Archive for the ‘psychedelia’ Category

Ayahuasca

June 5, 2014

Ayahuasca

Late light, crows speaking
Half-moon bright above the trees
Black winged brothers

Dusk Over Sooke Harbour No.5 (Blue)

May 13, 2014

Sookedusk

Peak Experience

April 28, 2014

Alonetree

Otter Point

April 26, 2014

OP2

Random PKD Quote No.2

August 10, 2013

“Burroughs posits an information virus (or ‘virus’ [like]). (Not so, KW says.)

If that plasmic energy is alive, and it is (or it carries) information, then we have living information. Logos? Information plasma which enters through the optic nerve primarily — or auditorily. Signals that control our brains, open GABA blocked circuits. Like pressing keys on a typewriter.

Once having entered the person’s brain via the optic nerve it now modulates brain functioning so that the person subliminally transduces messages (including instructions) and hence is a ‘cell’ in the brain, responding to sentient override — lifted out of the blind forces of the Yin realm, his actions integrated with that of all others like him. It’s like a beehive, a colony entity, and is immortal, replenishing and shedding continually. Member-units (v. Schopenhauer on the fruit flies*).

*In The World as Will and Representation, vol.1, Schopenhauer uses beehives and ant-colonies as an example of the “will-without-knowledge” working in nature.”

From Pamela Jackson and Jonathan Lethem, eds., The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2011), 360, 907.

See also.

Sandcut Beach

July 30, 2013

Sandcut1

Coast Trail

July 4, 2013

Coast

A Windy Afternoon on Gordon Beach

June 20, 2013

A Windy Afternoon on Gordon Beach

My notebook pages flutter in the wind,
in harmony with the cresting surf.

It’s almost summer – the sun is warm.
Its heat keeps me comfortable amid a stiff cool breeze.

The sky is piercing blue, but clouds gather
on the mountains across the Strait.

My thoughts echo this meteorological moment;
unstable, mercurial, transient.

The surf is an undisciplined mind,
unrelentingly crashing against the shore.

A metronome
of pointless splash and foam.

There’s a pulse in the salty air –
unimaginable storehouses of flow
lie just under waves.

I could sit here forever,
if not for the sound of my conscience.

Even the regular, solid chunk of dying waves
cannot drown it out.

Will there come a time
when I can just let go?

When all there is
is wind, wood, and the stormy sea.

Is it now?

I see thick, heavy clouds
looming over hazy mountains.

The Strait a dappled tapestry
of sparkling light and whitecaps.

Green rollers veined with a champagne froth
crash constantly.

Fronds of wild grass wave in the wind
as a crow flies by.

I look at the stones before me.
Worn smooth, in time,
by that unrelenting flow.

I think, like those stones,
we are all worn smooth.

I close my notebook,
and its pages cease to flutter.


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