He looks serene.
“Planes smaller than this fly into the eye of cyclones”, he says.
My father is obviously doing the ‘head of the family’ thing, hoping his unruffled exterior will de-ruffle the rest of us. It sorta worked… I was on the verge of bursting into tears of sheer terror, but instead settled back into the far more relaxed state of profuse sweating and fervent prayer. The next day, when we finally got up the mountain to go skiing, my hands could barely close around my stocks, so sore were they from gripping the arm rests on the flight. (In later years, he confessed that, actually, it really was quite scary. That man is an inveterate liar!)
So, in related news, let me ask you HOW’S THIS FUCKING SPACE WEATHER, INTERNETS?!
April is the last two thirds of Jurassic Park. If you’re not a cardinal sign, the power has gone out right across the park. If you’re a cardinal sign, you will also want to check the velociraptor fences right now. Go in a group, through. A heavily armed group.
I return to the New Zealand flight experience as analogy because, despite the cascade effect of the space weather through my macro and micro life, my head seems to be in the right place. I’m sick, there is a foreigner with severe food poisoning sleeping on a blow up mattress in my front room, two enormous projects now require my full time attention just as my muggle career scales up to a global level it has never been before, The five or so books I have on the go at once are all blowing up my head and I’m probably about to fire my cleaner any minute now because she keeps leaving lit candles in the house as she’s decided it is haunted. (Try telling someone who doesn’t speak English there isn’t a ghost trapped in the house, you just happen to be experimenting with which aspects of the PGM may be Palaeolithic survivals.)
And yet, my state of mind is pretty good. Even without the intermittent fasting that is my lazy way into a visionary dream state. (I double over with nausea if I take these antibiotics on an empty stomach.)
But the thing I miss most is blogging. There are a number of topics crying out to be explored in depth, but returning to the Isla Nublar storm metaphor, it appears these posts need to be arranged on the lawn behind the visitor centre and the weather is too bad to do so. Sometimes I wish I was better at list posts. Rob is kickass at them. Or that I could just kvetch about whatever opinion I happen to hold about something or another.
The trouble with kvetch-posting is it only really seems worth sharing an opinion if it adds something new to the discourse and left-of-leftfield opinions by necessity require considerable volumes of supporting material to make the case. Sorta like this excellent post from Phil Hine. He has supporting material leading to an opinion that I would otherwise have disagreed with out of hand, regarding the historic heteronormativity of tantra. I can’t write ‘normal’ posts like this example of a really good one, a limitation which mildly annoys me. There seems to be no space between rants and the sharing of supporting material to build a case on Rune Soup.
I’d even settle for ‘just’ an image post. This one and this one, both by Chris Knowles, are probably as close as blogging gets to a tone poem. They’re excellent. I return to them often and think that maybe I could do that? Trouble is, I’d want to do exactly those two posts, and they’re four years old now. Imitation ceases to be flattery and becomes creepy when it is that old.
So I’m not sure what kind of post this is, beyond being a whorl of flotsam ripped loose by space weather. Onwards.
Dead humans, particularly relatives, have visited me in my dreams before. My tip for recognising the difference between your head and their form is as follows: there will come a moment in the dream where you ask yourself whether you are making this up or if it is a real manifestation. At that point, the experience will… ughh… words… ‘rapid surprise pivot’. Whoomp! It’s real.
This has never happened to me with a specific animal before. Animal spirits like gecko, (white person) totem spirits like turtle, sure. But -such as a thing may be said to exist- there is a sort of ‘sophisticated wizardry’ explanation for when individual pets appear in mediumship sessions. It is often assumed that it is a temporary manifestation of a wider consciousness, perhaps THE consciousness, taking on a form to provide maximum comfort. There may be some sort of cringe factor around believing that your dog is now a literal ghost… because we just aren’t culturally set up to process the loss of a pet -which is a fucking family member, after all- in a healthy way.
Anyway, I guess if I were to have had an opinion about it before the beginning of the week it would go something like the above paragraph. However -keeping this brief because dream descriptions are boring- my mother the psychonaut and I were standing in the old kitchen of the family home they are selling and there was a large form, about the size of a rugby ball, trying to get out through the closed kitchen windows the way a moth or a fly would do… butting up repeatedly against different parts of it. The invisible-but-definitely-there-form fell down behind the toaster. I picked it up, sat on the kitchen floor, cradled it in my arms.
Then there was the whoomp. Whether it physically transformed into my childhood dog is now impossible to tell as you distort your dreams every time you recall them (write them down, bitches!) but this form did that thing dogs do when you pick them up in that it cradled its neck against mine. At the point of neck contact I became instantly aware this is Emma and the sensation -I hesitate to use the word ‘message’ because dogs aren’t overly verbose- was release.
Figuring this meant I hadn’t finished processing the sale of my family home and my parents move to their death house, I skyped MMTP. Because she is a creepy fairytale witch, she still has the ashes of this dog and works with it often as a familiar. (Didn’t know this.) It transpires that she asked Emma whether she would like to be scattered in the garden before the move and the answer was an emphatic no.
Anyway, you know how this ends. Within half an hour of the skype call, a significant, near-final, step was taking in the move from one house to another, which I’m too superstitious to describe in the middle of this space weather.
Further pieces of the world
- The top 10 male nudes in art. Preposterously ethnocentric (he might want to visit central Australia) but commendable for its one notable absence.
- Your nark of a brain has a built-in 15 second delay that shields you from hallucinogenic experiences. McMurtry and Wilson’s ‘psychic censor’?
- The amazing Adam Curtis killing it once again, with an essay called Suspicious Minds.
- St Petersburg from above. Stunning, stunning, stunning.
- Joseph Atwill responds to the critics of Caesar’s Messiah on Skeptiko. This is probably the best interview with Atwill I have heard, because it is the first time I’ve heard him acknowledge that Rome picked up the already-existent pieces of radical Jewish spirituality and molded a hijack out of them. Philo gets a mention, for instance. There is much to recommend this analysis, rather than “all of Christianity was a wholesale invention of the Roman empire.” Very much worth a listen.
A new video from Marquese Scott, who I have been obsessed with since Skynet flew him to London to dance for fat media execs in some kind of unsavoury echo of the Seven Veils. Just to continue the tower theme from Chris’s posts linked above.
Updates from Agent Smith
Watch these two videos. They’re deliberately reverse chronological. Part of me feels like there is a personal financial play in parapolitics’s move into the public arena. It will probably be something like shorting gold as the step sum analysis suggests a kaboom is coming… and the rise of the petro-rouble may trigger it: the banks that own the central bank liquidate their gold to buy and prop up the dollar as its energy reserve status evaporates.
There’s a baller move in here somewhere that could set you up for life. Something to enchant for, maybe?
Reverse chrono. Trust me.
One way or another, this is what April’s space weather brings.
Looking for something to do with all those tarot decks whose imagery doesn’t quite match the card archetype? (Looking at you, UFO Tarot and Pirate Tarot.)
Well, consider using their court cards for geomancy. I bought Skinner’s book on geomancy a couple of years ago but never got around to finishing it. It’s excellent but the Al Gore/”I invented the internet” tone of voice grates on me a bit, so I can only read it in short bursts. So I’m using the UFO Tarot court cards for geomancy… shall we call it magoniomancy?
Anyway, think about it. Although, it’s only fair to warn you that I’m slightly convinced this experiment is at the root of my lingering illness.
The other magical suggestion is to get Jake’s The Testament of Cyprian The Mage. I’m nowhere near done with it and it is triggering all the feels. On the one hand, it’s like the first time I read Lord of The Rings, I want to slow it up so that I am never done with it.
On the other hand, I am desperate to be done with it so I can review it. Every time I think I’ve found the subject matter I want to deep dive review on, he drops another truth bomb. This book really is astounding. It is so dense and so ambitious that I can honestly say your magical cosmology will have a BC/AD date point right where you begin reading it.
On the final, third (alien?) hand, TCM makes me want to vanish into the hills of mid-Wales, go feral, and spend a year fucking about with these things. (However my copy of True Grimoire has been missing for a year so I may have to put a pin in this plan.)
Finally, as the weather warms up here, it occurs to me the world has a ready-made psychic amplifier in the form of pastis. ConjureMan Ali talks about the use of anise as a psychic aid and that’s the principal botanical in pastis. Surely the only way to annoy traditionalists more than using UFO court cards for geomancy is to do it while drinking pastis?
No wonder everybody hates chaos magicians.
Let me make it up to you with this astonishing poem, Sky Dweller.
Be unflappable in this astro storm, be like ducks in the space weather. Pretty soon you’ll be flying away from Jurassic Park in a helicopter, hugging other people’s children while looking out the window at pelicans flying in slow motion. But between now and then, it’s best to remember: