Mission Statement

Went to a Mesmerica show in our local planetarium over the weekend with good friends. Was, in one way, a bit disappointing due mainly to my own expectations (“disappointment requires adequate planning”); however it was also inspiring in a “dat looks like fun chit to do” kinda way. There were some magical segments.

I did a bit of research into the state of tech the last couple of days and think I’ll have some projects underway once my next two are completed. (Which should be any day now :p)

What’s intriguing is that the venue is there. And the same implementation can be progressively enhanced, from simple 3d perspective on a desktop dragging a mouse to cardboard vr goggles and fancier attachments for smart phones with head tracking (but also, phones just panning around physically) to the immersive helmets attached to smoking graphics cards on desktops and all their motion and sensor accouterments. Levels of experience and enjoyment with essentially the same application and code. Even more immersive than an old school planetarium.

…but I’ve also been dinking with a digital auditory workstation that can fabricate sounds from the ether along with some plugins to sync said sounds to audiostrobe glasses and brain entrainment tech. I’d been dragging my feet for years because nothing really spoke to me. But this DAW is different from the rest. It’s how aliens make music, evidently. We seem to mesh. (renoise)

So I think my opus, in 2022, will be to yank people from their bodies and hurl them into the astral planes involuntarily. My mission here will then be complete

The Pipe

I closed my eyes and was in a cave. I tried to sense its dimensions, in kinesthetic “glimpses” it was huge. Carlsbad Caverns huge. I followed a slant down, and down, to the left, narrowing, then opening into a cove and onto a beach at night. I stood, listening to the waves which I could only see as undulating darkness. But some visuals were flickering through. Of the stars, the night sky. The sand. I was barefoot. I called mentally for an animal friend to come and show me the way to the guide.

Moments later I sensed a small fuzzy animated something and follow it up the coast to the right. We soon came upon a campfire, and shanty lean to of driftwood and a man sitting cross legged in tattered clothing, a dirty golden beard and a mat of stringy hair the same color. I asked if he was my true guide. He said he was. But in other words, which sparkled but already slipped from my memory, writing about this almost a day later. I forgot to give him permission and ask him to let me feel how he feels toward me.

I asked him to show me where the sun was. He pointed to a place in the sky, which changed to day. And I asked the Sun if I could speak to it in human form. It came as a man of golden light. I asked him what he needed from me and my life in order to start to work with me and be my friend. He told me to work on my posture. I asked him what do you have to give me that I need from you? And he gave me a pipe. I took it without asking my guide if I should have. I think it is made of living dragonflies. I asked the Sun how to use it. And he communicated an understanding. I handed it back to him and asked him to put it in my body in a place where I should absorb or carry it. And now I have a dragonfly pipe along my left clavicle.

I thanked him I think. I hope. I thanked him again just now, in case. I said goodbyes to the Sun and the guide and made my way back the way I’d come. I opened my eyes, outside the cave, back in the quotidian world. I lifted my left hand and energy of the pipe formed itself there, pulled from particles in my clavicle, ready to go.

My rune draw today was gifu. Which clarified this journey further.

Everything has a price. If you ask for a gift and have offered nothing, then it can demand anything in return. It’s a blank check. The old runic sagas for this rune warn to be careful not to ask more than you are willing to pay. That’s why the first question, what is my side of the bargain? And the archetypes, like the ones in Tarot, want to awaken their energies in the self and express them in the world. Perhaps they share in our consciousness. But I suspect it is much much more. And since they work through lenses of our identity, our personal history, but are non-linear in time, they may ask strangely trivial, by our account, things from us. They know the places where the smallest of energy creates the greatest cascades of effect. The lever Archimedes claimed could move the world.

Two more things . . .

in my catalog of skillful means

So far, to recap:

  1. Death as an ally
  2. Unclinching, lightness of being
  3. A high level of unbotheredness about everyday things and clarity about reactive attachments and external opinion


Living more vividly

Time and time again I get fed up to the max with the mundane. With mediocrity in myself and my world. Lately, I often find I’ve muddled through a perfectly good day. As if I were killing time. Being too sensitive to slight variations in mood or energy and reading them as disincentives to engage in the myriad of pursuits available to me. I also second-think, become distracted and continually discount the beauty of flow in engaging with tasks that, while they may not seem of deep mystical significance, are nevertheless invitations to engage the day and potentiate my time. As nerdy as they may appear, and I’m really judging this from somewhere allegedly more “cool” … these avenues of discovery, learning and exploration are as valid and lead as deeply into the fabric of the world as anything more ostensibly “spiritual.” Know one thing to know all things as a sage once remarked.

So the skillful means here is to engage totally with what I am pursuing without, at least during the course of the day, sidetracking or second-guessing its relevance to the bigger picture. The bigger picture is to live vividly and with flow. Not waiting to be gob smacked by some metaphysical lotto of privileged experience.


I’ve relocated mentally and physically many times in this life. And while I believe, and have confirmed, that wherever we go, there we are; that it’s not so much the location —it’s what we bring with us (or what we leave behind)— there is still value in a locale to elicit dormant capabilities and insights. Be this locale an altered state, a different country, a physical practice or just an excursion beyond the comfort zone.

But there has always been a bordertown on the fringes of consciousness that attracts me like no other. Sometimes it seems I have a whole life there I have forgotten. People I know and things I’ve done that will not be ignored, for long. It’s more home to me in many ways than whatever this place is now where I spend most of my time. The “wall” that’s being politicized currently is an interesting metaphor on how we think we should isolate ourselves from these unruly aspects of being. And where our borders should properly be constructed.

There are several ways to get to bordertown. Dreaming is a big one. And it’s where I often encounter this whole sense of another life I’m living in parallel. But its most powerful aspect is as an overlay, a dimension of this reality. Chroma. And it encourages living a little sideways from the consensual. Through magic, through intent. But most directly through taking a bit of time during the day to sink into the mind and open, with intent, to other ways of touching the world; unfolding an array of internal senses that are feeble in the light and atrophied with neglect. But which show a nuance to reality that enriches the fabric of existence.

Stuff I’m Trying to Figure Out

Mortality, for example. I’m suspicious of this one. A part of me has absolutely no problem with it however it turns out. Blink out of existence, then who is to worry? Continues? Enjoy the adventure. Why worry either way? I have zero concern about whether or not I’ve adhered properly to some religious doctrine. And zero motivation to leave any sort of legacy or regard to how I might be remembered.

Another part of me is suspicious that previous part might be in denial. Suppressing fear or anxiety by disassociation of outcomes. Yet another part questions the suspicious part with, “so what is your suggestion? worry about it until the inevitable happens anyway? Appreciate the moments?” The appreciation and gratitude strikes a chord. It resonates authentically. And the inevitable breakdown, I’d like to do that with grace. And I’d like it to be a short transition. I’d like to keep my bearings if the adventure continues. And I think it will. That resonates as well.

This leaves me with the recognition that this ending stuff might be huge. That if I carry on oblivious to what’s coming, I might miss some real opportunities and squander a lot of precious resources on things that don’t matter. As long as I can keep the horizon of death in view, it can be a tremendous ally. And as with life so far, I also like to look down the road for clues on how best to prepare. Not to the extent of sacrificing today for tomorrow, but for investing in skills that are handy across contexts.

The skills I think most important here and now, from this vantage, are for one: the ability to let go. I have this baseline of tension that seems to run quite deep. I think it’s built on a bedrock of layers and layers of protective insulation where protection was freezing parts of my being, making pieces rigid to resist impact and hanging on tightly to things I didn’t want to lose or have stolen from my soul. It was building a little fortress to secure a foothold in the world.

To let go of this is to sink in order to fly. In its most physical sense, this is relaxation. In the mind, lightness of being.  

The next skillful action, number two: is learning how to sink without panic. Sinking is accepting whatever I am feeling and thinking without trying to “should” it or change it or judging myself for the feeling or thought’s unbidden arising. To start understanding through this the reality of impermanence. Of the temporal nature of selves.

The third skillful means: is to question and review some very old and very deep ways I’ve been contracted to think and feel. By circumstances of my culture and my timeline in evolution. Ways parts of myself have been programmed and how best to leverage parts of myself that are free to help wake up.

Concretely, this means questioning very basic assumptions like: is there any reason to feel upset about anything? How is that useful? And this doesn’t mean trying to be coldly logical about everything, it means questioning how feeling bad, which is certainly not my preference, is used in ways usually not in my best interest. To research what agenda these feelings serve. Because in any given scenario I act more resourcefully without these “triggers.” And I do not subscribe to the belief that we need to be punished, or punish ourselves, in order to behave or be motivated to do good. I have a moral compass without this, thank you. No one has bound me, I want to sustain the realization that I am already free.

And other sundry thoughts… 

Somewhat related:

Status report :: Eratita following Blood Wolf Moon Eclipse ‘2019

a little era

Got 3 series going in my down time: Black, Deadly Class and Magicians Season 4. Reading: Feeding Your Demons (a Tibetan meditation practice called Chöd) and Implied Spaces

Bathtub reading: The Demon’s Sermons on the Martial Arts. A graphic novel of an old classic.

Riffing with the laws of Newtonian physics through code. Physics of motion in particular, functions of forces at play. Studying equations through immersive programming. Ultra casual games and eye mesmers are the theme. Also, novel insights and elicited potentials. Maybe sneaking bits onto facebook’s instant game platform. In the meantime, populating outposts that circumvent the big app stores on clipper ships of emerging tech called Progressive Web Apps; installs on devices’ home screens directly from an indie page.

Attempting to synthesize the sound of a water drop. Or something of a similar signature. Studying its form in sound through the spectral lenses of frequencies and time. The last time I did this was with crickets. And with throat singing. Long overdue, I love the kaleidoscopic microscope of visual FFT. And sculpting waves.

Collaborating on a mobile application for the hearing impaired, which works across mesh networks. These are created ad hoc, in small groups, and spurn reliance on upstream “providers” and infrastructure for peer communications.

Regimes of microdosing and nootropics. And developing practices to open communication channels with the inland sea of subconscious, perhaps the deeps beyond. There are other things on my mind, but I haven’t posted in a bit. And Hogwarts is back in session, winter break is over, witches.

“The moment I found out magic was real. That was the moment that I discovered who I am.”

-Magicians. Season 4, Episode 1

sundry realizations circa early 2018

  • I enjoy flow more than happiness. Flow has a very specific meaning, a task that’s appropriately challenging, employing skills I enjoy mastering and the activity absorbs my attention in an enriching way. Sometimes this may be learning just the right difficulty of material.
  • The less I like people, in particular, the more I seem to like them in general. There’s probably a section in the DSM-5 about this… that recommends strong pharmaceuticals and adult supervision.
  • Meditation keeps me sane.
  • My posture reflects my state of mind and my metaphysical status of alignment, presence, connection, sinking, expansion, confidence, and relaxation. It’s a physical koan I puzzle on during waking. My stance in the world is always changing and it’s my anchor into the now and portal into my psyche.
  • My conscious awareness is but a fraction of being; learning to communicate with the larger field is part of my life purpose.
  • There is nothing missing in our lives except the imaginary pieces in cookie cutter shapes of our acculturation. To be content is the greatest wealth imaginable.
  • Preventing a creeping numbness of being requires my constant vigilance. Sometimes I feel like I’m passed out on the floor and something keeps shaking me awake saying “Don’t sleep! Don’t sleep!”
  • Most of what I write is superficial drivel but it helps my process.
  • It’s a far greater stretch to posit an imaginary world outside our head, that we can never know, other than its reconstruction through senses relaying data to the inside of our heads … than to just go ahead and admit that it’s all in our heads in the first place and realize our heads may be bigger than we think. Or rather, our heads exist in a continuum of consciousness much larger than our local eddies of identity. But it’s all the same stuff man.
  • I agree and support the construct of gender fluidity, we are evolving, that is our nature, I see it as a springboard, not a stopping point of identity. Polarity is a system of propulsion. Hegel cinches this.
  • “Blood is thicker than water”, is a biological construct at work deep in our evolutionary brain, telling us our genes are more important than others, thus we should sacrifice our higher faculties, common sense and true feelings to protect its propagation. But in fact, “The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.” as quoted and noticed by Richard Bach in Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah …and recognized by many others before and since.
  • Many things tend to stay in the same place. My room doesn’t re-arrange itself while I’m sleeping. The streets outside my door usually head off in the same directions. But magic has to be rediscovered anew each day. It’s seldom in the same place. But it’s worth finding, and seeking it out in most mundane of circumstances develops … abilities.

the bubble bath

I inventory this moment
niggling irritants like transient itches
the lay this day feels stodgy with vectors
finding excursion within

“…the ability to return voluntarily on a regular basis to that deepest level of reality – the Tao – as if it were a rejuvenating spiritually scented bubble bath.”

I slip out of mind
down body
somewhere near the heart
in the corridor of breath
posture vertical
anchors below, infinity above
the sides expand embracing
the horizon

a space in the between

exploring an unfolding
deep familiar longing
sinking further down into

tinged now with anger
enough bullshit!
cutting and
slicing at every clinging
cord fastening, securing
swimming free
of that floating island of garbage and tinsel
slum dreams of hope
no spiritual bubble baths here
only directions
the mind doesn’t fanthom
found in the body
disposable debris of thought

Sunday Sundry

A whiff of rosemary to clear the mind. My coffee cup, like lifting a barbell, solid enough to serve as a makeshift weapon should zombies pour over the windowsill next to my desk. Music I’ve never heard flows from tabletop speakers, a compilation somebody made for “Sunday Afternoons” and the first track playing is from Pink Floyd’s album: Endless River.

It’s the third day of the new sleep schedule. Lights out at 11pm. Lights on: whenever. Ten to twelve hours so far, catching up from the trip, perhaps. Or sullen protest to the new regime. Slowly waking up to dream recall, but still missing many an opportunity to record due to laziness and their memories evaporate.

Recently beginning to appreciate the connection between things. Which, at first, I thought only applied to external reality. However, while trying to gain more lucidity in dreams, it appears one must gain more lucidity during the day as well. Dreams are part of the fabric of life. Conversely, I realize, the importance of dreaming more while awake. The conscious mind lives so superficially. A small boy on the corner with a dog. A conscious mind notices just that. Meanwhile, in a larger plane of awareness, which encompasses consciousness but not vice versa, there exists a fabric, rather than a thread, of perceptions. The sad look in the eyes of the dog, the holes in the sweater, the shy fingers poking through and playing with frayed fabric, the red mottled with Rorschach stains, the memories evoked unfold in wisps and strands of unnameable feeling fragments.

Another whiff of rosemary. An interval of quietude within and areas of body checking in. Not with problems or discomfort but with a pleasant fullness, relaxedness that usually comes with a good stretch. I am grateful for this and thankful. It will not always be so.

The Old Man, Witches and Crosses

An old man at the restaurant keeps staring at me. Maybe in his late 80’s, early 90’s. Finally, I looked up and held his gaze, smiled and nodded hello. His eyes sparkled. Clear, vividly present, in a manner. He was slight of frame, his pants were too loose, working down a bit in his chair. He wore a soft flannel shirt and directed a stream of rolling mumbles towards me, animated. I caught something about “where are you from” and answered, “Colorado. How about yourself?”

He continued to talk in long rounded, subaudible mumbles, I could barely pick out a word or two. I scooted a little closer and tried to make conversation, asking him about his cane. It had an interesting grain. He was a bit hard of hearing too, so I repeated it louder. He started in on an exposition of its qualities, origin, utility…I think. I caught no words this time. But he seemed to enjoy talking to me, so I decided there was more than one way to have a conversation and smiled, giving him my full attention, just being there with him in the moment as company.

His companion, an older lady, but a decade or so younger than him, got up to pay and he got up to come over to our table, continuing the thread. As he got close to my chair, I apologized, confessing I was having trouble hearing him well due to the noise in the restaurant. His companion approached and helped him pull his pants up high, fixing his shirt. She too was hyper-aware, of his condition, of things going on around them and told me it’s not just that he’s hard to hear and mumbles but that he jumbles words as well. She was from Poland.

While she was explaining and he was talking I noticed he was very aware of Rumiko’s hat that she had hung on a corner of the empty chair he stood at, and was very careful not to bump it or disturb it. I wished them well as they left. Wondering what all he said, but feeling we had a nice conversation, of sorts.

Later, we wandered back home, through street stalls set up with curious wares for Easter. One with a lady from Syria, who looked like she had a lot on her mind, selling sweets and baklava. Another stall run by a happy fellow, not from Ecuador I think, maybe Peru, selling a variety of stones and crystals, little stuffed dolls of witches riding broomsticks and stirring cauldrons and crucifixes of Christ with the words I.N.R.I. engraved.

One booth had samples of coffee. As I sipped, I received a detailed explanation of the magical properties of this elixir. This time the problem wasn’t hearing, but my still rudimentary grasp of the language. It was organic, healthy, had amazing healing properties, you could make just adding hot water or milk, maybe a little sugar. But you needed a monkey. Or something like that. In any case, I dreamed I purchased 4 bags (they are kinda small) last night, so on the way to lunch today I need to make a stop.