Great. The caffeine's kicked in and my mind's racing a mile a minute. There're days I wish I worked harder at writing as a profession so that I could spend more time on it instead of getting into a groove just before running off to work.
I was trying to research Alice Bailey's esoteric astrology, specifically the esoteric and hierarchical rulers of the signs. The problem is, just about everywhere I try to find information and assertions as to "why" these associations are in place, I find nothing but birdchatter and nonsensical self-interested dithering, to say nothing of rampant metagenetic philosophy. Somehow in the course of this, the relatively simplistic method of calculus as a philosophical template has been confounded in discussions of seven Rays (Bradbury, Park, Stanz, Tampa Bay, Liotta, and Charles) and a strange dismissal of the Moon as "obscuring" a much cooler and more eldritch luminary. The whole things seems to act toward complicating rather than revealing understanding.
Tables of correspondence run rampant, so dismissing this as a search for easy cookbook astrology has left my head. No one can seem to say "Mercury as the hierarchical ruler of Scorpio makes sense because--" and any searches seem to bring up people who will spend much time discussing a lot of nothing.
On another related astrology note, aside from a few allusions to Hellenic creation myths and surprisingly in the book Sextrology, I've seen very few astute discussions of the Aquarian sun. A lot of it seems to be caught up with the idea of causes, and so far all of the Aquarians I know could not give a shit about joining something. We're inherently mistrustful of marketing, and often end up the Martian Manhunter in terms of "superheroic" associations: Just as wonder-oriented and idealistic as Superman, but ultimately as pessimistic and intellectual as Batman, preferring to hide within and unite a drastically different and yet like-minded group while pursuing individual interests that others find extremely obscure, obtuse, or possibly dull. Aquarians tend toward hypersensitivity and neurological problems, and the characteristic stubbornness comes from attempting to handle the onslaught of information screeching through the conscious mind. Aquarians seem more like cavemen than spacemen, or more accurately the arc of Terrence McKenna: beginning as scientific-minded futurists and developing into Archaic Revivalists after objective models prove fallacious or incongruous to a subjective existence. One might see this as the transition from the Saturn/Uranus mundane ruler to the Jupiter esoteric ruler, seeing wonder in data and theory instead of just ideas with no romance or affection. Somehow, as the Aquarian sign moves up in vibration, it moves closer to the Earth, not quite making it, but still affecting tides and emotions in some fashion. That characteristic aloofness and coldness seems at home on the Moon, yet still waters run deep.
Well, there we go. It's time to head out.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Hydrochloric Acid Body Scrub
I run the risk of proselytizing once more on a barely-observed record. Motivations become questioned, reproach seeps in at the borders, but those remain chattering noisemakers settled around the doorways, like the carvings surrounding Hindu temples to distract those who would bring their dharma into church with them: God seriously does not give a shit about your opinion of the universe.
I get tattoos and piercings. They're such an old method of delineation that it's hard not to understand. It's the brand logo of a person's tribe, the externalization of some ideological value that demanded manifestation on the skin, corresponding to the stimulation of nerve centers through pain and endorphin firing. The experience often creates powerful talismans, combining minor trauma and symbolic representation, not to mention a reworking of the body-image and the relationship of the senses involving the body.
Then again, I see so many people in the city just covered in boring, kitchy, shitty tattoos with no meaning other than to provide some protective layer to hide a shrieking, terrified child under a layer of false bravado, fucked up on endocrine-based opiates and turning the skin into a cheap barf of meaningless symbols like the separated fat in the cream of the collective unconscious. The subject debases itself in a cloud of 18th Trump misdirection, dressing in the dreck of the world around it in order to keep the world from penetrating and infecting the psychic womb back into which the subject has crawled. The sheer intent of meaninglessness permits the subject elements around which it can erect a field of constant self-consciousness, and thus constant jadedness and cynicism. Angry children draw all over the walls of themselves, instead of primordial humans immortalizing the images of beloved spirits on their most sacred temples in homage.
Perhaps it's no wonder: The non-spirit has given way to the anti-spirit. Compassion and love have become strangled by arrangements of causes and dietary labels to permit some illusion of positive effect and superiority. To love animals has come to mean disregarding the "cries of the carrots," as Mr. Keenan pointed out over a decade ago. To love the environment has come to mean the exorcism of human activity within it. To love humanity has come to mean the denial of aggressive instincts that unite us with our mammalian kin. Thought overcomes Mind. Anthropic bias runs wild across all fields, impoverishing our planet and our souls. Spirituality has become a giant gold Buddha statue, a graven image of the God-Suffering-Flesh and the sacrificial device, a meaningless sitcom of Universal-Scale Gender Politics.
We can't "go back." We can't undo the last 200 years of technological innovation. We will remember the "neat little box that could heat things up in seconds" and perhaps miss the background hiss of radio waves screeching through the atmosphere. We will fret and weep for our vicarious friends at opposing ends of the globe, and our species-tribe shall be carved into pieces once again before returning to exactly the same place it was prior: in constant threat of annihilation, like we have been from the get-go. Golden ages don't exist: Gold doesn't oxidize. We stare back at ourselves and mistake our own experience for the quality of the universe. The world won't end, and that may be our apocalypse: looking down and finally tasting the shit we've been smelling for so long.
I get tattoos and piercings. They're such an old method of delineation that it's hard not to understand. It's the brand logo of a person's tribe, the externalization of some ideological value that demanded manifestation on the skin, corresponding to the stimulation of nerve centers through pain and endorphin firing. The experience often creates powerful talismans, combining minor trauma and symbolic representation, not to mention a reworking of the body-image and the relationship of the senses involving the body.
Then again, I see so many people in the city just covered in boring, kitchy, shitty tattoos with no meaning other than to provide some protective layer to hide a shrieking, terrified child under a layer of false bravado, fucked up on endocrine-based opiates and turning the skin into a cheap barf of meaningless symbols like the separated fat in the cream of the collective unconscious. The subject debases itself in a cloud of 18th Trump misdirection, dressing in the dreck of the world around it in order to keep the world from penetrating and infecting the psychic womb back into which the subject has crawled. The sheer intent of meaninglessness permits the subject elements around which it can erect a field of constant self-consciousness, and thus constant jadedness and cynicism. Angry children draw all over the walls of themselves, instead of primordial humans immortalizing the images of beloved spirits on their most sacred temples in homage.
Perhaps it's no wonder: The non-spirit has given way to the anti-spirit. Compassion and love have become strangled by arrangements of causes and dietary labels to permit some illusion of positive effect and superiority. To love animals has come to mean disregarding the "cries of the carrots," as Mr. Keenan pointed out over a decade ago. To love the environment has come to mean the exorcism of human activity within it. To love humanity has come to mean the denial of aggressive instincts that unite us with our mammalian kin. Thought overcomes Mind. Anthropic bias runs wild across all fields, impoverishing our planet and our souls. Spirituality has become a giant gold Buddha statue, a graven image of the God-Suffering-Flesh and the sacrificial device, a meaningless sitcom of Universal-Scale Gender Politics.
We can't "go back." We can't undo the last 200 years of technological innovation. We will remember the "neat little box that could heat things up in seconds" and perhaps miss the background hiss of radio waves screeching through the atmosphere. We will fret and weep for our vicarious friends at opposing ends of the globe, and our species-tribe shall be carved into pieces once again before returning to exactly the same place it was prior: in constant threat of annihilation, like we have been from the get-go. Golden ages don't exist: Gold doesn't oxidize. We stare back at ourselves and mistake our own experience for the quality of the universe. The world won't end, and that may be our apocalypse: looking down and finally tasting the shit we've been smelling for so long.
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