Friday 31 July 2015
Leeds RL are off back to Wembley
tonights game saw Leeds awesome experimental force matched by a saints side of real might. Leeds won 24 14 after a great kick from Sinfield that saw saints tackled behind their own line. From the drop out things looked a mess till sir Kevin sorted possession. Later in the run of play he put kallum Watkins in for the try of the match. Leeds still could do the treble of league leaders, cup winners and grand final champions. This was a great but flawed performance by the greatest sporting side in England. BBC 2 showed it live. Utter beauty.
Thursday 30 July 2015
Street Drinking
Street Drinking
Growing up as a boy a common site was the street furniture of benches that punctuate most British towns. Usually positioned to view the comings and goings of the community out in the streets often near grass verges. Parks of course had many positioned for the walker, the thinker to pause for a rest. The ubiquitous joke of the tramp asleep was less common than in truth. Real omelet so and hedge monkeys generally seek privacy, not the stage. Street drinking was common and seen as an activity for those who had fallen through societies net. In truth, many chose not to work. Groups of derelict men, others who had seen through societies superficial fixation with presentation. These men would share bottles of sherry, dressed in rags, sporting unkempt hair and beards.
New Labour banned street drinking and these gentlemen and some ladies were forced indoors. The introduction of twenty four hour licensing led to binge drinking. Young men fighting in town centres, hardly dressed girls unable to walk, rolling in their own vomit. It was always clear to me that the heroin addict, interested in the sensation of the self, a uncommunicative pass time spent time sorting out their wears then returned indoors to stare at TVs or wall paper. But part of the street drinking culture was to be outdoors, in all weathers, talking.
This tradition stretches back to Ancient Greece. Not only was it a mans duty to developed political and philosophical opinion but also to go out into the marketplace and express their thoughts. Socrates, Plato, hypocrites, would gather together in large groups debating the bigger questions. Politics, current events, philosophy would all be discussed as wine was passed round. Little work got done and women may well see the parallels with the pub lost working class father of the early to mid twentieth century.
Jesus Christ abandoned woodwork to spread the word with his ragged apostles, homeless and prostitutes. His message was one of a spiritual, none materialist outlook where the meek would find sufficient to get by.
This tradition of the groups of ragged men in discussion on the meaning of life was tolerated. Arguably their choice was dieting off as the materialism of the sixties and seventies grew but it took till the nineties before our benches sat idle. Street furniture, lost of purpose. Increases in cheap alcohol prices drove another nail into the choice of the short, work free, philosophical alcoholic life. We must take part in societies rat race. To opt out to observe became frowned upon.
Yet in an ironic twist of fate, the polish worker has reinvigorated this noble intellectual herritage. Polish shops sell strong lager at a pound a can. Small groups of men, unable to pay pub prices have begun to appear. In church yards, hidden corners, parkland edges. Discussing the finer questions of life. These unthreatening men seldom get drunk, just enjoy a can or two. Hopefully, these young men can reinvigorate our dieting street drinking culture.
Sent from my iPad
Growing up as a boy a common site was the street furniture of benches that punctuate most British towns. Usually positioned to view the comings and goings of the community out in the streets often near grass verges. Parks of course had many positioned for the walker, the thinker to pause for a rest. The ubiquitous joke of the tramp asleep was less common than in truth. Real omelet so and hedge monkeys generally seek privacy, not the stage. Street drinking was common and seen as an activity for those who had fallen through societies net. In truth, many chose not to work. Groups of derelict men, others who had seen through societies superficial fixation with presentation. These men would share bottles of sherry, dressed in rags, sporting unkempt hair and beards.
New Labour banned street drinking and these gentlemen and some ladies were forced indoors. The introduction of twenty four hour licensing led to binge drinking. Young men fighting in town centres, hardly dressed girls unable to walk, rolling in their own vomit. It was always clear to me that the heroin addict, interested in the sensation of the self, a uncommunicative pass time spent time sorting out their wears then returned indoors to stare at TVs or wall paper. But part of the street drinking culture was to be outdoors, in all weathers, talking.
This tradition stretches back to Ancient Greece. Not only was it a mans duty to developed political and philosophical opinion but also to go out into the marketplace and express their thoughts. Socrates, Plato, hypocrites, would gather together in large groups debating the bigger questions. Politics, current events, philosophy would all be discussed as wine was passed round. Little work got done and women may well see the parallels with the pub lost working class father of the early to mid twentieth century.
Jesus Christ abandoned woodwork to spread the word with his ragged apostles, homeless and prostitutes. His message was one of a spiritual, none materialist outlook where the meek would find sufficient to get by.
This tradition of the groups of ragged men in discussion on the meaning of life was tolerated. Arguably their choice was dieting off as the materialism of the sixties and seventies grew but it took till the nineties before our benches sat idle. Street furniture, lost of purpose. Increases in cheap alcohol prices drove another nail into the choice of the short, work free, philosophical alcoholic life. We must take part in societies rat race. To opt out to observe became frowned upon.
Yet in an ironic twist of fate, the polish worker has reinvigorated this noble intellectual herritage. Polish shops sell strong lager at a pound a can. Small groups of men, unable to pay pub prices have begun to appear. In church yards, hidden corners, parkland edges. Discussing the finer questions of life. These unthreatening men seldom get drunk, just enjoy a can or two. Hopefully, these young men can reinvigorate our dieting street drinking culture.
Sent from my iPad
Wednesday 29 July 2015
A personal recipe, discovered but thoroughly resea
A personal recipe, discovered but thoroughly researched, is my current tipple. This is one for the very refined palate, not for the novice or under 25 age group. The brain is still forming till this age, I'm not being pompous but know I augmented my brain through youthful exuberance. Of course this recipe is not intended for human consumption, it is pure theory. The ingredients are legal but I think it's naughty to make the plants work so I'm just suggesting a theoretical possibility but one that is utterly resplendent in sheer transcendent and sumptuous beauty, good for body and spirit. Don't drink alcohol with this or eat for a couple of hours prior to ingestion and, as with all psychedelics, never take them if you are on SSRIs. These highly dangerous, over prescribed none medicines can induce seretonin syndrome in conjunction with psychedelics. SSRIs are very dangerous. I once spent a year on them and recall the utter joy of returning to the rock and roll emotional roller coaster of Skreeworld.
::Syrian rue, ground to fine powder, 2.5 grammes. Swallowed. Quite possibly Jesus tipple also given the location of source material. Syrian Rue does provide a pleasant enough experience alone but essentially you want to get that DMT working. This MAOI takes 40 minutes to line the stomach and prevent the dismissal of DMT as the human stomach just filters it out otherwise. . Such is the magical combination of two plants. On 40 or 50 minutes, a simple tea of 5 -10 grammes of mimosa hostilis, finely ground, thoroughly brewed and cooled. There will be a purge but try hold it back as long as possible. This is a cleansing of poisons endemic to ayaushka but nothing like the repeated throwing up of the normal stew. A single and healthy feeling toilet visit suffices. Double the tea dosage if, like me, you are looking to break through to other dimensions. The trip lasts 8-10 hours. Leisurely, incredibly beautiful. A long and pleasant days afterglow follows a delicately patterned dreamscape in post trip sleep. Puts ones lysergics back in to perspective. Being a tryptamine, DMT has the geometric mandala structures similar to psylocibin yet paced far more slowly, fractal geometry forms seamlessly replacing conventional reality. There are no manic moments, dark corners of the soul, though, should one choose to investigate past behaviour, it has great depth, unfinished grieving, contemplating past mistakes, coming to terms with terminal illness, long, deep seated depressions, flattening the rutted tyre grooves the Land Rover leaves in the open pasture of the mind. Freedom to walk freely once more. This soul cleansing or reappraisal of ones past is something lacking from the new lysergics, indeed, this introspection can occur with METH LAD (lsd25), yet far less so in the glitter and flash of, AL -LAD or 1 propanol LAD.
In essence, A simplified ayaushka, basically, free of eight or more hours boiling and far less vomiting but a lighter, less demanding version. Though not quite so all powerful as the primary recipes, I should warn this is best conducted with a trusted carer close by, shaman if you like and no hassle from the straight world or people with whom you aren't too familiar. You are likely to be unable to 'keep face'.. It can be life changing, not everyone's persona or sense of self is sufficiently strong so this one is not for beginners or anyone with a fragile sense of self. However, for the seasoned psychonaut the soul cleansing leaves the mind refreshed, depression free and able to see nature and beauty afresh in these jaded times. I recall last weeks poisoning from MDMA, something I will hence forth avoid. The aftermath and burn out is too much for a fragile older man. Increasingly I see this as a corrosive chemical. Legends of acid casualties abounded when I was young but, personally, I've seen so much more damage to people from MDMA. Despite Dr Nutts enthusiasm, regular use over long periods has a cost and lasting depression. Flush the toilet of serotonin and it'll take time to refill. Recent studies, however, all suggest there is no link between psychedelics and mental health problems. Perhaps those casualties were taking other drugs or just casualties who happened to try acid. Bit of an urban myth, I think. Not to say it never happens, a fragile self narrative will be stripped of illusion. Such is the nature of the magic.
However, I must state categorically This is not a toy, it is serious medicine, so Should you just want a good laugh or If you are starting out I'd go 1p-LAD, 200ug. It's fun, legal and clean. Love the stuff. Ayaushka, however concocted is not applicable to a night out in town. It'd pull you apart till you find greenery, trees, streams, parks, woodland, ideally the wilderness and a good fire. A strange thing with psychedelics is a small dose, taken for caution, usually incurs far greater anxiety than higher doses. I don't know why but this is certainly true. Those half or quarter tabbers are their own worst enemy. You've just got to jump right in the pool, hanging to the side is a sure way to let fearful thoughts in. Immerse yourself, let it take you. Don't hold on to the side, it'll only scare you. Perhaps the trepidation itself triggers those challenging trips I have heard others talk of.
This is a very special thing, some say religious but certainly deeply spiritual. As a boy involuntarily taken to church, I prayed but nothing happened. Clearly, despite the wonderful architecture, Christianity no longer functioned properly. Or maybe God just didn't like me, ask him. Now I know how to meet with Angels. 35 years of study and I'm handing this to you to enjoy and enhance your life. I may not know much but I do know about woodwork and tripping on magical psychedelic compounds.
Sent from my iPad
::Syrian rue, ground to fine powder, 2.5 grammes. Swallowed. Quite possibly Jesus tipple also given the location of source material. Syrian Rue does provide a pleasant enough experience alone but essentially you want to get that DMT working. This MAOI takes 40 minutes to line the stomach and prevent the dismissal of DMT as the human stomach just filters it out otherwise. . Such is the magical combination of two plants. On 40 or 50 minutes, a simple tea of 5 -10 grammes of mimosa hostilis, finely ground, thoroughly brewed and cooled. There will be a purge but try hold it back as long as possible. This is a cleansing of poisons endemic to ayaushka but nothing like the repeated throwing up of the normal stew. A single and healthy feeling toilet visit suffices. Double the tea dosage if, like me, you are looking to break through to other dimensions. The trip lasts 8-10 hours. Leisurely, incredibly beautiful. A long and pleasant days afterglow follows a delicately patterned dreamscape in post trip sleep. Puts ones lysergics back in to perspective. Being a tryptamine, DMT has the geometric mandala structures similar to psylocibin yet paced far more slowly, fractal geometry forms seamlessly replacing conventional reality. There are no manic moments, dark corners of the soul, though, should one choose to investigate past behaviour, it has great depth, unfinished grieving, contemplating past mistakes, coming to terms with terminal illness, long, deep seated depressions, flattening the rutted tyre grooves the Land Rover leaves in the open pasture of the mind. Freedom to walk freely once more. This soul cleansing or reappraisal of ones past is something lacking from the new lysergics, indeed, this introspection can occur with METH LAD (lsd25), yet far less so in the glitter and flash of, AL -LAD or 1 propanol LAD.
In essence, A simplified ayaushka, basically, free of eight or more hours boiling and far less vomiting but a lighter, less demanding version. Though not quite so all powerful as the primary recipes, I should warn this is best conducted with a trusted carer close by, shaman if you like and no hassle from the straight world or people with whom you aren't too familiar. You are likely to be unable to 'keep face'.. It can be life changing, not everyone's persona or sense of self is sufficiently strong so this one is not for beginners or anyone with a fragile sense of self. However, for the seasoned psychonaut the soul cleansing leaves the mind refreshed, depression free and able to see nature and beauty afresh in these jaded times. I recall last weeks poisoning from MDMA, something I will hence forth avoid. The aftermath and burn out is too much for a fragile older man. Increasingly I see this as a corrosive chemical. Legends of acid casualties abounded when I was young but, personally, I've seen so much more damage to people from MDMA. Despite Dr Nutts enthusiasm, regular use over long periods has a cost and lasting depression. Flush the toilet of serotonin and it'll take time to refill. Recent studies, however, all suggest there is no link between psychedelics and mental health problems. Perhaps those casualties were taking other drugs or just casualties who happened to try acid. Bit of an urban myth, I think. Not to say it never happens, a fragile self narrative will be stripped of illusion. Such is the nature of the magic.
However, I must state categorically This is not a toy, it is serious medicine, so Should you just want a good laugh or If you are starting out I'd go 1p-LAD, 200ug. It's fun, legal and clean. Love the stuff. Ayaushka, however concocted is not applicable to a night out in town. It'd pull you apart till you find greenery, trees, streams, parks, woodland, ideally the wilderness and a good fire. A strange thing with psychedelics is a small dose, taken for caution, usually incurs far greater anxiety than higher doses. I don't know why but this is certainly true. Those half or quarter tabbers are their own worst enemy. You've just got to jump right in the pool, hanging to the side is a sure way to let fearful thoughts in. Immerse yourself, let it take you. Don't hold on to the side, it'll only scare you. Perhaps the trepidation itself triggers those challenging trips I have heard others talk of.
This is a very special thing, some say religious but certainly deeply spiritual. As a boy involuntarily taken to church, I prayed but nothing happened. Clearly, despite the wonderful architecture, Christianity no longer functioned properly. Or maybe God just didn't like me, ask him. Now I know how to meet with Angels. 35 years of study and I'm handing this to you to enjoy and enhance your life. I may not know much but I do know about woodwork and tripping on magical psychedelic compounds.
Sent from my iPad
Wednesday 15 July 2015
Wednesday 8 July 2015
Wolverhampton Technician
Wolverhampton Technician
I seldom think of what was a great year for me in many ways. I'd graduated from Buckinghamshire College with first class honours and commendations in both design and making. Two others got firsts though their work was mundane if well made. Gareth Neal, ten years my junior was the other star of the year but got a 2:1. He went on to better things but I believe I was the shining light of our year. Not popular, lower class, less money for materials but better ideas. I loved talking to Philip hussey, course leader and a sensitive gentleman well versed in philosophy. Somehow, despite the alien environment and a constant cannabis haze I arrived at 8am first in and left last at 8am. I never got a consistent theme. My first year I clearly dominated. First project I made, a small wall cabinet with twisted parabolic doors and drawers with compound angled dovetails. I missed the crit and was deducted 10% off my mark. I still came easily top. My second year I became lost in spikes. I made a wall piece in oak antlers and ebony thorns. The strongest piece. My biggest second year piece was heavily Makepeace influenced but still technically far in advance of the others work. I had had run ins with my HACS tutor and probably should have listened more. But she wrote books on Irish vernacular furniture, I was into YBAs and the Goldsmiths art college reading list. My girlfriend of the time was studying fine art so each weekend I'd be exposed to art. I believe I made art. Work to be judged by art criteria.
My final year began with my first brick table. I got an A. From here I lost my way and slipped into decorated arts and crafts. Sail able work but quite restrained. Still, my final show was strong and despite a crap dissitation I got my first.
From a social buzz where I had status I moved to a cottage my girlfriend had bought near her family in Shropshire. I'd hoped we'd make our home there and worked locally as she spent the week at Brier.ey Hill, learning glass techniques. I spent a year renovating the cottage to her fathers drawings and she left again for a job in Frome working for Neil Wilkins, probably the best glass blowing studio in the country at the time.
In an old cottage, alone, I went finally mad. But first I enjoyed a great year. The wood technician, Jim, on the Wood, Metals and Plastics 3d design course in Wolverhampton was taken ill. Hugh scriven asked if I wanted to fill in for a year. This was one of the best jobs I ever had. Next year I was to become a lecturer which was horrible.
I had a workshop to myself with a panel saw, two dimension saws, a 24 inch wide base four cutter block Sedgwick planer, an overhead router plus other kit. Students would drop in and I would help them make their work. I had vast enthusiasm and salvaged several degrees. The metal technician was ex army and totally unhelpful to students, drinking three pints each lunchtime and never doing owt. The plastics technician was more skilled but equally lazy. The course leader seemed ok but ultimately let me down.
I made a full set of furniture for one lad. Laminated some fish shelves for Babbette. Wanda got on on her own making wooden automata. Another girl from Frome I had eyes for made block sculptures of little merit. I was 31, just ten years older than most of the students and there were a lot of girls but I never over stepped the mark.
Basically you could do no wrong. You saved the students work but never had to judge it or help with design other than practicalities. Lecturers loved you because you got their student marks up. The course was a shambles. Badly run. I was frowned on at times for trying too hard.
During the three month summer all I had to do was maintain machines. So I made three pieces for Cheltenham. A carved light box table with lead crystal spikes that were under lit in black walnut. A bike clip table I sold at Cheltenham. And my best piece there. I would look out of the fourth floor window watching the cars come in and out. Height changes scale. I made an inlayed top in bog oak with boxwood lines showing no parking and a disabled sign. Few got this piece though I rated it highly. Very clever.
At the end of the year show the girl students showered me with cards and presents of wine and beer. Hugs and kisses. This should have been a triumphant night for us all but Alice got jealous of the attention I got, stormed off, I had to leave and the evening was ruined.
The following year I was asked back as a part time lecturer to replace andy Jackson. Having roughed it with the technicians now on twice their wage I wasn't popular with the. The lecturers could never be found. I hadn't a clue what I was supposed to be doing. Glenn was fucking one of the students, other lecturers too busy hiding their sloth to integrate. I helped a few students but it was a joke.
I'd also got a job two and a half days a week at UCE. I packed that in after a while. Better course but I'd never had any teacher training.
Shrewsbury gave me a day a week that I at least understood. But going from no teaching to full time with no one at home, no freinds to support me I took to drink. Never had I self medicated before. If Alice had have stayed to support me, if I'd had some training it might have gone better. But I had a shit year. Ended up on antidepressants. Eventually I ran away to live in Frome and went to work for Fred Baier, where Gareth was now based. Phew.
Sent from my iPad
I seldom think of what was a great year for me in many ways. I'd graduated from Buckinghamshire College with first class honours and commendations in both design and making. Two others got firsts though their work was mundane if well made. Gareth Neal, ten years my junior was the other star of the year but got a 2:1. He went on to better things but I believe I was the shining light of our year. Not popular, lower class, less money for materials but better ideas. I loved talking to Philip hussey, course leader and a sensitive gentleman well versed in philosophy. Somehow, despite the alien environment and a constant cannabis haze I arrived at 8am first in and left last at 8am. I never got a consistent theme. My first year I clearly dominated. First project I made, a small wall cabinet with twisted parabolic doors and drawers with compound angled dovetails. I missed the crit and was deducted 10% off my mark. I still came easily top. My second year I became lost in spikes. I made a wall piece in oak antlers and ebony thorns. The strongest piece. My biggest second year piece was heavily Makepeace influenced but still technically far in advance of the others work. I had had run ins with my HACS tutor and probably should have listened more. But she wrote books on Irish vernacular furniture, I was into YBAs and the Goldsmiths art college reading list. My girlfriend of the time was studying fine art so each weekend I'd be exposed to art. I believe I made art. Work to be judged by art criteria.
My final year began with my first brick table. I got an A. From here I lost my way and slipped into decorated arts and crafts. Sail able work but quite restrained. Still, my final show was strong and despite a crap dissitation I got my first.
From a social buzz where I had status I moved to a cottage my girlfriend had bought near her family in Shropshire. I'd hoped we'd make our home there and worked locally as she spent the week at Brier.ey Hill, learning glass techniques. I spent a year renovating the cottage to her fathers drawings and she left again for a job in Frome working for Neil Wilkins, probably the best glass blowing studio in the country at the time.
In an old cottage, alone, I went finally mad. But first I enjoyed a great year. The wood technician, Jim, on the Wood, Metals and Plastics 3d design course in Wolverhampton was taken ill. Hugh scriven asked if I wanted to fill in for a year. This was one of the best jobs I ever had. Next year I was to become a lecturer which was horrible.
I had a workshop to myself with a panel saw, two dimension saws, a 24 inch wide base four cutter block Sedgwick planer, an overhead router plus other kit. Students would drop in and I would help them make their work. I had vast enthusiasm and salvaged several degrees. The metal technician was ex army and totally unhelpful to students, drinking three pints each lunchtime and never doing owt. The plastics technician was more skilled but equally lazy. The course leader seemed ok but ultimately let me down.
I made a full set of furniture for one lad. Laminated some fish shelves for Babbette. Wanda got on on her own making wooden automata. Another girl from Frome I had eyes for made block sculptures of little merit. I was 31, just ten years older than most of the students and there were a lot of girls but I never over stepped the mark.
Basically you could do no wrong. You saved the students work but never had to judge it or help with design other than practicalities. Lecturers loved you because you got their student marks up. The course was a shambles. Badly run. I was frowned on at times for trying too hard.
During the three month summer all I had to do was maintain machines. So I made three pieces for Cheltenham. A carved light box table with lead crystal spikes that were under lit in black walnut. A bike clip table I sold at Cheltenham. And my best piece there. I would look out of the fourth floor window watching the cars come in and out. Height changes scale. I made an inlayed top in bog oak with boxwood lines showing no parking and a disabled sign. Few got this piece though I rated it highly. Very clever.
At the end of the year show the girl students showered me with cards and presents of wine and beer. Hugs and kisses. This should have been a triumphant night for us all but Alice got jealous of the attention I got, stormed off, I had to leave and the evening was ruined.
The following year I was asked back as a part time lecturer to replace andy Jackson. Having roughed it with the technicians now on twice their wage I wasn't popular with the. The lecturers could never be found. I hadn't a clue what I was supposed to be doing. Glenn was fucking one of the students, other lecturers too busy hiding their sloth to integrate. I helped a few students but it was a joke.
I'd also got a job two and a half days a week at UCE. I packed that in after a while. Better course but I'd never had any teacher training.
Shrewsbury gave me a day a week that I at least understood. But going from no teaching to full time with no one at home, no freinds to support me I took to drink. Never had I self medicated before. If Alice had have stayed to support me, if I'd had some training it might have gone better. But I had a shit year. Ended up on antidepressants. Eventually I ran away to live in Frome and went to work for Fred Baier, where Gareth was now based. Phew.
Sent from my iPad
Sensation
Sensation
The pursuit of knowledge is the achademics goal. Yet all our knowledge falls into science and hearsay. History is a knowledge not dependent on science. Long term history maybe more science as fossils and artefacts can submit to scientific tests. The history of kings is written by people with vested interests, therefore though it can be considered knowledge it can never be called truth.
Science is based on assumed foundations. Time, space, matter; yet much of this Newtonian certainty appears to be crude and intuitive. Newton assumed later scientists would discover the secret of gravity. This has not transpired. Half baked theories of particles called gravitons have not been proved. We have no real certainty of the Big Bang, only its apparent echo. The human mind is not equipped to conceive of timescales involved. Infinite universe, limited universe, multiverse, none can be visualised, only conceived of mathematically.
Careers are built on old paradigms that look increasingly shaky. To abandon a life's work and the respect and status that comes along with such work meens major figures can never abandon the fundamental pillars. This would render their life's work wrong. Yet this is where we are.
Increasingly it seems our consiousness is all we can be certain of. Time is not as we perceive it, space, light, matter; nothing it seems is what we intuitively assumed. It took a good two centuries from earliest evolutionary theory to Wallace and Darwin before this paradigm shift took place. In many American schools creationism is still taught. From the flat earth to the pre Galileo universe of all stars and planets revolving around us we have got it wrong. The illusion of free will is crumbling. Quantum mechanics points to matter being unformed until a consious observer looks on. Several important scientists are coming round to thinking that thought and feeling emerges from matter to thinking matter emerges from consiousness.
Given this unstable reality we live within, is knowledge ever likely to be more than the latest story. A story to be over ruled by another. Then another.
We are animals. Are we not designed, if anything, to survive? What chance do we of figuring anything out?
Tacit knowledge. Craft skills. Sport skills. Dance skills. Musical skills. This knowledge is worth seeking. Knowing how never ends, knowing that is complete. These two types of knowing share little other than a language connection. You can know Oslo is in Norway but there the knowing ends. Knowing how to play a violin is never completed.
So to sensation. Is this not our better search? To quote Lord Byron,
"The great object in life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this 'craving void' which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate, but keenly felt pursuits of any description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment."
Sent from my iPad
The pursuit of knowledge is the achademics goal. Yet all our knowledge falls into science and hearsay. History is a knowledge not dependent on science. Long term history maybe more science as fossils and artefacts can submit to scientific tests. The history of kings is written by people with vested interests, therefore though it can be considered knowledge it can never be called truth.
Science is based on assumed foundations. Time, space, matter; yet much of this Newtonian certainty appears to be crude and intuitive. Newton assumed later scientists would discover the secret of gravity. This has not transpired. Half baked theories of particles called gravitons have not been proved. We have no real certainty of the Big Bang, only its apparent echo. The human mind is not equipped to conceive of timescales involved. Infinite universe, limited universe, multiverse, none can be visualised, only conceived of mathematically.
Careers are built on old paradigms that look increasingly shaky. To abandon a life's work and the respect and status that comes along with such work meens major figures can never abandon the fundamental pillars. This would render their life's work wrong. Yet this is where we are.
Increasingly it seems our consiousness is all we can be certain of. Time is not as we perceive it, space, light, matter; nothing it seems is what we intuitively assumed. It took a good two centuries from earliest evolutionary theory to Wallace and Darwin before this paradigm shift took place. In many American schools creationism is still taught. From the flat earth to the pre Galileo universe of all stars and planets revolving around us we have got it wrong. The illusion of free will is crumbling. Quantum mechanics points to matter being unformed until a consious observer looks on. Several important scientists are coming round to thinking that thought and feeling emerges from matter to thinking matter emerges from consiousness.
Given this unstable reality we live within, is knowledge ever likely to be more than the latest story. A story to be over ruled by another. Then another.
We are animals. Are we not designed, if anything, to survive? What chance do we of figuring anything out?
Tacit knowledge. Craft skills. Sport skills. Dance skills. Musical skills. This knowledge is worth seeking. Knowing how never ends, knowing that is complete. These two types of knowing share little other than a language connection. You can know Oslo is in Norway but there the knowing ends. Knowing how to play a violin is never completed.
So to sensation. Is this not our better search? To quote Lord Byron,
"The great object in life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this 'craving void' which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate, but keenly felt pursuits of any description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment."
Sent from my iPad
Happiness returns, sluggishly, dragging its feet
Happiness returns, sluggishly, dragging its feet
Terminal boredom describes the post opiate withdrawall condition better than depression. It doesn't have the self centred quality of depression. That walled garden where nothing can get in or out. But it is a fragile state that grows slowly from deepest winter gloom through patches of joy to normality of endorphins. There's just a hole. Motivation is slim. Exercise of course, is always ones greatest ally against all low moods. And a man needs several miles to walk, twenty or more to cycle, God knows what in a gym. I avoid the narcissist halls of sweat and work for no pay. Besides, nature, rivers, woodland are as crucial as the exersize to draw oneself out of the body and in to the world.
I have wondered, since my AL-LAD epiphany if most of our worries are to do with being stuck in the individual self. As my consiousness spread to the global whole, there was no me, no ego, no self for misery or pain to lie. Ours is the age of the individual. Artists of greater or lower pedigree can sign a napkin and these napkins have a hierarchy of monetary value. The celebrity. The special person. This individuation, creation of mortal gods, has a reverse side. The valueless man or woman. The lesser mortals. The ordinary. Out of the group depression is innevitable.
Yet I can call up that knowledge. That all is one. That as Buddha says I am you and you are me. Our fate is one. We are ripples of the same stream, twigs of the same tree. My consiousness is not special. When I die six babies will be born with more or less the same as me. If we have a purpose it is to see. To suggest where we see community, societal error. Heading now headfirst in to global extinction of so many species and morons like our politicians still talking of growth. Still hoping for more material baggage, I see those who use least, who choose to consume little but enjoy the outdoors, as our heroes. I spent so much time making expensive objects from a tornado of tearing about, using up materials, be they modest compared to some, in the hope of making a material legacy to cement immortality. How futile I see this now. How misguided. I began by making works to make people think. I tackled social issues in my work, not the seventies fashion for innovative construction but elements to take the mind down corridors of conscience. The double yellow lines, the homeless view of the brick pattern of exclusion, not protection. Of the architecture imposed on my sociology economic group not, like most traditional furniture, references to their commissioned homes.
But once a workshop is running it becomes a beast to feed. You do the work that comes your way. And do the wealthy really want reminding that they've stolen more than their share from the pot. I suspect few do. Is it possible to be rich and morally upstanding? I thought up a philosophy that allowed this so I could continue working for a very select client base. Ultimately I was deluding myself. Over four thousand suicides of mentally ill people who have lost their benefits. This genocide I can not condone. So I'm looking for a different way to ply my trade. I will find one.
I began thinking I could be of use in an abundant society making heirloom furniture, or in simple tribal lands, making wooden shelters. A trade that could cover both possibilities. But it just drew me to money. In this country there isn't a way, bar charity, or teaching. I'll sort it out.
When I gave up my peers thought me mad. Few had a consistent, endless supply of high quality work. They dreamed of what I had. And I threw it all away. It is what Jesus would have done.
Sent from my iPad
Terminal boredom describes the post opiate withdrawall condition better than depression. It doesn't have the self centred quality of depression. That walled garden where nothing can get in or out. But it is a fragile state that grows slowly from deepest winter gloom through patches of joy to normality of endorphins. There's just a hole. Motivation is slim. Exercise of course, is always ones greatest ally against all low moods. And a man needs several miles to walk, twenty or more to cycle, God knows what in a gym. I avoid the narcissist halls of sweat and work for no pay. Besides, nature, rivers, woodland are as crucial as the exersize to draw oneself out of the body and in to the world.
I have wondered, since my AL-LAD epiphany if most of our worries are to do with being stuck in the individual self. As my consiousness spread to the global whole, there was no me, no ego, no self for misery or pain to lie. Ours is the age of the individual. Artists of greater or lower pedigree can sign a napkin and these napkins have a hierarchy of monetary value. The celebrity. The special person. This individuation, creation of mortal gods, has a reverse side. The valueless man or woman. The lesser mortals. The ordinary. Out of the group depression is innevitable.
Yet I can call up that knowledge. That all is one. That as Buddha says I am you and you are me. Our fate is one. We are ripples of the same stream, twigs of the same tree. My consiousness is not special. When I die six babies will be born with more or less the same as me. If we have a purpose it is to see. To suggest where we see community, societal error. Heading now headfirst in to global extinction of so many species and morons like our politicians still talking of growth. Still hoping for more material baggage, I see those who use least, who choose to consume little but enjoy the outdoors, as our heroes. I spent so much time making expensive objects from a tornado of tearing about, using up materials, be they modest compared to some, in the hope of making a material legacy to cement immortality. How futile I see this now. How misguided. I began by making works to make people think. I tackled social issues in my work, not the seventies fashion for innovative construction but elements to take the mind down corridors of conscience. The double yellow lines, the homeless view of the brick pattern of exclusion, not protection. Of the architecture imposed on my sociology economic group not, like most traditional furniture, references to their commissioned homes.
But once a workshop is running it becomes a beast to feed. You do the work that comes your way. And do the wealthy really want reminding that they've stolen more than their share from the pot. I suspect few do. Is it possible to be rich and morally upstanding? I thought up a philosophy that allowed this so I could continue working for a very select client base. Ultimately I was deluding myself. Over four thousand suicides of mentally ill people who have lost their benefits. This genocide I can not condone. So I'm looking for a different way to ply my trade. I will find one.
I began thinking I could be of use in an abundant society making heirloom furniture, or in simple tribal lands, making wooden shelters. A trade that could cover both possibilities. But it just drew me to money. In this country there isn't a way, bar charity, or teaching. I'll sort it out.
When I gave up my peers thought me mad. Few had a consistent, endless supply of high quality work. They dreamed of what I had. And I threw it all away. It is what Jesus would have done.
Sent from my iPad
Thursday 2 July 2015
Ayaushka
Ayaushka
The panacea of the South American shaman is a brew of two plants that has been used as far back in to history as records go. Unlike western medicine the ayaushka can be taken by the seeker of medicinal benefit or by the shaman. This is because it is the magic caused that is the cure. It is often described as the most powerful hallucinogen known to man. It is also a purge. Projectile vomiting and diahorea usually occur as all poisons are expelled from the body. Those who choose to use it must avoid all drugs, any fermented substance from beer to Worcester sauce. Fasting is recommended but most of all one must enter the experience physically well. Banisteriopsis caapi is an MAOI and is referred to alone as ayaushka. This is boiled along with psychotrias verdis, though many other plants can be used and each shaman has their own recipe. This contains DMT however if taken alone has no psychoactive effect. The stomach is temporarily prevented from disposing of it by the yage or caapi. How the Amazonian people hit on this combination is a million to one chance. They say the plants gave themselves to the people. The brew contains the powerful hallucinogens. If you read the previous link it will give a fairly comprehensive explanation. This is no toy. No drug to take for kicks. This is first hand religious experience and most often life changing. Though the ingredients are legal it is not recommended one takes a journey into the other world, the real world or the spirit world, without an experienced shaman guide. In the last twenty years it has become fashionable for experience seekers to travel down to South America for the ayaushka purge. This respect for Amazonian religion and medicine can be a healthy thing however in recent years, crappy shamans with two or three years experience are taking tourists money. Shamans traditionally would apprentice for twenty years before claiming to have sufficient knowledge to take a person through such a significant experience. There are hundreds of plants to learn, hundreds of beings from healing spirits to demonic spirits that a good shaman should know.
Last week, in a million to one chance, the possibility came my way. This is as close to a gift from, who knows where or what? Me and two freinds had planned a trip to Peru to take part in an ayaushka ceremony. We are, however, without funds. The ayaushka God handed me this chance. It will require study and practice, a correct setting and a good carer to look after us. Someone like us. Steeped in years of psychedelic experience. Recent studies have blown away the myth that there is any connection between mental illness and psychedelics. Indeed, now studies have begun again they may be our best medicine to cure depression, addiction, fear of death, any rutted thinking disorder.
We, some say arrogantly, consider ourselves English shamans. Following in the hidden history of British witchcraft, we began taking Liberty caps, psylocibin in our youth. I did well over 1000 mushroom trips between 14 and 19. We all took many LSD trips. Our grounding in psychedelia continues to this day where, during the last few years we have been using the advanced lysergics. For a time LSZ was legal, as was AL-LAD. Both exciting new lysergics. More recently, since these were idiotically banned despite not a single reported bad experience by a governments utter stupidity, 1pLSD has been the only legal lysergic. Of course many others choose to track down many rarer hallucinogens online but these are illegal. PRO-LAD, ETH-LAD, DOC but can all be bought on the dark web as can LSD25. My point is, though our experience of ayaushka is nil, we have been experimenting with hallucinogens for 25 years. The concerns and societal ills in Britain are different, the community problems, the mental health problems, the depression epidemic, the addiction epidemics, the succumbing to a mundane and blinkered world view where the beauty of nature is lost to insurance policies, pension schemes, exhaust fumes and overwork, all quite different to Peru or Brazil. Aren't we more equipped, though self taught, to use our knowledge? For sure, with little heritage to draw on we stumbled in to our shamanic roles. Perhaps it took us 35 years instead of 20 to achieve our knowledge base. But, it should be remembered that amongst anthropologists there is no agreed upon definition of a shaman. They argue as achademics do, standing at the side of the disco, watching, studying the dance but never brave enough to take part, that we are not true shaman. It could be correctly said that shaman is a role or title bestowed on an individual by others, this I accept and use the term loosely. Strictly speaking we are shamanic witches, followers of the culture who speak out fellow shamans when we need medicine. Yet we too help the sick of soul. And we enter other domains to find cures for mans ills. Just how do we differ? I am not so sure a Peruvian boy raised here would have done different from us. Besides, the demons and spirits of modern Britain are far from those in the jungle.
I argue we are the true new shamans of England and it is our duty to help a people, a culture that is very unwell. What have we to lose? Travel to a three year fraud or back ourselves and our thirty five years training. Much of it was challenging, taxing, soul searching, but we've had the grounding on this soil. In this land. Our consiousness is connected to the native Laura and fauna of our own lands. It is our destiny and our duty. We shall research. Take all medical and spiritual precautions. Yet we boldly embrace this journey as the crowning of our lifetimes work and dedication.
Sent from my iPad
The panacea of the South American shaman is a brew of two plants that has been used as far back in to history as records go. Unlike western medicine the ayaushka can be taken by the seeker of medicinal benefit or by the shaman. This is because it is the magic caused that is the cure. It is often described as the most powerful hallucinogen known to man. It is also a purge. Projectile vomiting and diahorea usually occur as all poisons are expelled from the body. Those who choose to use it must avoid all drugs, any fermented substance from beer to Worcester sauce. Fasting is recommended but most of all one must enter the experience physically well. Banisteriopsis caapi is an MAOI and is referred to alone as ayaushka. This is boiled along with psychotrias verdis, though many other plants can be used and each shaman has their own recipe. This contains DMT however if taken alone has no psychoactive effect. The stomach is temporarily prevented from disposing of it by the yage or caapi. How the Amazonian people hit on this combination is a million to one chance. They say the plants gave themselves to the people. The brew contains the powerful hallucinogens. If you read the previous link it will give a fairly comprehensive explanation. This is no toy. No drug to take for kicks. This is first hand religious experience and most often life changing. Though the ingredients are legal it is not recommended one takes a journey into the other world, the real world or the spirit world, without an experienced shaman guide. In the last twenty years it has become fashionable for experience seekers to travel down to South America for the ayaushka purge. This respect for Amazonian religion and medicine can be a healthy thing however in recent years, crappy shamans with two or three years experience are taking tourists money. Shamans traditionally would apprentice for twenty years before claiming to have sufficient knowledge to take a person through such a significant experience. There are hundreds of plants to learn, hundreds of beings from healing spirits to demonic spirits that a good shaman should know.
Last week, in a million to one chance, the possibility came my way. This is as close to a gift from, who knows where or what? Me and two freinds had planned a trip to Peru to take part in an ayaushka ceremony. We are, however, without funds. The ayaushka God handed me this chance. It will require study and practice, a correct setting and a good carer to look after us. Someone like us. Steeped in years of psychedelic experience. Recent studies have blown away the myth that there is any connection between mental illness and psychedelics. Indeed, now studies have begun again they may be our best medicine to cure depression, addiction, fear of death, any rutted thinking disorder.
We, some say arrogantly, consider ourselves English shamans. Following in the hidden history of British witchcraft, we began taking Liberty caps, psylocibin in our youth. I did well over 1000 mushroom trips between 14 and 19. We all took many LSD trips. Our grounding in psychedelia continues to this day where, during the last few years we have been using the advanced lysergics. For a time LSZ was legal, as was AL-LAD. Both exciting new lysergics. More recently, since these were idiotically banned despite not a single reported bad experience by a governments utter stupidity, 1pLSD has been the only legal lysergic. Of course many others choose to track down many rarer hallucinogens online but these are illegal. PRO-LAD, ETH-LAD, DOC but can all be bought on the dark web as can LSD25. My point is, though our experience of ayaushka is nil, we have been experimenting with hallucinogens for 25 years. The concerns and societal ills in Britain are different, the community problems, the mental health problems, the depression epidemic, the addiction epidemics, the succumbing to a mundane and blinkered world view where the beauty of nature is lost to insurance policies, pension schemes, exhaust fumes and overwork, all quite different to Peru or Brazil. Aren't we more equipped, though self taught, to use our knowledge? For sure, with little heritage to draw on we stumbled in to our shamanic roles. Perhaps it took us 35 years instead of 20 to achieve our knowledge base. But, it should be remembered that amongst anthropologists there is no agreed upon definition of a shaman. They argue as achademics do, standing at the side of the disco, watching, studying the dance but never brave enough to take part, that we are not true shaman. It could be correctly said that shaman is a role or title bestowed on an individual by others, this I accept and use the term loosely. Strictly speaking we are shamanic witches, followers of the culture who speak out fellow shamans when we need medicine. Yet we too help the sick of soul. And we enter other domains to find cures for mans ills. Just how do we differ? I am not so sure a Peruvian boy raised here would have done different from us. Besides, the demons and spirits of modern Britain are far from those in the jungle.
I argue we are the true new shamans of England and it is our duty to help a people, a culture that is very unwell. What have we to lose? Travel to a three year fraud or back ourselves and our thirty five years training. Much of it was challenging, taxing, soul searching, but we've had the grounding on this soil. In this land. Our consiousness is connected to the native Laura and fauna of our own lands. It is our destiny and our duty. We shall research. Take all medical and spiritual precautions. Yet we boldly embrace this journey as the crowning of our lifetimes work and dedication.
Sent from my iPad
Wednesday 1 July 2015
Where did it all go?
Where did it all go?
Days we spent, talking shite and doing nothing much
I recall, a lad called Woody from school, was first of those to go on a crappy little motorbike
John Bellhouse next, he hung around with our gang
Rode a 250 but earned some cash in Kent
He bought a new 500 and died that very day, his head mashed in on some street barrier
But then the close ones started, the boys from my closest circle, why did God single us out so bad cause I didn't think we were really naughty
I lived with Wid in Kent, then I lived with Wid in Leeds, a gentle boy from wetherby who somehow thought he had problems.
He drank a bit too much, but less than I've done many years
Doctors prescribed him diazepam and temazepam we called him the rattling man
He had shallower depressions than myself and I could always drag him out
When he fell against the upstairs window I thought he'd cut himself bad
We'd fire blue tack pellets from an old air gun that bounced from his many layers
I moved down south, he met an older girl with a taste for brown
Next I heard he'd cut his wrists and bled his life away in a bathroom cupboard
He was like a brother, a younger kid I felt I should always be able to pull up.
Animal, a biker turned up in Cornwall where we all lived in a crammed cottage
He liked his ariel huntmaster, he liked drinking beer, and he loved his girlfriend
He was an older brother, carried my new girlfriend out the pub to tell her to treat me good
He went away to study some advanced engineering and came back to find his best mate and his bird together taken over his home
So we walked the streets getting drunk, he wanted to get a gun, but I talked him out of that, and we crashed out at Brian's
On a group excursion to France, he took a bike out for a spin, forgot the roadside rules and went headfirst in to death
His biker funeral was impressive, I set next to Brian on the coach down
Brian became a scrap man with a closet speed addiction
His bird met another so he waited for him with a hammer, CS gas and a knife, stabbed him over 50 times
Richard met him in jail, he asked if his ex had been in touch, he said he'd do her too
Twelve years later on his first week out he was run down dead by a London bus
There were several others overdosed, Win being one of the first, an older friendly hippy.
Rufus who I'd known since scouts and primary school one of the last.
Turps could never drink, it turned him in a cunt
Then I heard he'd been deported from Holland and was living homeless on the streets of leeds
I'd known him since I was 14, lived with him at 15 when I left home
He died from an overdose in St George's crypt homeless hostel
There's so many I forget, but Martin was one of my closest freinds since 9
He never liked leeds but we travelled and had some laughs
He landed a new job, to celebrate he took a hit round Richards house and never came awake again
Richard was my closest freind, he could be knobhead
And he fell in love with a girl who didn't care who bled him dry till he drank and shot so much gear in to his groin he toppled down dead. Such a bright star in his youth.
They all were.
Ten of my closest circle, all dead by fourty, some by thirty, some by twenty.
What did we do to deserve that?
I still think of you. My best freinds are mostly dead.
Sent from my iPad
Days we spent, talking shite and doing nothing much
I recall, a lad called Woody from school, was first of those to go on a crappy little motorbike
John Bellhouse next, he hung around with our gang
Rode a 250 but earned some cash in Kent
He bought a new 500 and died that very day, his head mashed in on some street barrier
But then the close ones started, the boys from my closest circle, why did God single us out so bad cause I didn't think we were really naughty
I lived with Wid in Kent, then I lived with Wid in Leeds, a gentle boy from wetherby who somehow thought he had problems.
He drank a bit too much, but less than I've done many years
Doctors prescribed him diazepam and temazepam we called him the rattling man
He had shallower depressions than myself and I could always drag him out
When he fell against the upstairs window I thought he'd cut himself bad
We'd fire blue tack pellets from an old air gun that bounced from his many layers
I moved down south, he met an older girl with a taste for brown
Next I heard he'd cut his wrists and bled his life away in a bathroom cupboard
He was like a brother, a younger kid I felt I should always be able to pull up.
Animal, a biker turned up in Cornwall where we all lived in a crammed cottage
He liked his ariel huntmaster, he liked drinking beer, and he loved his girlfriend
He was an older brother, carried my new girlfriend out the pub to tell her to treat me good
He went away to study some advanced engineering and came back to find his best mate and his bird together taken over his home
So we walked the streets getting drunk, he wanted to get a gun, but I talked him out of that, and we crashed out at Brian's
On a group excursion to France, he took a bike out for a spin, forgot the roadside rules and went headfirst in to death
His biker funeral was impressive, I set next to Brian on the coach down
Brian became a scrap man with a closet speed addiction
His bird met another so he waited for him with a hammer, CS gas and a knife, stabbed him over 50 times
Richard met him in jail, he asked if his ex had been in touch, he said he'd do her too
Twelve years later on his first week out he was run down dead by a London bus
There were several others overdosed, Win being one of the first, an older friendly hippy.
Rufus who I'd known since scouts and primary school one of the last.
Turps could never drink, it turned him in a cunt
Then I heard he'd been deported from Holland and was living homeless on the streets of leeds
I'd known him since I was 14, lived with him at 15 when I left home
He died from an overdose in St George's crypt homeless hostel
There's so many I forget, but Martin was one of my closest freinds since 9
He never liked leeds but we travelled and had some laughs
He landed a new job, to celebrate he took a hit round Richards house and never came awake again
Richard was my closest freind, he could be knobhead
And he fell in love with a girl who didn't care who bled him dry till he drank and shot so much gear in to his groin he toppled down dead. Such a bright star in his youth.
They all were.
Ten of my closest circle, all dead by fourty, some by thirty, some by twenty.
What did we do to deserve that?
I still think of you. My best freinds are mostly dead.
Sent from my iPad
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