"If you think you're free, there's no escape possible" - Ram Dass

Friday, April 15, 2016

Pineal Express: FROM BEYOND, LUCY, SPECTRE, THE MAGICIANS


Whenever someone like Warner Herzog starts talking about dreams, a kind of stale bourgeois abstraction seems to dampen the word, like some doctoral declawing of what is in 'reality' a vivid brutal fiction. Such declawers, these radically horrifically sane Herzog types, studiously miss the big picture; they can't see that it all begins and ends in a single chemical, DMT.

Made by a weird little gland in the center of the brain, the pineal, it lurks above the reptilian cortex and behind the higher mammalian functioning empathy. Somehow it's beyond even the reptilian-mammalian combo that is humanity's core, beyond DNA life itself. It's the third eye, and it's long been calcified due not just to inactivity but to the infiltration of our precious bodily fluids, an idea that's really grabbed hold, starting as far as I can tell, with General Ripper's declaration: "Fluoridation is the most monstrously conceived and dangerous communist plot we have ever had to face."

Think it's a joke? Not me. Interdimensional power animals pointed some sites out to me, and suggested I get a pineal gland tuning forlk (for real!):
"...the pineal gland has become calcified due to fluoride in our water and toothpaste to "Dumb" us down and sever this divine connection. Our exclusive Pineal Gland Tuning fork is designed to vibrate at the frequency of the pineal gland, loosening that calcification and strengthening the Divine Connection!" - Soma Energetics
Imagine my surprise then, when just like Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove with the fluoride, Lovecraft wrote a story that involves these very tuning forks summoning third eye monsters:
"The waves from that thing are waking a thousand sleeping senses in us; senses which we inherit from aeons of evolution from the state of detached electrons to the state of organic humanity. . . . You have heard of the pineal gland?... That gland is the great sense-organ of organs — I have found out. It is like sight in the end, and transmits visual pictures to the brain." - H.P. Lovecraft ("From Beyond")
“If I accept the idea that this world has no invisible entities, this would mean that I’m agreeing with a single culture only a couple hundred years old and disagreeing with almost every other known culture that has ever existed on the planet. I’m not particularly convinced that we, among all the cultures of the planet, have discovered that these entities don’t really exist." -- James Fadiman (Teeming Brain)
Fans of Lovecraft know two things: 1) His visions of the alternate dimensional elder gods are so on point he was either schizophrenic or a psychedelic drug using shaman, either way, his pineal gland was obviously de-calcified to near shamanistic levels. 2) There are very few good film adaptations of his work. Maybe it's just that his descriptions are so outlandish it's as if they tap into a deeper well of imagination than the one tapped by most horror fiction authors, far beyond what can be duplicated on film. To cast normal horror fiction in our brain we use a basic set of archetypal faces and shapes--humans with knives, spiders, snakes--but Lovecraft calls for us to reach back past that original survival instinct imprinting, into the basement depths for the old dusty box of ancient images we didn't even know were there, back before we were... 'changed.'

If normal fiction like Stephen King is Candyland or Monopoly, Lovecraft reaches back in the closet and pulls out this game, that you'd swear wasn't there before, the pieces twisted into nightmarish figures dusty from time but you know you've never seen them, yet they're so familiar... so uncanny:


In other words, Lovecraft's fiction is 'true' beyond our normal conceptions of both truth and fiction, and maybe he had some unique gift to activate his own pineal gland via electrified tuning forks, as seen in Stuart Gordon's FROM BEYOND (1986). It starts as a deranged sadomasochistic (impotent) scientist Dr. Pretorius (Ted Sorel) and his assistant Crawford Tillinghast (Jeffrey Combs) create a machine that amplifies the frequency of their pineal glands, allowing them to see the monstrous creatures in the parallel dimensions, including eel like creatures swimming through the air, and giant worm type beings, one of which bites off Pretorius' head, sending Crawford running from the house screaming, a gibbering madman. (Presumably the channel works both ways - if you see them they can see you, too... hey, why not?)

Crawford is institutionalized. Dr. Pretorius' head is still missing, and a sexy psychiatrist Dr. McMichaels (Barbara Crampton - left) feels the only way the head will be found is if they recreate the experiment in Pretorius' lab attic. The results? Well, you can imagine. The doctor rematerializes, merged with the worm thing and able to bring his/its kinky sadistic sex dominating fantasies to bear (he has a closet of bondage gear and a pillory in his room) through unholy interdimensional power. As the Pretorius worm keeps turning the machine back on from his alternate dimension, Tillinghast's pineal gland escapes his cranium, poking out like an angler fish's lantern, becoming a sentient thing all unto itself, feeding on the brains of others, and McMichaels gets kinky as the pineal stimulation sheds inhibition and increases sexual intensity, donning some of Dr. Pretorius's bondage gear... uh oh.

What's funny is that now years later, the pineal tuning fork and amplified pineal-activating soundwave systems turn out to actually work... I think - they certainly worked for me back during the 2012 galactic alignment. There was no sex drive enhancement though, quite the opposite, more like lighting the stove of the long unlit crown chakra as the others fade in power. In conjunction with salvia divinorum, deep meditation, and drone music (included below if you have Spotify), the results were literally mind-altering.
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(Skip this next part unless you're planning to take the journey. And if you are, see also my 'enlightened' side site, Medsitation)

THE UNRAVELING of the Self:
the Void- white noise; Buddha- TV station;
your pineal gland: TV antenna (a guru would
be a descrambler box, or signal booster)
There ARE demons like the Lovecraftian elder gods however, so you need to be resolute, and trust in a higher power to act as a kind of 'no place like home' life raft, or-- in my visualization--one of those Nerf footballs kids clutch to their chests in order to float better in the deep end. This will occupy your conscious mind, distract it and center it so you don't panic as your entire construct of self, of id-ego-superego is unraveled, like a ball of twine, until there's nothing of 'you' left at all, just that Nerf football, which then lifts up without you holding onto it, and the pool vanishes and it goes up and up and you're still with it somehow, faster and faster and right through the monsters at the gates as if they were just papier mache animated miniature golf hazards (for no monster can maul empty air) and into the true paradise of the undifferentiated self, you realize at once that 'up' here, beyond time and space, there are very few other souls--and they are indistinguishable from the elements around them -or you, for all is one, though not quite inseparable. You sense a few other consciousnesses bopping in--Buddhist monks, hippies like yourself, god helmet wearers, their activated kundalini pineal glands all like fleeting little fireflies in the electrified darkness. But there are a few full figures materialized up there. The one I 'saw' was a giant meditating motionless Buddha in the center of an overflowing fountain, the water pooling in his lap, running slowly through a network of capillary grooves down into my forehead, though not directly to be, but to anyone who could tune his frequency in (for any number of TV antennae can pick up a signal without diluting/changing it); I knew that he wasn't making the energy so much as forming it, like a Ben Franklin lightning kite, so the antennae on our end (the pineal) would electrify.

Rather than just the blinding white noise of pure oneness/the void (Dharmakaya), of being struck ourselves by lightning and obliterated, then, we were given just the right dose. But there are other 'kites' up there, not all of them 'good.' The breakthrough can be quite insane and painful on a psychic level as your third eye (which is experienced mostly in vivid dreams, as during bad fevers or sleeping with a nicotine patch on) full opens and you feel what some have termed 'the baby teeth of the dragon' unzipping you from you psychic cocoon like a vacuum cleaner bag, your impurities and soul dust being electrified and zapped away as your construct of self is unraveled, and it feels like the area above but behind your eyes in the center of your forehead is a small burning electrode struggling to escape out of your forehead.



The worst most terrifying received third eye image for me was the gigantic rotating Medusa head planet, its fiery mouth a giant hellish furnace, bloody sharp and full of fire all at once, the Kali demoness at her most staggeringly terrifying, as I floated in place out in the galaxy it was slowly revolving toward me. As I floated, hovering in place above the surface, the rotation of the planet passed below me. I knew that the mouth, the fiery gorgon maw, would soon pass underneath where I floated, and then not just the mental and physical portions of myself, but the 'Whole Self,' soul included, would be be devoured in flames; and that is a terror vastly beyond any I'd felt. But I prayed and then felt the clouds of reality part behind me and a giant glowing electric hand of god or an angel reaching through to touch me on the shoulder as I sat there in my lotus position, and all was electrified with love and trust and I was saved /cured/ awake. I knew there was a God because there He was, hand on my shoulder.

Of course I tried to share this in AA, minus the salvia part but they thought I was crazy. Why wouldn't they? Later that god--or its shadow/variation--turned out to be a trickster, sneering in contemptuous sadistic laughter after I got shut down by this girl and took the wrong direction on the subway. Not that it was particularly undeserved... Our God/power animals are not always gentle in their teachings.

Crampton as Dr. McMichaels (post-pineal activation)

These days, having had my rebirth moment already, the unfolding of my constituted reality until I'm back in the womb of the undifferentiated self, I've lost completely the old desire, that spiritual yearning I used to have. It was like I knew there was a crazy movie out there I wanted to see, a movie most people denied existed. But I tracked it down and finally saw it, three or four times, and now have no desire to ever see it again. My whole self quest is over. I know where I'm going after death, so whether I'm right or not is irrelevant. Yesterday I thought I was dying - I couldn't breathe - thought I had lung failure. Today it's raining and I'm fine. Conclusion: allergies. Cigarette regimen, resume... cautiously. My cigarette break buddy Sean's getting an artificial heart valve. Baby, that death drive ain't no joke. Then again, I only feel that way when it's breathing down my neck, Medusa's hellmouth slowly revolving below me as I float in perfect stillness of motion above the planet, and I guess in grand Munchausen style I'm hoping for another last minute god hand before that mouth swallows me. I can't even remember the spiritual terror of that hell devouring moment -a kind of deep level of existential dread I've never experienced in real life, not since childhood nightmares. It's not the hellfire though, it's the feeling of being cut-off from the feeling of it. We need to ignore death to function in the world, but if we ignore it too well we piss it off, and it comes gunning.
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(OKAY - RESUME HERE)

BATAILLES: take it to the Limit-Experience"

Let me now hogtie in all that with HELLRAISER and those kinky-ass Cenobites, the sadosmasochistic pleasure pain principle tapping into notions forged in the heated French brain of Georges Batailles and finding fruition in the strange, feverish clued-in mind of Lovecraft and later Clive Barker. My old guitarist who loves cocaine also likes 'gonzo' porn, and misogynistic horror movies, to my eternal dismay. I've demanded he weed out lyrics like "shot the bitch on down," and I learned from studying to be a drug counsellor that cocaine addicts are often very intensely into bondage porn, ordering vile shit off the internet in the dead of night and forgetting about it the next afternoon when they wake up, and then getting packages from bondage sites a week later and not remembering ordering it or even seeing the site, and then feeling horrified when they open it, like their cocaine binge self is a perverse amoral Mr. Hyde shopping the dark alleys behind Amazon. Cocaine removes the mammal empathy impediments to our inner reptilian objectifying sex monster. I would say I'm immune but I remember as an eight year-old, imagining having a harem of girls I liked from school, all forced to kneel before me in chains etc. - Shit I used to fantasize about as a kid actually, up until around the age of ten, when my sense of empathy began to kick in. Now I wonder if my deep feminist repulsion towards any display of this kind of sick reptilian cortex sadism is just a long con version of that cocaine fiend's horror at getting the package.


SPOILERS GALORE FROM HERE ON DOWN:

Then there's this slick new feature length men's fragrance commercial disguised Bond movie called SPECTRE, which has a pretty great train fight, a smokin' hot babe (Léa Seydoux) in nice dresses, perfectly mussed blonde hair over black turtlenecks against a snowy white background (j'adore) and a glum attitude of systemic corruption dragging MI6 down the drain. Now the chips are so stacked against our Mr. Bond that he rides right into the dragon's den, has his arch enemy Stavros (Christophe Waltz, yet again) display how the entire purpose of this vast chain of human misery since the dawn of time has been to keep that sinewy ever-clenched jaw muscle on Daniel Crag's face forever woeful. The bad guys know all 007's secrets but of course aren't bright enough to remove his trick watch when they strap him to the torture chair. One well placed pistol shot later and the whole entire billion dollar complex is up in flames. And lucky lady and lucky shot Bond are off to another designer boutique parfum tableaux. Not to say there's not some great vistas, but really... the chain of paranoid logic is so wearying in its oppressive glitz it's the most un-Bond Bond ever--as if having gone back to basics in SKYFALL, director Sam Mendes wanted to just scrub all the tropes and sexist fun we love and turn into a remake of an 'interrogation of power' 70s-style conspiracy downer like THE PARALLAX VIEW dressed up like a Rolex watch ad supplement in Esquire. More depressing even than QUANTUM OF SOLACE, it posits the entirety of the world as so dumb they'd turn over their national security to a shady private contractor at the first sign of trouble, like a cowardly grocer paying off the Black Hand. And MI6 still lets the entire weight of the world order rest on one man's shoulders, even while loudly ordering him to let it drop.

Fight corporate synergy in affordable style and comfort
In short, the writers love to set up plush high end noir Bildenberg conspiracies for Bond to be almost swallowed by, but he's so comfortable in the 'top ten percent of the top one percent' spending arena we can't help but wonder how he's going to fight the power when he's just a poster child for that same power. And if it wasn't enough, we have to know that so much of the SPECTRE treasury is paid for by white slavery, just because, you know, sexually brutalized foreign females are the new status symbol. But then those writers and corporate product positioners are at a loss how an expensively-coiffed Brit with nothing but a snub nose automatic and an exploding watch can defeat this vast conspiracy inside of the next hour. So Boom - a lucky stray shot topples the empire that Christophe Waltz has spent the last 20 minutes detailing in soul-crushing detail. One snub nosed .38 slug starts a death star style chain reaction at the fortress without even needing to study the blueprint inside the R2 unit, and then back in London the same pistol brings down a helicopter from a half mile away. Oh James, is that your 'magic' gun? Does the screenwriter really know anything about any aspect of how reality--even in movies--operates?

I know if my NRA bro was here he'd be the first to point it out: a snub nosed pistol has terrible muzzle velocity and accuracy, that's the trade-off for its easier portability. I'm sure Bond's a crack shot but if a longer barrel didn't help accuracy, snipers wouldn't need scopes, spotters, and rifles. But old Bond can just aim at a helicopter (from a rocking boat no less) and Bam! I remember when a Stuka would dive overhead and strafe Sgt. Rock in the old DC comics and he would just toss a grenade into the cockpit as it bottomed out. Like hitting the lottery every damn time you buy a ticket.

The only interesting part is the torture device of Ernst's: a small robotic surgery needle that bores into various parts of the brain to erase memory and the ability to recall faces (so everyone looks like a stranger), and presumably bore out his pineal gland. But hey! Mere torture doesn't work on Bond! For some reason! Is it lazy writing that we never know why it doesn't work? Why even bother with the laborious sleazy set-up? Here are vast acres of sets and walls of monitors and all this shit we go through learning how impossible it is for Bond to escape or beat SPECTRE, but then a single well-placed bullet sends it all up in smoke. It's clear the writers would be more at home doing HOSTEL III than writing action movies --they got their vile sadism down. Mainly, Mendes loves to give old James a chance to retire to his first class hotel room to change into some new designer desert clothes. Even the old 60s Batman wouldn't rely this much on their target demo's ignorance of basic physics and firm belief that it's the expensive watch and designer threads that attract the models, and not cocaine. Though of course, if you can flip through an issue of Esquire without feeling like you're being sold on the idea of investing in a corporate white slavery ring by some synergizing pimp, then you really are already so brainwashed by the objectifying media that even a Situationist street agitprop freakout can't wake you up to your own commodification, baby. The only way the filmmakers can justify such strident product placement is to have Bond give up spycraft at the end to go show his new girl a good time with his swanky car, watch, cologne, and wardrobe all keeping her rivitedzzzz because everyone knows that's what a woman wants, a wallet on legs to dutifully cart her from one flagship to the other.

THE MAGICIANS, a Canadian-Syfy show is perfect for post-grad 20-40 somethings still trying to contextualize their sophomore year 'molly' rolls with particle physics finals and the science fiction and fantasy they read as geeks in high school. In short, it's about me, man. I really related, like with "selling your comic book collection" and having to get a job, but then finding through psychedelics, and higher education that your fantasy world is still thriving--and not only that, is based on real shit, I mean real in a sense of out-of-body experience in alternate realms and Lovecraft's pineal gland monsters -- they're all connected and it's all a big load of Now.


If that doesn't work for you as a preface to dig this show then just know that it's Harry Potter for people who love drugs and hate children and wish they could dropkick every last shred of fantasy film "whimsy" into a wood chopper. Take your fucking pick. I'll confess I've never gotten to into the Potters and I kind of gave up on Syfy original shows after Bo started being all high and mighty about not killing people in LOST GIRL. But MAGICIANS was on in the background last week while I was polishing my previous post and it subliminally won me over when the lead brooding ectomorph Quentin Coldwater (Jason Ralph) woke up in bed with his arch gay aesthete drunkard buddy (Hale Appleman) and his fellow rich jet set party girl bestie, and it's not weird that he did gay shit, it's weird he did it while his girlfriend (Olivia Taylor Dudley) was in the other room. Meanwhile his best friend from home, Julia (Stella Maeve) has a great husky voice and got refused admission to the prestigious alternate dimension Magic school so becomes a 'hedge witch' - the equivalent of a townie meth head of magic. Dude, the world of a liberal arts major acidhead at a major university who leaves his townie best friend behind has never been more vividly mythologized!

And that becomes the problem -college isn't just for tripping, it's also where HUNTING GROUND shit runs riot, leaving powerless schmucks like me and Quentin with a lifetime violent hatred of all frat boys, or in the case of THE MAGICIANS, loathing for a trickster who comes to Julia in the form of a Mother Earth goddess. There's also a beloved childhood author (a kind of C.S. Lewis meets Tolkein) who turns out to be a pedophile, and a magical rite that can only be attained by drinking a jar full of demi-god semen. Any one of those things would be disturbing enough that I'd have never half-watched it had I known, had I not presumed benevolence, especially coming as it all does after a whole season of basically non-traumatic drug metaphor magical weirdness, and underneath a cover memory of new age holistic spirituality.


That aside, the show has a sharp knowing eye for the arcane realms, there's few monsters per se, but a lot of high strangeness with the dead coming back as evil beings from beyond (ala the home of the elder gods in Lovecraft). I do love the split that goes on between the first visit to the magical dimension known as Fillory, rich with beautiful sights, but then a snap of a wand and 100 years have passed and its become a toxic wasteland. "Your childhood fantasy's a great big magical Dacchau," Lucy notes. It's like Frodo going to sleep after saving Middle Earth and waking up to see old evil Sauron has already won decades earlier and left a scorched Shire in his wake, no a polluted cesspool wasteland (like in WIZARDS). I've had the same thing happen over two nights of astral traveling back in '03. The first night I accessed a divine realm with the help of an angelic spirit guide. The next night I came back and the realm was a industrial emptiness and woe, the spirit reproachful - I'd left a hundred years ago and allowed this to happen. I guess that's a not uncommon one-two punch - maybe a combo metaphor for our own slow killing of the planet and my own slow killing of time, distraction, drugs and daily gallons of Diet Coke. It's been in lots of fantasies and visions, it's like maybe I'm not 'experiencing it' per se, but reliving a trauma in a stone tape loop, witnessing the primal scenes of our planetary past like a series of holographic waxworks.

Still, I did not like the sudden terrifying harshness, including one brutal trickster visitation / rape, two goddess jism things / brutal slaughter / child molestation / the way molesting creates monsters; the price of cover memories etc to leave me as a viewer feeling pretty brutalized. I mean, we have to wait far too long for a resolution to such a grisly cliffhanger to such a regularly 'fun' show. I don't know about you, but I didn't binge watch my Sunday away just to be have the shit kicked out of me by some Syfy show that suddenly decides it wants to recreate how disillusioned and betrayed we felt when we first learned our beloved childhood icon Bill Cosby was a date rapist super-creep.

I'm not saying the show isn't brilliant, fractal-like and meta and getting at the core of some profound truth about escapism vs. facing the banality of the real, sort of like addiciton - the longer you ignore your dependence the worse the withdrawal, the less you 'come down to.' Maybe all consciousness is a cover memory, and all fiction and fantasy a way of patching in that cover memory's weak spots. Visions of angels with white wings landing beside us just the brain's way of handling being raped by Zeus in disguise as a swan; or the way towls at the window are the brain's way of handling being probed by aliens. And don't get me started on that bear in the Overlook


Besides, the season one ending became like that aforementioned trickster, a cretin who uses our own faith against us, takes advantage and first gives us all sorts of insights and truths, three usually, and then for the fourth they play us like Robert Shaw got played in THE STING; mine just sat opposite me on the subway and laughed hysterically as I sat in shock, humiliated and confused, misled on his/her advice, this all-knowing spirit (this being in the same era of the above 'one day it's paradise, the next it's a wasteland' spiritual journey) just rolling in the aisles while never losing his mocking evil laughter; I never saw him again. Later, a feminine spirit came, my last visitation, and said journeying into this area is like dialing random numbers, you can hope you get a friendly voice, but there are a lot of tricksters amid the angels. Ask any cult leader: faith is the easiest thing to abuse. That goes for TV too, for these cliffhanger rapes and tortures are a betrayal in their way, too.


Luckily, for every vile trickster there's a couple of angels, like Scarlett Johansson and Luc Besson who came riding to my traumatized rescue with LUCY (2014), on (what else?) HBO (home of 'the rutting'), to help me recover. Hilarious, fuzzy logic-packed and unrepentantly trippy, I liked it even better than I normally would because all the angry science geeks and self-righteous bourgeois pundits hated it, loudly condemning the film's anti-science idiocy (the 10% of the brain thing, they say, has been disproved). Moron says what now?  Sure it's dumb in a lot of ways - so was LIMITLESS ("One pill makes you Corporate") or any other film where some designer drug makes a gullible slacker superhuman and he goes up against gangsters who want the drug but are too dumb or chickenshit to take it themselves and outfox him. It's the ultimate Adderall speed fantasy: it makes you feel smarter and brighter than everyone else in the room, but not smart enough to know everyone else feels the same way, and the more you pontificate the more insane you probably sound. What pissed off the critics of course, is that they consider themselves the smartest guys in the room to start with, and no movie starlet with a deep Hawks-does-Daria voice is going to outsmart them, no matter how many drugs they do. If some nerd with a pocket protector can't feel at least smarter than an actress of Scarlett's beauty, then they literally may as well be dead.

Me I dig it, and love the ending: as her Lucy finally merges with the pervasive all consuming oneness via using '100%' of her brain's capacity, creating humanity by going back in time to act as a Kubrickian monolith -by-way-of the Sistine Chapel, honey, to me, that's badass -- I don't care that there's really no story here and I like the deadpan way the cop just rolls along with the weirdness. Dude, you can tell old Luc Besson's a fan of Adderall or meth and this is his valentine to it, and right or wrong you know I approve that message, because it's both right AND wrong, and when you're beyond duality both are included in the spectrum (and if you judge either one as better or worse you automatically ain't beyond duality no more).

Belive it or not, I don't find any of the shit in LUCY unbelievable, what I find unbelievable is that we're a species able to solve a problem like ourselves only by avoiding it with escapism. And since the only way to solve that problem is not to believe it, then I pity the fools who feel threatened by this gonzo nutcase film.

Those insecure left brain bourgeois suck-ups don't deserve this film. Luc Besson is too 'cool' for them! You can tell he makes films that he wants to see not films he thinks will tell 'important' stories. I love directors like that -- they're not chasing some trend to make a bundle, they're not hacks - they're stoners enthralled by childhood memories of seeing DIE HARD or LETHAL WEAPON in the theater for the first time. I'd much prefer to see an action movie made be a moron who genuinely loves that genre he's working in, like Besson, rather than a smartass who "talks down" to it (the way, say, Fincher did with ALIEN 3, or Mendes in SPECTRE). Good French genre directors are rare enough, but the few there are love movies and trust their instincts, no matter how nuts those instincts are. If critics hate on LUCY just for its stoner 10% brain premise and idiotic plot, then they don't deserve it. Who cares if an idea makes sense? It's a goddamned action movie not a science fair, you ('scuse me while I take a sniff) insignificant cocksucking low down client stealing, trend chasing, kowtowing, sniveling, self important jackasses. LUCY, Luc and I will fuck you up!

Been there, boy




Cover it with this, and let the pitch that 
cracks the champagne glass egg of Illumination crack the 
crust from your third eye lashings

6 comments:

  1. Just googled Idris Shah Mr. Arkadin Gurdjieff and discovered your blog. I trained to open my pineal gland with a Chinese qigong master to finish my master's degree at the University. I then decided to test my full lotus pineal qi energy against psychedelics. I can "flex" my pineal gland any time on my own. So I smoked strong Salvia while I was in full lotus. First I did it as a chew - the traditional method and it was like strong pot with time slowing down and strong bliss. Actually I mean internal orgasms as kundalini. So when I smoked it in full lotus then first I felt my pineal gland get really activated and suddenly 3D spacetime went away and was replaced by this spirit vision realm where I knew my entire life had been a dream. I tried to remember anything - I tried to spell Mexico but could not and then I could hear my family calling me back to this world - as if their spirits were contacting me. When I "woke up" I decided to post my breakthrough on Daniel Pinchbeck's old forum Breaking Open the Head but when I was out of my apt. bldg. I realized I was not wearing my glasses (blind without them). I could see how people are advised to have a handler while doing Salvia but I felt my full lotus position should still work as it kept me from falling back over from the Salvia. So I tried stronger hits - a few days later - and I kept having internal orgasms. I was in the dark with a dark hat over my closed eyes and I kept blacking out from the Salvia. I decided to keep a journal so I could record how long I had blacked out but I heard that is the "highest" level you can go. I wanted to try to maintain awareness and suddenly after a strong hit in full lotus I "woke up" and I put my hands in front of my face and I could see this rainbow aura around my hands - despite my eyes being closed, a winter dark hat covering my eyes, in a pitch black room. I tried to repeat that third eye awakening but I realized years later it didn't work since I had used up my kundalini or jing energy. Also I had this vivid dream from Salvia - a dream about this art work from my breakfast room when I was a kid - I had NEVER thought about this art work consciously. I had stared at it as a kid but never consciously thought about it. Turns out the art work is "mola" from the Kuna tribe in Panama I think but anyway the tribe that makes Mola makes very psychedelic art work inspired by their strong smoking of ganga. So I looked it up and sure enough there is the same cannabinoid receptor activation by Salvia. I have saved that Mola artwork now but then soon after Salvia was made illegal in my state. You can read my blog for lots of information - free books, articles, blog posts on the pineal gland and psychedelics and paranormal healing - what I dubbed the "O at a D" or "orgasm at a distance." What I found doing DMT-based plants also is that the qigong alchemy is stronger as the pineal gland is permanently magnetized whereas the psychedelics rely on the strong electrochemical energy. In other words all these spirit visions are subconscious hallucinations since you can't consciously over-ride the power of the drugs. Not to say that qigong masters don't have psychedelic visions all the time - a qigong master befriended me and he said at first he kept seeing sea anemones floating all around him. haha. He had to train his mind to "empty" out that astral realm.

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  2. thanks for that, conspirachi. I used to see those anemones too! I realized hey, that's where paisley comes from! If you look at all that classic Indian design patterns (and who doesn't with cool tapestries on the walls all the time), you realize - they've been living through the third eye since before western civilization was even a gleam in Kali's third right scitar

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  3. You know Eric...I can imagine...it's awfully easy for AA cultists to wax poetic about the false pretensions developed during drug experimentation, but with that "Onion" link I'm convinced that this piece is more a bitter proclamation of sober-guy superiority than a buff cinema musing. You are essentially "that adderall guy" right now. I get it, though. Bless your heart.

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  4. heh sorry Anon, I linked to the Onion thing only to as they say, take the piss out of myself. I remember when i used to wax on and on about the cosmos to my dad after I'd been off on high adventures and he'd always say to my mom "Honey Pot, he's so full of shit, but I still love him". It kept me humble. I know what you mean about the AA cultists, which is why I always defended psychedelics in my qualifications there, to try and balance things out so they don't get too fascist about things (so far, no luck), No Adderall for me. Just SSRI variations and coffee, cigarettes and other things. I tried Adderall once, and didn't like it, I felt insufferably smug. So whenever I get that way I try to bring in my dad's voice So knowing my tendency to get as you say superiority minded, I'm always keeping my dad's voice somewhere in a post like this, because in the end, the tendency to boast about humility is one of the great rusted ironies of the new age movement. If that makes any sense. And bless your heart too! Namaste

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  5. Haven't seen SPECTRE, won't see SPECTRE, and loved your dismissal of it -- vindicated everything I assumed about the film from the TV commercials. I despise the Craig Bond movies. And it's my understanding they even went the Austin Powers/Dr. Evil route in this one, with the shocking revelation that Blofeld went bad because his daddy loved James Bond more than him. Is this true? Such a joke. Craig almost makes a guy miss Pierce Brosnan.

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  6. You got that damn right Joe.... it's like the writer hadn't even seen any Bond film before, so just based it all on the in-flight duty free shopping catalogue en route to the job, then figured some dumb twist like 'it was all a dream' or sibling rivalry would really wow us.

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