seen again. OK, Cairn Gorm in the middle of May doesn't hold quite the same epic quality. Yet there is something of Himalayan magnificence about the day: the electric blue of the sky set against the newly fallen snow; layer upon layer of cloud scudding at different speeds across the sky. And as I pass the Ptarmigan restaurant (photo five), now small and insignificant in the vastness of the landscape, I am reminded of chortens, stupas, Tibetan prayer flags rattled by the wind.

Onwards, upwards; and I am at the summit of Cairn Gorm. This is another thing. In all the shops and information centres in the area you can see the term 'CairnGorm Mountain'. I even have a cap boasting this title. Purists - or even semi-purists- will point out the linguistic nonsense of this appelation: Cairn Gorm translates (most likely) as 'Blue Hill'. So here I am, standing at the summit of Blue Hill Mountain. Redundant or wot? There is a meteorological station on top (photo two), recording the bizarre phenomena of Cairngorm weather. Today it manifests an extraordinary variety of windblasted snow and ice features on its metallic framework. Today, also, the summit weather measured by this apparatus is in serious wind mode, and I do not linger long at the top before heading on, away from the fiercest gusts at any rate.

The scenery as I leave the summit inspires awe (photo three). I am now in stravaiging 'let's-see-what-happens' mode, and wander vaguely downhill, away from the affairs of humans and towards Coire Raibert (coire: 'a steep-sided glacially excavated hollow in the side of a mountain'). At first the going is easy, over vegetation stunted by the constant winds and general lack of warmth. Near the bottom of the coire, however, I encounter a wide morass of spongy stuff, made spongier still by snowmelt. One false move and you're up to your knees in icy water mixed with purple-yellow-green spongiformity. Having negotiated the morass more-or-less successfully, I now need to cross a considerable snowfield, criss-crossed beneath its uniform surface by a network of underground (or undersnow) streams. I am pleased that I don't weigh 100kg as I tread gingerly yet rapidly across the snow, trusting in its compactness.

When I finally slip over and onto my bum, it is a sign that a proper break is needed and that lunch should be eaten. Fortunately, I am close to the spot I've located for a rest. I perch myself on the rim of the great corrie that has now opened up below me. I can only look down, down, down, into the depths of Loch Avon, gleaming turquoise in the occasional flashes of sun (photo four). I am staring into the sometimes dark heart of the Cairngorms. It is a privilege to be in one of the places in Highland Scotland; anybody wishing to recapture the true meaning of the word 'awesome' should pay a visit to the cliffs above the great trench cradling magnificent Loch Avon.

I scramble down onto some rocks right on the edge of the great precipices. There is just enough space for me, my rucksack, and my sandwiches. Immense snowfields are banked up at the head of the coire and on the steep mountainsides above. I make out avalanche debris, recently fallen, and look in amazement at other places where huge cracks have appeared in the surface of snow, ready to jettison their loads into the valley far below. A corner of this planet that escapes the records of the affairs and goings-on of humankind. A place with its own rhythms, its own comings and goings. Snow, ice, avalanche - all this in the middle of May....

I sit in silence. It is, indeed, silent, as rocks afford me shelter from the scouring wind. I eat, then look, attempting to embody a little of the majestic stillness radiating from the mountain at this moment. Then I arise, adjust my rucksack, and begin my return, in a wide circle, back to the peculiar affairs of humankind.



     

      

The Divinity of Inconsistency

My interest has been piqued by a subject I discussed recently, that of the flawed genius. The theme can be opened up and extended, with some of its deeper implications hinted at. The notion can be broadened out into that of 'the uneven person; 'the inconsistent person'.

In general, I suspect, we prefer people not to be uneven. We like a certain consistency. It makes folk easier to understand - to categorise, maybe -, to predict. They are safer. There is something to be said in favour of the consistent, even person. They are, in psychological terms, more 'integrated'. The different aspects of their being are connected, speak to one another, forming a single whole.

My mind sometimes returns to a particular period in my life, in an effort to understand it better: the time when I first began to seriously embrace Buddhism. It was the mid 1970s. Why Buddhism? Why Buddha? Putting aside other considerations for the time being, we can see Buddha as personification of consistency, evenness, integration. He was, the story goes, the Perfect Enlightened One. No blemishes there. No momentary blips. No siree. In fact, the spiritual traditions historically associated with the East normally present themselves in this guise: the great Master (it is usually a man), the perfect Teacher, the Awakened Guru. It is the finished product. The more monotheistic religions of Islam and Christianity are similar: Mohammed and Christ. And I wonder about all this.....

The attraction of Buddha as model of pefection to me at the time is easy to see. There I was, in my early/mid twenties, inspired and energised, yet in equal measure troubled and confused, flailing around between nirvana and the muck and mire of samsara. A light, an embodiment of Pure Perfection at the end of the tunnel, pointing a way out, was a compelling seduction. Jesus Christ just didn't cut the mustard - a whole bundle of beliefs that I had no reason to take on board, a close association with hierarchies of power and much of the sickness that I saw all around me. So Buddha, with a more pragmatic and practical 'suck-it-and-see' approach to meditation and everyday behaviour, was a godsend (ha!).

In contrast, western traditions that could inspire - of philosophy, psychology, mysticism, the arts, at least - seemed peopled by figures of inconsistency. Mozart, Shelley, Byron, Michelangelo, Jung, Nietzche, the Great Beast Crowley, Van Gogh, Gauguin, most of the artists of the twentieth century (not that I had much time for them). The list goes on. All seriously uneven; and far more problematic to deal with than the singular, uniform white light issuing from the Great Guru or the Buddha. Follow any of these characters too far, and I was likely to end up even further in the swamp of confusion that is conditioned existence.

I suppose that I am seeing things rather differently nowadays. What use is there for a finished product? I - along with others attempting something of a 'sacred journey' in life - am in the process of becoming. Of taking everything that everyday life can fling at us - the highs, the lows, the exaltation and misery, the beauty and the crap - and working with this, learning from it, moulding and transforming experience. Turning base metal into gold: the inner work. It's no accident, I now feel, that I was born into this often messy and complex world, rather than on some higher plane populated by divine beings or whatever. This is, it would seem, the place appropriate for my being and learning at this stage of my evolution. Realising this a little more deeply has resulted in my being more relaxed on a daily basis, less inclined to judge people so much, always complaining about their shortcomings and idiocies. Measuring them against some far-off ideal. They are still shortcomings and idiocies, but perfectly commensurate with their propagators' own current state of being.

This being so, in a world of becoming and inconsistencies, an examination of the uneven people is perhaps more relevant to my growth than worshipping at the shrine of those supposedly complete and perfected ones. The classroom of learning is under the tutelage of our incomplete and sometimes inconsistent companions.

What would I recommend to a young person in my own position of forty years ago, full of inspiration, idealism, and confusion? I do not know. It might, I suspect, depend on getting to know the person in their uniqueness. There is, I concede, something to be said for a way such as Buddhism, where models of behaviour and practical techniques are mapped out clearly for following. This may remain true for only so long, however. A point arrives when this is no longer adequate or appropriate. We connect with our unique divine path, and wander true to our own calling, our own way into, through, and out of the muck and mire of samsara. We learn to listen to our own inner voice, our daemon, and follow this rather than any other being, supposedly perfect or not. This is the way of liberation.


A Buddhist postscript: I recognise that on occasion I may do the Buddhist traditions something of a disservice: through simplification and over-generalisation in particular. I would in no ways call myself 'Buddhist' these days; yet I have learnt a lot from it, and continue to use many of its perspectives in my everyday life. In reality, 'Buddhism' as such does not exist. It is an umbrella term created to include a plethora of different traditions containing a host of different attitudes and priorities (while adhering to certain root teachings).

When talking of the central importance of the Awakened One, or the Great Guru, it is also important to remember the significance placed by certain Buddhist traditions upon 'Sangha', the community of folk following a Buddhist path; your spiritual buddies who you relate to as other human beings. Yet even this, not always but all too often, takes its place under the all-seeing eye of the great teacher, the guru, or the Perfect One. It is to this person that devotion is primarily due. For most of us, this fails to be most suitable. This is my contention.



      

Outside the Box

There is a story in one of the earlier texts from the Buddhist traditions. Some dude who isn't very fond of Buddha and his teachings decides to pay him a visit. Upon meeting the Awakened One, he proceeds to vent his feelings with a bit of mouth. He shouts, screams, rants and raves, jumps up and down foaming at the mouth as he makes clear to Buddha what he thinks of him. Having finally exhausted his invective, he falls into a moment's silence. 'What would you do if somebody gave you a present that you didn't want?' enquires Buddha. 'Well, I would give it straight back' comes the reply (this is India over 2000 years ago, remember, not middle-class southern England, where the done thing is to accept the present in silence, before chucking it in the bin once the donor has gone out of the door). 'That's exactly what I'm going to do with your present to me' continues Buddha. 'I am in no mind to accept it. There it is. Goodbye.'

OK, I've embellished the story, but its essence remains the same. Actually, Buddha was good at this sort of thing. He would have made a supreme politician. I recalled this story, in fact, in connection with the latest political event in the UK, the very recent general election. I looked more closely at my view that voting was not - could not be - a suitable thing for me to do. This incident in the life of Buddha seemed to illustrate quite well the significance of my stance. We are all presented with a 'gift' - by Empire, Control System, call it what you will. It is a gift of the world, of reality. 'This is how things happen in the world; this is how things are. Now you will not need to think about all this stuff for yourself. Receive and be grateful.'

This is what we are given: a gift of reality, in a little box tied with a little bow. Inside the box we find precisely how things are: politically, financially, socially, ethically, in terms of work and entertainment. The lot. And most of us, most of the time, simply accept the box with its contents as anything and everything. It contains all we are and all we will ever need. But the secret is that it is all a lie. There are far more possibilities than the narrow version of reality we find inside the box. It is a fabrication, a simulation. Not a very fulfilling present at all.

So, should one wish to explore the totality of possibilities in life, the best thing to do is to reject the gift. Not interested. Not impressed. And an event such as a general election, within the confines and twisted sense of normality presented by the lackeys of Empire, is key to the survival and maintenance of the current state of affairs. Note that this a different position to that held by those many people who may  not vote because, in their view, 'all politicians are the same.' This tends to be a state of disgruntlement and resignation. What I am suggesting is rather different. It is an insightful recognition that life inside the box is hardly real life at all. The existence of this unwanted gift is sustained only by the energy that is continually invested in it. The shapers of the box are exceptionally skilled in the art of persuasion: telling us time and again how important its constructs such as general elections are; playing continually upon people's fears and insecurities to gain consent; setting up world events so as to more easily manipulate peoples' shattered emotions. When folk opine that 'politicians are all the same, it won't make any difference', I beg to disagree. It does make a difference whether it's Cameron, Farage, Sturgeon, or Milipede in charge. It will effect the lives of many people in many ways. But that's not the point. The players on the board may vary, but the game's the same. And it's the game - the game of a false and limited reality - that needs to be left behind. Softly, gently maybe, elegantly. Not easy, and a continuing process. But the only way is out....



                    

Cairngorm Spring

The second photo is a rare Pale Green Vortex challenge: spot the ptarmigan.

'Walking thus, hour after hour (on the Cairngorm plateau), the senses keyed, one walks the flesh transparent. But no metaphor, transparent, or light as air, is adequate. The body is not made negligible, but paramount. Flesh is not annihilated but fulfilled. One is not bodiless, but essential body.

It is therefore when the body is keyed to its highest potential and controlled to a profound harmony deepening into something that resembles trance, that I discover most nearly what it is to be. I have walked out of the body and into the mountain. I am a manifestation of its total life, as is the starry saxifrage or the white-winged ptarmigan.'  Nan Shepherd, The Living Mountain.   

New World Order - Progress Report

'New World Order' is not a term I often use. It is very loaded, and can easily evoke responses that I feel to be neither appropriate nor intended. I generally prefer to utilise some of the concepts used by Neil Kramer: 'Control System' is a more general and all-inclusive designation than New World Order; 'the Construct' and 'Distortion' describe some of the overriding metaphysical aspects of the situation; and 'Empire' represents the way that the Control System goes about its practical day-to-day affairs. All the same, I have decided, for no special reason, to give the term 'New World Order' (NWO) an outing today.

New World Order or not, there is little doubt as to the creeping globalisation and increased interference in peoples' lives nowadays. You don't have to be a conspiracy fanatic to see increasing regulations in all directions, more controls on what you can or cannot do: eat, drink, buy, sell, grow, write, say, or otherwise express - particularly relevant here is the totalitarian scouge of political correctness -, all concerned with thought and behaviour control. Have a look around certain elements of the alternative media, and you will feel that we are on the brink of total domination and wipe-out by the nasty characters at the top of the tree. From a different perspective, the mainstream media is full of the machinations of politicians, finance people and the rest. This is hardly surprising, since reporting this stuff and insisting on its importance and reality is the function of mainstream 'news' and 'current affairs'. Look at life within these frameworks and you will give New World Order a serious thumbs-up on its endeavours, slowly yet inexorably moving towards its objectives of global domination and control.

I was struck, therefore, to listen to a recent interview with Neil Kramer in which he opined that Empire was about to implode. Actually, he continued, it has already imploded; its self-serving agenda is not sustainable. This was, I felt, an unorthodox take on current proceedings. Although there appear to be increasing numbers of people 'waking up' and seeing through the veils hiding deeper realities, still the signs are that Empire is progressing rather nicely, thank you very much.

I decided to run with Neil's notion for a while. One thing that quickly dawned on me while going about my daily affairs was how much of moment-to-moment experience is not touched by the grubby mitts of Empire. This is, indeed, one of the tricks of Empire, to deceive you into thinking it is more important than it really is. It gets into ones mindset, eating away at the wider experience that is invariably there, should we just stop to allow its influence to come through. Going for a walk in the mountains and spending all the day thinking about windfarms is just one example that Pale Green Vortex needs to be constantly aware of.

Should Empire be in the process of imploding, the New World Order quietly crumbling as I write, it is not surprising that it may not be immediately apparent. Rather like a bicycle speeding along the road. Its motion is obtained through energy input - that of the cyclist pedalling away. The cyclist stops putting in energy, but the bike continues to move, its momentum provided by the energy provided beforehand. It slows down inexorably, however, before finally grinding to a halt, possibly catapulting its rider painfully to the ground in the process.

It is axiomatic that Empire requires the input of energy provided by human masses for its continued existence. This comes from people investing in it in one way or another; the imperial trick of deluding folk that reality as presented by Empire is the only reality is a crafty way of achieving this - and in this way we return to the theme of a previous post, the deeper meaning of the threat posed by the Leary slogan of 'Turn on, tune in, drop out'.

A barometer of my local state of affairs with regards the health and strength of the Control System has recently appeared in the form of the imminent General Election, a mere few weeks away. An event such as this is an excellent way for Empire to inject into its workings the energy it needs constantly for its functioning. That energy, it goes without saying, derives from the populace investing its own energy into this event, treating it (because they believe it to be so) as an authentic expression of reality, and their own great privilege to be able to participate in this marvellous process of western democracy. A little thought and accompanying bitter experience show this to be utter bullshit, but there we go. Time and again, people who have spent the past few years deriding this charade end up signing up to its self-proclaimed validity by putting their energy behind one candidate or another. In this way, Empire is fed, validated, and permitted to roll on its grubby way as normal.

To see the whole thing being rolled out yet again beggars personal belief. Suddenly, they are all at it again ('they' being the media flunkeys and the politicians), arguing, analysing, behaving earnestly and enthusiastically, as if it's all ultra important and the future depends on it. The strategy is simple: stuff something in front of people often enough, ram it down their throats forcefully enough, and sufficient folk will buy into it to grant it some reality - vapid, for sure, but past the threshold for validating Control System worldview.

The spectacle paraded before the British public this time round is uniquely jaw-dropping. There was a time when the political leaders at least made an effort to appear as people of seriousness and substance: Macmillan, Heath, Wilson, Douglas Home from my youth. Today's candidates don't even bother with that. They appear tired, worn-out, as if they know somewhere deep inside that it's the end of the line, time's running out, the game's up. Cameron, Miliband, Clegg: sad, hollow figures, acting out their parts in a sad, hollow play that has all the marks of ending up as a tragedy.

Confronted with this deficit of vitality, our local corner of Empire gains a much-needed boost of energy (remember, it requires energy for its existence, like any other organism) from the phenomenon of the 'false dawn'. Amidst the rubble, the horrible wreckage, there arrives - hope. False dawn first appeared in the form of UKIP. A breath of fresh air, so the UKIPpers told us, pledged to the interests of Britain, rather than Europe and the hordes of faceless bureaucrats. Not very good New World Order people at all, the UKIP folk. As predicted on Pale Green Vortex a while ago, UKIP has been the object of a torrent of mainstream media bad publicity - a lot of our media is fully paid up to the aims of Empire, and finds people like UKIP a bit threatening - and the wheel appears to have fallen off somewhat.

False Dawn number two (at least in the northerly regions of our locality): Scottish National Party (SNP). The local heroes, standing up for local people against those nasty people down south. In my view this is all unfortunately bullshit. One spin-off from my own passionate concerns about windfarms and energy provision is that I have had to dig a bit deeply into the mechanics of how things in this area take place, and how decisions are made. I can report that the systems put into place by the SNP in this respect are highly insulting to the wishes of local folk, highly undemocratic and high-handed, the kind of thing some totalitarian regimes from the past would be envious of. The priorities are the programmes and agendas - you hear these words a lot from some members of the SNP - rather than local concerns. Bulldozing in the name of the 'greater good'. Programmes and agendas are dangerous things: people who think in those terms are dangerous people.

When I moved to Scotland about a decade ago, I was struck by the sense of pride and identity that many people had with being Scottish. This sense of belonging I felt to be a healthy thing, and was very noticeable for me, coming from southern England, where it is little in evidence. It's a quality that I don't manifest in my own being very much. It seems to me that this 'positive patriotism' embodied by many Scottish people has been hijacked and distorted by the SNP, with its programmes, agendas, ill will and extreme polarisation. Lots of folk who support the the SNP are, I know, good and decent people, but I feel they have been duped. The movers and shakers of the SNP are, it seems to me, ideologues first and foremost. And make no mistake; fully paid-up members of the Imperial world view. They just want a bigger slice of the pie.

Old, tired, running on empty? Quite possibly. Empire staggers on to another dreary day. As far as the British General Election goes, it provides an excellent opportunity to practice in its genuine meaning the art of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. In the meantime, we could do worse than contemplate for own lives Neil Kramer's maxim:'The fastest way to dissolve Empire is to cultivate your own power and excellence.' Go for it.





                   

Return of the Drop-Out Boogie

Wow, the medium is the message, folks. Look at that badge (available in a variety of places online) morph and swirl and almost dissolve into No-thingness before coming back into focus again.

The best of western culture and civilisation, it seems to me, is in good part the result of the creativity of the Flawed Genius. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert; Shelley, Byron; Michelangelo, Leonardo, Giorgione; a pleasure boat full of Impressionists on the Seine on a Sunday afternoon. I quote from the few slender slices of cultural history with which I am familiar. There is, in some quarters, a tendency to romanticize the Flawed Genius. Not a necessary move, I propose. And the notion finds itself devalued and debased, the 'genius' bit removed altogether, with the arrival of 'the Loveable Rogue'. This tag could fruitfully be thrown straight into the bin. Look at little Billy. Robbed an old man of his savings, beat up his girlfriend and her sister, but he's always got a chirpy smile when he goes to buy his Sunday newspaper. Always buys his mum a nice Christmas present. A loveable rogue. No, I don't buy that one at all.

If we were to look for the perfect embodiment of the Flawed Genius archetype from recent times, we would need to look no further than Dr. Timothy Leary. His flaws were incontrovertible and enormous. They revolved around his tendencies to shameless opportunism and an endless thirst for self-publicity. Anyone trying the 'Leary said this..... Leary believed this....' gambit is onto a loser: he said almost everything at some point or other in his rich and all-too-varied life. People try to put all sorts of things on to Leary - he was a Control System stooge, he was in the pay of the CIA etc etc - based on some random comment he once made, or one teensie weensie sliver of his life story, but it's all a blind alley. There is a remarkable couple of minutes (like many other things, you can find it on YouTube). Leary is almost dead, you can see it in his gaunt and wasted face, and he is being interviewed by some dude or other. 'Doctor Leary, you have been  deeply involved with psychedelic drugs during your life. Do you have any regrets about this?' 'Yes I do.' (And at this moment the world is waiting for that great deathbed confessional). 'I regret that I didn't take more psychedelic drugs during my lifetime.' Brilliant.

It is fashionable to trash Leary nowadays. He gets it from both mainstream and 'alternative' directions. But, despite the bullshit, he said more of insight and wisdom than all the heads of state of the past fifty years put together. He gets a particularly huge amount of flack for the motto he made a commonplace: Turn on, tune in, drop out. It's the 'drop out' bit that folk have particular problems with. It's been turned into 'take over','transform','transcend' and doubtless others that I haven't come across or have forgotten over time. But the thing is this: Dr. Leary had it well-and-truly nailed. He hit the spot, spot-on. 'Drop out' was it to perfection.

The meaning that Leary gave to 'dropping out' has been widely distorted and misrepresented, sometimes wilfully, sometimes through ignorance. I don't think he ever had in mind the classic student drop-out, who rolls out of bed in the middle of the afternoon for a strong coffee, a joint, and to hang around the rest of the day on the sofa watching television. For Leary, dropping out was an act of strong intent and volition. The notion of 'dropping out of society' meant leaving behind the many games, as Leary put it, that characterise modern life, and which ultimately act as barriers between us and our deeper, more real and authentic nature. Here it is in his own words:

'By drop out, I mean to detach yourself from involvement in secular, external, social games. But the dropping out has to occur internally before it can occur externally. I'm not telling kids just to quit school; I'm not telling people to quit their jobs. That is an inevitable development of the process of turning on and tuning in.'

To succeed in what Leary is advocating requires a profound turning inside-out of ones life and entire being. I would suggest that the good man himself was only partial successful in the endeavour - hence some of the 'flaws' in his life, which inevitably influence his work. In Leary's psychological theories, one of the central concepts is 'games'. Most people, most of the time, live their lives through the unconscious adoption of a succession of games. These games are more basic, more visceral, than what we normally attribute to the word 'role'. For a time, Tim Leary played the professor game, wearing the clothes, adopting the style, the social milieu, the values, the motivations and objectives suitable for that particular game. And so it continues.....

A section from 'Flashbacks', Leary's autobiography, illustrates for me most poignantly the devastating effects that shattering the world of games can have. The good doctor is in the middle of his first and terminally game-changing LSD trip:

'After several billion years I found myself on my feet moving through the puppet show of reality. The thought of my kids led me upstairs to my daughter's room. Susan was sitting in bed, the very picture of a thirteen-year-old with her hair up in curlers, frowning at the school book in her lap while rock-and-roll music blasted through the room. It was pure Saturday Evening Post. "Hi, Dad." She was biting a pencil. I slumped against the wall, amazed at this marionette stranger from assembly-line America. She glanced up at me. "Dad, what would you like for Christmas?" She went on biting the pencil, frowning at the book, waving slightly at the beat of the music. In a minute she looked up again. "Dad, I love you."

Leary continues: 'A shock of terror. This was my daughter and this was the father-daughter game. A shallow superficial stereotyped meaningless exchange of Hi, Dad,  Hi, Sue,  How are you Dad? How's school? What do you want for Christmas? Have you done your homework? The plastic doll father and the plastic doll daughter both mounted on little wheels, rolling past each other, around and around on fixed tracks. A complete vulgarization of the real situation: two complex trillion-cell clusters, rooted in an eternity of evolution, sharing for a flicker this unique configuration of space/time. Offered this chance to merge souls and bring out the divinity in the other, we exchanged Hi-Dad-Hi-Susan squeaks. I looked at her beseechingly, straining for real contact. I was stunned with guilt.'

Knowledge, insight, wisdom, awakening: with what a price they come!

Let's return to dropping out, and run through this again: 'dropping out must occur internally before it can occur externally'. This is the nub of the matter. What Leary is doing here is nothing less than reformulating the mystic way - the game to end all games. Invoking the spirit of the Wise Ones of Yore, and presenting it for the times that he found himself in. Dropping out of games, the habitual ways we go about our lives, in large part unconsciously; our default identities, thrust upon us partly by ourselves and partly by the world around us. It's the alchemist's way, purifying the vessel. It's removing the obscuring veils, as one ancient Buddhist text puts it. It's creating the ground on which we may miraculously blossom into our authenticity, our original face, our magnificent uniqueness.