Hi Dad

;)

Deus Ex

Richard Dawkins is a man I both like and, to some degree, respect.

Yet, despite this; despite his obvious intellectual capacity, knowledge of the world and tireless crusade against human stupidity, I suspect--based on the authenticity of my metaphysical experiences and the habitually beneficial practices I'm routinely involved in--that he is reaching ridiculously misguided conclusions born from an incomplete and flawed understanding of reality as it actually is.

He operates in a wholly different domain to my own: He of the respected scientist, author and skeptic-thinker domain; I of the practicing-metaphysicist, forum-poster and open-minded domain. And yet, despite the chasm that seemingly separates us, we share a mutual commonality: we both aspire exclusively to the absolute truth of all things.

We just go about it in a different way.

No doubt he would have as much to criticize in my approach as I do in his. His a skeptical bent: a worker bee of current scientific understanding of the world and mankind, intrinsically enslaved within the paradigm, constrained, inflexible thinking resultant from a machine-like education. What has no yet been comprehensively proven is then de-valued and fully-disregarded. Reality itself supersedes the human entity.

I on the other hand, whilst still championing critical, intelligent-thinking and evidence (usually more empirical-based, obviously), have a different approach: The human entity--which, at its greatest extent, is beautiful and dynamic, possessing extraordinary capacities for thought, feeling and creativity--is of primary importance. Why is it like it is? What is the ceiling of its abilities? What is the ceiling for experiences beyond the domain of the known? These are the questions that truly matter, beyond the superficial realm of textbooks, laboratories and cold, rigid reason that so constrain our true potential. For if there is a ghost in the machine, an essence at the wheel of the human creature--hypnotized by this one reality--then internal exploration of self is imperative.

I find there to be something disquieting in the total faith attributed to the brain's assimilation of the external world that Dawkins and people like him so adhere to. Science, supposedly, is the progressive study and comprehensive understanding of reality, or some sorta shit like that (Harry and Paul reference, sorry). However, the fact is, to each and every human being, reality is a window in the dark echelons of the brain. Sensory information is electrical signals derived from the eyes, nose, ears and body. The life we perpetually habitualize--the external world played out inside us--is but an elaborate illusion. Thusly, everything we experience therein, within that framework, is forever--or, should I say, should be--tainted.

But, of course, that is not what occurs: The ghost in the machine--the real "I"; the POV self--is transfixed by the view screen in the brain. This is the way the vast majority of us live. Like a hardcore gamer playing Halo 24 hours straight, it buys into the illusion, forgets itself. Believes itself to be Master Chief.

The skeptic's belief in the view screen is unshakable and total, and therein lies their eternal fallacy. The armchair skeptic, especially, should be pitied.

People like Dawkins continue to wonder why the masses 'delude' themselves with superstitious nonsense and spiritual beliefs, and this is why: on some level, we possess a knowing that we are more than what we appear or think ourselves to be--that we are simply viewing, and perceiving this reality, not truly living it. Regardless of some of the crazy ideas and notions people attach to this knowing, regardless of the belief systems used, the fact remains there is a part of us that transcends the organism. People like Dawkins, while providing a definite usefulness, have fallen for the illusion hook, line and sinker, and they want everyone else to likewise do so. Their imagined utopia is but a dream of soul imprisonment. And we must fight against it.

The Matrix is a film, but nonetheless, there is a great, great truth to it, as there is often found in fiction. I think back to my Astral Projections, those wonderful out of body experiences, and I know now why they felt so real: because I was no longer simply perceiving a reality through a machine, I was directly interconnected and absorbed into it; unrestricted and fully, poetically free. There is an experiential purity to it that I will never be able to describe. All this Projection talk of "sensory confusion" is ridiculous--the fact that projectors' experience of the external world is different to the one habitually experienced through the brain-machine unsurprising. Projection is the real Real.

Ultimately, there is a ghost in the machine: and I would stake my testicles on that being the case.

Fin.

Fringe

It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings by any means, but after 3 episodes of promising, yet altogether moderate science-fiction fare, Fringe finally came of age this week with its 4th episode "The Arrival".

Michael Cerveris (pictured above) puts in a truly astonishing performance as "The Observer"--ostensible inter dimensional, "Men In Black" type being, that, whatever he lacks in eyebrows and taste buds, makes up for with mysterious mind-reading powers. It's all very reminiscent of The Mothman Prophecies; the overriding sense that he doesn't simply reside outside of our reality domain--he sits above it; at an altitude that affords him superior comprehension.

This is an intelligent, meticulously-studied portrait of a being not of our world; one who is attempting to blend in as if he were just another cog in the system, yet not quite getting it right. For an individual such as me whose interest in fringe science and metaphysics goes beyond mere hobby, it is truly wonderful to see the subject approached with this level of thought, conviction and intelligence, and to see it realized so well.

Anybody can create science fiction and fantasy. Making it resonate with a certain truthfulness, despite its fantastical nature--that's the tricky part. So my hat goes off to J.J. Abrams, who continues to impress with shows that intrigue, and generate philosophical and metaphysical debate.

If you have any interest in this subject at all, you need to watch this show. After a slow start, its potential is slowly beginning to be realized--indeed, there's even there murmur of greatness emanating from deep inside the catacombs. This ain't no X-Files clone, it's something... more.

Check it out.

Multiple Braingasms Anyone?

There's no easy way to say this... so I think the best thing for me to do is just to come right out and say it, warts and all:

I'm somewhat sexually-attracted to the Grays.

And by that I mean, a little. Tiny. Microscopic even. Honestly, it barely even registers.

...

OK OK, I lie: I want to stroke their chins with one of their probe devices, whilst engaged in mind ping-pong with their fatha.

Yes, I know this is wrong, but ask yourself THIS: is anal wrong?

Well?

Thought so. You can't judge me. The end.

But anyway, I don't know how much or to what extent this sexual attraction is in effect: I just know that my fascination in them goes beyond vague, existential curiosity. It's more complex, more multifaceted than simply "omg, sentient, extraterrestrial beings!!!!111".

It's conceivable this deep interest stems from the possible alien abduction I had as a kid; an event so extraordinarily unreal and frightening that I ended up losing consciousness from the paralytic effect of it all. For those who aren't familiar with this sunny little anecdote of mine, it goes a little like this *plays weird xylophone ditty* A witch on a broomstick phased through the door that led to the kitchen--what ensued was approximately 5 minutes of utter, paranormal horror as this witch proceeded to stare at me while she hovered above the floor. I eventually lost consciousness, and was greeted by blackness. I can vividly recall it to this very day: not merely darkness, but emptiness. As if something was removed (i.e. memories).

The event last month made one thing clear, these creatures know you. You are as naked to them as a dog is in the company of humans, perhaps more so. When they look at you they understand you and therein lies the horror: there is nowhere to hide; no part of your psyche that you can retreat to and regroup. You are an open book in an unknown library where humans were never meant to tread.

They didn't physically manifest around me on that night (in case you assumed that was the case from my writing--though I should point out I've had Remote Viewing experiences in the past where they have 'scanned' the contents of my mind)--probably because I asked them, nay pleaded with them not to--but they were as visible as they could be without ever actually being visible. I could feel their monstrous presences, electrifying the very fabric of my reality--so too did I see them clearly and vividly with my mind. Anything more than that and I would have surely suffered... oh how I would have suffered. It is as Whitley Streiber described in his book, Communion--to witness a real alien in motion, fully animated, is a traumatizing experience. The human brain is born from a world where such things are never meant to be witnessed, to do so is to be faced with primal parts of self hitherto locked away.

Yet while I fear them--an animalistic kind of innate fear, one I cannot control--I am nevertheless intrigued beyond all measure. It's to the bewildering extent that I am prepared to throw myself into the deep end in order to face this incomprehensible challenge, despite the gravity of it never being so tangible and within my grasp as it is now. I want this experience, even though I know what it will demand of me, what it will take from me and what it will do to me. I want it because I am the type of person that needs to know, and because I want my mind expanded and my reality to be ripped asunder. I want communion.

Scroll down the page and glance at that photo of Joan Allen. Notice anything? Well, you probably didn't, but I picked up earlier that the shape of her head is remarkably similar to that of the Gray's. OK, so the cranium is, obviously, less pronounced, but the basic shape, with the pointed chin, is about right. Maybe that's why I'm only ever attracted to a very specific type of woman: they remind me of hybrids.

Err... OK, that's enough weirdness for now. Except to say that I'll be contacting them tonight, so wish me luck. Lolz. Bai.

Alien Technology

I saw a documentary today; entitled UFO Files: The Gray's Agenda. Thought it was competently produced and enjoyable, if a little sensationalistic.

Two noteworthy points:

1. An alien abductee reported that her abductions were commonly preceded by either a burst of blue light, or amber light.

Now, I should point out that during my ET event I had my eyes closed, yet all the same this does appear to correlate with my own experience (the beam I witnessed was blue). Based on how comprehensively exposed and 'lit-up' I felt, it was clearly a scanning technology of sorts--a conclusion later verified by the procedure performed on my leg. Interestingly, another abductee reported how the Grays used something similar during medical procedures conducted on-board their ship; he said, in effect, that the beam pervaded his body and seemed to light up every particle and atom. In my own case, the beam produced an interesting effect when it hit me, a type of internal 'seeing-awareness'. In an instant I was presented with the source of the beam: an emitter on the cornerstone of the craft. I saw it clearly: a wide-field, holographic-esque blue beam stretching outwardly to my physical body's location. Very cool, though not something I was particularly able to revel in, in light of my present predicament (that being the sudden sensation of multiple presences sifting around me).

I posit that my reaction to the beam was neither psychic, or--for that matter--of the mind. It was a defense mechanism. That is to say, whatever the underlying technology powering the beam, it operated on a similar 'frequency' to that of my energy field/chakric system, and the two coming together caused 'feedback' on my part.

Before I move onto the second point, there's something I want to bring up, something I didn't bring up originally and which I feel like I should. During the operation on my leg, I did experience some pain. Now, it certainly wasn't extreme pain, and in light of the fact that the problem with my leg--which I had suffered for the best part of a year--had been resolved, I found it acceptable. All the same, there were sensations of bits of bone and sinew being dug out, and the occasional sharp pang. It was more uncomfortable than anything.

2. During the part of the documentary detailing various supposedly leaked official documents, two different EBEs were profiled: the first, the typical Gray type, the second, a more humanoid type.

I can't be arsed to go look for it right now (it's nearly 5am, time-fans), but in one of my threads at AS I mention a humanoid, cherub-esque alien. If I recall, I communicated with him/it during one of my deep meditations, and cool stuff ensued.

This is exactly the same type shown on the documentary--though the rendition failed to capture the brilliant white of its skin, but, y'know, that was always bound to happen. I'd like to say I was pleasantly surprised seeing him on TV, but that wasn't the case. After 7 close encounters and the recent experience, I know without a shadow of a doubt that they're out there-- so when I get confirmation I'm no longer surprised, I'm just like, ya...ok.

Hiros

Pseudo-philosophy, religious bunkum and throwaway fortune cookie wisdom--oh, and fucking your BRAIN with CG super powers-- yes, it can only mean one thing: Heroes is back! Let's be honest from the get-go here: after its predominantly mediocre second season, the show has long since lost its allure. Hiro pansy footing around in Feudal Japan? Worst. Decision. Ever. The character works because the actor playing him is a hugely affable screen presence. We like him because he's clearly having fun, his boyish enthusiasm is infectious. Take him out of his element, however--and ask him to act--and the results are predictably uninvolving. Don't make the same mistake again, Kreig... or Krige... err (look, I forget how it's spelt, alwite'?--I only know it's one weird-ass surname).

Beyond all expectations, the two hour season opener was both engrossing and entertaining. Oh sure, it was no season one, but the impression persists that this season will be the Last Crusade to season one's Raiders of the Lost Ark (season two being, eek, Temple of Doom). The Rule Of Three (it's non-specific?)--my rule fashioned exclusively for this Blog entry--remains intact: Bwahahah.

Elsewhere, things aren't quite as promising: Lex Luther--he of alcoholic beverage shenanigans, sly emoting and sitting by fireplaces in the dark--has left Smallville. He will be sorely missed. The show, restructured as it is, is gradually beginning to resemble Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, only without that sonfoffabitch Dean Cain on-board (an eternal blessing), and with (slightly, mind) less camp. I hope there's a guest appearance by Clark's barn later in the season; it deserves... that much. *Sniff*

Nice Girls Finish First (when they're evil)

So I went out with a few friends earlier this afternoon to watch Death Race, the re-imagining (I think that's what those Hollywood types call it) of the 1975 film, Death Race 2000, starring Jason Statham, Ian Mcshane, Joan Allen and some other actors. I forget their names.

Thoughts? HOLY SHIT JOAN ALLEN IS SEXY IN THIS MOVIE. Really, that's about the crux of it: everything else--exempting the hilarious 4th wall obliterating moment where Ian Mcshane looks into the camera, massive cg explosion behind him, and dryly exclaims "I love this game" (it loses everything on the page; you have to see it)--is essentially irrelevant. Joan Allen, 52 years old et al, is ridiculously, almost supernaturally sexy.

Why? I don't think I can answer that, Michael. Of course she's a very attractive lady anyway, but I think her appeal in this movie goes way beyond mere physicality. Even in the trailer I thought she was hot, and she's in that for approximately 1.4564 seconds. So I think to some degree it's the vibe of the movie; the atmosphere, the sense of danger and near-future science fiction pyrotechnics. It's so not a Joan Allen movie role. And I think that's reflected in her performance, which is an unusually subdued one (especially when you compare it to many of her performances, like her trees-on-fire masturbation scene from Pleasantville, for instance).

Therein lies the crux of it: an actress who is renowned for being natural, soft and emotive on camera, doing a full 180 degrees and playing, essentially, a bitch in a suit. I guess that does it for me: nice girls 'playing' evil. Hahaha.

/End Self-analysis. ;)

I do what I waaant

Fair to say I won't be wasting my money on Ayahuasca again. The final experience, like the two that preceded it, was characterized by distinctly underwhelming side-effects, and a change in my dreaming that was neither beneficial or anymore enjoyable than normal. It was certainly not what I envisaged when I parted with seventy odd pounds of my money, and after 20+ hours spent in the kitchen brewing the plant and faffing around with a hammer, I shan't be rushing back to it anytime soon.

So yes, disappointed, but nonetheless it is a disappointment tempered with the realization that this sort of thing is bound to happen on a typical psychonaut's journey, where failures, mistakes and wasted opportunities are all part of the process. I'm fortunate, I suppose, that I've found my entheogen of choice--an entheogen that provides me with the requisite altered space in which to practice metaphysics and think about the world in new found ways--but it is a shame that Ayahuasca couldn't offer me something else.

Still, there's always Salvia (next year, I would imagine). Diphenhydramine has so far provided me with the biggest mind fuck of my life, but from my research I gather that Salvia takes the mind/reality fucking to a whole new level, so--the nature of my person being what it is--I'm looking forward to it.

In the meantime, my usual entheogen, interspersed with the occasional nighttime gingering. Honestly, I cannot understand why ginger has seemingly no effect on other people when it affects me like it does. My ginger laden coffee concoctions cause a concerted amplification of my mental processes whilst making me feel... for wont of a better word, 'tropical'. It's definitely, definitely not a placebo. As I discerned the other day; while with eyes open the ginger experience is a fun and upbeat one, as soon as you close your eyes the experience is turned on its head; softcore to hardcore in an instant. Don't ever meditate on ginger, that's my advice. It's not that it's particularly psychedelic or trippy; it's that it's a never ending chorus of voices chuntering away that, if you observe for any length of time, are liable to make you go insane.

Speaking of which, I'm currently gingering as I write. It's funny to think that here I am, in my late 20's, and I would rather partake in copious amounts of ginger than alcohol. Yet it is true. Alcohol can be a much welcome addition to the socializing aspect of life, being that it reduces inhibitions and accentuates the emotional state, but beyond that I find little value in it. Ginger is my legal drug--admittedly, not something I would ever dare to have printed on a t-shirt and subsequently walk around parading, but as far I'm concerned, ginger rawks. As for my illegal drug, well, I love it to pieces: if it weren't that there were consequences to taking it, I would do it more than I do. Alas, there are consequences, and as we all realize--or should realize, I should say--balance is required, lest one begins to rely on a substance, losing their personal power and willpower in the process.

This is something I realized long before I ever indulged in such things. Yet even I--Mr Conscientious Psychonaut Man--lost my way a little sometime last year. It's disconcerting to think about now, to recall that period (a few weeks) in my life where I needed to be on something to get through each day; sobriety was simply another word for boredom, in this case a despairingly painful kind of boredom...

So yes, regardless of one's intentions and principles when venturing into the domain of the mind-devices (lol, the ginger's definitely starting to take effect now), it only takes one slip up, one lapse, one lardy da, quasi Eric Cartman moment of "I do what I waaant", and then BANG: there you are, drugged up, chemically-imbalanced and in possession of hobo-esque levels of willpower. Essentially, fucked.

Ayahuasca: Last Call

Long-time sufferers will recall I purchased a quantity of Ayahuasca a few months back. Said sufferers may also recall that I was, originally, really looking forward to taking it, being that--on the back of the research I had down on the vine--I had been given the impression that it was an 'ultimate' of sorts, one that could potentially provide me with the guidance and/or metaphysical experiences I seek.

Well, bad news, guys: after two experiences, it's fair to say that the only thing ultimate about Ayahuasca is the disappointment I have felt in reaction to it. There's been no insight, no great revelations, no metaphysical escapades, no mystical voices and no purging--there's only been a very slight alteration of self, and the gradual dwindling into a heavy sleep containing slightly more vivid, quasi realistic dreams than normal.

That's not what I want at all.

Of course, it's a well known fact in the Ayahuasca community that the experience doesn't always happen, and it's fair to say that, on the second occasion especially, I rushed through the brew preparation. So without directly inquiring with an expert on Ayahuasca, it's reasonable to conclude that I simply didn't extract enough of the plant.

As a result of reaching the above conclusion, I have decided that tomorrow I shall spend the entire morning and afternoon brewing approximately 150 gram of the Ayahuasca vine--basically cook everything I have left. If, come the early evening, that fails to do anything, then I won't bother with it again (at least, not for the foreseeable future). I'm not in the habit of wasting my time with such things.

Pob

An epiphany of sorts occurred as I conversed with my Brother a few moments ago: that epiphany being that; if it hadn't been that we were connected by fate and blood, I would surely not have wasted a single second of my time speaking with him. He would have been nothing more than some random guy talking bollocks and acting like a chump, soon forgotten. As it is, on the back of, ya know, family duty and that kinda shit, I have periodically taken the time to speak to him on the phone and occasionally on Windows Live, in an effort to see beyond his flaws and form something of a relationship with him. However, it has become evermore clear over time and through continual attempts that this is an utterly pointless escapade. The inebriated version of my Brother, which I have had the 'pleasure' of conversing with on several occasions, is even more unpleasant. On these occasions the nature of his underlying thought processes show themselves to be as warped, emotionally-fueled and simplistic as I have always suspected them to be.

I'm tired of the endless conveyor belt of assumptions and childish belittlings, bored of his penchant for ending every other sentence with one or more exclamation marks, embarrassed by his child-like histrionics, so much so that I've decided to cut all ties with him, once and for all. There's just no value to be had in having a relationship with someone I neither like or respect; nothing to be gained but endless spewdom, needless drama and strife--which as most of you will know, is not something I am the slightest bit interested in. God knows there are far more important things in life than this kind of banal triviality, things I truly look forward to exploring.

Ultimately I would love to have been blessed with a Brother I could speak with on a level; someone who I respected and enjoyed my time with. I only ask for someone with a developed brain--but alas, it appears that even this is too much to ask for. The great casino in the sky has seen fit to grant me the sibling equivalent of Pob-- I guess I have outstanding debts.

He's not a bad person, just majorly underdeveloped and retarded because of it. This wouldn't be so bad if he realized this was the case, but he doesn't. On the contrary, he evidently believes he is a bona fide adult, a good 'onest father, going about his life in the archetypal 'correct' way, and that having a wife and 2.5 kids, a dog and an exhausting full-time job, and spending your free time engaged in 'fun hobbies' is sufficient, and something to be proud of. God you can almost sense his chest puffing out when he lists his 'achievements'.

Anyway, here's the chatlog, unedited and unchanged:

Andy says (00:02):
Thanks for the b'day wishes bro!!!
Mindstruct says (00:02):
Actually I was just about to wish you a happy birthday
Mindstruct says (00:02):
hence me appearing on here
Andy says (00:03):
Hey well fuck all ive got from Mum!!!
Mindstruct says (00:03):
I had a dream about you last night
Mindstruct says (00:03):
i forget the details
Andy says (00:03):
What I died!!
Mindstruct says (00:03):
No... i forget what it was about. I only know you had a considerable part to play
Andy says (00:04):
Well Mum hasnt said a happy 30th and Dad - Well he can rot in hell!! And you can tell him that if you like!!
Mindstruct says (00:05):
Lol, there's no middle ground with you, is there? People are either the best, or the worst. They're either awesome, or complete bastards
Andy says (00:05):
I can't be fucked with immediate family life cos you lot cant and dont give a shit!!
Mindstruct says (00:06):
Yes yes; it's all OUR fault
Mindstruct says (00:06):
lol
Andy says (00:06):
I have always made middle ground and been willing to make as such!! But I guess its since they have known my fucked up soul!!
Mindstruct says (00:07):
yes. Your soul is fucked.
Andy says (00:07):
I guess so!!!.... So tell Grandad that when you see him!!.....
Mindstruct says (00:07):
I'll keep that in mind next time we speak
Andy says (00:08):
And that'll be never!!
Andy says (00:08):
I talk to him all the time and he speaks to me!!!
Mindstruct says (00:08):
Oh?
Mindstruct says (00:08):
Does he offer you financial advice?
Mindstruct says (00:09):
(Have you been drinking?)
Andy says (00:09):
He's more than me that ever you lot will ever know!! But hey you want what you want and you go for it - Cos you will get it and we all know what you as a non worker and no life wants!!!
Mindstruct says (00:10):
That first sentence makes no sense
Mindstruct says (00:11):
I still can't believe as a 30 year old that you are in the practice of belittling other people in order to big yourself up. Seriously, you need to get past that.
Andy says (00:11):
Drink lets see - YES - It's my 30th!! A reason to celebrate! I have a family who love and care about me - Lets hope My so-called Mother and father dont let you go - Cos you will have fuck-all!!!
Andy says (00:11):
Oh you with Mummy and Daddy!!
Mindstruct says (00:12):
Sigh. We are so, so different...
Andy says (00:12):
You always have been tied to em!!
Andy says (00:12):
Thank fuck for that!!!#
Mindstruct says (00:12):
It boggles my mind, really it does.
Mindstruct says (00:12):
Bye.
Andy says (00:12):
Bye
Andy says (00:12):
Yeah you cant see past it
Mindstruct says (00:13):
And I mean that for a very, VERY long time. One of the good things about alcohol is that it can reveal the true nature of a person. We'll speak again perhaps, when you, or if, you've grown up.

The State of Play

Reading Richard Dawkins' work and watching Derren Brown (at work) is fascinating and rewarding in equal measure, yet it is also a little dispiriting--though not in the way you might think it would be. It puts me in a strange position. On the one hand, I'm supremely glad that there are individuals in the world who promote critical thinking and encourage people by the force of their reasoning to openly evaluate the manner in which they utilize their mental faculties and the belief systems they hold. On the other hand, their dismissive stance on metaphysics is concerning, not only because the respective force of it seems to hinge on the magnitude of human stupidity in evidence (and the apparent internal generation that is occurring), but because my own metaphysical experiences suggest there is definitely something there. Indeed a minority of them have given me the necessary comprehensive proof, and thus confidence, to forge ahead in pursuit of uncovering the exact mechanics at play.

This truly is the greatest, most awe-inspiring puzzle in our history, one that should surely be approached with great humbleness and a keen sense of adventure, not dismissal, sarcasm and scorn. Does metaphysical phenomena truly exist? Is it really 'out there'? Can we acquire information beyond the boundaries of our customary 5 senses? Can we journey outside of our physical bodies, to other planets and realms? Can we speak to the dead? On the basis of, firstly, my close encounters with nonterrestrial craft; ostensibly solid objects blatantly disobeying the laws of physics (summoned via telepathy beforehand) and, secondly, a number of other evidential experiences--I would assert with great conviction that our capabilities go far beyond the ceiling we think is there. Yet in light of the metaphysical experience' incursion into the world of the real, the issue for me becomes: why is it so naturally sporadic, and leading on from that, what can be done--if indeed metaphysics is not fundamentally hinged upon the level of man's evolution--to increase its frequency?

At this time, I do not have any answers to the above. But ultimately the ratio of genuinely real metaphysical experiences to internally-generated is irrelevant, as it only needs to be proven-- comprehensively and without any doubt whatsoever--the one time. Once we as a people become joined in the knowledge that the metaphysical (whether all subsets, or only some... or one for that matter) is real, then our focus suddenly becomes that much more healthier. The great minds of the planet will be tasked with solving a great conundrum: that being why they themselves were unable--pre indisputable proof--to see any cause to accept its possibility or existing. How could the so-called greatest thinkers on the planet look at the information in front of them and reach the wrong conclusion? How can this be?

Like most of my posts on the metaphysical subject, this is a difficult entry for me to write: the internal workings of my mind, it appears, are made up predominantly of abstract feelings and sensations that have not yet been transformed into words. I know this because I have observed the transformation process over time. I had the sense many years ago--perhaps you could call it a belief--that my out-of-body-experiences, my shifts into the zone, had resulted in a hitherto unknown effect on my mind, and that this process occurs with everyone else who likewise ventures out into nonphysical space. That is to say; somewhere in the reintegration process, something else is added to the human being equation; something exotic and not quite compatible, but nevertheless compatible enough to be downloaded. I don't know whether this is a factor or not, but I do sometimes look at myself, at the way I think and see things, and note a divergence from the normal thought-processes of the layman and casual workaday everyman.

Observing the pseudo-miraculous acts of the hypnotist and conjurer on some level reminds me of the Tonal, from the Carlos Castaneda series of books. There is inspiration to be drawn from the feats that can be achieved with simply our minds, as there is from science. Yet the infrequency of genuine metaphysical experience does give me cause to wonder if there is something of the Nagual about it all. That is to say, a power locked away... far, far from the mundane, barely surfacing, held at bay by our frightened little Tonal selves. Perhaps, just perhaps, this power will be unlocked in the future, when our Tonals have matured, when we have reached the necessary point of growth. In any case, it is exceptionally fascinating, and I look forward to conducting a series of experiments in the near future to test the above supposition.

The Crappest Star Trek Characters Ever: Part 1

If Star Trek were a dish (suspend your disbelief, plz), it would probably be pan fried sea bass with sauteed potatoes and roasted fennel, followed by toffee apple steamed pudding and a glass of ice cold piña colada. In other words; taste-bud-licious, highly-filling, and something of a luxury.

Having written the above, I'm reminded of the time I exclaimed to my good friend Ryan 'Hal' Gayhill--amidst the brainal wildfire of a typical cheery-faced psychedelic trip--"Waiter, there's Borg in my soup!". Oh sure, the waiter joke has been done to death, and then some--but this is a post-modern take on it. It requires no response from the waiter; it's funny in itself (or should be--I suppose it depends on the individual's visualization prowess and having a basic knowledge of Star Trek. And, ya know, not sucking to the nth degree. Just kidding).

Ah yes, the list. Why, you may very well be asking yourself, am I creating a list, or more specifically, why a list on the worst characters? Why not the best? To which my answer is simple: having seen 'quite a lot' of Star Trek the past few months, it's the crap characters that bring me the laughs. Thus I feel a powerful urge to bring this to the attention of random internet strangers--and Hal.

So, without further ado--and in no particular order (there's no mathematical absolute to calculating sheer crapness)--let us begin!

Travis Mayweather--Star Trek: Enterprise
Aside from several deviations (He was born in space and he has an interest in spelunking, whatever the fuck that is), Travis is essentially Wesley Crusher MK II, only geared exclusively to the skill of piloting, as opposed to, ya know, knowledge of and ability in every field and expertise ever, in the history of the universe, past, present and future. Unfortunately, token Star Trek black dude Travis has none of the amiable, "Gee-wizz!" boyish charm that Wesley possesses, and--and this is noteworthy--even worse acting ability. Not a good combination. Every movement is overly-studied, mechanical and completely lacking in naturalness, and the character has almost no presence to speak of. No doubt if the Enterprise crew scanned his home of residence they would report "we are detecting no lifeforms, Captain". Yes, it's that bad. My solution to this problem has been to forcibly alter my perception of Mayweather in such a way that I now I see him as a robotic life form, possibly an early prototype of Data. At first it was just amusing, but having now fully conditioned myself to the notion, it's remarkably easy to accept. I now fully believe Travis Mayweather is an Android, and likewise--and for whatever reason--that the actor playing the part believes it too. Great character etc.

Neelix--Star Trek: Voyager
Neelix is unarguably the most annoying Star Trek character there has ever been, and probably ever will be. And that's before he even opens his mouth. I can only surmize his design and creation resulted from one drunken, late-night, pre-production, brain-storming session, which I imagine must have unfolded a little like this...
"Hey, you know that really fucking annoying talking cat-thing from Thundercats? You know, the one everyone hates and fantasizes about repeatedly kneeing in the bollocks until the end of time?"
"Oh, you must mean Snarf, whose entire dialog is almost exclusively made up of repeating its name endlessly and repetitively forever and fucking ever--literally the most banal scene-filler of all time".
"That's the one. Let's base a character on him, only we'll give him absolutely zero fashion sense, no skills to speak of, annoying Elvish facial properties and the propensity to wear a fucking chef hat that makes him look like your drunk uncle seen through a nightmare-kaleidoscope."
"That's an intriguing idea, but while certainly annoying I don't believe it's the kind of annoying that will keep people watching..."
"OK. We'll inexplicably fix him up with a wife that's ludicrously hot and light years out of his league, which will greatly perplex and anger the male viewers in equal measure, so much so that they will be unable to switch off!"
"Bingo!"

Suffice to say, it worked.

Live Long and Serve Us

Illuminati All-Seeing-Eye:



Vulcan IDIC symbol, representing the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC ("Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations"):



It is quite remarkable how this image pervades our culture (the pyramid with the light--typically an 'illuminated eye'--at its top). But I would never in a million years have guessed its reach would travel so far as to encompass the Star Trek universe. What is interesting in this particular case is that while the light itself isn't an eye--or perhaps, cannot be discerned to be an eye from the distance afforded--the background shape definitely resembles one.

Coincidence? More than likely.

Certainly a cursory scan through Wikipedia suggests little to be suspicious of: "The Vulcan IDIC medallion was designed by Gene Roddenberry as a marketing premium long before the third season". Having read a little on the man, I doubt he possessed any knowledge concerning the Illuminati--certainly not to the extent that he thought it would be prudent to leave clues scattered through his work.

No, if this isn't a 'coincidence', then it's simply another example of information bleeding through into our reality via extra-sensory, unconscious means. Though I do wonder how far the correlations stretch beyond simply "Illuminati; emotionless, Vulcans; emotionless"--perhaps, they both have... cloaking technology?

I know, through my experiences, that information can be obtained beyond the customary means: ideas, notions, concepts can swamp the mind, quite literally out of nowhere. It makes you wonder what precisely is going on. That ethereal window of visualization--"imagination"--the seeing with our minds rather than our eyes, I do not think the brain can account for it. I base this theory on the fact I have traveled into my imagination and subsequently experienced out-of-body-experiences; vivid, extraordinary intermissions from normality; I have correctly remote-viewed targets using my "imagination"; I have come into contact with extraterrestrials through it, which has led to experiences of inordinate non-normality, to say the least.

All of which is to say: while I concede I could be wrong on many issues, there is no doubt in my mind that when we tap into our imaginations, we are not tapping into some enclosed, subjective area of the brain, some intangible part of us forever locked away from the universe and the people around us. There is a crossover with something more. It's the connecting point to other realms and other means of information-acquisition--and who knows what else.

There can be no final conclusion as to whether the Vulcan IDIC symbol's similarity to the Illuminati all-seeing-eye is a coincidence or not. Certainly it would be prudent to study other fictional creations and mediums first, before taking this seriously, to see whether there are any further examples. But at any rate, I was and still am very surprised at seeing the image in the unlikely arena of Star Trek.

In other news... I hit upon an experiment last night, which I hope to be conducting early on in the new year. It'll be my most 'scientific' yet, something along the lines of "the effects of nonphysical energy on flesh"--be very, very excited, people. Er.

The Thin Blue Line(s)

As occasionally occurs during my infrequent altered-state escapades, I stumbled upon and subsequently became industrial-strength-glued to a programme of, shall we say, questionable interest.

The programme in question was "The Dark Side of Fame with Piers Morgan". Essentially, it boiled down to a face-to-face interview with ex-Baywatch star and walking chest-juggernaut Pamela Anderson, inter cut with the occasional bollocks-spiel from Hugh Hefner and Piers's chums.

It was curiously involving, as most things which contain the human element tend to be. Yet, for all that, I found myself intermittently distracted by Pamela's... hmm, how do I put this... 'pencil eyebrows' (yes, that should suffice).

In my adult life I've struggled to understand why ladies decide to pencil-eyebrow their face: are they dissatisfied with the eyebrows they were born with? I can understand if said eyebrows were shaped into the letter H and were hairier than a Scotsman's under-nad hair, but I doubt that's the case.

So why... ? For GOD'S SAKE WHY?!

OK, I'll be frank: when I was a teenager, pencil-eyebrows or not, Pamela Anderson was just aboot the hottest life-form on the planet. She was basically the embodiment of blond perfection: perfect skin, perfect eyes, perfect face, perfect hair, perfect chest. And man could she run in slow motion really well. But I was a teenager and completely enamoured with the female form. So much so that a walking sex doll with a pulse was all I could ever dream of to satisfy my immense sexual want.

I'm 28 now. My feelings have changed 'somewhat'. Pencil eyebrows now look tacky to me, they look macabre and otherworldly--like still life brought to life. It doesn't make you look human, it makes you look like a human plaything; a sex toy with limbs. Er.

I'm deeply sorry if there are any ladies reading this who have pencil eyebrows. No, I really am. But understand I'm simply giving my honest thoughts on this matter--as a man, and a connoisseur of the female species--insomuch as my immediate reaction to the aforementioned pencil eyebrowdom. If it makes you feel any better: my eyebrows are fairly thick and hang above my eyes ominously, like demonic archways of eye-lugging doom. Or something.

But yes, discuss. Or want to kill me. And/or.

---

A hilarious incident occurred late this afternoon. I was gallivanting up some steps in order to reach the DVD store before it shut, and as I passed some college girls (who each eyed me with varying levels of amiable doe-eyedness) I lost control of my legs, tripped over and had to break my fall with my hands. Expecting laughter I was instead greeted with a "OMG are you OK?" to which I hurriedly replied in a pseudo Keanu Reeves type way "Yes. Thanks". I then continued on my way.

It is funny how things change: a few years back I would have been embarrassed by this incident; but no longer anymore. I walked away, reflected on the incident, and grinned. It was quite funny--I had played the part of 'some guy' falling over unexpectedly, and I had played it well. Maybe the girls thought I was drunk, or worse, disabled (in reality I was simply physically knackered after a hard day's labour)--in any case, it mattered nowt. It was amusing to me, and no doubt to them too. Basically, we all win (won).

Signs of Transference

I have come full circle, it seems. Way back in the past, Blogger was my very first foray into blogging. It was later followed by Xanga, and then, finally--or so I thought--Live Journal.

I always rather liked Blogger: I found it to be deliciously functional and clean, with no allusions to community or friendship--it was, simply, a place to write, for writing sake. I suppose I left because I sought some form of recognition--or perhaps I was merely testing the internet-waters, exploring the possibilities and such.

At any rate, my transference over to Xanga was particularly ill-advised: I soon realized that the entire community was infested with childrin, brainless teenagers and plain impossible to read blogs. It was a far too common occurrance for my liking to happen upon blogs where the text color was the same (or very similar) to the background colors. Which invariably led to the suspicion that the authors really didn't give a monkey's turd if their blogs were readable or not (in hindsight, probably a good thing, having been made to endure some of their more tedious entries).

Live Journal was a breath of fresh air--in many ways it saved me from Xanga hell, as it shall forever be known now--but its aspiration to be community-driven, multi-functional and build bridges between internet folk muddied the waters. It strives to be a middle ground between Myspace and Blogger; unfortunately, that is a middle ground I find no satisfaction in occupying. Its members--predominantly intelligent and possessing capable writing skill--are caught between online socializing, casually reporting their day and humorous japes. Not a bad thing, obviously--but as I realized a few nights ago, the Mindstruct peg don't fit into the Live Journal hole.

So I hath returned, and I must admit, it feels fantastic: the focus is reduced down to its most essential component: writing--there are no allusions to anything else, and thus, no distractions. I am, and always have been, a voice in the internet ether. A notion I find somehow poetically pleasing and poignant in some, curious ineffable way. But Blogger has always evoked a sense of the existential in me (in some part, due to the dark theme I seem to inevitably gravitate toward), from the very first entry I wrote, about 6 years ago now, to the present day. It must be the voice thang... ya, definitely.

All of which brings me close to the end of this first post, and evermore closer proximity to making another cup of coffee. If you're reading this, greetings--if not, fuck off. Seriously. And if God forbid you find yourself masturbating to these hallowed words, I pray it ends with a mindblowing orgasm, the kind that knocks old ladies out of windows and makes elephants spontaneously combust.

Yes, I do the funny sometimes. BYE.

Mindstruct