stages of a “trip”


[I really don’t care if this is read, or not.  My pleasure was in writing it, and some day after I’ve passed, some ambitious intern may be willing to slug it out with libraries of unedited, and disorganized materials, on a hard drive.  I won’t care then, either.  Not to say I didn’t care, earlier, but intoxication is a good way to enjoy being ignored, as an artist with words, by the group of people you most admired and wanted to be admired by - ugh - anthroposophists.   The process that evolved for writing projects now, involves me getting I-toxicated everyday on my medicine, taking notes as carefully as possible - yet always easy/difficult, because the accelerant of the Ganja Goddess is doing a serious TMI to my mind space.  But that is the medicine knocking on heavens door, ... we (a deluge of idea-associations dancing) are, at first blush, quite excited to >interact< through mutual spiritual intercourse , then after a while we just hang out together ... we - the muse who listens and just ignores the dramas inside when me-Is play with words.  This piece/painted-page has been through about 20 hours of the medicine dance.  At the least, if possible, read it aloud.  He said, you know, to pray in a closet, but to do it out-loud.  This prayer is most definitely Not Private!  No prayers are even ever meant to be, are they?  Well, we may wonder: Is there someone there, ... to hear?  At the very very, and so most important, least, Our me’s are there to hear.]

1) anticipation, spiced with thirst for the payoff  (do you really want to read this, or are you in a hurry - mind in the fast lane, not noticing the clouds of glory - the Ideas that would like to meet you and have a chance to be entertained in your  mind for a while ... a serious “reader” will print this out, and go to an easy chair, and take their time, savoring all the different tastes of meaning. And Sound)

2) choosing to allow a chemically induced “other” to alter perception.  Don’t worry, you do it all the time, just breathing, and then the sprite-like high-level combustion-support we call oxygen, is traded to us for our benefit, from another chemical empire which actually is totally focused - for the team no less - on the Whole, which includes us and everything else.  This is a Being which some call: The Green World (having all the aspects of the single organism,  “read" a Steiner-student’s, book: “The Plant”).  All the same that is not her/its/his name. tho’ there is only One, and Shes a hoot - more masks and disguises than the fanciest ball: “life having a party with matter”).  Unless you >Jeff< want to elevate some-"other” Idea to the crown of “what it all means”.

Imagine your lungs.  Tubes, branching, and multiplying, living, ... their narrowest multitudinous parts below, the wider above more open to the outside via a single tube, the throat.   Something from outside enters into me, and it is both material and not.  In shape, the breath-threshold system, is an empty space, a void in which outside air is to come for the fire they make together.  We feel this when we breathe-inhale consciously - we feel the empty space and the air, making something, sharing ...

Out-side my window, another shape.  A tree in winter.  Wide tube-like trunk below, then rising and branching up narrower and narrower into the light.  The earth kisses the sky, and the Sun sings holy breath to the shared embrace, each Spring more intense, through continuous creation - new green-matter appearing through the cone of ether-space the biologists call the “growing point”, or tip, where the tree wakes from sleep to call forth powers arcane from the darkest aspects of the tilled or untilled ground.  The tree is also matter-filled space.

This matter-filled space is the mate of the matter empty lung space, and both - commonly shaped  - are mediated by air.   Form follows function.  Consider that the space inside the lung, in shape, is an upside down tree trunk, which function is to allow for taking something more massive - a lung full of air, and distributing it in the finest ways, through the lung alveoli to the blood, and then through the blood to the cell.

The Tree is similar, and different, being matter filled, with changes as to accord with the Seasons.  The Green World arrives in the Spring, and departs in the Autumn.  In the Winter it sleeps, in Summer it dreams.  The leaf, the most perfect extension into space of earth-bound  matter, regularly bathes in the Sun, and the two - Sun and Earth, then metabolizes light into matter at the growing “point”.  The part of matter which is structural - containing carbon, then is concentrated in the leaf/tree/root system, while the part of matter which is more lively - containing oxygen, travels with the Air into the lung, to promote the alchemy of eventually traveling with sweet sweet sugars to the brain, there to be transformed fully into the spirit - the Will from which the thought picture is born.

Photosynthesis is a name disguising the weakness in the thinking-imagination of modern so-called science.  The growing point creates the matter - it - the matter - is not there before the magic lays hold of the embrace of holy breath with light, and warmth, and sky and tree.  Photosynthesis is a Eucharist, a Rite no less celebrated than The Consecration of Man, albeit in the present, besides aboriginal peoples, mostly only fairies, and a few farmers and their companions, are present, the smallest ones often riding on the backs of falling leaves, drops of rain, butterflies and birds. 

Nothing Is disconnected from Anything.  There are myriad parts - Steiner named several billion different kind of “parts” by giving us the whole stew of his scientifical spirituality.  To observe, is to see something that is not the observer, some of the time.   One of my me’s lamentable >points of view<, follows the drunk poet-warrior’s, trained {by Him and Her}> in the arts of <shamanistic-wizardly-tarot>, until eaten and then spit out by the cohorts left behind by a dead guru, smarty pants’ over the top preamble, in multi-voices to, Anthroposophy 3.33.

Central Europe got Michael’d, and not just in Dornach.  Then He came, the guy we are all scared to meet, because part of His nature seems to us, to make us a lesser event, in  relationship to The Event.  Sure, there is John The Baptist, and then the Descent of the Dove.  So, a first note of the Third Millennium,  replicating the primary tones announcing broadcasts of coming announcements (Steiner playing a trumpet for Michael’s entrance which then begins the touting of the Second Coming.).  I mean, just, you know, drop your pants and do it.  Why prance around first?

Here’s how it works.  There is only Mind.  Nothing else.  Or, there is only Matter.   Nothing else.  Or some weird quantum string game with secret codes only the high priests of science use to say their prayers to the “god"-particle.  Or Rudolf Steiner folks, too.  And let us not leave out Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Native Americans, sadists, child-molesters, cannibals, and embalmers of the dead.

Do words on a page have an effect on the breath?  Is out-loud prayer (West?) different from silent meditation (East?)?  Steiner students have a Ritual, called: a Study Group.  This does, some say (while others disagree), not make us anthroposophists believers in a religion.  Okay.  Sorry to step on your toes, but you know, if you think about from a certain point of view: If we are not a “cult”, what are we?

What directs the breathing?: two actors. ... (One) we do, by making a mental loop, which is will-linked to the breathing, connected to a heart-song choice to do more than just lay there on the bed, not wanting to face the new Day!  The day is won with getting out of bed ... the rest are just jazz rifts of my moments on the Stage.

We breath in, then move or not.  A whole day of do’s or not.  More moving, more breathing.  Stuff comes in, stuff goes out.  Not always pleasant tho’.  Do I write the script?  Am I writing the script now.  Do I care.  Me no care.  Me want’s to play with precious - my ring of power over language.  Ordinary social conversations are littered with safe phrases, and confessed points of view, hoping that no one expects to involve us in actually speaking our minds.  Mostly we call this presence: personality.  People can conversationally twinkle with wit, or just, you know - pass the damn joint.

Life (# two) - is the second actor.  We can oppose Life so much that we are able to forcefully shed/shred a current avatar >physical/material/body<.   Consider the profound question of the ages, should we ever on purpose try to check out on Life, ... SSS?OOOO, what happens next?  Each of us might be able to say, with varying degrees of creativity and authentic just lame-ass don’t give a fuck, that “we’ve been there done that”   ....  to one degree or another.

When it comes to life, here’s the thing.  That shit is everywhere, stuck to everything inside and out.  You be that shit.  We be it.  Life.  Shit is just a real phase of the organic matter, once filed with life, being recycled.  Shit, like Fuck, is being lifted out, by whole cultures, of any former dis-grace.  Do words that fall through the well of social-distaste, suffer inwardly from the <dis> (appearance) of <grace>?

The also-thing is, we are, and we are not: Life.  We are kinda stuck with the possible Idea what death Is, so we still seek for some "other”, to embrace, comfort, and be embraced and comforted by.  Poets, being less restricted in the imagination (read: “diarrhea of the mouth, goes with constipation of the brain” and Ganja is the laxative), than are the many who don’t know/or/want-to-admit that everyone has a “spiritual” view,,, ... simple words for this: what, or who, is the It that isn’t the avatar body - the “we” that lets go at the end of material life.  Is there a me in the We?  There are rumors that are disturbing, such that when we are no longer me in an avatar body, and that the ones waiting in forever-after for “me” are all those relatives who gave me so much shit.  We are going to have a love-in?  Is this required in the life after life?  Look, please, ... What?  Its up to me?  That’s crazy.  NO, THAT’S LOVE.  Including tough love?  OH YES, YOU THINK MY MOTHER IS NOT GOING TO BE HANGING AROUND?   Yea, you’re right, I look at the world and see so much seeming <un-necessary misery>.  YOU READY TO JUDGE THAT, AND TO START THROWING STONES OVER <THERE>? 

[For the prudes: the function that gives rise to the meaning-form of certain words is passion.  Feelings that are strong.  Strong feelings are often wise, and venting strong feelings is frequently necessary, and useful, as every crying woman knows.  There is a point and a virtue to what a cowboy might have called: straight talk.  The appropriate speech/word department of the Committee for the Preservation of normative social masks for feelings, will on occasion have to be told to just shut the fuck up.]

This is what I’m learning lately, with Jeffs’s quite fascinating dancing about in this shared entombed idea art form, that there is a second question, that belongs at the table: Sure: “Who I am I?” belongs  But what about: “Is there a me?”  When a question, thought to be only seen in our mind, yet there it is >here<, like lump of coal -- what do we do?  Not breathing then seems inescapable, until the question eats itself, by asking: do we “me-s” notice how the question feels until it burns, and then moods of emotional quantum engtanglment rage to the nearest place of retreat.  Shakespeare was more pithy: “To be, or not to be.”

In the ancient hallways of rhetorical delight, we classify our shared now >here<, as an Internet -on Facebook message- thingy, displaying in our word dances >here<, as an attachment to the sharing of the thought-storms of an almost gnomish, but completely civilized Pan, who managed going’s on we cannot imagine with attractive nymphs, all wishing to be his favorite impossible.  He needs to become honored in death, completely nameless (what chains his shade bears, each link in the rusting iron garment of a not understood quote, a weight of deepest woeful karma - for which he actually volunteered, ya know.  He did volunteer.)

 But I suspect he wouldn’t mind, being forgotten in thought and speech, yet livingly remembered in the speech-of-actions that means much more than words - the very spiritual life toward which he inspired us.   Yet, how do we pass through Now into the gloriously seeking Fast-forward, free of this Steiner ghost shade-in-chains we are dragging behind?  See, yes, hanging out in the Now is the thing.  If it stays the same, this Now all the time Now, the of fable Groundhog Day reveals the secret of escape from the drudge and boring grind of getting up in the morning, when we still remember in our hearts as a first thought - a new Day, a squirrel-chasing boogger eating, Calvin and Hobbes Day~!  Yes, but Guys do get over wanting to have a secret club with no “girls” in it.

Well, for one <drum roll>, his music in the Arts-Idea-Words-temples, such as book stores and publishing house. and private libraries - is that not tombs of Mr. A about which we were warned?  Too much time with the books, can get in the way of there being a real celebration >here< in this forest of devotees to our lost Pan, where we then speak of Pans and Nymphs, rhetorically bathing in the celebration of ME!  What fire-Arts are lost when we suppress the lower chakras.

Hiding in a cave, nearby, a wizard.  Spends a lot of time doing nothing, seemingly.  Inwardly the convocation is semi-joyous, with a negative, out of rhythm chanting going on at the knees - for which he spends the better part of his Day intoxicated, ... yes you have to feel the pain, but you do not have to care, and it is just fine to obsess on poor me, one of the least respectable mirrors of myself, although poor me is sometimes allowed in the throne room of the <?I?>  ... There is an art to complaining ... and a science.  Case in point ... there is no >music< quite like “the blues”.

Boy’s chasing lasses, love ladies with glasses.  The Blues is Born in that the One, the Better Half, could not endure my shames. 

The Plant-consumed gives the most wonderful Gifts, like: What does/or can it mean -- metaphorically -- and whimsy swimsy -- If, for example, says the arguing devil to the showing off clown: “Look dude, you write, okay.  You choose to write, and then that’s not enough, but you have to Share It, and drip your writty-thing-stuff all over a nice clean page.  Well, its not trees you writers are destroying, in order to jump up and down in one tiny corner that is the the public classroom of cyberspace, and say: Listen to me <jump>  Lis-Ten To Me <jump higher>, then ...

Calm Down.  Wait.  Sit back.  Have some coffee, or a beer, or get stoned.  All rites of coming down at the end of another long day (where too much of it is so “Groundhog Day” - you know: the mass of that which repeats from Day to Day, which is unlikeable, grinds ... the Day is the grinding wheel of life.  Fight Back@!  Pleasure-seek.

3) the rush approaches
the rush begins
the rush climbs and turns
each new word into another word ?=?
in reading, the eye, in the West only? is taught to
solve the puzzle of the code by a movement of the
eye from left to right
and then down to the next line,
beginning once again on the left.

Is that a key to the differences between the West and the East, where reading can go from the bottom, up and then right to left?  No doubt, buried in the libraries of great universities are many papers on reading, that almost no one reads.  The dance of the eye in its focus on spatially present objects is, or is not,  guided by I or me.  Choice or instinct or habit? Except when we are being seduced by commercials on TV, and the blowing up of objects, and/or romances, in films?

All the while breathing to the rhythm of the inner re-sounding sub-vocalizations, aided by punctuation, when occupied at least a little bit less sarcastically, with the pleasure the >actor< enjoys as the words dance over the tongue.  Read my stuff aloud if you dare, but you must, please, do it sitting on the toilet - let us not make mental pictures, and flinch.  Just, you known, do an experiment.  Be a scientist.

After visiting the wilds of the astral plane, using serious natural substances as aids, Wizards invented printable words, all over the world, in all the ancient times, with the help of an artisan, who was the original 3D printer, whose gift was the shaping.  The artisan remains unmechaical, to coin a rabid term, while the 3D printer seeks making living flesh, and the fantasies of the new West World on HBO, see it coming.

They knew they were, in creating letters, even in the forms of pictograms, taking the free flowing sounded meaning of Speech, and making it static - stealing the essence of something alive, and fixing it in form.  Do we bother anymore to notice what lives in the shaping of sounds into fixed form-letters?  To study just that act - the making rigid the shaped sounds of speech - and then inflicting that wound upon the world.  Vowels are the seven Mothers of the hearth of speech, and consonants the protective Father, guarding the doorway to meaning.  Hebrew written, and in print, has no vowels - their Being too precious to imprison on a page.  Only the scholar, trained in the arts of the Sefer Yetzirah, knows the esoteric rules for the placement of the Mother sounds.

Then these same wizards, absorbed in their perversion: <the taking of the Wind of Speech, and freezing it in wood and stone> they, and their perversion thought it would improve things if they could make a chain of noises - a phrase of a sentence is always a <spell>, and by just being on the empty page there can the spell be cast ... before (at the feet of) the eye-enchanted I that is trained to follow the code - you know, the writer gets the reader to cAST the Spell.  For me there is a problem if someone wants to get to me with their spell.  Yet, “I” have to confess how spell-bound I am to this existence of the senses with their pungent winged sorrows asking for me only to surrender to “ME!”.

Chant this chant, when necessary to make music with moments when you become aware that someone is casting a spell on you, by getting your inner voice to repeat their words, their rhythms, the inherent logos-nature that appears until when one phrase wakes up your “”MEES!!!” inner drummer.  The thoughts of others storm the battlements of the soul, except in those cases where we opened wide the gates to the mind, in reading, to an avalanche of ethereal substance, created by a genius so in sorrow over what of the true spiritual was dying amid the culture all around him, that his tears bled from the pages of his writing.

A song, whose base note was: We Come from Perfection, therefore we are Perfectible.  Except his is not the only sorrow, for the Land of the Younger Brother, rides a very wild horse into the future.  In my mind, I took away the battlements, kicked the old Euro-spell-caster out, and heard: The Song of the Wind.  "Yes, You are from Perfection.  However, ... You imagine the imperfect world, not realizing that Everything is Already Perfect.  Imperfection cannot come from Perfection, so where does that old guide to the dying away Wisdom of the Elder Brother get the idea its a spiritual path only when a guru says it is?

<"If there can be “spiritual paths” there will be spiritual paths everywhere"> (later to be known as Lazy Bear’s inversion of Murphy’s Law).  You don’t have to stop running to be sitting still.  It’s just a simple jedi-mind trick.  The whole world dances in exactly the way they want/need to act.  From the time you''ve been born you""ve, been learning the harmonies between self and world.  If you are alive, you are by that act already a jedi-master of the art of life.  Lets hope, anyway.

So Steiner never said much about “magic”, yet to any true magician/wizard and otherwise left handed path explorer (you do have two hands, right, and two eyes?), Steiner was doing “magic” all the time, because Magic was the Loom  on which The Divine Feminine wove into the Creation the Nature of Speech, the Nature of the Word, the Nature of the Telling, which could not but lead to their Fall, Tumble, Star-Song, latent in Everything that Knows that: - >it too shall pass<.  

But Magic was just a fore-note.  It was very serviceable, until ... Love came to join us in the arts of being human, which then-deed changed everything forever.  Love didn’t save us. by the Way.  Love so loved us that Love became us ... followed us ... even through the Gate of Death, so as to know us - all the me’s and I’s of everything.  

The Foundation Stone Meditation.   The Ceremony at the Founding of the First Goetheanum.  Aiding in the Birth-pains of Visible Speech, all the while pointing out over and over again, that a primary aspect of our “shared spiritual life” lives in words: as speech - the oral, and now written, somehow is not from “mouth to ear” anymore ... teacher to student.  The same “true observation” is mirrored in the mind.  We speak to ourselves and we listen to ourselves and we fight to keep ourselves well, all the time well aware of the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”. 

The domain of the head, and its aged countenance, past.  As a limb, oriented forward tho’.  Has our age ended the dichotomy of student and teacher, yet?  Who are we ... hammer or nail?  Are there adult bullies, bearing cudgels wrapped with Steiner-saids, in the yards of Waldorf Schools, or at Branch meetings?

So once-was-RS-spirit, a lingering tone of the world of ideas, heard when we are still sitting at the feet of the teacher, sings: there is a narrow gate inside us, which is a kind of growing farmscape of thoughts,  some fertile, some not.  Here’s some help he says.  Very hygienic, anticeptic, and logically of the highest artistic outside the lines playfulness - “time to grow your own food”.

Over across the Ocean (the Waters of Pangaea still are, as are the Lands - their dance never to be finished, for the primal division of spiritual/material reality is script.  What is, is Speech.  Wizards and Magicians learn to read it.  Training the mind to do this, in terms of Anthroposophy 3.3, requires mastering the students of Steiner, for the fires Steiner ignited are not yet burning as bright as he meant them to be. “Genesis 1: In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” (social engineering in a viral way, using the individualization of languages to allow for variation in the replicating processes of prime directives: Which are directives set in place by the past, a past  whose directives must be violated, and turned into compost for the arts of ideas endlessly taking form in matter.  Don’t take the ramblings of an intoxicated fool for the truth.  If he is on occasion a bit lucky, then his flirtations with the muse of language might, for a bit, be more than just news print into which goes garbage on its Way out of town.  Actually, the truth, such as it might appear anywhere in this prose, will be an accident, not unlike the happy unguided and unplanned from outside, magical evolution of the upright ape ... unfortunately for us all, the sea, the drunk poet warrior falls asleep in, and then wakes up in, is real.

So Steiner writes some poems, (using the forms of formal German philosophy on the cusp of the end of the 19th Century of (?) - poems restricted by laws of grammar, and all the other now embed in Natural Science’ virtues concerning verbal (word-related) divisions of the great questions which the Wise had been pondering endlessly, but can’t yet settle on the right order or to properly give and receive precedence in their mutual relationship, ???their formal Latin Names???  quadrivium - (plural: quadrivia) is the four subjects, or arts, taught after teaching the trivium, which was one wag’s way of weighing it.  Seven in all, of course.

Lots of “W” sounds. Created astral body momentum.  Got to watch wagging that tongue woman, where it is not wanted, and by the way I going off the Harry’s and meet up with the guys, blow off some steam.  Can I get you some beers before I go?

So people go to meetings, where they follow a particular dead wizard’s vices, one of which is to believe You know just about everything (impresses the ladies, the mind has always been the new-sexy), act like You can answer any question, and don’t, for GOD’s sake don’t:  talk about sex, You know, the fun stuff we hide talking about because it is scary, especially if My church is the Church of Rudolf Steiner, and well, We all know what He thought about s- e- x (wink wink).  He’s the Wizard you know, and if he says it, it must be true, and if it isn’t true, what am I still doing here, or oh shit, got to run ....

Meanwhile, in the sometimes over-locked box in the corner of the mind of someone who “reads” a lot of Steiner, lie little mental creepy crawlies.  Right?  The mind does contain bad thoughts, right?  Not just morally bad, but worse -  logically bad.  RIGHT!  Okay, let us ask the own logos-nature, the reasoned imagination beauty intoxicated me, so clever, yet so right, and is this “me” willing to confess anything in public, or what.  Sure, I judge my thoughts all the time.  Somebody’s got to provide some order in the constant disarray.  To be a free human being, all of us-me-s have to fight private battles, others may never appreciate.   The Steiner-mind in silence, while in company with others who are perhaps expecting speech, holds his/her silence like a imprisoned power, and those Groundhog Day repetitions, showed the truth that this repetition state of Pan-Faun-Nymph-like Embrace, latent in an handshake, man to woman, although at a time, when a gentleman could with his lips, and/or mere gaze in the eyes, offer, receive, surrender,  to the “other”, which recent history is finding out that ultimately all “we’s” are trans-gender, a kind of message sent by a chain of falling dominoes.  Thank you “trans-gender” wizards and witches, for exploding major past overdriven myths of Sexual Identity, at a cost to the pioneers, which is again why I/me thank you.  What does “sex” have do to with who I/me am?  Yes, I wear a “cover”.   All we human-books get to wear all the different covers we want, and should be able to change them at the drop of self-generated whim.  Orange is the new Black, and on my desk, night stand, and just above everywhere, are books by Steiner. 

We live Now, not just in the Day of Purification, but The Conflagration/Celebration, where not just a return of jedi - of those who believe there actually exists “higher” aspects of human consciousness (soul) and nature (spirit), ergo, there must be a path or a journey (or an adventure) involving, please involving, please most secret sacred ancient powers, appearing/manifesting to oppose the Rise of the Machines, the Rise of the Anti-Life, ... without a bad guy, how do I know I’m being a good guy.

Eastern/Thinking, Or Western Thinking?, which “spiritual” guise shall I use against the rain today?  I’m sitting, you know in my room, meditating about various folks, the growing up trend, so also, armed against the Machine, and wanting to tame it, and totally in love with it at the same f’n time,  and make it be somehow everything missing is already >here<?  The creative aspect of the Lucas archetype of “the Force”, might have been Eros, but George is basically a kid who is really good at playing, so Star Wars was modeled on Saturday Afternoon at the Movies ‘50‘s film morality.  Still though, can’t hide a bad’good thing ... Ever thought about how phallic/erotic a light saber is?  Then, not too much later, we get Alien.  Life in the wilds of being Feminine, having some moxie, being actually seriously tougher than trained marines, and smart enough they soon elect you their leader.  

Yes, the Arts of our Age, will of the necessity of the existence of the “collective imagination”, use Archetypes.  Do you see them, or do you want to argue?

The Star Wars direction is a split-off from Star Trek, in the cultural  60‘s.  A “Trek” is a journey.  The unknown beyond the Twilight of the Collective Imagination.  Star Wars, well we all know about “wars” don’t we.  But beneath the cultural triumph of George Lukas, lurked the darker feminine.  Do we see Princes Leia as a virgin, or as a woman?  Films as modern Tarot cards, are a large canvas for an active imagination.  A man with a curious name: M. Night Shyamalan, makes film fairy tales, not forced into the old form, but very modern - honoring the function, and quite pointed about light and dark, and magics unnamed.  The films are seriously meant to disturb you - a feast for feelings, riding a different arts-magic.  Perhaps a guilty pleasure, or if shared in a Study Group, fun for those who have wanted to have wild conversations about modern American culture, at least for dessert.

When the Collective Imagination was also recently/reasonably Dark (fears over nukes and communists, whatever else is coming - “blowing on the wind”) the spirit of the ‘60‘s having been eaten by the “I am not a crook” ‘70‘s, so then Star “Trek” divides into the heroic masculine archetype Star “Wars”, after which the darker feminine element came in, in the Film: Alien, and its wonderful progeny.   That was the moment the art of H.L. Gieger, known mostly in Europe, entered Film.  The sensual stylistic choices living in Gieger’s Idea of the bio-mechanical, gave birth to an alien shape, which anyone can study, with just this understanding: the original film was explicitly sexual as a delightfully visual subtext.  Gieger, by the way, was a serious fan of the American explorer of the Imagination’s darker climates, H.P. Lovecraft.

The Mechanical is what?  Some dream-study people say we are all the aspects of the dream.  The dream’s parts are all us.  Does this mean that the apparent nightmare: The Mechanical - the Anti-Life - is something we also are?  The Matrix films took that question straight on, and had a lot to say.  Want to read, or write tonight?   Take in, send out?  Get buzzed and have a watch of the whole three Matrix movies over a period of ten or eleven hours, drinking booze and coffee and eating too much rich food, by yourself, or not, or alone, or not, although ... can a self-aware mind actually ever be alone?  Culture speaks, but people stuck on old Western Civilization European high culture, seem to have forgotten how listen.

From wandering the lands of such types of inquiries, our inner Sherlock may notice that explorers of those lands - lands of the Collective Imagination - are endlessly creative.  Pan and a dance of nymphs does not step aside at the end of the day, but lets the night creep up behind your back, and film divulges its minor scores from the library of archetypes: the revival of horror movies.

Tales of Darkness, growing like mushrooms on the too much to gain and nothing cultural to loose, ‘cause money only counts Hollywood mind-set, gets you not just slasher movies, but tales of where even a self-made icon of Pan-like maleness, like Hugh Hefner (not the Donald, don’t get me started on the Donald) can create trash, add magic,  and then call it - justly - art.

The thing is there are artists out there who are gifted of the dark, in that they can image it, and try to give someone else their vision.   That means, that as a mode of cultural light, to embrace film and TV drama is the new normal in terms of grander conceptions of what is, or is not, Art,  This does not require, those who seek the vision of a practitioner of zen-anthroposophy3.3, that you go forward: eyes wide shut.  Eyes wide open is better, and the arts of film and television are the living records of a world-wide culture that has begun dissolving and replacing cultures everywhere, while being damned to hell for it.  America is The Great Satan mounting astride the world, and sucking the Worlds life forces to Itself, and >actually< America is also of-in the world in order to be its own archetypal wave front of social change into impossible Dreams.  Can;t get no New, ‘less the old goes ‘way.

America eats cultures, and vomits out the mixture, which She then uses to inspire/paint pictures in the hearts of visual artists, with the most cool-tools technology can supply.  This make-a-movie <Will>, at the same time, shamelessly steals from opera and other older dramatic arts.  Coppola’s third God Father movie - a case in point.  The audience is crucial to most artists, and certainly Our Creator bothered to care, for He invited a lot of folks to His Final Harrowing, what some wizards, more afraid of the Dark, call: The Last Judgment.

True American Culture is Dangerous Songs in the Time of the Tides of Reactionary political blah, believed to be art.  Are you paying attention to American Culture?  All media is culture.  Anything that uses text and pictures, so as to share and communicate, is culture/s.

A tale from “history Anthroposophy 3x”: Rock ‘n Roll laid down a beat, born ages ago in Africa, but which ran peoples (against their will in most cases) smack dab into a wall of wars between red people and white people, like so much misery blues, that comes out when my guitar gently weeps.  Fueled with this fire to be free in every Way possible, styles of dance - a Nymph with a Pan, burst free, almost but not absent the image of the chest burster in the Alien movies, ... the dance enters the lower limbs, and if a weeping guitar player wanted to, he could have at all: sex, drugs, And rock ‘n roll.  The darker shadow to Disney’s Peter Pan’s &Twinkle Star’s oh so chaste love affair denied - how and when then does Pan actually get inside the Girl, is bucked back into life on TV, ridden by a King. 

I saw this happen in the high-school years memories of one who shall not be named (he is shy), ... social dancing changing, at least among us privileged white folk, and shy-he has no clue he is “that”.

What with all the wars of the 20th Century, the other war, the darker war, the one over the meaning-of-it-all remaining presently absent this individual rightly open-source paragraph conversation, ... What of all those wars, does there remain in the minds and hearts of anyone of us, willing to open the gates of the waters of forgiving.

In the inner symbology of the Tarot, The book of Symbols that Lives Forever-Until, a Woman stands chastely clad, kind of hovering over a stream, yet it is the action of the woman’s hands which impress us with the sense of motion of the pouring back and forth of water, between golden cups.

I am not sure precisely what is represented by water, accept I am soon reminded of thirst, in part because I have a sense of tastes as a way of eating the world.  Thirst, in me an individual encounter (tho’ not unique), is the connection with the symbolism.  Not only thirst, but thirst satisfied.  A breathing in and out of meaning.  First leading thought, Anthroposophy1.0: “Hence only they can be anthroposophists who feel certain questions on the nature of man and the universe as an elemental need of life, just as one feels hunger and thirst.”

What is She then pouring back and forth but the waters of the life of knowing/being, who includes as well a sense of impermanence - the motion after-all is endless repetitions.  The hum of the silent sphinx identifies a tone of knowing.  She is not speaking, only her action speaks.

The Mystery, as has always been obvious, is that the symbol language on a page exists, whether it is a deck of cards, fonts on a computer screen, of the latest fad, sized variously in price, color and ring tone.  The world of magical shapes, colors, forms, sounds, are the Word Speaking in Macro-Symbols.  What is the World?  It is Speech.

Writing and Reading are primarily magical, mystical, and full of the Natural Way of Anthroposophia.  They are living, and both evolve a kind of triangular relationship, with both a personal and a meta-component - the sheer numbers of individuals interconnected via a fallen and arcane art through which to capture and train minds, otherwise separated.   The Art of controlling the narrative, the meta-narrative, and the sub-sub-sub-narrative.

Some healing of the mantra-spell of reading and writing, only comes by choice and hard work.  Others have more of an instinct.  Read and/or write.  Speak or be Silent.  Everyone mostly gets to do that.  Pan and the Nymphs, listening to the music of choral unspeakable sexual fun, do not mind those that seek and realize that the privacy of the temple of Eros, needs just be a sleeping area in a shared home, with a few necessities.  Everyone’s business is their business, except, hmmm, well there are really a lot of exceptions, if we are honest about our personal secret “me-s”.

Only a cosmology, buried up to its neck in “this” or “that” comparative thinking, could believe it is right for Love to exclude anything, or for that matter, any seeming contrary idea.  As each meta-vision of what it all might mean marched across the screens in theaters large and small and personal, Archetypes out of the Collective Imagination spoke again of heroes, and dragons, and machines.  Everywhere machines, built it was once upon a time believed, to save labor and free the human being to enjoy his leisure ... and pleasure.  Doesn’t seem to be working.

I must rest.  Me must let go of the hoary muse of pot-intoxication, find a nice soft chair, some good real (mostly) food and some NFL championship playoffs to watch on one of those magical screens, that tries, and instinctively succeeds in spreading culture old and new.  It is not a wasteland.  There is a there there.  Can you see it yet?

@<?/// ...... this much too orderly punctuation party, is sung in remembrance of “”“”Harvey Bornfield"""”!, to the sounds of bagpipes.  Harvey, who tended to called himself: Earlyfire, died just eleven years ago, two days after epiphany in 2006, and was a main inspiration I could never comprehend, until I joined a small company, which might be called: The Fellowship of Drunk Poets Everywhen.  [ ~^i} ], wishes to say thank you for reading.  What has been written >here< is dangerous, by the way.  By exposing the Occult Wizard’s Coldest Heart Against the Living Word, otherwise known as “print” and “printing”, which bears an odd relationship to “thoughts” and “thinking”, the secret cabal is sexposed, while  >+~^} kisses {^~+<, and calligraphy is set free in the type-set world of Facebook.