Those Images

'I think images are worth repeating, Images repeated from a painting......'

John Cale and Lou Reed, 'Songs for Drella'.

It was an October in the early 1980s - '82? 83? It doesn't matter - when I first visited Italy. The final flourish of the era when travel really could be an adventure: especially if it was only your third time abroad, and the first time you had gone solo.

The first hint that we were going somewhere properly different was when the plane landed in Rome. All the Italian schoolkids on board shouted, yelled and almost threw an impromptu party at getting home. This would never happen with children from Chingford touching down at Heathrow, I mused.

Soon we issued into the tiny arrivals area of Ciampino airport, host to a small number of budget flights. Soon the luggage arrived, and soon everybody was on their way. Apart from me. Where was my baggage? I waited and waited and waited. Finally, my rucksack came bouncing up the steep slope of the luggage conveyor,  - only to go bouncing back down again. I eventually alerted an airport worker to the situation. He found a fish-hook kind of implement, and caught my rucksack like a helpless. floundering ocean-dweller. During the course of the struggles, one of the pockets of the rucksack had come undone, with the result that candles and incense which I had carried from London in readiness for an anticipated solitary retreat in the Tuscan hills were flying everywhere. The airport official handed over my rucksack and a couple of candles, and shrugged his shoulders. Welcome to Italy, dear friend.

I staggered out into the Roman evening. It was deserted. Eventually I found a bus that would take me into town. Soon we were bouncing along the arrow-straight streets at breakneck speed; the suburbs of Rome flew by. A short time into the journey, one of the few other passengers, a middle-aged man in a grey coat and trilby hat to match, got up from his seat and began speaking to the driver. Soon there was an almighty argument taking place at the front of the bus: hands gesticulated wildly before generally flailing around all over the place; voices became ever louder, and we nearly ended up in a ditch. Welcome to Italy indeed.

My purpose in heading south of the Alps was not to see Italy at all, really. It was to see the art of Italy. In fact, it wasn't to see the art of Italy in general: it was to see the art of the Italian Renaissance. And if truth be told, it wasn't Renaissance art as a whole. It was to see the art of Michelangelo.

I went to Italy for Michelangelo, and Michelangelo alone. Such was the focus, the single-minded direction, the depth and narrowness that has characterised my life (I feel that it has become tempered in more recent times, but that may be wishful thinking). It has been boon and bane in equal measure.

Michelangelo. The power of the image was nothing new to me. A decade beforehand, my attraction to Buddhism had been fuelled by a book. It was not a conceptual book, about the rational basis for Buddhism - impermanence, suffering and the like. It was called 'Foundations of Tibetan Mysticism' , written by one by Lama Govinda. Centred around the magic and the mystery of the Five Jinas, focal 'archetypal Buddhas', it pulled me irresistibly in. I didn't understand very much of it, but knew that it was onto something very important. It spoke to me. A few years on, now as a fully-fledged Buddhist, I had bestowed upon me a sadhana, a meditation practice centred on a particular Buddha figure, complete with verses of petition and invocation, mantras eliciting Voidness, and so on. While some of my contemporaries
struggled with this manifestation of higher realities, I took to it like a duck to water, practicing daily what was typically the high spot of the day. There were many occasions when, while everything else in my life seemed to be falling apart all around me, the Buddha/Bodhisattva visualisation practice kept me intact.

It was through the influence of my Buddhist teacher that I first started looking at pantings. He insisted on the connection between art and spiritual life; I felt he was onto something there. I began with Monet, Van Gogh, Turner, all relatively accessible I felt. But I soon graduated to the art of Renaissance Italy, where the resonance that I experienced with images (and by 'images' I mean those of 'forms', be it of humans, goddesses, Bodhisattvas, gods, angels, denizens of the underworld, or whatever) once more came into play. Through an image wrought by the hand of an artist in touch with 'Soul' so much could be said. In Michelangelo I sensed the coming-together, the synthesis, of archetypal universal forces which normally stood in oppostion. Heaven and hell; Apollo and Dionysos; light and dark; reason and emotion; water and fire; masculine and feminine: for all these, a transcendent element was invoked, conferring upon the attentive student a higher state of consciousness and of being. All of which was precisely what I craved.

Three days in Rome was more than enough, thank you. Life there was crazy, chaotic, hellish noisy, and precarious. What's more, there's not a lot of Michelangelo to be seen in Italy's capital anyway. I headed north, to Florence, in search of calm, and of David.

In the event, Florence was less of a disturbing experience than had been the capital city. The Michelangelo was fine, but I was moved more completely by the Botticelli. With nerves still feeling jangled, however, I decamped to a yet smaller city, tucked away in the Tuscan hills, Siena. No Renaissance giants here: both art and architecture predate Leonardo and co. A curious peacefulness and grace exude from the buildings in this beautiful place, and in bucketloads from the images painted - we can only imagine with love and devotion - by Duccio and Cimabue. Madonnas, saints, even dodgy Ducal tyrants seem to radiate a supernal quality. They won me over.

The magic thread of the image has woven its way into and through the phases and disparate elements in my life. A couple of years down the line I fell in love with the art and images of the Venetian Renaissance - Giorgione and Titian above all - and I even gave a series of illustrated talks at the Buddhist Centre on the theme of Renaissance art and its imaginal significance in spiritual life. Some people liked it, anyway. A decade on, I undertook an intensive period of shamanic journeying, during which a host of wizards, princesses, animals, and the occasional demonic figure, appeared as companions, guides, teachers, and tormentors. And the thread leads inevitably to the present, and the Tarot. I feel at home with its multiplicity of images.

An image, whether in a painting, a meditation, a shamanic journey, a Tarot reading, or seen walking down a mountain hillside, can communicate far more than words. It bypasses (without necessarily negating) the conceptual mind, and speaks directly. Its language is not that of the solely rational, but touches what can be called our Emotional Intuition, or our Soul Intuition. Direct transmission of secrets, mysteries, hidden treasures, through the medium of the image.  

Images: Delphic Sybil
             Daniel

Both from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling                

The Problem With Blondes

A few months ago, something unexpected happened with this blog. An article that I had written began to get a far larger number of 'hits' than is normal. There was nothing ultra-exceptional about the piece - just written in the usual excellent gripping style -, so I assumed that there must be a word or words that were being put into search engines which brought up the article in question. I could only think that mention of a slightly unusual Buddha figure was the reason: this Buddha has relatively little written about him on the internet, so the article was registering unusually high in peoples' searches.

Intrigued, I tried a small experiment. Soon afterwards, I published a piece on the subject of an experience I had with the plant psychedelic ayahuasca. Cognisant of how ayahuasca is a hot topic nowadays, I was careful to include that word in the title of the article. Sure enough, viewings were well up on what is typical, though they didn't attain the lofty heights which I surmise 'Dorje Chang' can invoke. Since then, I sadly have to report that hits have returned to a more normal level.

It occurred to me that this could all be put to my great advantage. The next time that I come up with a turgid piece on some obscure piece of parapolitical history, I shall entitle it 'Naked Girls'. The article will in this way get the mass attention it surely deserves.

Furthermore, I realised that I could produce an entire series of parapolitical blockbusters. 'Naked Blondes', followed by 'Naked Brunettes', and so on. At this point, however, a potential complication arose in my grand plan. Ask most men, and I suspect they will confirm my suspicion: 'Naked Blondes' will get more hits than 'Naked Brunettes'. It's just a perverse fact of male life. This being the likely scenario, I could do a service for the greater good. I would catalogue the results, then send them to some Equalities Commission or other, filing a complaint about the victimisation and humiliation of brunettes through the needless prejudices of men. Our own local patron saint of the victimised and downtrodden, Ms Sturgeon, will surely take it on. She is big on social justice - or should that be Social Justice?

I suggest government legislation be introduced, making it compulsory for all blondes to dye their hair to a darker colour, so as to prevent unfair discrimination on the basis of hair colour. We can have 'hair guardians'. They will be a bit like traffic wardens, roaming the streets and handing out on-the-spot fines to any woman displaying a disagreeably light shading of her hair. This will boost employment, as well as bringing in much needed government revenue, and prove that, when it comes to prejudice and discrimination, we are being serious.

Lower image: weknowyourdreams      

Checking out the narrative

Part One

I was born in 1953. For me, the 1960s couldn't come quickly enough (curiously, they eventually turned up on January 1st, 1960). From an early age (about five), a most urgent priority was escape from the culture of my parents' generation, and the generation before it. It was, seen through the lens of my infant eye, a culture that was restrictive, negatively conventional, devoid of possibility, crushing of the human spirit, and productive of little happiness and joy (yes, an infant mind can perceive such things).

I exerted great energy in uncoupling myself from the grasp of this fruitless way of life that most adults around me seemed to embrace only too willingly. The gods had looked upon me favourably, bringing me into life just at the right time to benefit from a decade impeccably suited to the shape of my daemon, the 1960s.

Expanding horizons. Possibility. The promise of magic and goodness. These were some of the attitudes which infused my soul as I grew up. Every week, it seemed, brought something new, something wondrous. This was particularly so in the realm of music, experienced through the media of grainy black-and-white television and, rather later, a crackly dansette record player.

They may appear commonplace nowadays. But I vividly recall first hearing the opening chords of 'House of the Rising Sun' by the Animals. What rich, deep resonance to those chords, with more than a hint of menace. Never heard anything like it before. Then, a couple of years later, the Beachboys' 'Good Vibrations' getting its first airing on Saturday's 'Juke Box Jury'. Was this really the same bunch of smiley-smiley surfing dudes who, just one year before, had brought out happy-clappy nice-boy songs like 'Barbara Anne'? This could not be possible.

For many years the story told by the mainstream media about the 1960s was generally favourable. It was about freedom, good living, a kind of healthy hedonism. The Swinging Sixties, new cars, new fridges; it was the Beatles, miniskirts, martini-shaking James Bond, sex without AIDS. It seems to me, though, that in recent times the flavour of the narrative - the story that's being told, by the way to mould our idea of reality - has changed. It wasn't such a good time after all. Reckless, dangerous, irresponsible. Sexist, demeaning to women. These are some of the themes which now prevail.

To investigate this topic a little more, I shall have to turn to the story of a most unpleasant, unsavoury person: Jimmy Savile.

Part Two

As an aside, which is not completely irrelevant, many folk could have been saved life-damaging trauma by listening to the young people. By the mid-60s, Jimmy Savile was a regular face on the television. If you had asked my sister (then aged eleven) and me (fourteen years old) in 1967 whether we would like to meet Jimmy Savile, you would have got an unequivocal response: "No way!" I would have run a mile, and my sister two miles. Through the still relatively undistorted perceptions of our young minds, it was clear that this guy was no good. It was not a question of being 'weird': it was 1967, and my heroes - Syd Barrett, Jim Morrison, and Jimi Hendrix - all came soaked in weirdness. No. there was something creepy, scary, not-human about the guy that was transparently clear to us. Why so many 'people in high places' didn't see it - or chose not to see it - for decades I will leave with you to ruminate on.

What is interesting from the viewpoint of this piece is how, around and following the time of the public oncovering of the Savile affair a few years back, suddenly a flood of allegations appeared. Soon half the DJs on Radio Two were embroiled in accusations fair, false, or in between, of pedophilia or some other form of sexual abuse. Other celebrities were indicted. 'Everyone was at it' ran a headline in a mainstream 'newspaper', although if you actually cared to read the article it wasn't talking about pedophilia at all. Amidst all this was the insinuation that these were people from a bygone era, and good riddance to that era, of the 1960s and 1970s. Even if the accusations dated to more recent times, the implication was that these were people from that era, that culture. Thankfully, the story continued to infer, we have moved on; things are better today.

The question remains: why did all this stuff suddenly pop up, out of nowhere it seemed, in such recent times? "Ah well, you see, sir. We have now developed a culture where the victims of abuse feel freer to come forward and tell their story. Without fear of being rejected or ridiculed." There may be something in that. But I don't buy that as the whole story. Things don't 'just happen'. That's a lie put about to befuddle people's minds; to clothe and justify all sorts of malevolent behaviour. As Buddhists are fond of telling us, everything arises upon conditions.

Despite my efforts to turn it off, my internal weirdometer continued quietly ticking away. For a long time, I couldn't join the dots. I didn't try very hard, if truth be told, since the topic is so unpleasant. Then, recently, I came upon an article (in the mainstream media, as it happens) about student activism. Students have always been hot on protest, activism, putting the world to rights. What this article pointed out was how the aims of much student activism nowadays is different to that in the, ahem, '60s and '70s. Then, it was about freedom. Demanding freedom of expression, freedom of
speech. Now, a good chunk is about the polar opposite. Some students are extremely vocal in squashing freedom of speech: they protest vigorously against certain people being given a platform to air their views; people who they don't like, especially people who don't follow a globalist, multicultural agenda. Oh, and they want to knock down statues of people they don't approve of. A bit like the Taliban.

What has happened over time is very clever. Student protest has been successfully co-opted by the elites. While it was once vehemently anti-establishment, it now stands up for the values of the status quo, while still believing that it is being radical. You have to admit that is clever. Just like all those modern 'liberals' who think they are the radical. leading edge, while they have, in reality, simply been repositioned into doing the dirty work of the elites.

So this is the message for modern times: freedom is bad. Giving people too much freedom is dangerous, irresponsible. You end up with a society full of pedophiles, sex abusers, and other abusers. It's in the news, on the television, every day now: pedophiles, child abuse, sex abuse. The world is full of it. Incredible. So we need to be able to control life, for the greater good. We are all potentially victims of the predators roaming around out there, and we need to be protected. The ethic of the 1960s was very bad, and should be rejected wholeheartedly.

The model human being created from this message, this narrative, is of a person far from their own authenticity. It is a victim. It is a person full of fear, worn down, their own vital spark reduced to the smallest flicker. It is a person afraid of their own spontaneous energy, their own natural instincts. They live in a world which constricts and inhibits, with ever more controls, ever more protection for the 'victims', the 'helpless'. It is a world in which, as I learnt while working in retail, an adult male dare not smile at children, for fear of being considered a pervert, a predator on the groom. Where, should a child fall over and hurt themself, you must not lend a hand, must not touch. It is a nightmare fantasy world, the product of a nightmare narrative. And created deliberately: remember - things don't just happen.

Part Three    

This, for me, is the focus of significant fascination with the Trump World. It is not about individual policy decisions: as with most politicians, the majority are either devious, silly, misguided, damaging, or any combination of the above. No: it is the subtexts, the underlying messages. When Trump recently banned the BBC, CNN, the Guardian, the New York Times,and a bunch of other neer-do-wells from a White House briefing, this was huge. There was the predictable bleating about freedom of speech, etc. Bullshit. What the Trump was saying (how conscious of it or not I do not know) was this: "You guys are not in the business of communicating truth and reality. You guys are in the business of creating and sustaining a narrative. And, you know what? - your narrative sucks."

Never in my life have I seen a national leader put out this truth so transparently. We've heard about spin doctors before, but this is a big step further. Media weaves a web, spins a dream. The notion that it seeks an objective reality to impartially report is gone. The genie is out. It's the first and necessary step in human beings taking back their own powers of narrative, rather than having it handed to them by other, generally rather ill-intentioned, beings. Without seeing this, and to a degree at least breaking through it, the individual is severely compromised in any attempt at self-determination. And thus they remain far from their divinity (or their potential, if you're squeamish about divinity). A person needs to throw off the grip of the dream; and while many folk who follow traditions of oriental origin see that spinner of illusion, Maya, in their personal life, they avoid its manifestation in the human world all around them.

To hang loose to all narrative, be it social or personal, is the place to be. Create your own narrative, and don't take that very seriously either. Take back the power of narrative into your own world, then shatter its power completely. 'Get out of the way', as some traditions put it, to allow the real power of the universe to guide and inform. And anybody still mired in the fabrications meted out by media, school, and other officially-sanctioned organs of story-telling, just can't do it.

       

All the Same

Part One

Some time ago, about four years I suppose, while working in the outdoor retail business, I decided to conduct an experiment. It was around the end of winter, a quiet period for trading, and on that day the shop was being run by just me and a female colleague. With respect, she was an ideal subject for my research, since her conscious attitudes were almost completely formed by full immersion in mainstream media.

Being located near the centre of a small city very much on the tourist trail, our shop was visited by a steady trickle of people from all around the world, a trickle that could turn into a flood during the summer months. On the day in question, a Chinese family had just been in to buy some snow boots, winter jackets, or whatever. After they had departed, I started to imitate the accent of a typical Chinese visitor.

My colleague, who looked rather pale at the best of times, rapidly turned a whiter shade of white. Once she managed to animate her jaw, which had dropped open wide as I began to speak, she let out a tirade of protest. "What are you doing? You can't speak like that! No! No! Stop it." Encouraged by her interesting reaction, I continued. She turned her back on me, clasped her hands tight over her ears, and began jumping up and down on the floor. "No! No! Don't! You can't do that. That's awful. I didn't know that you were like that, Ian!"

I eventually relented, permitting my natural all-too-English accent to return. From that day on, however, a certain power was conferred upon me over the poor girl. Anytime she was messing around, not getting on with what she was paid to do, I would cast her a knowing look. "No, Ian. Don't you dare," she would stutter timidly. Then she would scuttle off to do something vaguely useful.

For the second stage of my research, I approached the shop manager. Year after year, the shop manager came bottom of the league table for political correctness. Even he was initially taken aback, however, as a pristine example of rucksack-purchasing Chinese-style issued from my mouth. Anyhow, he found it so outrageously entertaining that he got me into the room when a meeting of local managers was taking place shortly afterwards. I felt like I was being dragged along like a pet, but that's what managers sometimes do. Just like Fido doing his trick for the amusement of the family, I bleated out my Chinese in front of the gaggle of managers. I could see great confusion spelt across some of their faces. I could see shock, horror: like my female colleague, they had a 'what is going on? You can't do that sort of thing' look about them. At the same time, there was real amusement. But I was left with the abiding impression of them thinking "Ian always seemed like a nice guy. I didn't know he was like that......"

So what is that that, which supposedly nice guy Ian was like? Behind it all, apparently, a bit twisted, warped, not quite healthy: racist.

The interesting thing is that, at no point did I suggest, imply, or express any malice, ill wishing, ill intent, any prejudice toward anybody at all. If anything, my humour was flavoured with sympathy. Having spent over a decade in London trying to teach English language to people from all around the world (a highly suitable job for somebody with racist feelings), I knew full well how difficult our language can be. This is especially so for Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Thai students. Anybody from the Far East who succeeds in a degree of fluency and accuracy in English gets my genuine respect. Their own languages are so different to English - in grammar, pronunciation, the perception of life even, embedded in their native tongue. To become proficient in English, it's almost as if they need to rewire their brains.

It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the English which comes out of their mouth can sometimes sound a bit weird, a bit amusing, to a native English speaker. There's nothing wrong with that at all. But certain influential elements within modern society have twisted the very notion of racism, to include not just prejudicial acts rooted in ignorance, but the very recognition of difference itself. All that I expressed during my research was a certain difference.  The effect that my experiment had on other people is what was truly shocking. I had simply presented an undeniable reality, nothing more, nothing less. This, however, is apparently no longer permissible. The reality staring us straight in the face is to be denied. "You are forbidden from recognising reality. There is something more important. More important than reality."

It was clear demonstration of the repression of truth, simple truth, which has become the hallmark of much so-called anti-racism nowadays. It is not about racism at all. It is about chopping off people's natural instincts and reactions, forbidding freedom of experience. It is every bit as repressive as the morals of the Victorian era ever were.

Part Two

Maybe we should return for a moment or two to Donald Trump. Dear old Donald. The main reason, I feel, that he is so viciously reviled by the 'liberal' global elite and its puppy dogs, the mainstream media, is his acknowledgment of difference. Not only difference, but that a difference does, or at least can, make a difference. Some of his posturing threatens to undo all the good work they have done over recent decades to reduce everybody to sameness; to being bland, placid cogs in an easily-managed machine. Take the travel ban, which has created the predictable outrage, venom, histrionics. Trump has merely followed the simple logic of the narrative that has been spun for us. Over the past fifteen years, we have been told, the major threat to our stability and safety has come from extreme and 'radicalised' people who profess the Muslim faith. At the same time, it is very bad, unacceptable even, to say anything critical about aforementioned religion. It is important to be 'inclusive', 'tolerant', to avoid putting obstacles in the way of the establishment of Heaven on Earth i.e. total sameness.

Trump has come along and seen the naked emperor. "Hang on a minute. We're saying that international threats originate especially in these countries. Yet we're allowing folk from these places to roam around the globe pretty freely. Even my own basic understanding of logic knows there's something weird here."

An awful lot of people, it seems to me, have been freaked out by the arrival of huge numbers of people into Europe from Syria, Iraq, northern Africa, you name it, in very recent times. Just walking in. "Come on in. You're all welcome. No passport? No identity? No worries." Even the UN has confirmed that the vast majority of those people were not bona fide refugees, but economic migrants, especially youngish males. To large portions of the western populace, the credibility meter was put under great strain. Then it just exploded. Even to Norman Normal, this was all too weird, it didn't add up. It was a step too far. Maybe it's all part of an evil plan by the global elite to take more control in a 'divide and conquer' manner, by creating further instability in western nations. Maybe it was a miscalculation on their part; maybe they overstepped the mark. I don't know.

Part Three

There is a higher dimensional aspect to all this. For want of a better term, let's talk 'spiritual growth'. Our growth is rooted in, based upon, our own uniqueness as individuals on this planet. It cannot be any other way. Only a unique and solitary individual can decide to grow. I am me, you are you. We are not all the same. We have feelings, wishes, likes, dislikes, thoughts, aspirations, pasts and presents. Some of this we may have in common with other people; but it all flows out of our individuality, our uniqueness.

To 'grow' depends on my abilities to discern, to distinguish, to discriminate (using the word in its original meaning). I need to be able to see difference, and to be able to say 'these things are different, but it makes no difference' (the way people speak English), and 'these things are different, and that really makes a difference' (this person wants to be friends with me, while this one wants to blow me up).

This natural, healthy experience of difference is thwarted, repressed, by modern political correctness as it is applied to the reality of difference of peoples, races. Instead of being seen as a marvellous resource, variety is viewed with suspicion, paranoia even. It is not to be spoken or thought, the hope being that it will eventually disappear from our conscious perception completely. Thus will Paradise on Earth be established.

On a deeper level, the denial of difference is a war against 'growth' in itself, and all the great that human beings can achieve in this life. The result is a completely sterile environment, rid of vitality, 'edge'. Excellence, which requires a sense of difference, specialness even, in order to emerge, is absent, replaced by mediocrity, the lowest common denominator, the fear of offending anybody. God, the Divine, the All, the Dharmakaya, take your pick, may be One; but it expresses in distinctions, meaningful distinctions. Gender, race, preferences, abilities.There is a body of thought which suggests that the One actually requires duality in order to be aware of Itself. Heaven help us, surely not. But hey, we're getting ahead of ourselves here.

In the meantime, my wife has been laughing at my efforts to speak in Spanish -again. I'm off to complain to the Equalities Commission or someone.

Image: Amitabha, Buddha of Discriminating Wisdom

The Mask of Feminism

Part One   

It's a way of looking at things, anyway. Surely feminism is a good thing? A great thing, even? It has liberated untold numbers of women from slavery to the home, the kitchen, to husbands. Surely it is good that they can stand on an equal footing, be free to carve out their own lives. Unfortunately, I don't think it's actually quite like that.

Feminism has been, in the main, a recruitment drive for Empire, the status quo, the way things have been set up to be; for 'the Establishment', if we talk in slightly outmoded terms. Feminism has invited women, not to be free, independent, authentic, individual, but to become fully active members of the System. This is how it has panned out for the vast majority, at least.

The campaign has been remarkably successful. Now women can do everything that Empire approves, but which were once solely the province of men. They can have careers, make plenty of money, compete in the workplace, become bureaucrats and politicians, go out on a Friday night with their female buddies and vomit all over the High Street at 2 in the morning. It's a grand life.

I see very little liberation in the lives of many women I see. Some - especially the middle-aged ones - really are like slaves, a role they seem to perform happily in a 'this is the way to live' kind of way. Safe in the deception that they are independent, go-ahead modern females. The talk is of 'equality'; but equality in what? It is the equality to participate in a way of going about things which leaves a whole lot to be desired. Nothing new, nothing life-enhancing, nothing interesting in it at all.

This is the key. Hypothetically, I suppose, it could have been different. But nobody, man nor woman, asked females about the possibility of actually changing the way that things happen. The programme, the agenda, is fixed; the values, the aims, the aspirations remain unaltered. Women were invited to sign up to a predetermined blueprint, and they have (in the main) fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

Some feminist academics, in particular, look at the ills of society and point the finger: patriarchy. Patriarchy. Patriarchy is the cause of the evils of this world. From what I can make out, their agressively marketed 'solution' is almost the same, just dressed up in ever-so slightly different clothes. More rules, more regulations, more don'ts, in order to create a utopian world where all distinctions between men and women have been effectively eradicated, so that 'sexism' no longer exists because it is no longer possible. 'Patriarchy' as defined by such academics is replaced by state, corporate, academic, maternal/paternalism. The System rules OK, the System rules completely. This is the genderless nightmare, far beyond anything that Orwell could come up with.

Rarely has there been a culture whose mainstream has so excluded the feminine. The sacred feminine, the divine feminine, if I may so write without sounding too cliched. Take the political thread. Thatcher, Hillary, Merkel, Saint Teresa of Westminster, the Sturgeon, Christine Lagarde, the IMF woman. A more macho bunch of bruisers it is difficult to imagine. Should we be searching for the results of a century of 'equal rights for women' - this is it.

Part Two

The skeleton of what has become 'Part One' above was lying around in my in-tray for quite a while (yes, by the way, real in-tray, and hand-written on real, touchie-feelie A4 white paper). I don't aim to devote overmuch space on Pale Green Vortex to politics, parapolitics, underlying agendas and manipulations etc: there's an endless pit of that nonsense to uncover should one so wish, and there's a point beyond which it's not very good for the soul. Nevertheless, without those basic recognitions and understandings, we're a bit lost. It's like trying to climb a mountain by using only one leg.

It was during the run-up to the victory of the Trump that I considered doing something with this discarded draft after all. As a final desperate move to stop the Trump juggernaut, the sexist card was played. As if by magic, all manner of claim and accusation emerged about Donald Trump speaking and behaving in not very nice ways with various women. In the emerging world, until recently at least, the sexist card, along with the racist card, has indeed been the trump card. There is nothing more criminal than being branded a sexist or a racist. I used to tell a story to my wife about the Latin American culture from which she hails. It doesn't matter if you've killed a few people in the morning; so long as you turn up for lunch wearing a clean shirt and with a straight tie, that's all that matters. There is an equivalent in our western cultures, especially those based in protestantism. It doesn't matter what you did this morning - how many lies you told, how many people you deceived, how  many innocents you conned - so long as you didn't say anything racist or sexist.

What interested me was how the 'Trump-is-an-unelectable-sexist' ploy failed. Those blinded by political correctness, those who believe their own publicity, may have found this puzzling. Disturbing, even. The thing about Trump is not so much the words that actually come out of his mouth; like many others, I shall cringe at some of his policy decisions. It's the subtexts, the unconscious messages, that do the business. In this case, the message went something like this: I am man, and that seems to mean something important, though I don't know what. You are woman, and this is important too. I am who I am; you are who you are. We are different. There are differences. This is OK. This is important.

The message comes through the distorted filters of Trump's power complexes, and arrives on the dinner plate in unedifying form. Yet, nevertheless, there it is. After decades of wave upon wave of tedious programming that we are all the same and should be treated as being the same (not, mark you, as not better or worse - just not different), along comes somebody who doesn't play that game. For this, the people of the U.S.A. gave mighty unconscious thanks.

Then there is the interesting and highly-publicised case in England of Nicola Thorp. She was sent home from her work for refusing to wear the high heels that the company stipulated she should wear. Result: outrage, righteous indignation, equality for women at work, blah blah blah. Now I, for one, would never wish for anybody to have to go through unnecessary pain or discomfort while at work for the sake of looking a bit sexy. It's a poor deal for women who have spent years with feet contorted by footwear at work, only to then be subject to painful bunions in later life as a result. At the same time, if I had gone to the trouble of starting my own business, I wouldn't want some other busybody telling me what my employees can and cannot wear at work. If I wish to stipulate that anyone working for me should wear baggy clown's trousers, purple bow tie, droopy false moustache, and an orange sombrero, that should be my business, and mine alone. Should I fail to get any decent recruits, then I may have to reconsider the situation.

So it should be. Most people setting up their own business nowadays are not actually setting up their own business at all. Their personal autonomy is negligible. They are setting up an arm of the State, of Big Brother's empire. The plethora of rules and regs makes their enterprise nothing more than an expression of a programme, an agenda, a predetermined system of values and ideology. This is how things work; conform or else is the motto. The details of that conformity are, in a sense, irrelevant. It's the presumption of superiority by those who insist that there are no superiors, that we are all 'equal' and the same, that really sucks. Mercifully, the ruse has been seen through, by some at least. The mask of feminism has been seen for what it is: a cover-up job for something else entirely.

Image: What lies behind the mask? Sometimes good, sometimes bad.
             Fool, Dark Fairytale Tarot

            

          

Ayahuasca Anniversary

                           Yum Yum!

This month marks the fifth anniversary of the most recent time that I imbibed the ayahuasca brew. I write 'most recent' rather than 'last' deliberately: I have no plans, or indeed reason, to drink ayuahuasca at present, but what I may or may not decide for the future I have no idea.

Nowadays the internet is awash with reports and articles connected to ayahuasca. Much of this I consider to be pretty low quality stuff. It is full of claims and counter-claims; a remarkable degree of certainty, dogmatism even, on a subject which, given its nature, is nothing if not strange and elusive. "Ayahausca is this...... No, ayahuasca is this........ No, stupid, ayahuasca is this......." It seems to be a case of Ego attempting to understand, get a grip on, make sense of, something which is well outside its realm, its comfort zone. It is a well-known psychological process, to experience dimensions of consciousness beyond the normal, then desperately try to 'understand' them within the parameters of the more confined Ego which experience returns to. At worst, the Ego hijacks the entire show, claiming to be God, Jesus, Maitreya, or whatever. Experience beyond that of ego consciousness does not require a personal narrative to validate it, but this is a lesson which everyday mind finds difficult to swallow. So often it does not - as is the case with many of our modern ayahuasca slurpers.

One subject about which much is written and said is 'la purga'. This is a prominent feature of most, though not all, ayahuasca trips. A serious, deep intestinal vomiting session or two is viewed by some as an essential aspect to taking ayahuasca. Without it, some will tell you, the healing elements to the encounter with Mama Aya are severely compromised, if not completely negated. There is a way, I had discovered, a little-known method, of preparing ayahuasca so that nausea and vomiting potential are almost totally removed. Some will call this cheating, but I didn't care. As somebody who, at the time, experienced deep intestinal cleansing, complete with outpouring of copious bile, on a monthly basis due to severe migraines, I wasn't the least bothered about bypassing the delights when it came to ayahuasca.

The liquid that I imbibed five years ago is not, in the strict sense, ayahuasca at all. It is known as mimosahuasca. The 'classic' ingredients of ayahuasca have their origins in the Amazon Basin. They are normally psychotria viridis and banisteriopsis caapi. The same psychoactives can be found in many other plants, however, especially some species of mimosa eg mimosa hostilis, and syrian rue. Some of these grow in places closer to home, such as the Near East, giving rise to all sort of theories about the origins of Old Testament visions etc etc. Mimosahuasca has the reputation of being more bad-ass than ayahuasca strictly speaking. There may be something in that......

I had experimented with both types of 'huasca' before my drink of January 2012. With both I had enjoyed either light visionary experiences, or nothing at all - apart from the serious purga. I had no special reason to expect anything different this time. Even without the main nausea-inducing elements, 'huasca' is vile. I did what you need to do: take a deep breath, gulp it down in one go, ensure you don't breathe again before you rinse out your mouth with water or mouthwash from the local chemist. Even then, this sense of imbibing an extraordinarily bitter liquid sends shivers through your body.

Like any right-on conscientious psychonaut, I wrote the trip up afterwards. The rest of this post will rely largely on quotes from that particular trip report.

"The brew was prepared in precisely the same manner as previously, with the same quantity of plants. The only resultant difference was the rather larger quantity of liquid to drink. But there, more or les, the similarities end....."

"Soon after lying on the bed, I realised this might be something else. The closed-eye visual effects became far stronger: geometrical shapes moving around frenetically. The strength intensified, and I decided to open my eyes to orient myself better. No such luck: the blue carpet had transformed into a wild, choppy sea, with wave after frantic wave. I closed my eyes again."

"The trip was nearing its peak. A huge tunnel, its walls composed of white polystyrene-looking material, opened up to the left and above me. By now, I had lost all but the most peripheral awareness of the 'outside world'. Consciousness of my physical body reduced to one or two vague sensations. Then I felt something like an electric charge passing up my left arm. 'I'm going to have a heart attack' was the instant response. But then I recalled having similar experiences up my left arm before. I was going to be alright."

"This 'electric sense' moved all through the energy and light that was, I suppose, my body. Then I had a strong sensaton of the 'golden tubes' of energy that form my intestines moving, or being moved, around. It was as if they were being reconfigured, reformed, reset. I say 'moving or being moved' because, though I saw no entities, there was a definite feeling of something 'being done' to me, rather than it just happening."

In Castaneda language, I don't really consider ayahuasca a plant ally of mine. If I had to make nominations, a number of other substances with which I have interfaced over the decades would be nearer the top of the list. But most fascinating was the experience with the intestines.

For many years previous to the trip, I had had real problems with my intestinal tract: IBS would be the rather vague and unsatisfactory catch-all, if you are desperate for an orthodox diagnosis. The slow, irregular improvements in intestinal function that I have experienced over recent times can be dated back to this ayahuasca experience. Something happened that has impacted slowly but surely on my physical health, to the point where, though still needing to exert caution with how much I eat of what, I am free of intestinal pain and discomfort for most of the time. Other factors have been involved in the improvement as well as the mimosahuasca, but this seemed to be the first step in a process, one which has wrought a big change.

There are plenty of ayahuasca devotees who attest to the healing properties of the sacred plant brew, speaking of its curative effects even on conditions that orthodox medicine will proclaim as 'untreatable' or 'terminal'. Personally, I am inclined to believe them. The personal reports are there, and I have my own experience. Nevertheless, as is the case with other 'energy-based healings', the chances of these approaches getting a proper hearing in the mainstream are slim while Big Pharma is still in business. Should you want to give your advanced cancer a go with Mama Aya or hands-on energy healing, rather than poisoning it silly with chemo, you do so off your own back. You do it as a courageous pioneer, taking your life into your own hands, quite literally. Anybody wishing to do so has my well-wishing behind them.

                

  

      

Apocalypse Now

Yes indeed. It certainly seems like that. In the eyes of many, at least. The end of the world is nigh; flood, pestilence, famine will be upon us in a flash. The Great Beast is on his wicked way, the numbers 666 emblazoned on his saddle. The world as we know it is about to collapse. The Trump is upon us.

It's a funny thing (and simultaneously gives the game away). A Stalin, a Mugabe, an Idi Amin, would provoke far less outcry than does the imminent arrival of the Trump. The horror, the horror, is also

funny (and for a second time gives the game away) because it suggests that the protestors actually believe that the alternative is, or was, any better. The Obamas, the Clintons, the Bushes; and further afield their partners in ideology, the Camerons, the Blairs, the Merkels, the heads of the EU, the Soros's. Are these good guys? Not at all - they're bad guys! They have sat aside, passively overseeing the demoralising of, the sucking of vitality and lifeblood from, the very nations that they had been entrusted to care for. They have been implicit in the troubles and instability of many-a country in the Middle East and North Africa that have led to the needless loss of life and home for many. So it's all a bit bizarre.

While I laugh, I also sometimes feel a little isolated: most of the people I know - though fortunately not all - are of the Apocalyptic variety. I am given to anger, puzzlement, disbelief, shock, surprise, at how many people have been 'had' by the official stories of the day, how they have been duped, deceived, and don't get it.

If I were put in charge of the Planet for a day, the first thing I would do is to close all the universities. The notion of academia is one of the mind-dupes (I have another word for 'dupe', which begins with the letter 'f', but prefer not to use it on this blog) used by the establishment, system of control, call it what you will, to keep people in their place. It has been a clever move over recent centuries, to exalt 'the mind', 'the intellect', 'the rational', 'thought', 'mentality' over and above other human faculties. As a result, the 'big mind', the thoughts of the academic, are taken very seriously indeed. They have come to possess magical import. The academic is viewed as a particularly developed member of the species, whose every utterance is to be taken most seriously, almost revered - as it should be, since it is a message straight from the new gods, of science and 'rational humanism' (readers of this blog will well know why 'rational humanism' goes inside inverted commas).

Universities, and therefore most academics, are primarily mouthpieces for the communication of the ethos and ideology of the time. In our present moment, this is the message of indiscriminate inclusivism and multiculturalism, the obliteration of gender, the denial of difference between people of different sexes, cultures, religions, traditions, and belief systems. This along with other memes that go to constitute the body of political correctness: human-engendered catastrophic global warming remains another favourite.

Most people who I read and admire for their intellectual contribution to the treasure chest of humanity - the people who have beneficially impacted upon my life - are not officially academics at all. They are self-taught; auto-didacts is the smart term. They have been compelled by personal passion to explore, to attempt to know, to make the world a better place perchance. Driven by the burning fire that is unique and individual to them. University academics, by contrast, are part and parcel of a system. To the degree (bad pun) that they depend upon research grants and similar, or rely upon peer approval for their work, to that extent they are no more than big-brained prostitutes to a poisoned system. Today they spew out politically correct bile and poison as a matter of bread-and-butter. As somebody once pointed out: apply for a grant to fund a research project into 'Butterflies' and you'll get nothing. Apply for money for 'Butterflies and global warming' and they'll be queuing up to throw money at you.             

In my experience, most academics are low-graders in terms of  full-spectrum humanity (there are notable exceptions - check out Jordan Peterson as an inspirational case. But they are few and far between, and generally have a tough time). I speak with three years of study at Oxford University behind me, so this is not purely rhetoric on my part. It was when I left behind 'higher education' and entered the 'alternative world' of the time that I began to meet people with real creativity, integrity, purpose in life. People to respect and admire.

Neil Kramer is somebody capable of articulating what many people sense, feel, know, but are unable to express coherently. He recently brought out his long-awaited (by some) Roamcast 20. On this, he lays out clearly many ideas about how current developments like the rising of the Trump may not be a bad thing. In particular, he draws the distinction between systems encouraging self-determination, and those based upon the dogmas and ideologies of collectivism on the other. It is collectivism in its various forms that has ruled the roost over recent times, and it is an approach that fears, abhors, and attempts to eradicate the magnificent uniqueness of the aspiring individual. This uniqueness is, to collectivism, inconvenient at best, dangerous and threatening at worst. The rise of the Trump, along with Brexit, is a nightmare for the global collectivist project. Neil Kramer is optimistic about the coming end of Empire; I hope he is right. The Roamcast is well worth one hour, fifteen minutes of your life.

neilkramer.com/roamcast-20-the-earth-is-harsh-for-a-reason/


Image: Apocalypse, Deviant Art