passing thoughts in the key of indica

suppose ... that the elementals, the living beings of the communities from the long-ago-remembered, in fairy tales and fantasy, such as:

the <legends, who might have danced Sprite>  (a rather peculiar language)  in the once upon a time of lingering lost-in-myths mists.  Scientist deny those stories, too much in the flavor of Trump’s <I know better, I am very very smart>, well meanwhile inventing their own “theoretical” imaginary friends, some of whom do have neat names: “Infrared-light”, meet “Heat-death of the universe”.  look, ... you two talk to each other for a while, ... I just noticed that He’s here: the “god particle”.  Gotta go check it out, ... see you around.

rumor has it that a god became a man ... that a god entered flesh, as do we, ... so why not others from the invisible kin-doms, finding, being given, a Way to enter flesh?

tribes of those long-ago’s invisibles so loved being in the company of human beings, and by the magic prayers of both descending human, and those that flutter by, in swirl3s, zig-zagging dance with the Air-rascals, ... suppose ... just as <insert own name> acquired a material form, so were the spirits of the gnomes et. al. becoming embodied too.  Is not an aristocratic former sprite the now-becoming spirit in a squirrel?

if a god can be the Word made Flesh to dwell among us, would that same god deny to others -purely spirit, that should they wish it, that momentary ride in matter, a temporary fun park existence in flesh, ... that ride of having a body is their’s for the asking.  If humans can have the results of such desire, a time spent in “the body”, how could Love not give to all of humans’ friends, a similar repose?

did the spirits of those that were always in intimate communal relationship to the evolving spirits becoming human [Us: not-really-mortals] ... such as the above "those that flutter by", ... did they take on having an occasional body becoming lettered/named “butterfly”?  Flutter by toward becoming butterfly - Birds.  Insects.  Bugs. Falcons.  More kinds than anybody, except for our friend r-Rock.

a memory picture of the >crafty< silver fox, that visited the yard we all shared (one night when Linda and I were watching - behind house’s glass, of course - the visit of the lounging (scrounging for food in the bird feeders) mother bear, ... this memory picture wanders today among my indica colored thoughts, leading me to wondering <?>

]]] diversion, momentary [[[ A correspondent in an alternative reality, asked recently whether or not my writing was “stream of consciousness”.  “Flood” is better, but fluid-like metaphors see ... something there.  Intensified whole body feelings.  The Ganja spirit magnifies “experience”.   Unless I move my attention elsewhere, when stoned my knees actually “hurts” more.  I am currently exploring the sensations of experience with the three different basic humors of Ganja: Indica - relaxes: the body wants to sloth/.  Hybrid (hungers to sloth/burn simultaneously, or in alternative rhythms).   I am studying, <(for the first time while writing this “diversion” of the flood of thought in the emotion/body)> - A feeling driven thought stream, where I analyze a variety of twitches that may just be “interesting”, as Spock eerily points out.  And, the third humor/humors, dearest Sativa, whose go-juice passion singes my mind - an  intoxicating help toward not having become the flower-me that never was.?][ ][]?  After 30 years clean and sober, I am nicely “forced” to enter the dangerous soul-territory of daily Ganja intoxication.  So far, I have no complaints whatsoever.

so, ... to return to the prior song: did I not notice that [a-fox] might well be the outer form of an also eternal spirit from the long-ago, possessing the qualities of a gnomish king, Who I was failing still to honor, for how his tribes and children manage their role in the Rites of Nature, where even the death of their body is like ours ... 

Humans=born inside a black hole, that talked to me so much I just had to flee, anyWhere, and the only direction was down ... the whole circle of surrounding stars pointed  “Earthward” - a promise to Flower dangerously: “money burns a hole in your pocket; gold burns a hole in your soul, but plutonium burns a hole in forever”, sang a lost to memory Native American poetess, whose verse endures remembered, without “name”.

we have backs.  Most of our conscious sensory organs face forwards.  We move forward, first by crawling, then later while looking for places from which to fall.  How do I know what is behind me?  I turn around.  Your mind has a front and a back, or does it?  Does the shape of the brain tell us anything about the shape of the mind?  What happens if I turn around in my mind?  Can I actually do that?

The Living World, from bug to hug, dancing.  Faster than we, in a way, including some whose dance you call Crop Circles.  The view from >here< is that crop circles are nothing so cosmic as to be alien visitors, and such - just a field of grain, singing of its willingness to play its role in the Circle of Life.  “I know”, says a spirit of the grain, “we haven’t been talking lately - you folks thinking there are no “me’s” here.  We’re pretty smart too.  Just party, like always, reproduce, become food for humans - and others - but sometimes where the boundaries between the visible and invisible worlds are “thin”,  a few of us will watch while a bunch of us fall over together in Swoon-Sign, so as to - you know: What you do when you send out a mission to the Stars trying to contact an alien race that can tell you all the secrets of the universe.  So you’ve been doing that, and like in the long-ago time, We heard/hear you still.  You called the Star-Home looking for us, and, sorry to disappoint: but we are like you, and we are all already Home, playing in a veil in plain sight that you drew in your mind, being afraid of the dark-enchanted. 

when the Word, made His home here, something happened like the inversion of fireworks.  Picture the globe of expanded light-stars, moving inward instead of outward, until vanishing from space through a dimensionless point.    Christ dies of the avatar body, is resurrected, and dissolves with the flourish of air-born fireworks into the heart of the All in All, just like we are destined to do.   Its a done deed.  But to Where?When?  The All that Lives, and considering the powers of Life, what makes anyone think that Consciousness is not Life’s equal: dance partner.

Consciousness is Fred Astaire, free, talented, but not so beautiful without Ginger Rogers-Life, who matches step for step, wearing heals and dancing backwards.  Which is the greater Art?

No hurry - takes some getting used to.  The Dude went first, seemingly, but the surprise was that we were Sent first, through the Gate of Death, and He then followed.  Of course Time is not an arrow, but a Mobius strip-tease. Who is who?  What is what?  Where is where.  But When is forever.

He ]]] back to the fox [[[ walks indirectly away from me, yet in front of me, looking back over his left shoulder, showing the disdain that is his crown of thorns - I need to not guess.  Can I trust thinking that much? Or is it the feeling in thinking that needs trust?

Fox. Just being there, looking at me, moving so I would see him, ... a question, or two ... who enchants who ... he sings by being: “when will you, latest of the humans, get it that you knew us once in the long-ago, when we were friends dancing.”  A distance now collapsing as more and more folk learn the skills of “whisperer”.  We were ill-advised, in the male version of genesis, to believe we were meant to be dominant over the ‘other-creatures’, when in truth we were meant to <commune with> all creatures, to all-learn the arts-emerging of one who hears and speaks to long forgotten friends who have and are giving so much.  Would you choose to be a double quarter pounder with cheese?  Don’t ask me, ask: <a-cow-for-cheese>, a steer for the burger, and some friends from the Clan folk of Crop Circles.

We are both lost. Science and doubt drew a magical knife through the idea of there being spirit in matter, and other speculations were unprovable ... or,  traditionally, that it was spirit that was the real, and matter not = Maya.    A death of spirit in matter by conclusions, none the less.  Thing is that “maya” is not undifferentiated.  Experience is Speech by that which is Speech. 

]]] If Steiner can add words to other words, making a word-fusion, cannot we in English do the same.  Wordsmithing is a recognized art form, is it not. [[[

A nice couple of “gulp"s, of the surely potent sugar-caffeine-ale-stimulant: combusted by my Dr: Cherry Pepper: .’. ‘..’. '  Who helps focus on Sativian seas.  Back to tales of loss, of mutual yearning to travel the Underworld of Faerie: To go there means believing in magic.  So little time, so much to wonder.  LIKE: is everything already magical, and still not Dr. Strange, which is work of fantasy art.  Magical thinking say assumed wise bearded heads, writing long books in the key of “know it all”, a idea-scale with which I am very familiar.

Fact is, however, both sides of this abyss of pain are the similar/same. ]]] Bluntness ] Your cat will die. The thing you like about your cat will not. Nor will, the thing you liked about you And the cat, or dog, or rat, or racehorse ... [ unbluntness, using Klingon spell [[[. ...., That last-thing: “We”, Doesn't Die either. None of it. Even the mystery of: What is the "It" that likes to live in the Cat Universe. Observe padawan, that when young "It" is: It also is: love in a beautiful furry cuddle-bundle with claws.  Not all the time ... later, although, Her Majesty Cat-ness: undeniably regal in repose.

The Ancient Egyptians Knew This Person, their hieroglyphic Art, participates not just in the true Rites of Death, but the very means by which the Mystery Endlessly Enchants Spirit in Matter into Spirit: - This Feline-Person a deity in the world of that which is unseen, until ... other skills are brought to bear.   We human beings remain in love with rituals of life and death, that have not changed since forever.  Can you imagine your consciousness in some deeply different prior avatar form, a Neanderthal perhaps?  We have all been there done that, and it was not at all like what we think today. 

Not raw, difficult survival-competition.  Think “Neanderthal” as a temporary avatar body we wore, a few hours each Day, while tending to the changes in the Garden.  The animal kingdom was being taught the “give-away”, and Neanderthal-me and they sang songs together when one form of costume, worn by spirit (a fern, perhaps), is taken in and transformed by “other-friends”, more mobile, no roots, but feets, and claws, and wings.  The endless interchangeable one-ness of Nature, creating the “place” where Gods would come and live for a time, throw a seriously great party, and, have a few more wars, before then the Disperse-Reveal, drunk and singing and dance, .?. to start all over again Battle Star Galactica Style?  Not familiar with that Great Work of Modern Art?  All of it available on DVd.

When modern spiritually lost-culture lends its spiritual identity to animal related images and games (NFL, Atlanta Falcons, and others), our instinct for/with/about/within the consciousness inside the "otherness" that is - appearing through the animal kingdom, ... that “instinct” sings-by-being, a script that reads, in part:  “If it wasn’t for us, you naked as the day you were born ones, you ingrates would not have clothes.  We gave you that.  Us.  In the from-before-Dreamtime.  Why do moderns have so many problems with gifts from Nature, taken and received rightly?  A lack of Rites of Gratitude?  The Rite keeps us mindful.  What does an NFL Championship game watched on TV make us mindful of?” 

What other sacrifices has and is being made by the alien intelligence hanging out in dogs, who too choose to be our most intimate companions in love?  Dogs, who were elevated to esoteric importance, after being placed on a Tarot Card, or two.  Sometime ago, in the way back When, Neanderthal guys and gals, lived how?  We might guess that they killed “their” meat, skinned it, and never threw any parts away, because part of what lives, in intelligence that learns, is ... what?  Nothing is wasted.  Everything is useful.  It is so obviously all a “one-thing”, how could you take that “one-thingness” away and even see or hear? 

We didn’t kill meats.  They chose to die into us.  Flints and other “tools” is about making sure that nothing of the “gift” is wasted.  We - todays humans - becoming less and less hairy, need the consciously shared furs of others for warmth, as cycles of flood and glacier make the world ready for “What’s Fucking Next?!?”

Aboriginal Understanding, which is anthroposophy, younger and nearer the garden, thus appearing to modern esoterisists as “foreign”, still exists.  It is only One way of being human.  We have names: <priest, rabbi, coach, and the “just a dude down around the corner that fixes whatever falls apart>  and justly we concern ourselves whether these “advisers” are “good enough”, as we both need to trust each other with our hearts.  Or, like a lot of folks ... go it alone.  Which is impossible, but we are/do “feel” that rogue wave to stand alone, on occasion rather arduously.  Throw any dishes lately?  The phrase <been there done that> is spot on for that riddle.  Let’s move on.

As we lost our past-selves, it become necessary that some folk remember, and tell the stories.  In our modern Age, the truest story tellers tend to be associated with worlds like enlightened master (cultural East), great initiate (culture Center), and shaman (cultural West).

Does the shaman get too intoxicated, or sexual, or fat, - how does he live with the appetites us all have, even and most especially the appetite to judge .., stones, glass houses and all that.  So, lets go: What is a shaman?  Are you a shaman?  Can the Cat be a zen-shaman mixed magic arts surviver?  You know the one: the cat with nine lives.  If, as a minor supposition, we were to ask: “What isn’t Shaman?”  Would that be “zen-enough"?  Not to worry, doesn’t matter.

or<! ... "we” <hunger for the spirit>, and get together in groups and celebrate silly, Awesome, goofy, Outrageous, wannabe magical ceremonies of risk, and strife, while collective human social life needs Ceremonies of Catharsis [[[ a gang-banger’s final admission price: a senseless murder ]]], that functions like a social steam valve, letting go of <not-wanting-to-be-contained> energies all week long we had to hold in, whenever we were anywhere but Home, Or the Joke in which we all play a role: Away - Flying The Daily Grind, Dancing and Wearing Masks.

so, everyone goes to church on their Sabbath in quite different celebratory Ways, c.f. the Rite of Tailgate Parties before “sporting” events, where we come to watch playing at war, with all the obvious psycho-babble cliches involved, worshiping competition, and ourselves joining the Greek chorus of screaming “fans”

or we could go home, settle-in stoned indica style and sensate. maybe even get “trumped” - but just in cards, not life, please.

In any personal “trip”, meaning: <as in related to being self-or otherwize tripped, fall down, go boom”, or similar in-kind shared travails> -- the various social-inflammations usually burn brightest for a while, a kind of drug rush, which is the gate into transcendence of anyone who uses the sacrifices of intoxicating substances -- just remember, some folks want to go down, not up.   Meanwhile, <Bird, resting> asks: Why is just a wafer and some wine a thing?  Are not all exchanges of words an Eucharist?  Writer’s-ritual intrudes:

the page resists, but ... does that page block the writer, who has writer’s bloc?  That gloriously fair and non-judgmental, white void, unknown, space by letter by space by letter, touched by hands caressing a keyboard ... keyboard - what a shoddy name for such a treat.  The engineer named it ... obviously.  Still, a seriously beautiful artifact, needing a hint of poetry, ... thee, a volunteer materially manifested me’s in arcane associations, used as a wonderful aspect of the whole instrument of Cyberspace> to enable us to be boss of the dance on the screen; and, its partner a mouse (how f’n cute is that?).  A dance party flowing from our mind through our hands, commanding powers often previously imagined, and singing of different ideas and needs, all fit neatly together.  Okay, see if you can follow this:

God made Us.  This main time-loop is colored with too much everything - Excess by any other name.  We made the Excess with the Gifts God Gave US, including the right to tell him/her/it to go fuck themselves, only to discover they moved in next door, and voted for hair-him.  I’ve done it many times, it seems a salient ritual for navigating troublesome seas.  Although ... always it rains more stories.  Did you know that writers sweep up unexpressed thought like a vacuum cleaner on steroids?  There are also, eddies and currents in the flood of ideas that insist, so Who can resist?

technology, like any loved sport-toy, has thorns, so we get this next techno-mare:

You’re a kid, and you are being trained in various degrees of digital dexterity, even - forbid - going to secretarial school one summer by Force of mother and Taught typing.

Then, well, in an hypnotic rush of change, the making of mechanical devices to do stuff with one’s and zero’s running by-by real fast, - cyberspace is real }}} What Isn’t Cyberspace? Sings “The” Matrix {{{.  E.G:

for a bit, you did first person shooter games, every chance you could.  Just getting to do that, was a hero’s journey that ended with getting paid to hang out with people flying drones and blowing shit up in real life, in the far far ranges of the world,,... all the while sitting inside an air-conditioned hut thousands of miles away in physical space, ... the first person shooter game took over foreign policy, but did anybody notice?  Meanwhile the shooter and his/her friends, themselves in the cross-hairs of moral riddles, find out the hard Way, that distance does not mean you didn’t just murder faceless-someones in technological-combat.  To the little -thems,  in the over-theres, you holding the stick of their fate, are Fate, albeit a very unjust and dangerous jinn-spirit of light in the Sky.  The real: Lord’s Prayer begins, by the Dude’s Sun-dude: Our Father in the Sky, not just religious poetry, no sir, but pure scientific observation.

I have a Daughter-Friend who poet-rides the collective imagination, and her <“see, I made a book”>-place, in the lairs of the maze of the electro-dungeons&dragons, is <here>   She’s proudly poor in the “screw it, art is more important sense”.

How good is she at this magical craft?  Well, the truth is in the pudding, so try a taste first of a book title <[ ~      “When You Can’t Scream   or  10 reasons why I smoke”       ~]>

Eldest Son, works here: .  He used to work for George Lucas, then got traded to Disney.  Drives the GGBridge most everyday - the City - Marin County loop - and walks the bridge on his birthday.  Weekends people pay him and his crew-mates to rock’n reggae stuff:   Literally, !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  folks can’t stay seated and must engage in a much needed Dionysian ceremony not much changed since darkest african dreams, celebrating the forces of the MOTHER-generation - or, you know: s.e.x.?y

Marin-SF, the film industry north, pulsating with computer powered shamans, working for mad dark lords, drunk on possibilities.  The “I could write an App” hopefuls doing new music, new drugs, and then finding themselves now in Trump-world.

Lawyers will be getting richer.  The wars already in cyber-space will spill over, a much much worse type of “pollution”, than oil spills.  At the moment, sloughed off on the News as this: blackhat hackers once more thieve from all of us, putting many billions of financial lives at risk, and does the NSA really have our porn tapes you sent by e-mail?   At least the Mother made the oil, ... we unmade the oil and “turned it” against ourselves, mostly bi-accident, a bit by stupid, but mostly, and a great Deal, because of the love of money.

Only a few living there, in the <SF-Bay Area social/cultural nexis>, will be actually understanding the real >there< that is there, although that >there< will certainly not be >here<.  In thrall to the darker visions of Quantum fantasies, they see the worlds surfaces, and hold-a-lurking-maybe that their minds are invaded by illusions/lies about the <“behind-world">.  They are told the world they experience is not real.  And even that any ideas they have of freedom and < me, you, selfness >, is an illusion of stuff,.. Stuff that came from no-where/when - ?who the f’ invented space and time? - and this miracle of stuff got >here< by accident.  From nothing to something, and here we are alone, illusions to our selves, and what same-“who the f’” turned my mind into a Games of Thrones over the Meaning of Life.

Hmm???? }“little-kid-Pointing”} How did they figure that out - the tiny, <not there thing> ideas?  Wasn’t the 18th Century natural philosopher, not so over-specialized, that he sometimes/often died of poison by salting with minerals, via tinctures/infusions, his honey-tea?  Ultimately, who do you experiment on but yourself?  What effect did too much “metals” in the air, have on their minds, in the long hours of laboring in small rooms, with poor ventilation.  Are the great ideas of the 18th and 19th Centuries, a result of our best minds poisoning themselves?  }}} visit> >>>

I went to School in that >there<'s  SF-Bay Area’s division of wizardry.  For real.  Marin-SF’s state of mind, is layers of culture, the next successful impossible one, may or may not be, in relationship to a real Nero fiddling.  Artists are dangerous.  Artists with a lot of money, are even more dangerous.  We’ve just seen what a con-Artist can do.  Berkeley was a place were if you went looking for magic and magicians you did not have to go far.  Sometimes just around a corner, foolishly.

 <I carry this in my wallet - the physical one as well as the invisible mental one, but I like to have the talisman there, among the other real and/or plastic talismans resting in wallet-land.  “Assent, and you are sane; demure; - you're straightway dangerous, and handled with a chain.” Emily Dickenson.

The 1960‘s;;;;   American blood was being spilled in foreign lands.  King Arthur and Camelot pass into the mists.  1967: The Summer of Love; 1969: Woodstock.  The 1960‘s met and conquered a load of crap; and still: Got stoned, made love not war, a huge Dionysian/intoxication festival throughout all Worlds, of “we can change the world” strife, fought in the war zones of Free Speech and Civil Rights, riding an explosion of music, films, and drugs. 

The constant change-tsunami of Events ... take a deep breath ... we’re back to the future, in a Way similar to having your back forced against a wall ... All the same, its somebody else’s turn to change the world, ... this stoner’s retired. 

]]] Did leave some artistically formated Cliff Notes, though:  “The Rising of the Sun in the Mind”: [[[