Saturday, December 6, 2014

Just in time for Christmas!

Trust the French to invent a new kind of perfume, but it comes from the most unlikely of places. Yes, that's right, the British like to say that "you're having a gas" when life is fun, but the French have given a new meaning to this colloquialism.

Christian Poincheval, a 65-year-old inventor who lives in the quaint village of Gesvres and looks like a combination of Santa Claus' and Jerry Garcia, has invented a pill that makes farts smell like chocolate.

Poincheval sells the pills at for around $12.50 for 60 capsules. His website claims the chocolate pills will "allow the user to fart through to the New Year in grand style."

The pills are merely the latest addition to Poincheval's odorific cache of innovations, which also includes pills that make farts smell like roses or violets, and fart-reducing powder for pets.

As with most new creations, necessity was the mother of this invention. He was eating dinner with friends in 2006 when he realized the group had caused a gas attack at the restaurant.

"Our farts were so smelly after the copious meal, we nearly suffocated," he told the Telegraph. "The people at the table next to us were not happy. Something had to be done."

It was the start of a long period of stinky researching, during which Poincheval made some interesting discoveries.

"When we were vegetarian we noticed that our gas smelt like vegetables, like the odor from a cow pat, but when we started eating meat, the smell of the flatulence became much disagreeable," he said, according to TheLocal.Fr. "We needed to invent something that made them smell nicer."

Poincheval claims his pills not only create chocolate-scented farts, they reduce intestinal gas and bloating thanks to ingredients like vegetable coal, fennel, seaweed, plant resin, bilberry, and cacao zest.

Since people tend to stuff their bellies during the holidays, Poincheval figures his chocolate fart pills should be stuffed in stockings.

"Some buy them because they have problems with flatulence and some buy them as a joke to send to their friends. Christmas always sees a surge in sales," he said, according to

It seems that Poincheval's inventions will lend a new meaning to the ancient Icelandic proverb, "Every man likes the smell of his own farts."

In a world where farts can smell like roses (or chocolate), nothing is surprising, except perhaps the famous line from Citizen Kane. I'm still a bit puzzled about why the richest newspaper man on earth said "rosebud" as his last word before expiring. Too bad Orson Welles didn't live long enough to buy a bottle of Poincheval's pills and "toot sweet" his way through the holidays.


Friday, November 28, 2014

Deconstructing the Supernatural Modus Operandi in "We Can't Stop" by Miley Cyrus


Okay, so here's the basic composition of the "We Can't Stop" run-down by Wiki:

"We Can't Stop" is a  mid-tempo pop,[8] R&B,[9] and dance[10] track. It is written in the key of E major and Cyrus' vocals span two octaves, from the low note of B2 to a high F#5, and follows the chord progression E—G#m—C#m—A. The track also includes a sample of the track "La Di Da Di" by Doug E. Fresh and MC Ricky D. John Kennedy of Vibe compared the track to the works of Rihanna.

Cyrus has stated that "We Can't Stop" represents "where I'm at in my life now". Lyrically, the track describes a house party, as mentioned in the opening lines "It's our party, we can do what we want / It's our party, we can say what we want / It's our party, we can love who we want / We can kiss who we want / We can live how we want." It also makes several references to recreational drug use, including "dancing with molly", using a slang term for ecstasy, and "trying to get a line [of cocaine] in the bathroom". 

After initial confusion whether the former lyric was "dancing with molly" or "dancing with Miley", Cyrus clarified that she was referring to ecstasy, commenting that "if you’re aged ten it’s 'Miley', if you know what I'm talking about then you know. I just wanted it to be played on the radio and they’ve already had to edit it so much."

I don't blindly accept much of the above explanation for the video's creation and composition. In fact, crediting Cyrus herself with so much is laughable. The music video's impact upon a key target audience is what concerns me more than knit-picking about "who did what" near the bottom of the music industry's food chain (yes, Cyrus, herself, is near the bottom of this power pyramid, not the top; it's even doubtful if she is fully in control of her life and her own mind).

Here's my take on "We Can't Stop" as a clever low-tech work of mind control:

"We Can't Stop" was a seminal cultural conditioning tool aimed at impressionable girls in 2013. Its purpose was basically to forward several programming themes. These themes, operating in concert  with thousands of other stimuli during 2013 (numbers which added up to "six" in numerology), did have some success guiding the young female population of America and Canada, primarily, the rest of the (first language) English-speaking world secondarily.

Because my website is geared towards focusing on supernatural topics, I will restrict my treatment here to the supernatural aspects of the song. It most definitely promotes intradimensional control of the human species, albeit subtly.

The black and white face that delivers key lines in the video that Cyrus was contracted to perform is allegedly taken from an early CGI promo from 1974. The grainy black and white image does tend to have a hypnotic quality and it harkens back to the time when television screens cathode rays were still pulsating hypnotically in a way that affected brain function and enabled sophisticated programming with much simpler (dumbed down) technology.

The reason the US was so slow to make the switch from low tech pulsating TV screens to Hi Def screens had to do with the effectiveness of the pulsating screens and their hypnotic effect upon the viewer. Why quickly give up a technology that had such a long and illustrious history of programming the world's industrial citizenry? First, time was needed to test newer mind control technologies in conjunction with high definition platforms on captive (and far more homogenous) populations, such as Japan's.

Weaving the pulsating white mask into Cyrus' video, was a clever way to utilize a tried and true old technology. But let's jump ahead and analyze the way this "low tech" form of hypnosis was applied.

Here are the lines that the disembodied mask utters in a slowed down basso:

"It's our party we can do what we want
  It's our party we can say what we want
  It's our party we can love who we want
  We can kiss who we want
  We can sing what we want"

The lines seem liberating, until we consider the strong possibility that they are literally being uttered by the mask, or, what it represents: intra-dimensionals that cannot fully manifest in our space/time continuum, at least not indefinitely.

Yes, they can shape-shift, but only for a limited amount of time without upsetting the matrix of our reality to a significant degree, or, perhaps more likely, until they themselves become drained by our matrix and need to return to their native space/time continuum to "recharge" so to speak.

So the disembodied mask declares that the world is the "party" of beings that it represents. In this way, the power is shifted from young girls (which overtly seem to be uttering the lines) to the intra-dimensional beings represented by the disembodied mask. Djinn-like creatures are saying the lines: The earth is their party and they can say what they want, love who they want, kiss who they want, and sing (charm the human chattle upon which they feed) with what they want.

Yes, the video is also replete with "illuminati" symbolism, and, for me, that is old hat. What interests me the most, is the power play behind the human slaves to the intra-dimensionals. Yes, the power pyramid does not end with the all-seeing eye of human comptrollers. Au contraire. It terminates at the Planet Saturn, which the all-seeing eye represents: Chronos, the "time piece" of our space/time prison, which is administered by intra-dimensionals, with the help of another significant celestial body (their moon) which is further used to control time, tides, seasons, and reality on the so-called "Planet Earth," which is really more of a temporal matrix plane than an actual "place."

In closing, I will mention that young girls are often targeted by music videos for a reason beyond the obvious illuminati goals (to sexually, morally, and intellectually dumb down human females): girls, near the age of puberty are one of the most powerfully intoxicating foods for intra-dimensional "ranchers."

The energy of the human life cycle at this stage is pure and sweet to them. As such, they are aiming more and more attention to make females of this age the most consumable: isolating young women from their social networks, making them feel misunderstood, encouraging them to experiment with mind-altering drugs and alcohol, which can engender feelings and emotions of negativity that ID's feed upon.

Encouraging pre-pubescent and early teen girls to become sexualized early, and/or inadvertently causing them to bear children before they are ready is also a likely intended effect of videos like "We Can't Stop." Perhaps most significantly, videos like this make demonology seem fun and innocent, thus encouraging kids and young teens to open up their minds to the influence and control of intra-dimensional influence directly. In popular culture, this is also accomplished via symbolic predictive programming subjects, such as vampires, aliens, djinn, and even plots featuring good "possessed" people fighting bad "possessed" people.

It's no accident that many other music videos, such as Katy Perry's "ET" directly promote the willing self-sacrifice of young disenfranchised human females as soul food for intra-dimensional consumers. Miley Cyrus' Disney creation known as "Hannah Montana" attracted millions upon millions of young female followers across the world.

The famous television program ran from 2006-2011 (five years). After the show ended, Cyrus' career was carefully choreographed to gradually gain momentum from "squeaky clean" to "slutty" starting in 2008 with a photo shoot in which Annie Liebowitz photographed Cyrus topless. This added controversy to the Hannah Montana character as the show was hitting mid-stride. I submit here that Cyrus' career was carefully managed to end right where it did, with Cyrus' now-notorious hyper-sexualized performances on MTV and live in concert.  Her career has been carefully designed to influence a whole generation of women in America primarily, and the industrialized world secondarily.

Here is Cyrus' video:

And here is Katy Perry's video called "ET":

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The Horror that is "Halloween"

My girlfriend went to John Carpenter's "Halloween" with a friend the other day. The theater audience treated it a little like Rocky Horror Picture Show. Laughter, amusement, and aping of corny lines. Cori said that the main characters in the film, which were supposed to be high school kids, "acted like five year olds in terms of their innocence."

I think the fact that the film, Halloween, was once scary to young people and now seems absurd (to the current generation of youth) says something about how jaded our society has become. I have never liked "slasher" films. Even as a high school kid, I thought they were indicative of mental illness being paraded sensationalistically. In other words, "sick and wrong." I was always surprised by how many of my fellow classmates loved the films, regarding them like a roller coaster ride at the carnival.

Now the same sorts of films (like Halloween and Friday the Thirteenth) have become a laughing stock to people aged 14-24. Horror films aren't taken seriously by today's youthful audiences unless the films have infinitely more CGI effects, joltingly inhumane situations, and at least a few characters that mirror all too many kids in today's society: jaded, selfish, entitled, and, at their core, lacking in hope as well as the deep kind of satisfaction that comes from feeling spiritually connected to each other and the universe.

"Heroic" acts (almost always demonstrated by a male character) in today's horror films seem almost like subliminal conditioning designed to inspire future enlistees in the military that might be sitting in the audience. Yes, the trauma-based mind control in cinema is more sophisticated, but it has become a pillory of itself, at least to the enlightened viewer.

People who possess even a modicum of spiritual connectedness can instinctively detect sadism in psychopathically-inspired rituals being touted by Hollywood (and the nebulous financial investors behind Hollywood's Oz-like curtain) as horror films.

Why not call a spade for a spade, and categorize so-called "slasher" films more accurately as what they truly are: terrorism?  

Can you imagine a section at your neighborhood video store called "terrorism?" No, probably not. It's far too accurate. Such a moniker would call the viewer's attention to the fact that he is not watching programs on television; rather, he is being programmed. Calling attention to this predator-prey dynamic would be bad for sales. Then again, Hollywood these days produces mostly garbage that is poorly written, poorly directed, and poorly acted.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Is Invitro Creating "Chimeras?"

Most people trust the medical establishment. I don't. I think that a significant number of doctors put money and social standing among their peers and society at large above their Hippocratic oath to serve the best interests of their patients. That number goes through roof when the ethics of pharmaceutical companies, and the medical industrial complex as a whole, are evaluated.

Here's a fairly benign example: far more C-section child deliveries take place on Friday afternoons when doctors want to leave work early and go home for the weekend.

But what about the way so many doctors accept kick-backs from drug companies for recommending certain drugs over others? Most patients don't realize how drug companies not only bribe doctors to recommend their drugs, they also bribe doctors to recommend new experimental drugs and then pay again for the same doctors to carefully log patients' reactions to the drugs.

These records are then quietly forwarded to the drug companies, thus violating patient confidentiality laws, as well as being ethically diabolical. What's worse, quite a few of the experimental drugs injure and even kill patients before they pass muster or are rejected by the FDA as viable products to sell on the open market.

So what do these examples have to do with chimeras? I'll tell you. A chimera is a physical being with genetics that combine two or more discrete other beings.

Mythologically speaking, the Greek Minotaur was a chimera (bull and human). So were JRR Tolkien's orcs and "fighting uruk hai." Centaurs are a kind of chimera (horse and human). So are mermaids (human and sea mammal). Even sasquatches might be a type of ancient chimera that was created aeons ago by a previous technological age of humans, or even aliens.

Modern equivalents certainly exist. Here are a few examples: 
"Umbuku" lizard was created recently at a laboratory in Zimbabwe by unlocking a dormant flying strand of DNA.
Dolion: A GMO cross between a lion and dog using sophisticated DNA manipulation.
Lemurat: Mixes the DNA of a lemur and a cat.
Fern spider: that's right, a GMO plant/insect hybrid, which crossed the DNA of an Italian Wolf spider and a Ponga fern.

All of the above examples were created in isolated labs that are located in isolated (Third World) countries. This helps to create the impression that purposeful mutations are comfortably removed from our everyday existences here in the "civilized" world.

But are they? Well, maybe not. Recently, more and more chatter online has been devoted to the notion that invitro fertilization could be purposefully or accidentally creating mutations that rightly can be classified as chimeras.

More and more women are desiring to have children over the range that Mother Nature typically reserves for childbearing. In order to accomplish the feat, modern medicine is being entrusted to provide a helping hand.

"Fertility drugs" are given to aging momma-wannabees, which, in turn, are supplied with other womens' eggs. These eggs have the other womens' DNA, which the surrogate mother's body then absorbs. This makes the surrogate mother a kind of chimera.

But wait, this gets even weirder: Often 2-5 eggs (from other women) are injected into the host mother's uterus. While in utero, oftentimes two or more of the eggs combine into one person, which is then born. This person is most definitely a chimera. Why? Because he or she has the DNA of two or three or more people COMBINED into one body.

But wait, this already weird situation becomes "mondo weird" when we stop to consider how much trust is being placed in the hands of the doctors and the laboratories that are collecting, caring for, and implanting the eggs.

These days, technologically speaking, it's not as difficult as you might imagine to inject the DNA of nonhuman beings into human eggs. Considering how unethical many doctors are these days, it's quite possible that they are being paid off to use "experimental eggs" supplied to them by somewhat nebulous and mysterious labs in exchange for money.

Who would find out if such a "switcheroo" were to take place? How carefully are eggs being screened by surrogate mothers? Well, these mothers are quite careful about what they request, but do they go so far as to make double-sure that their doctor is trustworthy? In other words, do they use doctors with carefully supervised protocol observed by neutral third parties? The answer to this question is simple: practically never, unless the mother is a billionaire or a trillionaire.

Medical science these days has moved from gray areas into the black (profit margins, that is). These days, a great deal of emphasis is placed upon making money for hospitals and their shareholders, not to mention for doctors (the foot soldiers of the medical industrial complex).

The respectability of hospitals and medical schools are ensured by things like "peer-reviewed journals" in which doctors publish their findings. The problem with this system is that mega-corporations hold the purse strings for these journals, the universities to which they are often affiliated, and also to the hospitals. In other words, the medical profession is thoroughly rigged by big money.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Turn Off, Tune Out, Drop In

Attended the opening of Grizzly Adams at age eight at the Elsinore Theater in Salem, OR. Same theater where Clark Gable first performed in North America. Used to be a vaudeville venue.

I saw Star Wars on its opening day there in 1977. I was eleven years old. The line stretched around two blocks outside. Every moment that day was magickal. My dad seemed to love the movie almost as much as I did. He and I went together. Nobody else in the family was interested until the Star Wars fever brought them to the theater a few weeks later.

Four years after that, I got a job at the Elsinore. I was a junior in high school. My boss's name was Bastow Toy. He looked like Gary Oldman in his 20's, but perhaps a bit thinner, less confident, less handsome, and more nerdy.

I worked with two twin brothers that were Jewish; they sounded almost exactly like the Three Stooges when they wanted to . . . as if they belonged in the 1920's, from an earlier time when the theatre was nationally famous. Very colorful and hilarious coworkers: Bald monk-like pates framed by long blond hair, dirty white shirts, thin black ties, black slacks that deteriorated into frayed hems, protruding tube socks, and battered gray sneakers that had once been white. The twins taught me how to calculate concessions orders in my head. No calculators were allowed. This gave me some serious anxiety because math was not my best subject. But eventually, I could calculate a huge order of several tubs of popcorn, candy and drinks almost instantly.

At that time, the theater had fallen into disrepair. Heavy chunks of plaster art deco would fall from the ceiling and come crashing down destroying seats. If anyone had been hit, they would have probably been killed. The affected areas were then roped off and the show went on. Times were so different in the 70's. It was always a thrill to watch a film and wonder if it would be your last after you were bludgeoned on the head by 15 pounds of plaster tearing loose from 60 feet above.

I miss the 70's. They seem a universe long ago and far away now. But you know, small rural mountain towns in Oregon still remind me of the 70's today. The spirit is still alive out in the country, at least to some extent, if one avoids tweakers and the new breed of black clothes wearing "hippie" that praises satan and wears 666 grinning soul sucking skull face tattoos on their reptilian-wannabe skins instead of singing "Jesus is just alright with me" and offering flowers and a smile of unconditional love for the sake of "peace on earth."

I was too young to understand the hippies of the 70's but I remember them. My father strongly detested them, just as society programmed the bulk of people from previous generations to detest them. Now, I suspect that the "counter culture" was really a psy-op of the Military Industrial Complex designed to prolong the Vietnam War rather than ending it sooner. My dear old dad had been too sickly to fight in the war, but he'd proudly volunteered for the Air Force, serving as best he could stateside.

Back then, hippie "make love not war" signs went over my head. I hated the war without understanding why. I hated the black and white images of B-52's lined up in fields of tall grass, planes that would never fly overseas rotting like bloated carrion in the sun. I loved Hogan's Heroes though. World War II still seemed like "the last good war" to me.

But Vietnam reminded me of so many dead-eyed fathers of my poorest most underprivileged friends I knew out in the country where I lived, friends that would sometimes show up at school with black eyes and bruises on their necks, arms, and backs. Their war veteran fathers attended Little League games with coolers stuffed full of cheap beer and no ice.

The games were a chance to drink in public while they cheered for their sons with a maniacal type of "kill Charlie" intensity that made everyone wince. I watched more than a few of these father's kids fumble the ball in mitts too big for their hands, or swing the bat a little too fast when they stepped up to the plate with a kind of dread, for fear of being dressed down later, in fits of drunken rage, and even beaten up.

I found myself puzzled as to why these fathers, who had been raised on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon, spoke in oddly Southern accents. Later, I realized that the cadence of their voices, along with certain flamboyant (and colorfully obscene) affectations, reminded me of drill sergeants from the Vietnam era. Like airline pilots who were trained to sound like cowboys, enlisted men often sounded like the sergeants that had re-programmed their brains permanently.

When I visited the metal box homes of these father's sons after school, the boys would delight in showing me well-worn pornographic magazines stored under the sink in their cramped bathrooms, along with rolls of toilet paper and bottles of Pine Sol. Hunting rifles and shotguns were kept in open cabinets, ammunition stacked beneath them in little green cardboard boxes.

Never once did we pull out a weapon to examine it, but we could have. Sometimes we would aim our wrist rocket slingshots at birds perched on power wires outside, or light lady finger fire crackers. I took a few centerfolds home with me when they were offered, but I didn't dare smuggle them inside my parent's house. Instead, I buried them in plastic bags outside under the oak trees, and waited to examine them periodically when my parents were busy inside.

Pornography was unknown in our home, but there were more than enough copies of Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures to go around. The puritanical vibe of a woman who sewed her own eccentric corset-bound dresses with too many buttons hovered in the house, along with Mary Baker Eddy's uncanny ability to live outside this world in a place where angels were not living beings, but rather rays of light from an unseen sun of Soul that sterilized "error" from "mortal mind."

On one occasion, overcome with guilt, I tried to burn a Playboy centerfold outside, but the matches kept blowing out. So I took the sinful image into my dad's camper van and burned it there. After the image had been purified by fire, a hole glared up at me from the linoleum floor, much to my horror. I tried frantically to wash it, but the plastic had been burned clean through. The plywood underneath looked like a miniature fire pit.

I didn't know what to do, so I told the truth about what had happened. Instead of scolding or punishing me, my dad took me in his arms and hugged me tight, telling me how proud he was of my desire to be good. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life, but I was glad for the hug anyway.

I'd never been hugged with so much gratitude before, or perhaps after. Every time the family went camping, I was embarrassed of that hole in the dirty, scuffed plastic floor. My father didn't fix it until nearly a decade later, when he tried to sell the van. Ironically, he was swindled by a career criminal. The gaunt shifty heroin addict tricked him out of the family's 1969 Dodge van by presenting a payroll check that he had stolen from the safe of a well-known lumber yard in Salem.

Watergate maddeningly pre-empted Saturday morning cartoons. Even though my dad loved Richard Nixon and felt betrayed by him, I thought our dead duck president was an ugly old man--on the inside, as well as the outside. Even as a kid, I was surprised that nobody else seemed to notice the expression on Richard Nixon's face after he'd been caught by powers in higher places (which I later learned had been J. Edgar Hoover masquerading as a heroic democrat journalist from the Washington Post; the character of Bob Woodward was later to be played by Robert Redford who wore his hair like Jimmy Carter, or perhaps vice versa).

Once elected, Jimmy Carter smiled too much, pulling his teeth back like a real life equivalent of Dick Nixon's horse-like dentures. Our new president seemed leery of a dark force that I didn't understand, and which he served reluctantly from inside a rotten old house that was painted white on the outside. Carter's eyes darted back and forth, a telltale sign of guilt during certain revealing moments caught on camera. Such moments are no longer broadcast by the media because the media is owned by some of the same men who own the president, himself.

I can remember beautiful older hippie girls dressed with flowers in their hair, donning their short wrinkled shirt-dresses with open revealing lapels that were meant to seem almost medieval. They danced together at the Bush Park Art Fair, so happy under the trees in summertime. They walked barefoot down the sidewalks of Salem, Oregon; they skipped, holding hands, across the streets of San Francisco, one hour's drive north from Buela's Fremont cottage that was equipped with a swimming pool for extra hot days, and warm subtropical evenings.

Even at age eight, I found hippie girls exciting and sexy. But I was too young to befriend them. By the time I was old enough, it was then the 1980's. American youth fell into a pit of materialism and shallow values that hinged upon the clothes one wore and the car one drove. And by then, hippies were cliché and passe. I wore thin ties to high school and listened to Elvis Costello, Adam Ant, and Joe Jackson.

I wanted to be a punk though, deep down, and admired the other torn 501 jeans t-shirt wearing skateboard carrying crowd that rocked out with their Sony Walkman's to The Clash, Devo, and The Sex Pistols. Ironically, that crowd was made up of mostly rich kids from mansions out in the country. I was middle class. By 1982, most of the punks that I knew had millionaire households. How ironic is that? Punk was allegedly spawned by disenfranchised working class English kids with no ability to find work due to the recession.

These days, camping in the woods helps me to remember how important this world is and I love praying there, quietly with the birds singing and the wind blowing through the trees. I love thanking God for the harmony and majesty of being at home in the forest, so far away from vain human fashions, hypocritical social mores that contradict each other, pressures to conform, and always the looming weight of a society bound by laws endorsed and enforced by the richest of humans rather than universal principles of goodness that transcend this mortal coil.

Profaning the Namesake of Art

I was reading voraciously even before I learned how to walk. A love of books is the shortest distance between wanting to be a writer and writing. By the third grade, I was writing mini-treatises and novellas on all sorts of things.
But the public education system doesn't always reward such interests or intentions. It wasn't until after graduate school that I began to write fiction seriously. During my senior year, I wrote a thesis in a class called "college writing" about the dangers of multinational corporations and globalism. I received a "D" on the paper, which yielded a "C" in the class.
The next year, as a freshman in college, I submitted the very same research paper in a macroeconomics class and received an A+.  This easily put me over the top to receive an A in the course. I photocopied my professor's glowing feedback and sent it to the spinster that had given me a D in high school. She never responded.
Fiction writing was no different. When you think outside the box, our education system does not reward you. It's designed to indoctrinate, not to teach original thinking. I didn't understand that completely, until I read a book by John Taylor Gatto called Dumbing Us Down (see the video below).
While in grad school at NYU, I longed to enter the creative writing program, but I didn't dare. Why? I strongly suspected that it would bastardize my genuine love of writing, and replace it with tedium. Most students I knew who had entered the program with a love of writing, came out with a dislike for it, and stopped writing. This was no accident. The few that persevered in their "craft" weren't any better writers. All of their voices sounded the same, like soldiers emerging from boot camp.
Finally, I relented and began auditing creative writing and poetry classes. The most memorable was taught by Alan Ginsberg. In front of the class, he was a very boring professor who was still obsessed with Gregory Corso. There wasn't very much inspiration in that classroom. It felt like work. Studying poetry from Ginsberg left very little room for joy. It resembled the tired, broken life of a man suffering from chronic depression and mommy issues from having been raised by a schizophrenic  matriarch. I also sat in on the classrooms of E.L. Doctorow and Mona Simpson. Although they were not suffering from mental illness, their approach to writing reflected the values of the society in which their careers as writers had flourished. In short, they were also bores and totally full of themselves. Were they great artists or great writers? Hardly. The blind lead the blind into a ditch.  
I would have given up writing if it wasn't for TC Boyle. He read through the first six chapters of my first novel, Peel, and offered some very helpful ideas. Yes, he encouraged me to enroll in a graduate level creative writing program, and perhaps that bit of advice was not off the mark, either. If I had enrolled in a famous program, perhaps I would be a "successful" writer today, if one measures success by the size of one's wallet.
TC Boyle's writing hasn't inspired me since he hammered out his last fresh novel (The Tortilla Curtain) but that doesn't matter. The man is the real thing when it comes to his heart and his soul. Yes, Boyle's writing over the years has become a caricature of itself, chockfull of similes and metaphors to the point of becoming a hopeless distraction, like a carnival barker hopped up on speed, and his vision is far from being prophetic, but the man's humanitarian impulses are present, and, so far as I know, he is an honorable human being . . . which is saying something, given his role as a cultural icon in the carnival funhouse of pain we call "high art." The academic institutions that bestow titles upon its priest class ("great" writers) will continue to turn out cultural indoctrinators, and the general public will continue to venerate them, lapping up their drivel like prisoners in Plato's Allegory of the Cave that watch puppet's shadows on the wall, mistaking them for reality.
In 2006, I enrolled in the Tin House Writer's Workshop at Reed College. What a mistake. The class spent most of the time cultivating feedback from other writers that had no experience. By then, I had written five novels. The instructor read my fourth novel, and then proceeded to write his own novel with a very similar premise. Even today, he is still writing work based upon that novel. He was recently given a grant from the Gugenheim to create works of literary art.
One of his pieces, about shadow people, is obviously inspired by Cowslip. Most of his works seem derivative. I wouldn't be surprised if every single novel the man has written was inspired by someone else's work. He's lived a charmed life: free rides to Ivy League schools, a fellowship at Stanford, and yet, his mind is not very creative. He is a product of the modern education system. It creates conformists who consume original works of literature and then spit out a web of conformity. This professor's version of Cowslip involved a journal written by a homeless girl. His art-poem about shadow people took my fresh approach to language and mired it in the clay of tired old prose that sounds like other famous novels written by famous writers who earn their living now as professors.
The modern education system has brainwashed people to think that writers are supposed to live lives like Charles Bukowski and Hank Moody (David Dukovny's character in Californication). Novels like Lolita, which seek to normalize the twisted logic of a career pedophile, are elevated to "great" status. But this is all a sham. True writing is meant to elevate the reader's perception of reality, not to shove it down in the mud by glorifying drug use, alcoholism, mental illness manifesting as sexual obsessions, and heroic battles with garden variety depression.
If one measures great art by examining the way healthy human societies have worked, down through the ages, one sees a pattern: art walks hand in hand with spiritual enlightenment (true enlightenment, not the "age of enlightenment," which was designed to darken the world rather than showering it with light).
Modern society is broken spiritually, and that's no accident. It's been purposefully sabotaged by the people in power. They have also sabotaged people's sense of what constitutes art.  They have profaned art, exactly as their kind has profaned the insights of so-called "prophets" down through the ages by creating religions designed to crush spiritual insight rather than fostering it.
Since the mid-20th Century, the sciences have done the same thing to peoples' awareness of so-called "supernatural" events in the world, like the actions of ghosts, intradimensionals, and cryptids such as bigfoot. These topics have been pushed to the perimeter while everyone's attention has been focused upon the sham known as the "social sciences." Why? Because real life exceptions to the artificial rule cannot be tolerated. Charles Fort summarized this phenomenon when he wrote, "I conceive of nothing, in religion, science or philosophy, that is more than the proper thing to wear, for a while.”    
I worked in the psychology department of NYU when its experimental and clinical programs were ranked in the top five of the western world. It didn't take long to realize that most of the professors there were totally full of shit. They were lost souls that had initially been attracted to the field of psychology in order to heal themselves of terrible wounds inflicted by other adults upon them when they were children, or from living through traumas.
When they realized that psychology could not help them, a magickal thing happened. This knowledge empowered them to assume positions of authority in our society and that's exactly what happens in the fields of physics, astronomy and other pseudo-sciences that are really more based upon indoctrination than genuine discovery. The cultural icons that dominate such fields are propped up posterboys and girls. The most powerful ones, like Sigmund Freud, Carl Sagan, and Einstein, were given enough knowledge of how human society works to allow them to parade on the stage with some modicum of usefulness.
Charles Darwin was not such a poster boy; rather, he was a planner, himself, a billionaire of his day, with royal blood flowing through his veins. He was an insider, who knew the end-goal of the educational system of dogma he was creating. Yes, like all good propaganda, his views were based largely upon observable phenomenon, but this phenomenon was then filtered through a hopelessly cracked lens. It's worth noting that neither Charles, nor his father, Erasmus, probably came up with the idea of natural selection. Rather, they borrowed it from other, less famous, and less influential, people who have since faded into obscurity.
Natural Selection, like the Big Bang, is largely a myth, not unlike the myth of Adam and Eve in their Garden of Eden. Hard geological and anthropological evidence that flies in the face of the prevailing scientific paradigm is deftly swept out of the public view, and then summarily filed away, or, if the evidence is truly damning, destroyed. The human race has been on earth much much longer then we have been led to believe, not shorter. As Charles Fort once mused, "The earth is a farm. We are some one else's property." That farm is not bound by the laws of space and time in which we, the herd, are encouraged to live, between the psychological mile posts and fences of our rigged cultures.
Of course, it's worth pointing out that Natural Selection led to social Darwinism (the rich deserve to bully everyone else because nature made them powerful) just as Hebrew fables led to Manifest Destiny, which justified clearing human "trash" off the continent of North America, so the New World Order could plant its seed. Controlled chaos like pandemics and genocides were  harnessed with the help of Northern European immigrants, which were imported for precisely such a purpose, just as other races today are being used to build a vast interconnected framework of conformity rather than exhibiting the pioneering spirit of rugged individualism from centuries past. 
Self-reliance in the 1700s, 1800s and early 1900s paved the way for bankers and corporations to take over once the land had been cleared, and the prevailing European-based culture had been established. It's worth noting that this culture had been carefully managed for millennia by cultural planners that originally hailed from Rome, Khazaria, and the swamp-laden City State of Venice. Any way you slice it, humans are being used as pons on a global chessboard that politicons like Zbigniew Brzezinski pride themselves as orchestrating. Meanwhile, cultural gatekeepers such as TS Eliot, HG Wells, Aldous Huxley, Isaac Asimov, Ayn Rand, and Martin Amis occupy the same place as writers "in the know." 
Speaking of "rigged," our modern education system has been set up to confuse people and to blind their spiritual insights rather than enabling a connection with "other." God is not dead, and God is not a "he." Even the name "God" has been defiled to the point of pointlessness. To most professors at NYU, or in the physics department of the University of Washington, when I worked there for over a year as a lead administrator, God was dead. It's no accident that they thought such a thing. It had been taught to them, over and over and over again, by the educational system that replaced a belief in spirituality.
Creative writing--as a process of discovery, practice, and finally, mastery--is no different. True writers are not wounded souls with so much emotional baggage over their heads that they cannot function. Rather, they are people that have learned to see through the charade and throw off the cultural baggage that has been holding them hostage, and keeping them a prisoner.
Today, degenerates with suicidal tendencies are rewarded by the powers of our culture, which heralds them as brilliant thinkers, and for good reason. Focusing people's attention away from true enlightenment and spiritual perception helps to keep the same dull round in place. As the romantic-era poet William Blake wrote, "the same dull round, even of the universe, would soon become a mill with complicated wheels."
That treadmill has become a menagerie of microchips and fiber optic cables today, which tug people away from even cracking open a book. Such is the nature of so-called progress, as one antiquated hierarchy replaces another. Yesterday's pantheon of writers and painters will morph into tomorrow's virtual innovators. If present trends continue, their art might well be mainlined directly into the brains of audience members of the "civilized" world. 

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Drumming & Squatching

Cliff Barackman and I have known each other since he first moved to Portland, Oregon. He’s a consummate guitarist. I happen to know my way around the drum set, so we’ve “jammed” together for years, playing jazz, Latin, and Old Time music—in addition to camping in the woods from time to time, as well as hanging out in town.

White Eagle Saloon, Portland OR
In July of 2012, I had the pleasure of accompanying Cliff’s playing on his seven string guitar during a performance that was recorded for an episode of Finding Bigfoot. We performed at a local (reputedly haunted) tavern in Portland called The White Eagle, along with Andy, who also owns a seven string guitar. Both he and Cliff trade bass parts because they can, and it’s cool to be weirdly versatile. Incidently, Finding Bigfoot is now the Number One show on Animal Planet network.

Cliff, Andy, and Kirk (on drums) at the White Eagle Saloon last summer
Ye Olde Stomping Grounds in Seattle U District
Kirk building a tree fort for his eight year-old nephews

Craig Flippy shot the cover photograph for Kultus. Craig is a film maker. He's very talented and creative. If you haven't seen Bigfoot Road Trip, starring Cliff Barackman and Craig, definitely check it out. Craig produces the videos, and Cliff plays a leading role in storyboarding each episode.

Here is a blogsquatch. Just kidding, it's Guy Edwards. Before the weather turned cold, I took him to a hotspot near Goat Mountain, Oregon. We didn't hear any knocks that day, but the bigfoot "vibe" was strong.
Craig sits in the passenger seat while Cliff drives, and in the driver's seat when it comes to pointing a film camera at Cliff and everything else in bigfoot hot spots. The project is kind of a "two man band." Impressive. If you haven't seen it, definitely order yourself a copy. The tone is light and funny at times, and scholarly at times. A grab bag for the squatch curious and also for the veteran bigfooter. These days, Craig is also a cast member on Finding Bigfoot.