- Just ordered a laptop that could run nuclear power plants. Ouch! #
- has a plan. #
- ..and it worked! Fab! #
- has set the wheels in motion. #
- And so endeth the first day on Twitter. Ummm….. #
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Imagine that you have just stepped onto the down escalator at Angel tube Station at rush hour. Far below, in amongst the almost solid throng of people, your eye is caught by a girl (change gender as appropriate) stepping onto the escalator and travelling up in the opposite direction. Coincidentally she raises her head and looks up. She catches your eye and smiles. A surge of electricity fires through your body. You smile back. Most improbably she keeps looking at you and smiling. As you both get closer to the centre of the escalator you can sense an amazing connection with this gorgeous girl. And, instead of recoiling in horror as is usual, she appears to feel the same. You realise that you are going to have to say something as you go past. The crush of people means that you won’t have the time to circle around at the bottom, go back up, then try to follow and find her. No, you just have single chance as you meet in the middle. You are approaching now and you desperately try to think of what to say in that split second. Instead she leans as far as she can towards you, smiles one last time and quickly recites her phone number.
And then that’s it. You’re down towards the bottom and she is already way up near the surface. All you have left is the memory of that electricity and sense of connection…and, if you still remember them, the numbers she spoke to you.
All of which is by way of an introduction to a question I’d like to ask. Does anyone know of a method of remembering numbers? No, I’m not expecting to find myself in the situation described above but I am rather hoping that Lady Luck whispers some nearly-as-important numbers into my ear. And if I don’t have a way of quickly committing them to memory, I fear an opportunity will have been lost.
These numbers, as you may have guessed, are the lottery numbers. Never mind for the moment how I come to have them whispered in my ear (although I will get onto this in a future post), the fact is that unless I can recall them exactly right, I may as well not hear them at all. If we take the UK or EuroMillions games, we have a set of numbers ranging, roughly, from 1-50. It strikes me that this is close to the number of playing cards in a deck and as mnemonists routinely memorise multiple decks, there must be a reasonably easy (or at least well-honed) technique for doing this.
Does anyone know these techniques or can you point me to some relevant links on the web? Has anyone practised this sort of thing before and have any tips or tricks? Any feedback greatly appreciated.
(P.S. Those of you who have actually used the escalator at Angel and secretly wondered what it would be like to ski down it need wonder no more - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFqQOlYE4EE ).
Here’s an intrguing little nugget of information that I came across while reading Dean Radin’s summary of Extrasensory research (”Entangled Minds”).
Apparently Sony set up a lab with four staff to investigate whether ESP was real or not. The ESPER lab, as it was known, was shut down after 7 years of investigation, concluding: “We found out experimentally that yes, ESP exists, but that any practical application of this knowledge is not likely in the foreseeable future”. In other words, they claim to prove it’s real but can’t find a way to sell it to consumers.
The second part of their statement certainly has the ring of capitalist truth about it which makes me inclined to believe the first part - that they did believe they had found evidence for ESP.
Since I’ve started paying more attention to them (as a result of a long-running debate that I’ve been having with John) coincidences have been popping up everywhere. In this blog I’ve previously recorded a particularly intense sequence of these revolving around Thelema but there are many others including the recent Gwendolen connection which may or may not develop into something more than a hilarious ‘weird customer’ anecdote.
The following account is slightly different in that I first deliberately went ‘fishing’ for psychic information and later did the research to back it up. Unfortunately, I didn’t say anything to anyone at the time as my credentials as a psychic are not convincing (to say the least) so you only have my word for the sequence of events. Those of you who were there, however, may recall James commenting that ‘Simon looks as if he’s about to embark on a psychic quest’. He was only trying to wind me up but actually he was exactly right.
The following events took place at Larchill on Saturday 4th June 2005. When we were at the fake grand entrance down by the lake, which was is really just some columns and porch with seats built into it, I decided to “put my money where my mouth was” and do a typical psychic questing meditation. I just (and as I said nothing at the time you’ll just have to trust me on this) began to try and pick up vibes and start to create a little story in my head.
What came to me was the following:
A party is going on in the house. A couple, dressed in old-fashioned party clothes slip away from the house and come down to the lake. They are merry and laughing and have glasses of wine in their hands. They come to the fake entrance and begin kissing and caressing and eventually they end up on the lawn under some bushes making love. The girl is not entirely happy and protests but the guy overwhelms her as much by words as by brute strength. I get the impression that the girl certainly does not consider this a “rape” and although it gets out of hand she believes that if she really wanted to stop it, she could. Time moves forward and she now has a child. She often comes down to the same place by the lake and gazes out across it, but her overriding emtion is regret, not bitterness or anger. She wonders what her life would have been like had she not given in to the man’s (and her) passion.
OK so that was the story that I had in my head. It’s not going to win any prizes for originality and it provides plenty of material for the armchair Freuds but I must tell it like it was. I reckoned that it was pretty uncheckable (charlatan psychics everywhere would have been proud) but I reckoned without the dedication of local Kildare historians and their worthy mission to put everything they can online. Thus when I did a little bit of digging, I quickly found that the name of the owner who believed he was going to be reincarnated as a fox was Watson and from this I was further able to trace a little bit of the history of the house and family.
Imagine my surprise (as they say) when I came across the following excerpt from Oughterany magazine (the journal of the Donadea Local History Group):
‘The community was not without its scandal when in 1775 Mary Watson, the eldest of the family, was expelled from the Quaker religion because she had dishonoured the community. The following is an account of this affair from that year:
Whereas Mary Watson, Daughter of William Watson of Baltracey, near Timahoe, was Educated in Profession of us the people called Quakers and did some time frequent Our Religious meeting but for want of taking heed to the Spirit of Truth in her heart which would have preserved her, Did join with the Temptation of the Enemy of her happiness so as to cohabit with a man in A criminal manner by whom she has had a child. Wherefore in order to clear the Truth we profess from the Reproach Occasioned by her Disorderly and Wicked Actions and for a Causion [sic] to Others We are concerned thus publicly to Testify against her and Deny her to be of Our Society nevertheless We Sincerely Desire that she may come to a true Sight and Sense of her misconduct and Witness that Godly Sorrow which Worketh True Repentance and thereby Find mercy with the Almighty.’
As I read this, I had a total surge of adrenalin and a weird prickling sensation all down my spine (I know that is another complete cliché but that’s exactly how it felt). I had started with something completely ‘imaginary’ and without much stretching (of myself or the facts) had corroborated the information, at least to a partial extent.
As I calmed down a bit and mulled it over, I realised that there are a few problems with this. Firstly there is a problem with the timings in that the scandal took place 11 years before the girl’s brother actually leased Larchill (although there is nothing to say that they couldn’t have been guests there before they moved in as tenants). Also the document refers to her as cohabiting with a man whereas in my mind’s eye the girl was definitely on her own with the child. Lastly, my mental picture had the people dressed in clothes suggesting a much later date than 1775.
One possible solution to some of these inconsistencies is to suggest, like Daniel Pinchbeck in Breaking Open the Head, that certain issues might reoccur, generation after generation, until they have been dealt with (”I suspect I am working through some business left over from my heritage, as if mystical yearnings run, like rogue genes, in family trees..”). If that is the case then maybe the tragedy of the unmarried mother was to appear several times through the history of the Watson family. I guess our local historians might be able to shed more information on this suggestion by looking at the more recent records.
The final point is whether the scene relates in any way to my uber-Quest, The Icon Trail. If so, I’m tempted to think that the Quakers must be the link. But other than them being known as “children of the light” and accepting direct, mystical contact with God, I can’t really find a way to link them into St John (the Evangelist, aka Lazarus) without resorting to outright invention.
And for the moment I want to keep that to a minimum and see if any other psychic material that comes my way “checks out” in an incontrovertible way.
My head is a scary, scary place. I’ve been aware of this for long time now and have even come to deal with the fact that my subconscious hates me. Until now it’s been fairly benign - the odd bit of dancing on the table when I’ve had too much to drink, the occasional bout of foot in mouth at the dinner party table or the inability to speak to someone cute because my mouth is inexplicably full of peanut butter. My friends had come to accept my quirkiness as harmless blond-itis that makes me, and so had I.
This was all before last night when things took a new and sinister turn. I guess I should start at the beginning and if I knew where that was I would. For many years I’ve been conscious of lucid dreaming and always thought that it sounded rather fun. My mother, a frequent lucid dreamer, regaled us with her childhood dreams of a futuristic world where people had watches that they could talk to and see other people on, where you could have an entire world’s worth of information in a little box in the corner of your study. Considering when mother was young the mobile phone hadn’t been thought of yet and the internet was something you hung at your window, I think she was remarkably spot-on with the make-believe world she hid behind her eyelids.
So when I came across an article several years ago I decided to play the game. I repeated my mantras when falling asleep; I dutifully filled in my dream log every morning, month after month; but as time drew on I had no idea if I’d even had a dream at night, never mind being conscious within it. With time and the change of jobs I grew bored of my log and the countless mantras and settled down to a future of nights with half remembered lotto wins, fast cars and racy blondes.
Then, out of the blue, late last year I had a dream where I dreamt that I was lying in bed dreaming. In the dream, I suddenly realised that I was actually lying in bed but also dreaming at the same time that I was lying in bed. So I floated up to see myself lying on bed and I thought ‘how nice’ before promptly falling ‘asleep’ (again).
I quickly forgot about the episode (presumably I filed this somewhere away in the back of my mind marked “interesting” and continued to sleep the regular, sleepy sort of sleep). Then a few months ago I had the dream again, this time though I didn’t fall asleep. I was waking up, or rather, trying to wake up in the kind of darkness you only get in the middle of winter in the middle of the night. In fact I was desperately trying to wake up. I knew I was in bed, I knew I was asleep. I knew I wasn’t the only one in the room. I tried to turn my head to look around the room - nope not possible - apparently my head had turned to lead along with the rest of my body. I was utterly paralysed. Now I’ve had a toe-nail pulled off without anaesthetic (I can show you if you like), I’ve had a fake gun pointed at my head (I didn’t know it at the time, or at least couldn’t be sure), I’ve had to navigate my way down the pitch black stairwell of the Nile Cruiser when I was on holiday with hundreds of others with only a lighter to see by as the engine gently exploded (those people will never complaint about smokers again!). None of this though, none of my bizarre little life comes one iota close to the absolute terror that flooded my mind as I lay paralysed in the darkness with the demons of my subconscious lurking around me. It’s difficult to explain the kind of fear you get when something grabs your legs and starts pulling your body of the bed. I can explain the sound though and it was loud - very loud, screaming. I know because I was still doing it when I sat bolt upright in the middle of the night drenched in sweat.
If this all reads as a bit story-like and dramatic then I apologise. I don’t know how to tell it another way. Well I do. I had an attack of Sleep Paralysis (SP) and Associated Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Experiences. It happens to 10% of human adults according to some research. But if you really want to know what it was like, and if you want it to be interesting then I must write it as a tale. I also feel that it’s something I need to do. As for the dramatic, well it’s as dramatic as it is has become traumatic to me.
These ‘episodes’ as I’ve come to refer to them have occurred a few times this year, each time increasing in intensity and duration, each more realistic and each more terrifying because of it. Last night’s was the fourth and lasted approximately 25 minutes. I don’t know how I know this I just do.
Last night’s was the worst because it contained all the elements of the previous dreams and some new and interesting ones to boot. I’ll leave my little tale now and switch to the stream of consciousness that poured out of me at 12:30 last night. I damn well wasn’t going to sleep again so I wrote it all out hoping that I might make sense of it and stop it happening again. Anyway here it is word for word:
Grey, darkness. Lights won’t turn on. Laughing, Music, Laughing at me? Not sure. Scared, hiding under the cover. Watching people, colour green. Who are they? Can they see me? Don’t know, scared they can, scared they’ll notice me watching through the gap in the sheet. Some kind of fit. My whole body shakes. White noise fills my head with music, blinding light waves the whole world judders. Wave after wave; 4 or 5 fits.
I think that this is the point where I became fully conscious that I was dreaming. Interestingly, though, the moment I began the episode was when I tried to turn on the light. That’s the point that I realised ‘I’ve been dreaming this before’. The light won’t turn on and I realise it’s because my hand isn’t attached to my body any more - that’s when the panic sets in and I start scrabbling to get back in my body. I normally try to do this then I have to struggle to actually make it move. Either that or I float/get dragged of the bed. The people in green are something new and so are the convulsions/spasms which are weird to explain but I wasn’t having those it was the world that was convulsing Anyway….
Then I’m sliding, not being pulled this time. Just sliding backwards out of the bed. Floating away from myself into darkness. I let go a little ask to go forward they allow this. Who are they?
This is new too. This is the first time I’ve been able to be conscious enough to realise this is still my dream even if I’m not in full control. It’s the first time I’ve asked for something.
Forward this time through the wall of the house again and again, the brickwork the grain of the wooden door like walking sliding, solid thick not cold.
Think I was trying to describe the sensation of passing through the walls, of the house and then the houses in the neighbourhood as I sailed forwards.
Ask for control, something, scared.
This is the point where I lost my cool. I was getting too far away from my body. This is where weird got terrifying, yet reading it back now it really doesn’t sound bad. Just trust me that it’s the scariest thing I think has ever happened to me.
Try to wake up. Can’t lift my hand my. Pull myself up, I weigh 40kgs. Lights still out.
I’m pushing the button but the light won’t turn on. It seems to me that the moment I realise I’m dreaming is like a reset switch, suddenly I’m back in my bed and I have to try to get my body to move again.
I’m not awake yet. Try again, still can’t. I get to the door next time, maybe the bulb’s gone. Have to wake up before they notice, before they see me. I get to the door again - maybe I can see Duncan, wake him up. I shout but there’s no voice. Open the landing door to wake him so he can wake me. No point I’m asleep, I’ll have to do it myself. There’s something at the door.
The something at the door is hard to explain it’s the feeling of a presence the flicker of a shadow in the darkness. I don’t know what it is but I know at the time its terrifying, image the alien movie when one of the characters is trapped in a room with the face hugging thing, kind of like that.
Try again, getting closer, can feel the surface. Feel my eyes moving, darting. God! I can’t wake up. Terror, fear ? they’re going to notice, find me, drag me away from my body. Get back in, try to pinch my face. My head won’t move. My body weighs a ton. Manage to get back into my head. I feel the pillow on my head, move head. So heavy. Finally shake my head awake. Turn on the light. It worked! Thank f*!?! . I’m shaking, drenched in sweat. I text a friend make sure I’m awake. Can’t sleep now.
Now I’m not particularly one of these new age people that go in for astral projection, alien abductions, or other such. I had a dream in which my conscious was, well, conscious when it wouldn’t normally have been. There are various chemical imbalances that can cause this and even explain away the paralysis as blockages in certains sections of the cortex. All very reasonable; all very scientific.
However, having had the experience a few times now, it’s so unbelievably real, so authentic that even now, four days later, I can remember it as well as I remember what happened on Sunday afternoon. I can now quite understand and sympathise with people who believe that they are being abducted night after night and I can honestly say I feel for them - in comparison my SP episodes are quite boring.
So what does this all mean? What next? Well the first step is to learn as much as I can about SP so that I have the information at hand for the next SP attack. Some people have reported that they find instead of trying to move that you should simply imagine your body going into a spin that frees you from your slumbering form and allows you to float above yourself. This can then lead to Lucid Dreaming and from there to normal REM sleep. So that’s kind of my plan for next time which if the schedule continues the next time should be in about two months.
As I’ve said, I’m not sure I believe in astral projection, but then a few months ago I wouldn’t have believed you if you told me about Sleep Paralysis. I’m choosing to see this as a challenge. If I can master my fear during SP sleep it presents a remarkable avenue for self exploration. One I’m looking forward to, if with a little dread??
You are all figments of my imagination. To be precise, I programmed peripheral quasi-intelligences into the core so that, when immersed, I would have the illusion of being one of a crowd instead of the God-like central mass around which all else orbits. What I experience as “my life” is simply the latest consumptive session in this Matrix/Truman Show hybrid. If sometimes I have flashes of former lives, this is because my program has failed to completely block memories of my earlier games - a design flaw more likely to occur if I’m doing the virtual life quivalent of a 48 hour continuous Championship Manager binge.
As I create the universe around me, through a process of unconscious (to my immersed self), artistic perception, I weave patterns in the fabric. Thus I shouldn’t be surprised when motifs reoccur over and over throughout the experience. Coincidence and synchronicity are merely side-effects of the not-quite-total amnesia to which my out-of-matrix mind willingly submits. Deja vu is just that.
The problem of course is that my uber-mind undermines your unter-mind. We can’t all be the creators. Lock two solipsists in a room and the first thing they will do is try and kill each other. Ha! You’re dead and I still exist. Therefore I must be the creator. There can be only one. Bags I be Bagpuss.
And so, I vividly recall when I was only about 6 years old lying in bed and thinking about when I died and imagining being subsumed into the Godhead and being terrified because I didn’t want to disappear into some group mind. I liked being Simon Nugent and was horrified to think that someday my unique pulse would disappear or become dilute. This sensibility has been expressed in very modern form by the Transhumanists, ambivalently awaiting the technological singularity.
The atheist existentialists didn’t offer the comfort of any afterlife at all. We are simply ants on a rock hurtling through a vacuum and when our ridiculously short lives are over there is nothing for us personally except Oblivion (with a great, big capital “O”). Anything else in life is a distraction. You must face this horror full on and keep looking at it even if it makes you physically sick (the famous nausee). The fact that we are conscious of our own impending negation is a cruel cosmic irony that makes our existence even more tortured.
The two attitudes described (melodramatically, I admit) above seem to me to be ubiquitous within our culture. At one end of the spectrum the ego as God and at the other end the ego as transient nebbish.
Take science a case in point. In the nebbish corner along with the existentialists, the “hard” men of science would like to relegate the personal consciousness to a by-product of chemical reactions in the physical brain. If there is a mind it is mereley a ghost in the body’s machine, a machine which itself is driven primarily by the blind watchmaking DNA. The whole universe is a clockwork extension.
In the “we are God” corner you have the “new age” scientists who jump on the latest discoveries within Quantum theory to show that the universe is brought into existence by the act of perception of a conscious subject. Ultimately they describe a reality very like the solipsistic computer game described above.
One of the best attempt to make sense of this is Jung’s theory of Personality Development. (I say “best” but what follows are articles of my faith. I find them useful and fun but they are in the final analysis unprovable and entirely subjective). He proposes two key forces within the mind - the Self and the Ego. The Ego is the better known one, it is the “I” I am normally aware of, the one who travels around in my head all day, the one with all the ambition, the one that reacts well to flattery and strikes out when thwarted.
The Self on the other hand is a more mystical force. It is a combination of an individual spiritual blueprint which identifies each of us uniquely but also which extends beyond the individual and merges with the planetary consciousness.
The usage of these terms is necessarily specific because although the word “self” is used frequently in popular culture (e.g. self-improvement) nearly always what is meant is Ego. Thus an attitude described as selfish is, under our definition, more correctly described as Ego-ish.
According to this model, when we are born the Ego barely exists. It is almost completely subsumed in the Self. The newborn child knows nothing of its own personality. It cannot even distinguish itself as a separate entity from the mother. Gradually, the Ego fights its way free of the Self and establishes its own independent, conscious kingdom where its own agenda can dominate. The Ego must constantly battle for consciousness and the effort can only be sustained for a limited time after which we fall back into unconsciousness (sleep).
Jung (and his colleague Edward Erdinger who specialised in this area) reckoned that the first half of one’s life is typically taken in the attempt of the Ego to battle its way out of the Self. And like any war it is not a smooth advance, rather sometimes the Ego grows quickly, sometimes it backslides towards the Self. Either of these movements, if taken to an extreme, can become dangerous and relate to where I started this post (might there be a point to this after all?).
The first danger is called Ego-inflation and here the Ego, breaks free of the Self just enough to have an identity of its own but is still mostly overlapping with the Self and incorrectly identifies all the feelings of power, all the linkage to the planetary consciousness and the divine, with itself and not the Self.
The second danger is Ego-alienation where the Ego, in its drive for independence, goes too far in the other direction and cuts its ties with the Self and thus loses much of the vitality and meaning that it needs to sustain it.
By now you will have joined the dots between Ego-inflation and the “we are God” corner and Ego-alienation and the “nebbish” corner. I won’t labour the point any more just now - suffice to say that I have enough material for (at least) another post entitled “The role of the inflated Ego in the Cult of Celebrity”. (Come to me for counselling, Keira. I can help you. It’s not the shape of your bum that matters, it’s the size of your Self).
The decisive fact about both these pitfalls (and psychoanalysts delight in discovering many, many others besides) is that while we are unaware that we have fallen into the trap, we cannot get out. Psychoanalysis is, at heart, an effort to make our unconscious mental habits conscious so that we can begin to change them. A physical analogy may make this clearer: if I have got into the unsconscious habit of picking my nose in public it is extremely unlikely that I will ever stop until it is brought to my attention by someone else (possibly by holding a mirror up to me). To Jung this was the most fundamental principle of all. He said: “As far as we can discern, the whole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”
If the first half of your life involves steering a way past the twin sirens of inflation and alienation, the second is meant to be about the re-engagement of the (now conscious and mature) Ego with the Self. This process is described by Jung as Individuation and is essentially the development of a fully conscious personality but one which is so in tune with its Self that the spiritual uniqueness of the Self expresses itself in the Ego. To Jung, ’personality’ is a particular term not to be confused with the loose sense in which we use it today. It is the opposite of unconsciousness; it is the hard-won individuality, the flame in the darkness quoted above.
Marie-Louise von Franz, Jung’s long-term colleague, nicely encapsulates the essence of Individuation when she says:
Individuation means being yourself, becoming yourself. Nowadays one always uses the cheap word ’self-realization’ but what one really means is ego-realization. Jung means something quite different. He means the realization of one’s own predestined development. That does not always suit the ego, but it is what one intrinsically feels could or should be. We are neurotic when we are not what God meant us to be. Basically that is what individuation is all about. One lives one’s destiny. Then usually one is more humane, less criminal, less destructive to one’s environment.
For me the drive for individuation is like the Quest for the Holy Grail or, more generally, any spiritual/psychic quest. Sometimes our personal Quests can yield absolutely concrete, tangible results but there is another, psychological and symbolic dimension to Questing which exists simultaneously with, and complements, the physical quest. This symbolic dimension is the individual’s ongoing attempts at defining and refining their unique personality (i.e. the process of Individuation). But this process is extremely hard and the structures and guidelines that once existed to help people along their way no longer resonate with our modern minds.
On the one hand we are unfortunate to be born into this particular time for, as Edward Edinger describes:
We seem to be passing through a collective psychological reorientation equivalent in magnitude to the emergence of Christinaity from the ruins of the Roman Empire. Accompanying the decline of traditional religion there is increasing evidence of a general psychic disorientation. We have lost our bearings. Our relation to life has become ambiguous. The great symbol wich is organized Christianity seems no longer able to command the full commitment of men or to fulfil their ultimate needs. The result is a pervasive feeling of meaninglessness and alienation from life. Whether or not a new collective religious symbol will emerge remains to be seen. For the present those aware of the problem are obliged to make their own individual search for a meaningful life.
On the other hand we are actually lucky to have this freedom that is pressed upon us. For as the Gnostics realised:
No one comes to his true selfhood by being what society wants him to be nor by doing what it wants him to do. Family, society, church, trade and profession, polotical and patriotic allegiances, as well as moral and ethical rules and commandments are, in reality, not in the least conducive to the true spiritual welfare of the human soul. On the contrary, they are more often than not the very shackles which keep us from our true spiritual destiny.
And James Hollis, speaking of the need for personal individuation, spells it out even more clearly:
The more you are like others, the more secure you will feel, yet the more your heart will ache, the more dreams will be troubled and the more your soul will slip off into silences. Finally, one day, you will have forgotten that you have a soul ? you will rise, drive through the traffic, arrive at work, and not remember how you got there.
Regardless of whether we want it or not, we have been forced on our own personal Grail Quest. This is our curse and our blessing. We can take up the challenge and follow the Quest wherever it will take us - hopefully enjoying more frequent bouts of “conscious individuality” as we go, or we can allow ourselves to be distracted by society’s enchantments, choose comfort over adventure and drift along leading an unconscious and unexamined life.
We are human needles in a gramophone and the world is a vinyl record. As we follow our true path, banging off the world, we send out our totally unique music. Of course this is hard and painful ? there is plenty of our blood on these tracks ? and we never run a true course across the record. We scratch, hiss, skip grooves, get jammed ? even run backwards but, if our general motion is to follow our bliss, this disturbance is only feedback in the single of our lives. If the Angels emit a constant stream of perfect notes then we humans are more Jesus and Mary Chain. But, as Jung reminds us, God loves human beings more than Angels.
The dancer Martha Graham puts it more succinctly:
There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium, and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU. Keep the channel open…
And this is where Psychic Questing has such an important role to play. In the absence of structured guidance from the traditional religions or from society in general, it is at least an exercise that snaps us out of the glamour that holds us in thrall to the mundane and puts the red thread back in our hands. It forces us to follow our whims (the first law of Questing is ’go with it’); it physically re-connects us to the countryside and uses us to map new lines of power over the landscape; it forces us into the inner space of our psyches to confront the demons and spirit guides that reside there; it fosters creative, active imagination so necessary to the replenishing of our impoverished symbolic life; it teaches us history and, by focusing us on the lives of individuals in other ages, gives us a sense of place; it counteracts the tyranny of the rational; it trains us to silence the inner critic and listen to the nervous whisperings of intuition; it evidences the power of the individual.
At its best, Psychic Questing is an artform and a way of life, a means of staying on the Quest to find the Grail.
Postscript: There are of course as many others ways of attempting individuation as there are people. One of my faviourite authors at the moment is Daniel Pinchbeck whose attempts at Individuation using psychedelic drugs are wonderfully documented in “Breaking Open the Head”. This is a high-risk approach as one of the potential effects of (at least) some psychedelics is blasting the Ego to pieces. While a little of this may be good for deconditioning the Ego from a lifetime of adapting to societal demands, too much will blow you back to the infantile state of an Ego that barely exists and is overpowered by a pre-conscious Self. What Jung is suggesting is not a regressive move like this but rather a loop around the spiral so that we come back to an identification with the Self but this time also with a highly conscious Ego. Still, the book is superb reading and his next (due in 2006) promises to be just as good concerning as it does the prophecies around the year 2012.
Postscript 2: Some of the above has been used by me in other places, most notably the Psychic Questing FAQ. However, this is the first time it has all been brought togther to show the big picture. Thanks to Smiler for sparking the thought.
At about this time on the 13 May 1991, I was sitting in front of my father’s 8088 computer using WordStar to type out a letter. Although this makes me sound rather old, the technology was well outdated even then and a few months later we were to make the leap to a 386sx (and, much to my anguish, a few months after that the 486 would become widely available).
Anyway this post is about the letter I was writing not the technology I was using to write it (although thanks to technology the original electronic version of the letter survives having moved from 5.25″ floppy disk to 3.5″ disk and from Ireland to Australia and back).
It was a very strange letter. I was pretending to be a friend of mine (Peter) and was writing to one of the lower profile monks in the boarding school that we had both attended (Glenstal Abbey). We been out of school for three years at this point which means that I must have been about to sit my final college exams (so the fact that instead I’m writing weird letters to barely known monks is entirely in character). In the letter I am describing a ficticious argument between Pseudo-Peter and another friend, Pseudo-Gus, concerning the existence of ley lines. Pseudo-Peter, the “author” of the letter, is the believer while Pseudo-Gus is the sceptic. Pseudo-Peter appeals to Fr Bonaventure to supply him with various pieces of ley line related information that would convince Pseudo-Gus that there is something to them after all.
Fr Bonaventure was a most unlikely recipient of such unsolicited mail. He had never taught us in school and I can’t ever remember talking to the man. He had a reputation as a prodigious smoker which was graphically emphasised by the nicotine stains in the front of his (otherwise) white floppy hair. When I later had occasion to help move his belongings out of a seminary room in Maynooth College, I wondered that the university had painted the room such an odd shade of yellow. It was when I removed a painting and saw that the wall underneath was brilliant white that I suddenly realised the entire room was coated in nicotine. That story I can personally vouch for being absolutely true. Another story, more apocryphal but which I also believe, is that he once tried giving up cigarettes but within five hours he had gone blind and was in such a state of agitation that the doctor summoned by his anxious brethern advised him that his body was so dependent on nicotine that it was more dangerous to quit cigarrettes than to continue smoking.
Unfortunately, I can no longer remember why Fr Bonaventure was singled out as a recipient of this lunacy. I suspect it may have been simply a throwaway comment such as “Bonaventure’s your man for ley lines” that set me on my deranged course. Equally sadly, I can no longer remember whether I actually posted it or not although I suspect that I did because a second letter written two days later to another monk (and even more bizarre than the first) definitely was sent. Had I not sworn off drugs following a psychic attack in Toronto the previous year, I would definitely be holding myself up as an example of their debilitating effects. As it was, I was entirely clean though evidently unhinged. I can only suspect that, coward that I am, I genuinely did want the ley line information but wasn’t brave enough to ask for it outright. For fear of actually being sincere, I further wrapped it in a smart-arse format so that if I was ever asked about it I could laugh the whole thing off as a clever send-up of the unsuspecting monk.
Now we jump to 24 March 2005. I’m having a chat with my mother about a slew of articles that I need to get written for my Psychic Questing website. Andrew Collins is strongly of the opinion that I need to show the historical precendents for Questing and I agree so am looking to rope someone into doing a Joan of Arc article for me. Mother throws St Brigid into the conversation and I make the connection from Brigid to Bega, who features in a Psychic Questing book by Alex Langstone (see details here ). Further, both appear to have links to the goddess Diana and when Mum tells me that Sinéad O’Connor is heavily into Brigid and spends some time at Glenstal it is clearly only a short jump in logic to think that she, Sinéad, could write an article for me elucidating the Diana/Brigid/Bega trinity.
Fast forward to 26 April 2005. I am attending a trade show in London’s Olympia. My commute from Haslemere is not without it’s own aspects of the irrational (I can get from Haslemere to Clapham Junction directly very early in the morning but not thereafter - and I can’t return directly from Clapham Junction to Haslemere at all) so I have plenty of time to read the new Grail book by Richard Barber. I subsequently write a review of it for psychicQuesting.com (see the full review here if you’re interested) in which I agree that the Eucharist is the key theme of the original Grail romances but question whether there may be a Celtic influence at work as well. I write:
I agree with Barber that the particular incarnation of the Grail appearing in the Grail romances relates directly to the Eucharist. There is a 15th Century manuscript of the “Lebar Brecc” which appears to be a compilation of much earlier material (possibly some are a translation from 10th Century Latin sources) and this contains descriptions of the Eucharist ritual in use by the Church at this time so again it would be interesting to see whether there were any parallels between the Celtic source and these stories.
On 7 May 2005 I receive an email listing recently published books by old boys or monks of Glenstal Abbey. On the list is a book called “The Rites of Brigid: Goddess and Saint”. The author is listed as “Seán ~ Duinn” [sic]. A little niggle at the back of my mind makes me return to this again and again until I suddenly realise that Seán Ó Duinn might be Fr Bonaventure’s lay name. I go to the Glenstal website to see if I can get any information on the monks and I see that the same Seán Ó Duinn (who is indeed Fr Bonaventure) has, within the very same week (April 23 2005), given a talk entitled Glimpses of the Eucharist in “The Quest for the Holy Grail”.
Perhaps the letter was sent and perhaps, Bonaventure latching into my thoughts like a psychic vampire, this is karmic payback.
I recently came across an intriguing book called “(Amazing and Wonderful) Mind Machines You can Build” by G Harry Spine. The brackets in the title don’t *actually* appear but that’s how I imagine it should read although it’s quite possible that my mind is simpy scarred from the 80s songwriters of my youth who continuously bracketed out parts of their song titles which didn’t need bracketing at all - for example “Don’t You (Forget about Me)”, “I Want To Be There (When You Come)”.
Anyway, I was rather pleased to find that I could actually build one of the Mind Machines described, a piece of three inch square paper, slightly folded diagonally in the same direction on both sides to give a vaguely pyramid effect and spinning on a needle stuck in plasticine.
The idea is that you cup your hands around the device (without touching it) and then make it turn first one way and then another using only the power of your mind.
This certainly allowed for easy testing so with my new energy wheel I cupped my hands around it and furrowed my brow. Weirdly it immediately began shooting around in an anticlockwise direction. Startled, I removed my hands and it quickly came to a halt. Regaining my cool scietific detachment I sat back and waited to see what would happen if I did nothing - i.e would it move anyway due to draughts in the room. Although there was some slight movement of the wheel nothing remotely like what I had just seen was repeated until I put my hands back around the wheel and off it flew again.
Now despite my success with the anti-clockwise spinning I couldn’t make it stop and turn back in a clockwise direction. Also, to negate the possibility that you could be unconsciously spinning it with your breath, G Harry recommends putting a transparent container over it (glass as plastic won’t work apparently). As soon as I did this the wheel stopped moving completely and no amount of hand cupping would make it budge.
I now removed the container, held my breath and attempted to mentally spin the wheel and again it worked (insofar as once more it shot off in an anti-clockwise direction). Thinking that I could still be unconsciously letting tiny but highly targeted bursts of breath out unconsciously, I deployed my final piece of equipment.
The result was still that I could spin the wheel furiously in one direction.
Perhaps only one half of my psychic brain is developed and like a fish with only one fin I keep spinning in unidirectional circles. Anyway the partial success of the experiment has encouraged me to attempt further tests and if anyone else tries and suceeds I would be very interested to hear.
My blog is experiencing something of a mini-revival after (1) finally being registerd on Google and (2) attracting over 70 400 hits on my Pope article. (I realise that 70 400 is not so many for your average blogger but as this is a fringe blog, languishing for many months in semi-dormancy, I feel quite proud of that). Inspired by this surge in popularity (ha!) I have gone back over the old articles and given them all titles, as the import from the old Infra-powered blog didn’t create these and Wordpress really needs titles to be effective. Apologies if this resends all the articles to your RSS readers.
Also the “see articles by author” functionality on the righthand sidebar now works properly.
The upcoming conclave to determine who will be the next Pope allows me to indulge in two of my favourite activities - betting and wild prophecies.
Somewhere at the back of mind, I thought I remembered a prophecy that said if a black pope was elected, that would signal the end of the world. However, having done some brief searching on the internet (and having definitively ruled out my main candidate - the Secrets of Fatima) I can’t actually find proof of this. I have heard mutterings that Nostradamus was the man who made this prediction but again can’t confirm this.
Far more interesting and (potentially lucrative) are the prophecies of our own St Malachy. Apparently he was given a vision of all the popes from his own time (1143) to the end of the papacy - some 112 popes in all. You can see a good review of Malachy’s papal prophecies here but for our purposes the crucial fact is that the next pope will be “Gloria Olivae”, The Glory of the Olives.
After exhaustive research I can now confirm that this could only refer to Cardinal Jean-Marie Lustiger. Cardinal Lustiger was born of Jewish descent and Jews are identified with Olives (Mount of Olives=Jerusalem). In addition the rumour goes that he was once rector of an Olivetan school (the Olivetans are a branch of the Benedictines).
(It has been asserted that “the glory of the Olives” could equally apply to Cardinal Martini, the Archbishop of Milan but this is flippant dissembling to divert the unwary).
As for actually placing a bet on the identity of the next Pope, the only site I can find which is currently taking votes is PaddyPower.com. Sadly, this very morning they removed their 1000-1 option of Fr Doughal from Craggy Island. (If you don’t believe me see the original BBC story.)
Anyway I fancy £20 on Lustiger at 20-1.
*** Stoppress ***
New psychic material delivered overnight has pointed the finger at Cardinal Antonelli. Antonelli has links with Umbria and one of Umbria’s finest winemakers is - Antonelli. The winemaker Antonelli (and they may well be related) has a very nice wine museum (which Lisa and I have visited) but also do a very nice line in olive oils. Therefore, Malachy was clearly referring to Antonelli when he said “Gloria Olivae” and I hereby slap my £20 on him at 14-1 (latest odds from Paddypower.com).