Thursday, 11 December 2014



She asked me, what is the worst thing i have ever done. I asked, the worst action i did, the worst experience i lived through, the least moral choice i made, what do you mean by that? She told me that i know what she means. I asked her if the war hero, the veteran with medals from the queen for honor in battle, for service to his country, is he a good man? She agreed, he is. I asked her if the blood of innocent children on his hands is a good deed, for he confessed to me that the enemy he fought are the child soldiers who are avenging the murder of their peasant families by western dictatorship. She agreed that is a crime. I question her morality system and on this basis i refuse to tell her the things i have done by which she will judge me. I asked her if judging someone from a position that is known to be twisted and hypocritical is a valid way of understanding a person. She could not answer, her mouth was so hard. Eventually she wiped away a tear and explained to me that she had been willing to forgive me anything because of her love for me. I told her that she may love me now but how could i, a survivor, know she would not twist it and use it against me some later time. She asked me why am i being too hard on her? And i told her, because if you dont harden up you cant cope with the experiences which i have been both punished and forgiven by myself and by the gods, for having been caught up in. She asked me again, what did i do?

This, really, is where the story begins.
What it takes to touch a unicorn is purity, and only once grounded to the world of substance can a unicorn be harmed. Their magick is their purity and their purity is fragile. The same is true of angels. I am neither a unicorn nor an angel though compared with many i am both. But i have something, something i won long ago, believing it would help me to become more pure than i was. And perhaps it has. I was one of the unicorn hunters, trained by them. Though i left and went my own way. What i have is a feather plucked from the wing of an angel. A real one; not one of these people who live such a way that others call them angels without really believing such a mighty thing could exist. Let me explain this to you and heed it well; angels are a pain in the arse. They are not good for humans, for the simple reason that their control the fabric of the world around them, much like a unicorn does with its heart hardwired to its mind. Angels hearts are wired to their wings.
You would think it to be white but it is not, it is golden in colour and glows only when the sunlight flows through it, just so. The angel did not drop the feather as they are reputed to, by way of a blessing. I plucked this one from it and it caused the creature pain. Angels claim to serve their god but they don't, or if they do, its not a god working for the best interests of humans. They think they do but they are incapable of offering us free choice and for humans, free choice is what gives us our power. Its not black vs white choices either, good vs evil. Its not even one vs the other. Simply to have choice in life rather than to be controlled by fates. The angels hardwire grid lines, make destinies which conform to their own selfish needs. And we humans fall into them, believing on the angels ego that to do so is better than to not do so.
On this basis angels are enemies of human evolution, and this is the justification by which i attracted one toward me, and took only one of its feathers before releasing it. The paradigm believed by the angel cannot accept my stance, my perception, i fall outside of the grid it projects onto the world to understand it by. It being a compassionate creature does not see me as an enemy. I could have killed it and still may yet do so, for with this feather i have a link directly back to the heart of the angel itself. 
I use it for several purposes. I have inserted a nib so that i can use dip ink and write with it in the ancient way, empowering the words. The feather heals itself after every time i pluck the nib from it, the feather cannot be muddied. 

continues at: Chapter One

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Harlequin Eldar

Eldar Warlock

the Harlequin Eldar

"Harlequins are a unique subset of the Eldar race, who split their time between being talented battlefield fighters and theatrical performers. They exist outside of normal Eldar society and hold no allegiance to any Craftworld, Kabal, or other form of authority other than to their own belief in the Eldar deity Cegorach, the Laughing God.”

The Rogue Trader universe (later became Warhammer 40K) done properly is stylistically a medieval universe replete with knights, castles, heraldry and overrun by demons. It owes a lot to Tolkien. Essentially the Games Workshop put Tolkiens races in space and gave them sci-fi weapons and technology. They mixed it up with Hermetic symbolism and of course with war - or as the Space Orks call it, WAAARGH! I love Space Orks. Their attitude, culture for want of a better word, and adobe dwellings, they ethos of recycling everything to see how many components can be removed while it still works, to use the items on other ‘projects’; simplification and experimentation.

by lAutio on deviantArt
But mostly I love the Eldar. These are Space Elves. Their ornate, soul-jewel encrusted body adornment, flamboyant fashion styles, slender agile bodies, their runic script and the organic nature of their craft worlds, does it for me. Obviously as a young teenager the sexiness of the imagery in the study drawings was an attractively powerful impact. Of the Eldar, mostly I love the Farseer (which is a purer translation of the Aegyptian word Pharaoh than is ‘king’, it means 'sorcerer') and Aspect Warriors whose life cycles are epitomised by living and breathing all things pertaining to that particular aspect (of life), they are totemic, shamanic. Their heraldry is astropathic. 

But mostly I love the Harlequin Dancers. They dance the dance of death. They worship it. For them, it is being alive. They perfect this study obsessively. Of the Harlequin, mostly I love the gothic Death Jesters, and of the Harlequin, mostly I love the Solitaires.

                     “Some dance with the troupe, others dance alone.”

So, obviously, I usually got to play a Harlequin, Death Jester - Solitaire. The character progressed until I was outcaste; both for taking my role as Slaanesh the demon of lust too far in our meta-theatre, and for changing my study to Tzeench the chaos god of magick, which notably affected the whole of my troupe. A limited amount of hedonism is permissible, including instigating the group tau as a sensual relief from war and from the multi-faceted roles we must play. Yet to break through into magickal realms was something few even amongst the much older and specialist castes could cope with nor had seen. I insist it to be natural mythepoesis and signifier that I was ready to assume the next cycle of my life journey. At my hearing, I insulted the Eldar as decadent and ignorant of the true and hidden meanings encoded into the Tau, that their failing to recognise myself as cultivating ability beyond their own was a mark against us all and a talon of the Fall. The extant Warlock did not like competition from one so young and still too close to Slaanesh.  So they banished me.

SLA steal ideas and sue the fans
Had things progressed naturally, I would have taken up the inherent hinted suggestions that I pursue alone the Black Library, a craft world where all the secret studies of the Eldar into the  Chaos. 

We just did not know enough about it; GW had not developed and published the Eldar to such extent and between us all we could to afford to pursue it, our pocket money went toward more mature, darker role-play games, White Wolfs Vampire, Wraith, Werewolf, Mage and Changeling (the one from the original pentacle I never had a copy of); 

Meteropolis Games cabala-based Kult rpg ("which explores the dark side of the human soul; some may find this disturbing.”); Nightfall games early 80s inspired dystopian SLA Industries.

by Frik111 on deviantArt
Eldar Harlequin technology is epitomized by two major foci: the Harlequins Kiss, a mono-filament whip that turns its targets innards to slush, evidently the danger factor of these weapons shows how much focus and concentration is required and quite specifically what the Solitaire is dancing with, surrounding itself with an invisible deadly flail that could so easily suicide itself more than any opponent. 
I later bought fire-poi and similar devices to dance with and my respect for the skill of the Harlequins grew immensely. The second is not for the Aspect Warriors nor Harlequins specifically, it is a more advanced progression of the Eldar cycles, belonging to the psychotropic Farseer, Wych and Warlocks; the Faceless mask called an Agaith. It is a direct allusion to the Face Dancers of Frank Herbert’s Dune (the latter books of the sextet).

by Metroplex7
The Eldar build out of living Wraithbone, the spirits of their ancestors remaining accessible and flowing through the stuff. I do not know if GW had intended it as sexual symbology of the body-memory of sex after the event. The Dance, the Dance of Life and Death, describes use of sex and orgone energy to attract spirits toward and around the copulation, it is a step toward harnessing and developing the spiritism abilities promised by the occult teachings of Thanateros (sex & death) which I was also introduced to at the same age and recognised references to throughout the Warhammer visual codex as much as it is in HR Giger’s art.

It worked multi-level on me which is evidence that I always had a multi-level mind capable of discerning and interpreting more than one level of meaning at the same time, living in split realities, different versions of the same thing, different relationships between cause and effect as the multiversal layers shifted, kaleidoscopic. To me, this was what a Harlequins garb was all about, what it refers to.

Death Jester by mattokenzi
The mono-filament cord became the kundalini, specifically the triple-coiled serpent of the base chakra, that which seeks, once tamed and trained, that which draws source energy up through the chakras; the rainbow fetish of standard Harlequins clothes revealed precisely for what they mean. Monofilament, deadly and sharp, concise; invisible as it is a stalker, a hunter predatory and it hides, protective, something so adept at avoiding detection it must therefore by necessity have become so. Later all this would make sense to me. Later, the ritual sex-magickal training of the Order of the Morning Star became a life passage, eros aspect (sexuality) of Thanateros, followed by the longer phase of thanos (death). Later I would understand the Chakra system as the Rainbow Feathered Serpent of the Maya and Re, the rainbow winged goddess of Egyptology. It requires spirit-work to know the whole interconnectedness; of how spire, orgone and Prana the life-flow, can be used in harmony with astrological mechanics to connect holistically to the external universe and its denizens. That is a big topic beyond the scope of this teething insight.

uploaded by Christopher Kay
As I think about this blog, I can see clearly that the concepts of Life and Death which connect both Thanateros with the Love and War Dance of the Harlequin, are also related to an ongoing study I have called 'Ishtar is Itza'; the Ways of the People (mayan 'Itza' means 'urban', the era which we are now entering) are the same thing as the Assyrian Goddess of Love, War and Fertility (Ishtar). It all interconnects; here we are exploring precisely the same themes through a variety of different but related paradigms. 

The Eldar worship a goddess called Isha (harvest), their co-creator along with the hunter Kurnuos. The names of these resonate through celtic and far-eastern cultures. It has taken me decades of study to assimilate the depth of this information, that the Wahammer / Eldar cosmology and pantheon are speaking about the same energies, the same entities, as were our ancestors. It is a living tradition; updated as a modern mythology.

Friday, 28 November 2014

Phat Art Pack

a dozen awesome artists whose work I have been feasting my senses on tonight.

(i will upload some pics to this blog when i get time to do it)

See also this: Art Links :for more artists


Thursday, 27 November 2014

Reptilian Mindset

Lessons in the Reptilian Mindset

hate anyone doing better than you,
scorn anyone doing less well than you,
compete for dominance with anyone perceived to be an equal
(using any unscrupulous tactics necessary - discreditation via a slander campaign usually does it)

Public image is more important than who you are on the inside. Public image is more important than who you are and how you act behind closed doors.

"This is who you are and this is what you must do and if you do anything outside of that or think for your self or do things your own way you will be punished, i will belittle you and degrade you and make you feel awful because you are my energy donor and my slave and i am in control, i will punish you if you so much as try to slip out of my influence, do you understand?”

The system is there to be exploited. The purpose of that is to exploit people from a position of assumed authority within the system. Exploitation by energy abuse. Connect with others operating the same agenda. Protect them until such time as necessary to expose them.

This informational bulletin does not represent the beliefs of the person posting it and should not be taken as lifestyle advice. People who act in such a way as outlined by the points above are scum and should be removed from your circle of influence, not only for your own protection but for the good of humanity. Reptilians are abusers. They are not your allies, they are not your friends, they are not your family even if they happen to be genetic relatives.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

No Talking

No Talking

"It is all over the day we hear each others voices"

Andy read the text message again in the window of his mobile phone.

He typed; "What do you mean? Who is this?", pressed Send.

It was a long moment to wait but Andy is a patient guy and chilled about stuff like this.

The phone pinged.

"When our eyes met in the bar, we both knew. I got your number. Meet me?"

He knew at once this was Amy, a cute girl he had seen and asked around about, had learned her name. She had slipped through his fingers and it had left him feeling down, but hopeful they might cross paths again.

"Where do you want to meet?"

"23c rue strasse. No voices. It ends when we hear each other talk. This is the rule."

For many months the people at 23a and 23b rue strasse were amazed to hear about their flatmates antics. The relationship was going amazingly well, surprisingly. Aside from intense intimate contact, sharing so much of themselves, observing so much about each other, they hardly made any noise together other than an occasional ecstatic gasp. The peace around them and the passion between them was profound.

The problem started when Andy, in his early days of figuring Amy out, wondered if this was some type of college experiment she was doing and was inspired to use the unusual quality of the relationship as thesis for his sociology coursework. Alone at his own place he kept audio notes in his mobile phone recorder, during which he discussed not only Amy and his feelings about her, what it was like being in a relationship with a no speaking rule; how they connected so deeply in ways and about things we do not even have words for. He also discussed it in relation to other aspects of sociology. Andy frequently scored the highest grades in his class.

The problem was not of Andys doing. It was not his fault that the envy of another student resulted in the theft of Andys mobile phone and the release of the entire semester of private recordings into the public domain over the internet. Neither was it Andy's fault that the work was so brilliant it went viral and within a week the media had picked upon it and were stalking him for interview.

Musicians were mixing samples of his voice into their music. Girls were making video blogs about how sexy his husky accent was. The television was playing excerpts on the news channels; panels of professional experts were discussing Andys theories and quoting him on eveningtime psychology programs. Later, his research was written - accredited - into the academic syllabus. He was offered jobs teaching all over the country.

Amy could not leave her room without hearing Andy's voice. It was driving her crazy. The one person she needed to see, to be with in their comfortable, secure, stability of a silent bubble, was the very person she had forbidden from ever seeing her again. They were both devastated. They did both eventually get over it.

Copyright 2014 snakeappletree

The Surge Part One

The Surge, Part One

Copyright snakeappletree 2014

The rationale goes like this:

Technology progresses. Science progresses. It is the nature of evolution to be progressive. Magick should progress. After all, we call this thing magick, it is all that is elevated to beyond normal status. It does not simply progress, it progresses magickally (for want of a more appropriate adjective).

It is not only the individual spellcasters ability and understanding of what it is he or she or it is dealing with, which develops. The thing itself is evolving.

"What," asked the wizard on the first day of the apprentices tuition, "is magick? You will be asking this question for the rest of your lives."

"I won't." Replied the smartarse kid. "It's magick sir, it will reveal its answer to me by lunchtime."
The wizard chuckled. Being a wizard, chuckling had become a necessity more than a defining characteristic.

The group regathered after lunch. "So, my girl." Naturally the smartarse kid is female. Women are known for being the more magickal of the genders. "Have you an answer to The Great Question?"
She smiled. Bare in mind that only the most gifted of children are approached and recruited to be students at the School of Magick. Everybody here has some level of their own personal and unique ability which sets them aside from the mundane and normal everyday folk who have forgotten that the whole world and everything in it is made of magick, that our very lives are the result of the polar forces of magick and waning, that very same entropic entity which lends its name to a magicians tool through which the magickal energies are bound into a focus and emitted.

"I had a think about it, and I felt about it, and I concluded that everything is about to get rather strange." Replied the girl. "I believe that I have tapped into something, you see. It occurred to me that if the Principle of Perpetual Entropy is correct..."

The wizard interrupted. "Could you kindly explain that theorum in simple terms for the newbies to digest?"

"Well, since everything is in a state of motion toward a state of balance, a state which can never be achieved because there are an odd number of motes in the universe and as they all change combinations trying to find their perfect balance, yet none can, and so they keep moving. This is the first law, the law of perpetuation. The second law is the law of entropy, that the process of their motion uses up energy however by combining themselves into different arrangements, these arrangements are responsible for the creation of new energy..."

"So it is a mechanical universe, like clockwork machines?" I asked.

"It seems so. There is a third law in addition to this. The law of flowing, and that is the magickal one. The combinations and energies, we call them essences, of the second law are more like gates through which energy flows by causing the more mundane things around it to vibrate, the vibration is unique to that particular combination of motes."

"And it is these essences, which flow as streams, that we harness for working our magick." The wizard interrupted her and finished her explaination. "Each individual has a connection with a particular spectrum of essences which defines his or her or its magickal ability. My young lady you most certainly are top of your class, I must say."

"You won't be saying that in a moment, i figured out a way to change the whole superstructure of it while you were eating your chocolate coated banana."

"Eh, what?"

"Watch this." She shut down the harmonizer with a snap of her fingers. Overhead, a crystal dimmed in its glow. With the schools magickal defenses deactivated, the grid emitted by the crystal no longer streamlined all of the wild energies surrounding the students and teachers, and the vast collection of enchanted items, collected together at the school. As soon as this happened, all of those energies began talking with one another; blending, merging, creating new forms. It is well known that when a lot of highly powered magickal items and people are gathered together that an event known as the Surge naturally occurs, which results in either one of two outcomes; the energy disperses, rendering the items mundane and disempowering the magicians in the area, an effect known as the waning; or there is a highly charged magickal storm, a vortex in which new combinations of magickal streams are created and earth themselves by creating mutated and bizzarre results, in an area surrounding the eye of the storm, the vortex itself. These objects enable their users to tap into previously unknown spectrums. The vortex will close itself once it has sucked up enough essence from the world into itself. There are legends that the worst of these surges leave behind an item known as a surge crystal, the qualities of which are undisclosed by those who are reputed to have them.

I have one. I have a surge crystal and that is the secret source of my magickal power. Without it I would be just like any other mundane normal person unable to perform acts of magick. So far, if any of the wizards, warlocks, witches, wyrds and wowflings I have met have recognised that i carry a surge crystal, they have not mentioned it. I seriously do not believe that it is detectable. I will tell you another time how I came to have it. At this moment, with a crazy girl shutting down the worlds heart crystal, the panic in the room was rising fast. Panic of course is itself an essence, an energy, to be harnessed by those who know how.

To be continued...

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Attention Snap

Attention Snap

They all play the same game.

Example; I am looking at the sideboard because I am about to make a cup of tea. I am looking to see where the kettle is and where my cup is. These are items I will need to touch with my hands and therefore i am looking to see where i need to tell my hands to go, and at the same time, to work out what order I should be doing this in. I need to switch the kettle on before I pick up the cup and add a teabag into it. These are all reflex motor skills, I need to do the visual check simply to make sure of where the items are in relation to where I am. This vague summary is an establishing view, a widescreen view. The scan of the area is a scattered Attention. My eyes focus in on the button on the kettle which turns it on (as i have already noticed it has enough water in it to make a cup of tea). I reach out to touch the button. This is the first time an observer can witness what I am doing and where the focus of my Attention is.

It is at this precise moment that the children (of whatever age) speak, usually sharply, to distract and divert my Attention. They do this because the scan and the act of coming into a focus puts my Attention energy into a focus, to be transferred to whatever it is on. By snapping my attention toward them, the kids harness that mote of energy. I have a choice whether to ignore them until i am ready (self respect) or to be diverted and turn my attention to them instead of finishing the act of pressing the button on the kettle. Originally when people snap our Attention to them at the last moment before contact, it is as a warning, such as they have noticed a danger which I have not. This is what we are programmed to respond to at a deeper level of reflex action than whatever act we have just had to summarize and come into focus to perform.

This is a trick used by so many people to gain a mote of energy that we are usually ignorant to it happening. When we continue with our act and touch the button on the kettle instead of diverting our attention to the person, they usually pause because their game has been broken. Often they will be upset and aggressive toward us. These people are children of whatever age and they should be treated as such. Recognizing that they are playing this Attention grabbing game, which is disrespectful of your own integrity, because they are using you as an energy donor, is the first step toward freeing ourself of an energy vampire. Training them that this is what they are doing and that they are to stop doing it is the best way to go about this. Some people do not even realize that they are doing it. Others will resent you for pointing it out to them. If they cannot learn, they are unwelcome in your space.

Monday, 17 November 2014

The Moire

The Moire

Please do not interpret the following in any way racist. I am trying to search language and its development. My interest is linguistic, not politics.

We have all heard the 'N' word to describe black people, which in some parts of the world is highly aggravational. I have heard some people say that only black people can use this word without it being offensive. It is a word that used to be harmless, originally it was harmless. There are several stories about how it has changed over the past few generations and I am not an expert on that. Apparently when slave owners started using the language of the slaves to describe the slaves, it became a dirty word and then the slaves started using it as a dirty word. Because of the taboo around using this word, it is difficult to know if that is accurate. It is likely that there are other levels of meaning for the word used by different groups. The media has had a big effect on what people think it means and how it is used.

Nobody has heard of the O word. Most you will assume that I am talking about oral pleasure. I am not. I am talking about another West African word which is a direct parallel to the N word. Ofay. Ofay is a word used by black skinned people to describe white skinned people.

Blonde is a word used to describe pale haired people while Brunette is a word to describe darker haired people. Neither of these are in any way insulting, they are descriptive, nothing more. My intention for using the words nigger and ofay are with the same purpose; descriptive, nothing more.

Ofay also spelled O'Fe, means 'white skinned'. According to the Urban dictionary it has been replaced by use of the terminology 'white devil' which indicates either that Ofay means the same as white devil, or that the people using these words changed their attitude toward white skinned people and therefore changed the word used to describe them. It is possible that this is also what happened with the N word.

It is apparent that in the past two hundred years, these words are a those of the language of racial tension that has come along with racial integration. We know the history that a minority of people made slaves of and decimated the cultures of other groups of people. We are trying to create a different social environment now and for the future which is based on equality and not prejudice.

From a historic point of view in observing social and cultural development, these are important words.

I discovered about the word O'Fe because I was researching Celtic / Irish terminology relating to the Fae, a word which means the Fayries, Elves, the quick-spirits; they do have a lot of names, their mutable nature as creatures of light. This was a side-line from my research into basic etymology, I am exploring the relationship between the word Male and Female, why the prefix Fe has been applied to the term Male ? Fe is the younger Futhark rune from nw European travelers, meaning ‘portable wealth’. It indicates ‘the exchange’ or ‘the transition’ of energy/goods to/from one form and another. Compare; Trae and Rae, Traders and Raiders (tree-workers and reed-lurkers).

The conclusion is that the darker skinned people looked at the lighter skinned people and used a word to describe them which was accurate to their world-view at the time, within the limitations of the language base and thereby assigning to them some quality of association with the appropriate terminology.

The O'Fe of west Africa and the Fae of Ireland both have connectivity. These are words from an older time, where sea-faring people who were not always warring and enslaving one another, ergo were trading with one another, which we certainly know people at that time were doing because the folk-legends and mythologies are full of stories about it; often describing mysterious foreigners with highly exaggerated poetic description.

Such a time as to our generation, befits the modern mythologies of a time before it all went bad for a few centuries, a time from before we began recording history and therefore the victorious conquerers re-wrote the real events to fit their own version, in which of course they portrayed themselves as the good guys. Those books are what we call the histories, where the human tradition of oral storytelling with all of its mythologizing is regarded as hearsay compared with what was written down on paper as an academic account. Neither is superior, they both have their place in our multi-culture as it fast becomes a monoculture.

Some of those books, stored for posterity in warehouses, somewhere in the world, are worth reading; if one can learn to translate them into modern interpretable words complete with notes on original meaning where words have changed their meanings. Such Preface and Appendixes are necessary as a part of the movement we will see occur in the 21st century as more and more old world information is made available through it being entered into the global communication database, the internet. It is a lot of information to assimilate and it will undermine the version of history that most of us were academically educated into believing. It will also provide a wealth of inspiration for the future generations.

For future generations where personal re-creation is available as never before possible, because of technology and what it makes available to us, this quintessentially human defining purpose has become internalized, lest it be lost as we we cease to be the dreaming of our ancestors. We become the dreaming of ourselves.

Sunday, 16 November 2014


Emerging Technology = Expressionist Liberation and Multi-Disciplinary Integration

'cyber art’

It is the same as critics said when photographic cameras came along; that it would be the death of art. Yet what happened was liberation. Instead of painting photorealism as historic record, the 20th century became expressive. Many new ideas emerged along with visual art and of course it fed back into photography and all the other creative outlets (music philosophy drama poetry literature etc).

Now with computers at the stage they are, more of the same. In a few years we will have holographic projectors and a few years after that we will have contact lenses with augmented cyber and reality. 90% of humans will be using that in normal daily life, paying premium to turn the adverts off, paying to keep the share-space free. Group digital hallucinations will integrate seamlessly with physical environment; touch operable holographic displays will integrate seamlessly between physical and digital. Along with the 3d printing machines there will be a fusion of all the different technologies.

Those of us involved in the process of dreaming can only imagine what this will do to art forms, with everything becoming interchangeable. How it affects humans will be evolutionary: we will apply the fluidity to ourselves and to each other, it will teach us to accept and overcome differences between genders, ages, nationalities, -ism’s.

We are really still at the beginning of that so far as cyber art is having an impact because most of it is still contained inside of the machine. We are in, and entering deeper into a Rennaissance period the scale of which humans have not encountered since we first learned how to harness fire, it really will have that big an impact. We are pioneering what will later become distinguished movements by which the 21st century will be categorised.

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

a pocket guru guide to buddhist basics

Get it from the horses mouth and weigh the truth yourself. This is nirvana, living in truth, based on satori, the moment of enlightenment (assessing the truth by your own integrity). Otherwise you exist in sansara, the confused / conditioned mind. Respectability comes from faith in ones own connection with instinct. Instinct never lies. Respectability comes from honesty, actions based on truth, not on lies. Reliance on rumor, gossip, slander, to build a world view and opinions, is false rhetoric. 

This is where translating the creed splits it into two discernable levels of meaning.

Being true to your own instinct is purity of intention. The word Prana has three translations / means; instinct, life-flow (ka), energy (chi). To use these words interchangeably is to develop understanding of the message intended by the creed.

In practicality only an ascetic could maintain that level of integrity. It is described as 'wild' (rousseau's 'noble savage') by civilized peoples. This is an amusing paradox. Compromise of integrity so as to function as a social organism and/or interact with environmental limitations becomes necessary. At this stage the pure creed becomes Taoism rather than Stricture.

This leads us to the other level of interpretation of the creed. It is about social conduct. The two definitions can be described in simple terms as; Honesty with others and Honesty with ourselves.

I saw while writing this that the word 'guru' is also sanskrit, from components;

Ru - speach / 'that which issues forth' / mouth / yoni / indicative of female principle (yin - flowing)

Gu - shaped clay / 'that which has been formed of the earth' / geo / hand-crafted / indicative of male principle (yang - assertation)

Both of these are in the active rather than past tense.

U - symbolizes 'receptacle for' 

A Haunted House

Living in a Haunted House

“Why are you in my space?” she asks with a hissizzle to the top right of my head.

“Its not your space, its my space.”
I reply, unsure if she means the building or the mind-space.
If we are sharing a telepathic link then she will hear it in her mind, me in mine, which only goes to show that Mind is not a personal thing but a place which anyone whose senses are functional is capable of accessing, a shared space.

We both think in similitude that the other one is broken.

“You are dead.”
I explain. Not for the first time.

“But I did not do anything wrong!” she exclaims in reply.

To my perceptions this is example of how she is broken.

I have not at this point attempted to see it from her point of view, which is my next step.

She has been floating around me today ever since I returned home with my four year old boy and heard her as I unlocked the front door, greedily think out loud; “Ah! Now I can feed.”

At which time I put frankincense oil on myself and on my son as a ward to protect us. He has just had a shower which means I need to put more of it on him, after he falls asleep because I have just put him to bed for the night. I have also lit some incense which various tradition s regard as either a ward or as food for the disembodied spirits. It is nag champa, it keeps going out so there are half-used nag champ sticks all around the house. It comes dry from the packet but two days later it is too damp to re-light it, which says a lot about the humidity at this time of year, autumn into winter, in south Wales where it rains most days.

I do not know if the spirit knows she is dead. Whenever I try to explain it to her, using varying degrees of tact or blatancy, she disappears. She does not yet want to come to terms with it. I have lived here for five years, this has been going on for at least that long. She was the owner of the house; she willed it to her four sons who are my landlords through an agent. The conditions of the will are that the house cannot be sold for four hundred years, it is to remain in their family. I can quit imagine she will still be in it in three hundred and ninety odd years from now. I really do not intend to stay here myself for that duration.

She cannot accept that she is dead because to her logic, she can only be dead as a result of her having done something wrong. She feels that I am pushing her out of her rightful space. I have had to struggle with her to assert myself as having a right to be here at all, as the dominant one in this relationship simply because I know the truth of it, that I am inhabiting a living body which exists in time while she has had her time and is now passed on but has for whatever reason, not passed over. It is this reason that I am trying to ascertain and reasoning with her is not easy.

She certainly is hostile toward other women who have lived here, namely my sons mother who has now moved on, largely due to the intervention of this old witch in our relationship. The crazy old ghost knows a lot of variations of the same tricks, essentially mental and emotional control. As an observer I am learning a lot from this experience.

It is different with men, she has a different attitude toward men. These old Welsh methodists are stubborn and ill equipped to deal with the reality of what happens after the body dies and the soul goes elsewhere. Most of the spirits I have given counselling to and helped to pass over in the past few decades of my life as an active spiritualist, they have been methodists because that is the era of history I am living in, several generations after that accursed religion was the main indoctrination of the culture in this part of the world. And it is wrong, which is why it left so many broken souls behind.

Like so many broken souls, she is like a child; frightened or tantrums or content and minding her own business, occasionally curious. These types of spirits do appear to feed on human energy; I can remember a little more of the doorstep conversation now.

“Well you are not feeding off me or my boy.”
I replied.

“It’s only a little bit.” She assured me.

“It is not yours though.”

No answer; I went straight for the frankincense.

The state of mind and perception, the energy-alignment, involved with mediumship is different from that which is required of normal conversational small-talk by the society of the living. I very often cannot communicate about my spiritual work simply because I forget about it when I am distracted by other peoples streams of consciousness. And yes, they are distractions rather than all-important, worth saying in the first place. Most real meaningful communication requires no words.

Often it is this distraction which alerts me to the spirits in the first place, in exactly the same way a spider in the center of its precision-balanced web is alerted to anything happening anyplace on its web. Those are not just pretty patterns, those webs are weights and counterweights. Spiders ears are in their knees; the web is an amplifier of its senses, very finely attuned to pick up vibrational changes in its environment. And spirits exist as vibrational changes. Spiders are aware multi-dimensionally.

Not much else is happening tonight so there is not really very much more of this anecdote to write about at this time. It is like this once a week, once a fortnight. I am aware of her moving about most days I am here, my being sensitive enough to pinpoint locate her when she is active. I have seen her and some other spirits, seeing them as orbs on quite a few occasions. There is spirit space here, the house is a portal. One spiritualist, a clairvoyant whereas I am clair-audient, saw her in human form. I have seen that a few times also, quite a few people have done who have visited this house. 

I am using the term spirit and soul interchangeably. Technically there is a difference, a spirit is a life-force energy of any nature while a soul is specifically a mammalian spectrum transmigratory spirit. It might include reptiles also but they are generally different enough that we cannot communicate with them in quite the same way, they are a different spectrum. Tree spirits appear closer to mammals than are reptiles because of their bonding nature. The same souls can incarnate into or inhabit bodies of different animals. Not all spirits are from the Darwinian evolutionary tree. We use generalisations for sake of an easy discourse.

I am considering that it is possible that the chronic fatigue syndrome I experience most days is a direct result of being fed on by ghosts. Exorcising them the pagan way involves counselling them, communicating with them, getting them to see reason that their time has passed, that they have to let go of mortal attachments in the buddhist sense, and move forward to their next life. Exorcising them the catholic way is not something I know much about although it does seem to me that most peoples idea of it involves a painful process of banishing them and sending them through purgatory. Purging is like forging, an alchemical process of transmutation of the soul through experiences. It is usually the fear of facing our own personal karma which causes us to be unable to let go of attachments.

I need to grid the house. The method for this is to build a structure with the imagination. 'Imagination is not imaginary’ is a phrase from the order of the golden dawn. The grid is to take the eight corners of the room and connect each corner one at a time to a point in the center of the room, and to see all of those links at the same time, and connect it, root it, to the center of the earth. Wherever the electromagnetic crystal core of the world is at that time, will affect every particle in the room and position it Now rather than it lagging in the past. I have to do this for every room and then for the whole building. I have to do this as regularly as I remember to do it. It detaches my vibrational existence, my time of dwelling here, to Now and unlinks it from the insistent past. It helps, it gives me the space I need to function.

She simply does not know how to approach me or the topic. It is easier for her to sleep for a while and then return when she is hungry again. The nostalgia of ghosts is a frustration for the living. We need to remember this when our time comes. It is fear of facing our karma that is attachment to the material density. Others can forgive us but until we can forgive ourselves, we cannot let go. It really is that simple.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Blood Plants and Darkness

Blood, Plants and Darkness

This is a teaching about Shamanism for Creatives, about tapping Life Source energy of god-like Deities and how to identify them and their nature. Proximity and Affinity with source flow are often sufficient to become a conduit of and for that flow. This blog is therefore about Environment and our role as (an interactive) part of it.

Intro: Colour Palettes

Throughout my life as an artist I have been aware of the following complimentary colour palettes: 

Blue/Black & Yellow/Gold (egyptian)

Red Green Black (mayan)

Sepia Crimson Cyan/Indigo (pacific)

Ocher Red-Ocher Burnt-Umber (australian aboriginal)

Lime Tan Grey 
(I have avoided studying this as it indicates Fading, weakening with Antiquity, Aged, Forget)

Black White Red (nyarlahotep)

When these colours become apparent, you know that you are dealing with the nature or spirit of the themes invoked by them. Tone is frequency, is waveform, and has its own inherent systems. It can be measured precisely by mathematics and by sensitive intuitive empathy.

By making associations of different, apparently unrelated items which nevertheless follow the same colour spectrum, we can identify them as being related from behind the scenes, connected in the subconscious sub-atomic flows governing this organic and living multiverse which our creativity taps into in a process of mythopoetic manifestation. These associated colour series describe or connect us with specific Deities, each of their own mood, persona, objectives and purpose. 

Cyber Jungle : Itza (Mayan) means 'Urban Ways'

Working recently with Asmita Duranja on NeoCyberCity* (our zones 'Sukavathi' & 'Wabi Sabi') a 3D build project in SecondLife. One of the inspirations I have been using for it is a movie called the Gene Generation. The imagery and feeling from this film connects very strongly with the imagery from the Followers of Set / Setite clan of Vampire: the Masquerade which I was discussing on another blog; This Is This : Sukhet is Tapir.

* contrast between the 1980s and 2010s views of the future are as stark as black and white.

20th century 'future urban architecture' : Silver/Gray, Black, Neon, Sepia 
(grime, dirge, dystopian, industrial) 

21st century 'future urban architecture' : White and Green 
(clean, fresh, utopian, post-industrial)

The purpose of this current blog is to compare these two sets of imagery, discerning pro's and cons of their belonging to the same universe, that they are different windows into the same spectrum and that they combine to emphasize and enhance the identification . The other themes involved with these two sources and how they compare will be used to develop further insight into the persona of this thing along with its more traditional roots. 

Gene Generation


I very much like the relationship between these two images; 
'girl and city', one representing the essence of the other; 
which is exactly what "Ishtar is Itza" is all about.

Perhaps it is that by reacting to her environment, 
she changes and is changed by her environment; 
if so then the environment is crafting her as much as she, it.

Demotown by Jesse Honsa and Gregory Mahoney

Here is a link to an amazing breathe of fresh air regarding deforestation and synthetic leafs.

Here is a link to a new material which can store oxygen for later release. 

Here is a link to the genius John Hutchinson who is pioneering a solution to radiation containment.

Copyright Images shared For Educational Purposes in accordance with International Fair Use Policy.



"Nothing is ever finished" Peter Robinson

sculptor, painter, teacher and occasional spirit guide

This is my main blog about a cyber build I am fortunate enough to have been invited to co-produce along with Asmita Duranja of Space4Art with thanks to Marian Evanier who is hosting my construction. There are also some related posts (see links at bottom of this article). This blog is mostly to showcase some chosen photo's which are part of the bulk upload on my flikr. 

During construction I was using one SecondLife Viewer settings. Following 'completion' if that is an appropriate term I changed to the Region Viewer settings chosen by Asmita; it totally altered the view and feel of our environment, blending together the black and white of the artists respective components through cyber-ephemeral silver-gray. The atmosphere is potent, brooding; evocative. You can feel the stories of lives being told, hear the sounds of the place echoing from the distance over a silver reflective river, the banks of which host a babel of towers and mystery.

The theme is oriental urban sci-fi.

From my time on this project has come a lot of inspiration, directions for further development; in my painting, my digital 3D and in my writing. Too much to contain in one blog.

I have a lot to thank Asmita Duranja for, in recognizing my potential and taking me on to work with her. She has proved herself to be a master; being an artist herself having awareness of the value of giving people space to develop and the tactful encouragement of gentle positive criticism. 

I also want to thank Jedda Zenovka who when I first arrived in SecondLife a year ago and had got the newbie buzz out of my system, dedicated her patience and time in teaching me the basics of uploading and texturing mesh. Jedda also works with sci-fi and ecological themes, fusing them together to create ecologies possible only because of the interactive digital art form that is virtual reality.

[images to follow]

The following links along with the imagery are to be taken as a trilogy of related writings.

Wabi Sabi - artists statement about my build

Flesh Dream - short story about life in NeoCyberCity

Prajnaparadha - "Crimes Against Wisdom" - short story exploring relation between inner turmoil and civic unrest


I lost the first part of this. It is possible still somewhere in my notes. Also I am unsatisfied with the end. I feel a need to publish it now simply to avoid forgetting about it. It is what it is.

"Prajnaparadha" (noun, Sanskrit) - "Crimes against Wisdom”

"There is a difference between making a written report to the next higher echelons in the system through appropriate channels, about misconduct of the lower echelons which is not being sorted out at that level due to the misconduct; and libel. The lower echelons responsible for the misconduct are in a situation where their response of attacking the whistleblower for making accusations against them is questionable in its appropriateness."

The newsreel complaining about the latest terrorist activity in this zone, more graffiti slogans. Whoever was doing it could somehow bypass the scanner-detectors. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time. The newsreel graciously reported the entire story, causing Sable to wonder about the political ethics of whoever was programming the data. 

The graffiti’s message was broadcast verbally by the soft feminine voice of the auto-computer: "When the state does not serve the people, and yet the people are expected to be subservient to the state; it creates a tension, exploited by state control, martial law; state openly defies that it serves the people by persecuting them. This is called tyranny.” The punishment for this form of terrorism is disappearance, the polite word for termination.

Sable unravels the data scroll which she had found in the bath house and reads it.

"My great grandfather, he built this stream of consciousness with his bare hands, it has been passed down as a family heirloom for several generations. It was made in a time of great social upheaval, from before the chipping began. Experts say that it reveals a form a humor called satire and that if the authorities know we have this they will terminate us for being influenced by dangerous attitude. ”

Tomorrow she will dutifully report it to the police cubical and clear her name of any assumed suspicion of all insidious activities. Then she will attend the shrine of ixa, the symbol for the city, her goddess. She who is the Way.

The haiku randomizer is burbling in the background.

the signs of success
are not making envy
they are happiness

Surreptitiously, Sable writes one of her own and submits it to the database.

no-one is coming for you
you have to go out and take
go out and find (it)

Aware that these are not Haiku proper, given the incorrect number of syllables. Nonconformity to the 575 syllable principle. Very often the randomizer is making bad translations of words, otherwise unassociated. Cheap foreign technology for an alien market, a subtle method of subversion. Program the semi-listeners from the background in the guise of cultural continuity and community integrations. 


The state issues us a challenge, to be true to our instincts or to follow aspirations engineered in us culturally from birth to perpetuate the state. As machine it ensures sustainable civilisation, generation after generation. 

"But it is so boring!" shouts Sable, then clasping her hands both over her mouth as though to double shut herself up, her eyes wide and wishing to take back the unexpected outburst, surprising herself more than any other who might be eavesdropping. Listening in on her activities to report her normality or otherwise suspicious breaks in the routine cycles she has developed as acceptable, non-threatening to social sustenance.

She lets out a deep sigh as she realizes no lazer-droids are coming for her this moment and relaxes back onto the plastic mattress of her sleeping cot.

On the Orient

This is one from a series of short epigrams entitled: "Coffee House" inspired by Al Raqis.

On the Orient

She explained it to me; “To understand the Orient, you have to understand Opiates. The trade by which government funds itself and controls the population. It is not spoken of publicly although it is ubiquitous, signs of it are everywhere. Addiction is about control. Who is in control of Self, of Will, this is through martial arts forms, dance, conquest, relationships, all facets of life. There is symbolism everywhere which relates to it. Chasing the Dragon. Life is stress, and so any place where relaxation is necessary, to step back from the world, in a safe house, or in a dragons den where businessmen discuss their matters and relax, together, pleased to be working for mutual benefit and not competing at war, a charlet house where women crafted in skills equal to the allure of soporific smoke may be experienced without the complexity of a marriage relationship, which for many men is preferable. There is no legitimacy in this just as there is no legitimacy in the police enforcing their rules upon people whose ways are as equals and whose culture goes further into antiquity than any police or government. Heritage encompasses all of this just as Aspirations to achieve great things fly high above it.”

I looked into her turtle face; blue-black eyes peering out from folded parchment skin. Her voice was at once dry, cracked and grating yet poetic, the rhythm a lullaby, the grain in that hoarse husk was pure, liquid blue. Her eyes were the same darkness. I knew then, I was talking with no ordinary mortal woman, but one who had lived through many lifetimes of extreme experience and who had yet retained or acquired a harmony, a lightness of being, a wizened one whose youth was more evident than her age despite her bodies antiquity. What secrets she held! 

Flower Fade

This is one from a series of short epigrams entitled: "Coffee House" inspired by Al Raqis.

Flower Fade

I would like to thank the Desertborn for teaching me an immutable teaching. From the first time Ivana introduced (my alt) to the Al Raqis sim and sat me in observation of a parliamentary meeting, to the storytelling session in seeq. The patient Pacing here is a huge part of the transcription, this teaching, it is wordless hence immutable. Sighs.

Today this platform helped me through to deal with somebody important to me irl, the simplicity of sharing a coffee and giving a person all of the energy and space they need to relax. The giving to someone the space to relax and to communicate. It is in the silence, the sharing, the bonding. This is part of the Tau. Minute energy connections and communications between people that occur only when we are not talking, when we are in those dreamy between spaces, coming into alertness. Levels in the drifting winds, altitudes of comfort, the places we connect and share worlds by our energetic configurations. After lifetimes of stress where such encounters are a battle for the levels, such moments are precious.

As for the person; Some flowers are so fragile, their colour changes when you look at them. In a world where the sun fades everything to the colour of dust, the lesson is to nurture. Frank Herbert wrote the line (paraphrased); "their preconception is not with water; it is with moisture, and that is an entirely more delicate thing."

As I sat in the room with her and her motion - psymotion stirred the winds, I saw the streams, my wings through the back of me as i faced her, tan and sand colour ribbons connecting threads back into Al Raqis to those planes and connections where the moment by magnetism attaches, the roots of focus and memory. It might be cyber but the stories are as real in psy-space, dream-space, as are material based events. I poured coffee, she spoke. 

I battled with inner demons pushing me to sit beside her, take her hand and softly kiss her lips, staying focused instead on respecting her; falling into her eyes which see past me and the room, she described energies around me with profound accuracy even without a tarot guide. To look into the eyes of a true soul is rare in this life and I had to look away for fear of her seeing my need. It is to her I should be saying these words, and yet to do so would burden her with weights. So they are shared as story, what is of great import to one is a light relief to another. 

Such is coffee house.

Coffee House

A series of short epigrams entitled: 

"Coffee House" 

inspired by Al Raqis

Coffee House is not reality. Coffee House is allegory and analogy. It is second hand, it is antique yet modern, it is received teaching, gossip, tales from the lives of other people. It contains everything in the human world from the mundane to the mystical, and yet it is passing trade, flippant and ever consumable, it is the banter paid for in barter and easy to close the book on to move along with your day. The sound of the chimes on the door in the wind are both a meditation and a clock, marking times passage between scenes. The continuity amidst uniqueness. It is a quick fix, a surface glance of a much deeper lens. This is, for the passing traveler, the scent of authenticity. But it is not the real thing. This is a tourists insight into a culture. Coffee House is a wallpaper version of the secret lives of those born to the desert tau.



肉 夢  Flesh Dream

Sable lays back on her plastic padded mattress and stares up at the neon white glow in motion of a haiku randomizer, the rooms ambient lighting. The place is beautiful in its simplicity. Back and white, and where there is age which speaks of history, sepia and gray. Wabi Sabi, the plays on the psychonic, mental radio-beam.

"white is the quest for purity
stained because the tarnished material we use to depict it
a longing
varnish and belonging"

She tunes out by altering her mental focus, gazing through a slatted perspex window at the city below. Her body tremors, she sniffs the clarity. On a low table occupying the center of her room is her payment, half of it cut early into little white lines that match the cities ambience. Wabi Sabi, the process of incompletion.

She remembers some of the dream from several nights ago, a strange world in which creatures of fantasy, faeries, dance and play amidst a vibrantly coloured forest. Her inner-self, a heart free of mind given freedom to flow as pure instinct. Does time function the same in the dreamworlds? Does time function the same in this city, where everybody autonomously robotic in their lifestyles, clattering like reptilian scales, clockwork machine people, ignoring one another to such extent that each other are invisible unless they share the same vibrational pathway that is the tao of whatever digital catalogue existence was chosen. Is it possible to shift tracks?

The limitations and frustrations of existing within a box, a box within a city made of boxes; pre-packaged people, pre-packaged lifestyles which it is an offense to question or seek to step outside the boundaries of. AI droid-cops float down on insect-like wings and with insect-like mechanical faces of sensors and lasers, ensure we step back on track. They lurk in shadows above and around us, hearing all, watching all, a surveillance society. We live in fear as they study us, fear lest we be extinguished for breaking the laws our ancestors set in place and programmed into these machines. Is it any wonder that our only outlet is to dream?

And in dream we discover such places, dragons and mermaids, a freedom of pine scented air, firefly glow passions. We meet others in the dreams, others from other worlds, other times and places. To transfer this visionary into brushwork, art for retail to sustain myself, to pay for the box and the protection of the droid-cops who keep this city quadrant safe and clean. Outside we are told there are others less fortunate than ourselves, the non-consumers, the non-elite. They live in horror which we cannot understand, the rust-world, the grunge, a decay. They live in animal poverty. We do not think of such things. Only the sleek of our black plastic and white neon lifestyles. How many invisibles are there in this city of perpetual night time? We should to question such things. To question leads to contamination, the breakdown of the social slipstreams we are individually provided for. This machine must not fail.

And so it is that I paint my dreams. Apparently the paintings offer hope to others who have not the ability to access the dreams. For them, the painting is the only insight in to the otherworld. But for me it is a real place. Some day I will find a method to make a transference, away from this world and into the dream completely, that I may exist there permanently.

The white powder from a plant grown in the city labs courses through my veins and keeps me away from the dream, away from sleep. I mindlessly paint memories of the last time I was there. Characters, people, and places of heightened colour. Feelings of flow and fluidity, that everything is as ephemeral as the holographic projections advertising media mindwash products. Perhaps to the dream people, it is this world, the city which is a dream. A dark one of simplicity and elegance but a horrific one for such as they. Could such creatures exist here in this realm? Could I become one? I take up my nylon brush and apply plastic ink to the recycled polymer canvas. Different grades of canvas take the ink in different ways. Such are the fabrics of these worlds we are grown from. From flesh to imagination. From imagination to flesh.