Mycelangelo
a very disco discovery
"Returning to our camp, I noticed that my thumb and index finger were still assuming mudras, offering closure to my open mind, an intuitive habit that naturally arose after that first DMT session. I sat with my legs crossed and I closed my eyes to meditate on Merkaba and was almost instantly shown the double helixed coil, a fiery tube torus, which I begin to play with, between my hands, allowing the coil to flow by my heart. I cannot begin to describe to you the fieryness of the fuchsia in which these visions were transmitted, nor the depth of focus they provided for me, their timelessness, their pink love-essence. The vision imparts imp art--a magic eye/I exposition of the word.
The Living Parable, The Living Word, I, Open.
The pink coils flowing between my hands transformed effortlessly into three mushrooms entwining in ascendence as psilocybe caduceus. These are magic eye pictures, they really are, mental holograms.
Finally there it is: the jeweled, transcendental disco ball. This one is distinctly a concrescent icon from Mckenna's descriptions of the "transcendental object at the end of time", the concretization of our cravings to commune with that unspeakable singularity that ties everything and nothing together, the very abstraction that we have for ages been reaching for with our sputtering, muttering, stuttering and utterly exhausting historical uttering.
In his lecture 'Timewave Zero and Language' Mckenna said that 'one way of thinking about it is to compare it to one of those mirrored disco balls, which sends out thousands of reflections off of everybody and everything in the room. The mirrored disco ball is the transcendental object at the end of time, and those reflected twinkling, refractive lights are religions, scientific theories, gurus, works of art, poetry, great orgasms, great souffles, great paintings, etc. Anything that has, in Nietszche's phrase, the "spark of divinity within it," is in fact, referent to the original force of the spark of all divinity unfolding itself within the confines of three-dimensional space.'
The vision of this disco ball spun within me, burning bright and hot, like hot metal in that distinct obfuscated fuchsia of the DMT revelation, like the remaining pile of embers still hot from Ayahuasca's fire the night before, spinning before my eyes. Before and after any thing. Containing all things, the origin of all things, the source, re-source, sorcery.
A turning objectivity. An objective eternity.
It was as if this jeweled orb were my well-rounded brain that I beheld, turning in my mind's eye, on display like the jewel in the lotus. (My pawnshop past wants me to project the metaphor of a jewelry store's rotating display case upon it, but I cannot righteously adhere such cheapened trivialities upon these--the akashic records spun on a turn table.)
The tables have turned. Pasting trivial metaphors upon Meta-For-Itself is like saying that a landscape reminds you of a landscape painting, that when you actually see The Time Being it reminds you of a watch.
I'll name this vision one last time and call it a time capsule, and render it both priceless and timeless, to be consumed and digested.
In Hinduism all time is an eternal dance, the dance of Shiva and Shakti, the male and female principles setting the world into motion. It's a dance! and they are the lords of the dance, of the jig of life. They're getting jiggy with it. It's very disco, the journey through time, its discovery!
but the jig is up.
Among it's glinting gnostic reflections, caught like clairvoyant blasts that outwardly blinded me with insight, there were a scant few clad in familiar auras; distinctly sporting the sensational attire of cowgirls, the gopis in Tom Robbins' recollection of one of the tales of Krishna, wherein the blue god of love multiplies himself, clones himself so that he may equally satisfy all the cowgirls at once.
Meanwhile in the outside world, I was still sitting in tailor's pose under the slowly setting sun, and flowing the elastic, effluvial energy that was visible behind closed eyes between my palms, which fluently evolved into me striking certain poses, which distinctly struck Steve like glints cast off a disco ball, and he astoundingly proclaimed that he recognized the energy I was wielding.
"I know that!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "That's Krishna!"
I opened my eyes to the desert filled with energy, smiling intoxicated with bliss. It was as if I were shaped by the frequencial awareness of higher spheres, or perhaps in the fungal lingo, it would be more appropriate to say I was molded in their image to resonate the nature of the being that lorded those planes. But as soon as this was addressed, the deepening inward spell of the disco ball was broken, and the ball itself replaced by the setting sun, as the journey strived to continue in an outward fashion in an attempt to bring heaven down to earth."
an excerpt from 'Live from the Land of the Dead'
a very disco discovery
"Returning to our camp, I noticed that my thumb and index finger were still assuming mudras, offering closure to my open mind, an intuitive habit that naturally arose after that first DMT session. I sat with my legs crossed and I closed my eyes to meditate on Merkaba and was almost instantly shown the double helixed coil, a fiery tube torus, which I begin to play with, between my hands, allowing the coil to flow by my heart. I cannot begin to describe to you the fieryness of the fuchsia in which these visions were transmitted, nor the depth of focus they provided for me, their timelessness, their pink love-essence. The vision imparts imp art--a magic eye/I exposition of the word.
The Living Parable, The Living Word, I, Open.
The pink coils flowing between my hands transformed effortlessly into three mushrooms entwining in ascendence as psilocybe caduceus. These are magic eye pictures, they really are, mental holograms.
Finally there it is: the jeweled, transcendental disco ball. This one is distinctly a concrescent icon from Mckenna's descriptions of the "transcendental object at the end of time", the concretization of our cravings to commune with that unspeakable singularity that ties everything and nothing together, the very abstraction that we have for ages been reaching for with our sputtering, muttering, stuttering and utterly exhausting historical uttering.
In his lecture 'Timewave Zero and Language' Mckenna said that 'one way of thinking about it is to compare it to one of those mirrored disco balls, which sends out thousands of reflections off of everybody and everything in the room. The mirrored disco ball is the transcendental object at the end of time, and those reflected twinkling, refractive lights are religions, scientific theories, gurus, works of art, poetry, great orgasms, great souffles, great paintings, etc. Anything that has, in Nietszche's phrase, the "spark of divinity within it," is in fact, referent to the original force of the spark of all divinity unfolding itself within the confines of three-dimensional space.'
The vision of this disco ball spun within me, burning bright and hot, like hot metal in that distinct obfuscated fuchsia of the DMT revelation, like the remaining pile of embers still hot from Ayahuasca's fire the night before, spinning before my eyes. Before and after any thing. Containing all things, the origin of all things, the source, re-source, sorcery.
A turning objectivity. An objective eternity.
It was as if this jeweled orb were my well-rounded brain that I beheld, turning in my mind's eye, on display like the jewel in the lotus. (My pawnshop past wants me to project the metaphor of a jewelry store's rotating display case upon it, but I cannot righteously adhere such cheapened trivialities upon these--the akashic records spun on a turn table.)
The tables have turned. Pasting trivial metaphors upon Meta-For-Itself is like saying that a landscape reminds you of a landscape painting, that when you actually see The Time Being it reminds you of a watch.
I'll name this vision one last time and call it a time capsule, and render it both priceless and timeless, to be consumed and digested.
In Hinduism all time is an eternal dance, the dance of Shiva and Shakti, the male and female principles setting the world into motion. It's a dance! and they are the lords of the dance, of the jig of life. They're getting jiggy with it. It's very disco, the journey through time, its discovery!
but the jig is up.
Among it's glinting gnostic reflections, caught like clairvoyant blasts that outwardly blinded me with insight, there were a scant few clad in familiar auras; distinctly sporting the sensational attire of cowgirls, the gopis in Tom Robbins' recollection of one of the tales of Krishna, wherein the blue god of love multiplies himself, clones himself so that he may equally satisfy all the cowgirls at once.
Meanwhile in the outside world, I was still sitting in tailor's pose under the slowly setting sun, and flowing the elastic, effluvial energy that was visible behind closed eyes between my palms, which fluently evolved into me striking certain poses, which distinctly struck Steve like glints cast off a disco ball, and he astoundingly proclaimed that he recognized the energy I was wielding.
"I know that!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "That's Krishna!"
I opened my eyes to the desert filled with energy, smiling intoxicated with bliss. It was as if I were shaped by the frequencial awareness of higher spheres, or perhaps in the fungal lingo, it would be more appropriate to say I was molded in their image to resonate the nature of the being that lorded those planes. But as soon as this was addressed, the deepening inward spell of the disco ball was broken, and the ball itself replaced by the setting sun, as the journey strived to continue in an outward fashion in an attempt to bring heaven down to earth."
an excerpt from 'Live from the Land of the Dead'