Amityville 1.4 – This Thing of Ours

An axiom from Charles Fort’s Book of the Damned goes something like this: “If an event is capable of creating multiple possible outcomes, and if outcome ‘A’ is more likely to occur than outcome ‘B’, then a large portion of any given population will assume that if ‘A’ didn’t occur then ‘B’ didn’t, either.”

Witches’ Hour – 11/13/74 – A 23 year-old kid with a heavy addiction to heroin and a massive LSD habit is purported to have iced his whole family with a bolt action rifle in the space of about 15 minutes. While problems abound with his narrative, let’s abstain from delving too far into the Black Forest of Fortean just yet. The threads will be there, waiting.

In the meantime, it might be worthwhile to take a look at some of the relatives. Ronnie DeFeo Jr was the son of DeFeo Sr., obviously. Now, Sr.’s dad was a guy named Rocco DeFeo. You won’t find a lot on that guy with a basic Google search, but through old-school researching books by Hans Holzer, Jackie Barrett, and Ric Osuna, you come to find that Ronnie Jr. had himself some bad-ass grampies.

DeFeo Sr. ran a Buick dealership for his father in-law; a dude named Michael Brigante Sr. Michael Brigante Sr worked for Carlo Gambino; he of the Gambino Crime Family. Meanwhile, DeFeo Sr.’s father – this being Rocco Defeo – had ties to the Genovese Crime Family.

Far be it from me to claim an understanding of the nuances involved in this particular extended family dynamic, but I think it’s fair to say that it may have been unhealthy.

As 21st Century Americans, we have a disproportionate tendency to not see the forest for its trees. We’ve become, through a multi-generational assault on our collective psyche by a secret governing body, desensitized to the inherent magical nature of this reality. The Mafia is a good example of this.

“The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing us only one of him existed.”

David Wong; John Dies at the End

The idea of one monolithic Mob with a capital “M” is presented to us so that we can poke holes in it while simultaneously searching for a single leader to pin things on. This is a habit that is entrained in Americans at a very young age. We are literally taught how to be stupid. Meanwhile, we have these bloodthirsty factions of centuries’ old secret societies with names like Sacra Corona Unita and ‘Ndrangheta running fucking circles around us. These are European landowners with billions in assets that are part of an initiatory brotherhood of murderers with their own secret black magic rites.

Here’s a link to Standard U.K. article about a mob-related bust that happened in Canada last year. Watch them dance…

“You only answer to the Bonanno family,” added the 44-year-old, who was arrested on various charges, including drug dealing, weapons possession, and money laundering.

The transcript does not detail other elements that take place in the traditional Mafia ceremony, which usually includes a blood oath and the burning of a picture of a Catholic saint.

Bridget Rohde, acting US lawyer in Brooklyn, said: “The recording of a secret induction ceremony is an extraordinary achievement for law enforcement and deals a significant blow to La Cosa Nostra.”

See how nimbly they leap over the good stuff? You almost wouldn’t even know to look. BTW, those elements won’t be released, not if the intrepid bull pen of Standard U.K. reporters know what’s good for them. There are certain rules with regards to what one may and may not ever print in a non-fiction format. The Devil is in the details, and the details of what exactly those princes of darkness actually do; what the blood oaths consist of, etc. We’re dancing around the same circles as we started out in – ritual, thaumaturgy, centuries’ old secret societies, and black magic.

Here’s something I always wondered: what if getting “made” (as the American mobsters like to call it) is only the first step in an occulted initiatory brotherhood, one that the Mafia (such as it exists) is only the public face?




Amityville 1.3 – Murder By Numbers

Okay, we’ve circled around this death-pile twice now. Let’s just jump in and get it over with.

If you’ll forgive a moment or two of metaphysical nose-plugging, I’d like to pause for a moment to give credit for the following info; to R. Barri Flowers, and his excellent true-crime short The Amityville Massacre: The DeFeo Family’s Nightmare. If true-crime is your thing, Mr Flowers’ work is compelling, compassionate, and accurate. He also has a beautiful salt and pepper moustache that smells like Earl Grey tea on a rainy day (probably).

From The Amityville Massacre:

“…At about three a.m. on November 13, 1974, six members of the DeFeo family were shot dead execution style while in bed at their home on 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville. After entering the bedroom of Ronald and Louise DeFeo, the shooter used a .35 caliber Marlin 336C rifle in shooting each of them twice. According to a Crime Library report, Ronald DeFeo was the initial target, indicating that the “first shot ripped into his back, tearing through his kidney and exiting through his chest. [The shooter] fired another round, again hitting [DeFeo, Sr.] in the back. This shot pierced the base of [his] spine, and lodged in his neck.”⁵ Louise DeFeo was then targeted by the assailant, who took aim and “fired two shots into her body. The bullets shattered her rib cage and collapsed her right lung. Both bodies now lay silently in fresh pools of their own blood.”⁶ The shooter then methodically stepped inside the bedroom of twelve-year-old Marc and nine-year-old John, shooting both a single time; before moving on to the bedroom of Dawn, eighteen, and Allison, thirteen, and firing a single, fatal shot into each of them.”

Let’s recap and expand a bit: From approximately 3:00-3:15 on 11/13/74 (or DVB-13 1974, if you prefer), Butch DeFeo walked from room to room through the Amityville house with a Marlin Model 336 bolt-action rifle (as opposed to the carbine model, which houses a shorter barrel), calmly firing 8 shots into all 6 members of his family, without missing a single shot.

Weird, right?

Rather than attempting to construct a narrative around this just yet, let’s do a little more sniffing around the event for some of the clues They just love to leave around. We can start with the obvious numerological anomalies around the murder date 11-13-74.

Pulling from the exhaustive-in-every-way Biblioteca Pleyades, we have:

As we have repeatedly stated, the Satanist believes that numbers contain inherent power. Thus, they literally order their lives by occult numerology – such numerology also is a key component in astrology, another system of divining that Satanists observe very closely. The occult calendar is divided into four (4) segments of 13 weeks each. The number, “13” is considered divine by the occultist for a couple of reasons:

  1. The Bible assigns ‘13‘ the meaning of “rebellion against constituted authority”, plus the depravity that caused Satan to rebel against God.
  2. The occultist assigns ‘6‘ to represent the number of man, and the number ‘7‘ to represent the number of divine perfection. Thus, as a person climbs that “Jacob’s Ladder” toward self-perfection in the realm of the occult, the number ‘13‘ represents the state of divine perfection, self-achieved perfection, and Illumination (6+7 = 13).

Well, that certainly sounds frightening. I’m no Satanist, but after several decades of chaos magic and general occult research, maybe I can add a different angle to this numerological mish-mash, drawing from the always useful Tarot, and my less-than-always useful interpretation of said with regards to High Strangeness.

When looking at the 11-13-74 construct, I see a riddle that’s centered quite literally around the number four. Please indulge me a bit, but here’s some semblance of it:

11-13-(74 [or] 7+4=11 [or] [1-1]) with some even more tortured gematria could look like (1+1)/(1+3)/(1+1), further down into 2(4)2, which could (Satire et Speculation, n’est ce pas?) also look like a 13 hiding inside of a four. What could that mean, Tarotlogically speaking?

Within the Kingdom of the Major Arcana, the number 4 represents the Emperor, or Father Figure ne plus ultra. Ronnie DeFeo Sr’s relations with his ultimately fratricidal son obviously represent a – if not the – central spoke in this wheel of tragedy.

Within the Kingdom of the Major Arcana, the number 13 is the Nameless Arcanum that has come to mean Death. Salaciously enticing as it may be to leave this as superficially spooky as it may seem, I would be doing the Tarot a disservice, as well as the internal logic of my argument. I believe the card has less to do with the DeFeo murders, and more with the talismanic transformation that what would become known as the Amityville house was about to undergo.

And this is the point, when you see high-level black magic operations, the dates are always synchronistically anomalous. Because, while the story of the Lutz haunting is utter bullshit through and through, a great deal of black magic has been woven into the Amityville story. Watch for the black threads.

Opening Arguments: Amityville 1.2 – Initial Reckonings

Yeah, there’s a lot of punctuation in that headline. Apologies.

Here’s the difficulty I’ve been having; getting started – not because of a dearth of information (or imagination, for that matter), but because there’s so much to all of this. The minute I start talking about Amityville is the minute I realize I have to jump into 19 disparate subjects just to begin framing my statements.

So, let’s begin with a book called Changing Images of Man. If you haven’t read it, I highly suggest you give it a go. It’s dense, but not unmanageable. And once the subject matter truly sinks in, the “Holy shit!” sensation that will overcome you will carry you the rest of the way through. At least, that’s how it was for me. I remember it taking me most of a week just to get through the first 50 or so pages. Then, it just hit me, and I ended up reading it a couple of times over the next few weeks with a feeling like my brain was on fire. If you’ve ever found yourself spinning down a really twisty rabbit hole, you’ll know the sensation of which I speak. Anyway, the link is in the title. Please, go check it out. I’ll be right here when you’re done.

Now that everyone’s brains are on the same wavelength, we can proceed with a basic experiment a lot of folks have seen on the innerwebs. It’s sometimes called the Red Dot Experiment and it should be familiar to anyone who’s taken a psych course at their local community college. Stare at a red dot (or any simple image, really) for 30 seconds or so, and then transfer your gaze to a white wall. If you just went with a red dot, a greenish dot will appear on the wall. For several moments, this will be more a physiological function than psychological. That is to say, there is a temporary physical component, due to the prolonged exposure to a constant light & color. It cannot be ignored; for all intents and purposes that green dot has essentially been seared into your vision (the implications of this when compared to Michael Persinger’s “God Helmet” studies will be the subject of deep [satirical] scrutiny at some later date). After some short period, you will be able to, sort of, “blink” the dot away.

Here’s something to think about: among the near(?) infinitude of variables to the Human Experience is this one, that the amount of time it takes to remove the green dot afterimage can range for folks, depending on, among other things 1. light sensitivity, and perhaps more importantly 2. suggestibility.

This is where we start cooking, folks. Because some of what They definitely don’t like you to think about are the degrees to which 1. we are suggestible, and perhaps more importantly 2. they have mastered the principles of suggestion, and persuasion.

Persuasion is one of the most important magical principles, and it has been relegated in many of our minds to the tawdry back-alleys of sales seminars and self-improvement books. In Their minds, it has been weaponized. If you aren’t on the same page, I would suggest heading back up to that link and giving Changing Images another read. You may have missed a few things.

Because the ultimate Horror Story lies somewhere between ultimate suggestibility, and ultimate mastery of persuasion. Because between the most suggestible subject and the most persuasive magician lies a country where that green dot can and will follow you around forever. To a Savage Country; where the green dot can be an awful lot more than a simple green dot. (A rather obvious example of this is given in the links above, which have near-holographic images of attractive models merged into the green dots. Staring at the wall afterwards will project an image of a model ‘behind’ the green dot, in some cases rendering the green dot invisible. When I was in college, we only had basic images to look at in our textbooks, as opposed to the holographic models. To put this another way, new and advanced psy-tech have been released to the public.)

It sort of makes you wonder what staring at a weaponized film for 90 minutes at a clip could do to person, huh?


Opening Arguments 1.1 – Talking about Amityville (without really talking about Amityville)

I’m still not entirely sure what this blog even am. In the previous posts, I laid out a brief sketch of some impressions I received during a several weeks’ long treatment session for PTSD. Since then, I’ve gone back to journaling personally, the same form of J’nana yoga practice from before. Now that’s all finished, I can either leave this blog to blink, alone and unattended in internet purgatory, until the follow-up treatment (tentatively scheduled for next month), or let it lie forever unaltered from here.

Except, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, and all I can think about is coming back to dig and scratch at this; whatever this is. It’s been bugging me for weeks now.

Here’s some advice and a quick confession: whatever else this might be, don’t come here looking for answers. I am the most unreliable of unreliable narrators; manning a satire blog in a post Smith-Mundt Modernization Act world. Seek truth – such as it may exist – elsewhere.

Good? Good. Now let’s start with the phenomenon that became known as the Amityville Horror.

To understand the Amityville Horror, you have to first know – not just believe but know, carnally, at a bone deep level – that the story as it’s presented by the Lutz family is toxic bullshit from beginning to end. It also helps to know the difference between bullshit and toxic bullshit. Regular bullshit can be a labor of love, a work of fiction or even a 70-year marriage that rests on an ever-shifting foundation of pleasantries and white lies; these are the sort of innocuous bullshit that forms society’s mortar. Toxic bullshit is weaponized disinfo and misinfo. The official narratives around the MLK assassination and 9/11 are toxic bullshit. The Lutz story is toxic bullshit.

And like the toxic bullshit that swirls around 9/11, it revolves around a very real crime – the DeFeo murders, in this case. To understand the Amityville Horror you is not a matter of a definitive answer to the question of its haunting. Definitive answers are one of those tricks They use to get to you, dear reader. And that’s the name of the game – getting to you.

That’s all they want. That’s all they’ve wanted – officially and on the record – since 1962. Let’s shift gears for a minute and focus on some other conjectures and hypotheses. We’ll need some reference points:

Project MKOFTEN – founded in 1962 according to the heavily redacted CIA documents, Project MKOFTEN (heretofore which will be referenced as MKOFTEN, as will related projects MKULTRA, MKARTICHOKE, MKSEARCH, Bluebird, Big City, et al) is a spin-off of the MKULTRA mission (allegedly ceased in 1968 on orders from President Nixon – I’ll be discussing here why I do not believe this to be the case in future posts) that focused on elements of the occult, including but not limited to Black Magic, Witchcraft, Voodoo, and Satanism. Elements of this project included CIA funding asset Anton Szandor LaVey in order to officially establish the Church of Satan. Additional funding went towards film director and renowned Satanist Kenneth Anger, who went on to direct erotic horror films expertly designed to psychically disturb the viewer.  Many of Anger’s films featured members of the Manson family in starring roles. While the CIA was busy creating an actual government funded Satanic counterculture, former Army Intelligence officer and member of the Jesuit Society William Peter Blatty was using the latest and greatest tech in modern psy-war techniques to create a movie called The Exorcist, which scared a number of people into hospitalization. While it’s arguable that The Exorcist was one of the most effective “weaponized” film of its time, it was hardly the first.

Night of the Living Dead was released in 1968 through the same syndicates behind both Deep Throat and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Unlike the other two films, and due to a quirk in the legality of the film’s release, it fell instantly under the status of public domain, meaning anyone capable of copying the film could air it any damn how they wanted to.

It doesn’t take much digging to link organized crime rings to intelligence rings, nor to the grindhouse films that were often drummed up by intelligence operatives and distributed back to grindhouse theatres owned by organized crime rings, allowing theater owners to kick the money back up through local police bribes. See the all-devouring serpent; its endless coils, malignant and muscular, onyx mirror scales that if you look directly into you can see what forever looks like.

Still, it was bad form for them to push Night of the Living Dead onto kids, but bad form is one of their calling cards. You’ll see.

We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality – judiciously, as you will – we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history’s actors…and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.

Why start with Amityville? Well, you have to start somewhere, and for all intents and purposes, it’s where I began. Long Island in the 70s and 80s was dark as fuck. I came up in one of the cosmic crossroads of the Great Spookytown. In 1978, I was treated for a head injury at the St. John’s Hospital across the street from Untermeyer Park, where the Son of Sam cult used to ritually murder German Shepherds (and possibly a few unlucky passers-by) during the height of the more public facet of that case. I used to play in the rubble of the Pilgrim State Mental Hospital when I was a kid, and later on cut my teeth on the Simonomicon at the King’s Park Mental Hospital featured in the documentary Cropsey. My mother lived in San Francisco in the late 60s where LaVey’s Church of Satan was warring for billboard space with the Process Church of the Final Judgment. The Process Church of the Final Judgment is believed by some to have created a weaponized version of Scientology in order to create zombified serial killers that can be directed at the whims of their handlers.

And so it goes.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m an experiment gone wrong. I can close my eyes and see the DeFeo/Lutz house, with its angry-eye windows looking out over that dock, the smell of Long Island river water lapping indolently against creosote pylons. .

The name of the game when looking at that Sphinx of the South Side has nothing to do with ghosts, nor Native American burial grounds, nor demon pigs, nor any of that rot.

It’s about ritual murder, government spooks, and tulpas.


Ketaphysics Part 4

Thursday, October 4th 2018

The following chunk of text comprises the final bit of data I compiled during my adventures with ketamine this past August. It’s now been almost 2 months since the experiment began, and my first follow-up treatment is about 6 weeks away. I’m currently working on something new, which will go up next week.

I’m still working out what the overall purpose of this blog is supposed to be. I’m still nervous about being this candid. I’ve spent 40-plus years occulting this part of my life, and I’m not so naive to think that obscuring myself in a shallow layer of anonymity is going to somehow keep me safe from discovery, if anyone gives enough of a fuck about my actual identity to do some digging. The choices I make about my body, my consciousness, how I treat my mental illness should be mine to make. In a truly just and free world, they would be mine to make.

But we do not live in a just and free world. I don’t profess to understand what this reality is; all I know is what I see. And what I see over and over again is this: a system is at work in which the worst of the worst are continuously rewarded with ever expanding power and endless riches, while the rest of us are treated like slaves, if not outright chattel.

You can call my outlook either pessimistic or stoic, or maybe just the paranoid rantings of a conspiracy theorist. I simply call it evidence-based. See the above photo if you have doubts. Now, on with the show:

Original journal entries from Wednesday 8/15/18 – Wednesday 8/26/18

I can feel changes still working within my mind(s). I will continue to post updates, although maybe not so often. Definitely around the re-boosts – and whatever other methods I might employ to hit altered states of consciousness in the times between. Thank you to everyone who has reached out over the last two weeks. You literally helped me work through some of the darkest shit I’ve gone through in years, and for that I am very grateful.

A few final notes on the universal; going back to the biometry thing got me thinking about this electric current that continuously runs through our bodies, gravity and matter, love and the Mother Binah/Saturnine current. If matter is held together by gravity, and gravity could be compared to pressure (I think Dion Fortune made some observation about pressure as a divine force), this pressure could be analogous to what I identify as the MB/S current, which could be construed as “love”. This would be a divine love, as universal as it is ultimately impersonal. It could also be construed as the individual systolic force behind each and every heartbeat.

This brings us to Earth, where we exist as an electromagnetic force that is at best mostly and possibly only quite partially contained within an infinitely complex yet nevertheless constantly decaying matter body, which maintains its existence through a series of muscular contractions that remind the electromagnetic force (the real you) to basically sit still and behave long enough for it to attain whatever development you/it must, before your/its body cracks open like a husk and your /its electromagnetic body/self reports for duty in whatever realm(s) exist(s) beyond this one.

Or not.

If what I’m describing sounds crazy or upsetting or whatever, please understand that I have no interest whatsoever in proposing there is some ultimate truth in what I’m describing. It’s more like this; for a couple of weeks I had a recalibration in the parameters of my personal reality. At the far borders of this madness, it was like I was standing in some shoals. The water was only partially clear, but there was an inner glow.

What I’m trying to describe may feel like fish to me, but maybe they’re really just old blankets and washing machine parts. Or maybe they’re living sentient organisms that are made of the same material components of blankets and parts. And here we are where we always end up – the border where language begins to fail.

That does it for now.

In the next couple of days, I’m going to drop a bunch of text describing some of the more personal stuff. I’m taking an extra couple of days to go over that and omit most of it, because it’s more about dropping this single “line of code” (I don’t care for this descriptor much but it fits okay and I can’t think of anything better) and getting it over with. I don’t really know why I began including it towards the end, as I never intended to, but those last two trips left me with the definite impression that it ought to be, for whatever reason. There’s a very strong “So mote it be!” resonance about it.

Anyway, this is all to say that if you’ve been reading this from the jump and don’t give a shit about all that mess, I don’t blame you. That’s why I’ve decided to post it separately and (hopefully) in one final section. It’ll probably be the next thing I post that isn’t a reply to one of you guys.

Thanks again for reading and reaching out and stuff. Happy Wednesday.


8/20/18 (Monday) – 8/23/18 (Thursday)

I think I know why I’m doing this.

My youngest daughter was born 6 weeks early; 4 lbs, 4 ounces. She didn’t have any respiratory illness or immune issues.

This didn’t really surprise me. Her sister and brothers were all completely badass and pugnacious as fuck. Her body probably just chewed through illness in the womb like a caged mongoose.

Her mom developed post-partum depression.

This didn’t surprise me, either. She was a survivor herself, having been placed through a foster and group home childhood experience.

The upshot of this is that with my youngest needing a lot of body heat and overall new human care, plus her mom needing space in this almost physically palpable way (sometimes she reminded me of a cat stuck under a porch), meant that the majority of her around the clock care was my responsibility.

She still lives with me and we’re as close as can be. I wish I was closer with her siblings.


The boys were tough for me, although they’re great kids. I think I’ve alluded to this earlier but they’re active duty military and actually doing genuine good things, rather than living the fractured life I had (at least, that I know of). My oldest daughter is a gift, as is my granddaughter (for obvious reasons, I’m keeping their personal details to as bare a minimum as I can while still talking about this honestly).

I’ve loved them my whole life, but was never as close to them as I am to the youngest. This was literally borne out of necessity. I’m talking about this to make this one point clear to both myself and the reader (but really myself): I avoided getting close to them because I was afraid of infecting them somehow with what happened to me.

Understanding this is massive, although it might seem obvious to you if you’ve been reading this from the jump. Maybe not.

As I write this, many of my Marine Corps 8126 brothers are genuinely aging prematurely, growing overweight and lame as their old programming still spins too fast for the civilian world. We were trained to look for shadows in every corner. It’s hard not to want to join a side, even if just to know somebody has your back.

Some of them are so angry, and they’re also physically sick. This is Azathoth – a Saturnine/Martian super-current that freezes anger and turns into sugar diseases like diabetes and alcoholism.

I escaped into low-risk/low-payoff criminality, mostly pushing small weight and driving people around Phoenix who needed someone to have their back. I bounced at the topless night clubs for the same reason I go-go danced at gay bars; they paid the best.

Once again, I fractured my personality.


No problem.

In Seattle, I tagged the name “Ash” everywhere because it was short and I loved the Evil Dead movies. In Phoenix, I bounced under one name and danced under another, and often gave out other fake names for myriad reasons.

I escaped into chaos magic and logical positivism, still under the Discordian ethos of swapping belief systems. I explored Kenneth Grant just before going on a really bad meth tear for about 6 weeks (mirroring the other one I had when I was 20, right around the time I absolutely fucking lost it in Portland and thought I saw living entities in the trees: they looked sort of like the chameleons with prehensile eyes, only nothing like them at all). I did that tear before my youngest was born.

I think that sometimes I have this thing in me – maybe it’s a shamanic call or maybe I’m just a shitty human being – but it just forces me to break from here. It’s the same thing that allows me to write books, so I’m grateful for it.

I believe ketamine allows me to explore this compulsion in a way that is real, but also about as safe as such an experience can be. Also, not having to fly to Peru allows me to stay close to my support network. I should mention that I have a s/o that is wonderful and supportive, but also wishes to maintain her privacy to the absolute. Same goes for a few close friends – the less I say, the better. So, that’s really all I have to say about that.

Anyway, I managed the fractured life thing okay, then some bad shit happened to some tangential but influential associates and I decided to lay low. I trained people at gyms and felt good about the work.

But not enough to make me quit entirely. By the time I went back to the game, the show Will and Grace had made it somewhat okay to be a non-binary human, as long as you acted predictable enough to the people who knew you in a certain light.

I finally quit all the bullshit when my older kids got old enough to wonder about all the locked closet doors, my weird hours, women trying to dart out of the house like phantoms while they ate breakfast.

An excerpt from Peter Levenda’s Sinister Forces III: The Manson Secret –

“(Therefore,) the type of person who becomes involved in criminal enterprises has already placed himself outside the social milieu in which the rest of us live, and experiences life in a more desperate, more emotionally charged way than we do…

…Criminals have seen life the way police officers do: from the bottom, up. They see life the way it really is, behind closed doors. They know the weaknesses of their fellow humans, because they cater to them. They know the judge with a gambling problem, or the priest who prefers sex with underage boys. They see beyond the façade of society, and what they discover is no more elevated or spiritual than their own tawdry experience has taught them.”

By the time I got out of the game, I’d lost more than a dozen friends on each side. Remember all those Marines I served with? An awful lot of them went into law enforcement.

I don’t have a lot of close friends, but there are two guys I would consider as close as brothers. One is the dude I used to run nightclubs with in Phoenix. The other is a homicide detective out on the East Coast. Everywhere I look in my life I see evidence of that schism.

I can rattle of the names of so many people who died before the age of 40 from drug overdoses alone. All of them were either pain-killer or pain-killer related. I know an equal amount of dancers and veterans who committed suicide, same number on both sides. There’s the schism again.

I don’t take any prescription medicine for any of my mental illnesses. I’ve been prescribed more than a half dozen in the last 10 years; Prozac, Xanax, Ambien, Abilify, Wellbutrin, Klonopin – these are just a few off the top of my head. There were others. I’ve been off that shit for more than 5 years now and it can all go fuck itself.

I already talked about my primary treatment method, so I won’t go back into that.

I also study, practice, and teach yoga. I know a lot of people say this, but it doesn’t make it any less true: I practice this daily so as to not lose my shit. “This” in particular referring to Ashtanga yoga, Vipassana meditation, and the teachings of Gurdjieff & Ouspensky – these are the cornerstones of my daily practice, with chaos magic being “the dessert”, so to speak.

And now, I can add Ketamine therapy to the list of things I use to combat depression and PTSD.

My continued analysis of the Ketamine protocol as prescribed by Dr H causes me to believe that it is an effective form of treatment. I would recommend it to others, provided they do their own research (and some serious soul-searching) into the subject before making their own decision.

I think this is going to be my last post for a little while. I’m going to compile these notes and convert them into a blog, and I’ll let everyone know when that’s online. I’ll probably add more there between now and my next treatment (that’ll be sometime between November and January, depending on how I’m doing I guess). And when I do the next treatments, I’ll write it up here, too.

Thanks to everyone for checking this out along the way, especially to those of you who wrote to me either here or DM. I’ll check back with a lot of you this weekend (I’m back to working both jobs, so I’m not in front of a computer very much unless it’s to write).

I’ll leave you with this, because I think it might be a screen memory. I think I’ve had a few of them, but this is the most recent, and maybe the weirdest.

It happened at the last nightclub I worked at before retiring. This place was called Babydolls – it sits underneath the Grand Ave overpass that borders West Phoenix, Glendale, and Maryvale, but I think it’s changed its name since we ran it. An owner subcontracted 3 guys to be the GMs, two were my guys and then an independent third. I ran security, and tended bar during the day sometimes. I always shrank away from being the top guy, preferring to stay semi-shaded by an additional layer of responsibility. What I didn’t count on was the situation at this club was so intense – sitting as it does squarely in between what used to be PIRU and Rolling 60 territory during the W Bush years (those borders are amorphous as fuck sometimes) – that running security was a round-the-clock ass ache.

But where a lot of people might think the answer would be to go full Chuck Norris and lay down the law on some motherfuckers when things started going sideways, this was where I learned how to really grow still in hot moments, and remember to treat everyone like full-fledged human beings, with families that genuinely cared about them. I only carried a gun on occasions where if I didn’t, somebody I worked with could get hurt.

I think the lessons I learned doing that job, in that manner, in that place were what taught me that I couldn’t stay doing what I was doing.

But maybe what happened on this one night put it to me more succinctly…

It was a Saturday – technically Sunday morning at around 330am – and I had seen everyone out except for the managers. I stuck around and saw that they were going to be doing the counts for another hour or so. In a sane world, I would have sat down somewhere and read whatever book I’d brought with me for this exact purpose. I certainly wouldn’t have just walked outside, by myself, without telling anybody that’s what I was doing. Remember, this club literally sits under a fucking underpass in literal gang fucking central. Here we sit, every night, with all this money, so to walk outside by oneself in any neighborhood that knows the schedule of this sort of establishment is a stupidly dangerous proposition.

But I was in crazyland that night, and so it seemed perfectly reasonable to go outside. Maybe it was for a cigarette. Except I don’t smoke, and even if I did nobody would have complained if I lit up in the club. Once we locked the doors, most everyone lit up themselves.

Now, I unlocked one of the doors, and I remember this sort of furtive alacrity steel over me, as if I was a teenager again, sneaking out of my second floor bedroom window on Long Island in the 80s.

I slipped outside and let the door lock behind me.

April in Phoenix at about 330 am is about as nice as it ever gets in Phoenix, weather-wise. I remember seeing stars, and a goodly chunk of the moon was visible; not quite full but close. My car had another car parked in front of it, nose to nose. The parking lot lights were out – this shouldn’t have been the case, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of, especially if there was a big enough outage somewhere in the neighborhood. Anyway, 4 men stood around both cars.

I know, right?

I should have pulled out my phone and called inside. But crazyland has its own customs, and so – remember I don’t carry a gun, and on occasion much has been made of my non-gun-carrying habit – I walked on over to the party.

The four men wore baseball caps and nylon windbreakers and batting gloves. The four men wore black bandanas over their faces. They could have been anyone.

I said “How’s it going, guys?”

I remember saying that. I remember being totally calm. Other than watching their hands very intently, it was just another late night exchange in a parking lot. I’ve had hundreds of those, maybe thousands.

One of them explained to me that they had a dead battery, and needed a jump. I told them I had cables, and would be happy to help them out. And that’s exactly what I did.

To say that this whole experience had a dream-like quality isn’t quite right. It was the same sort of hyper-reality I experienced at the tail-end of the ketamine trips, which I guess is another reason I’m ending this portion of the narrative here.

I popped my trunk (I was driving a beat-up old Ford sedan at the time), pulled out my batteries, and hooked everything up. I got in my car and they got in theirs. Their car started. I unhooked everything and slammed both trunks. They stayed inside their car. I remember the driver rolling down his window just a crack as they were leaving and sticking out two fingers as they headed out the lot towards Grand Ave.

Then, I pulled out my cell phone and called inside, telling them that the lot was clear for them. The dude who answered seemed surprised but happy, as they had just finished the count and were getting ready to head outside. We did the drops and I went home.

I can’t say for sure that this is a false memory, but it certainly has that false memory flavor.

Anyway, if you’ve read all of this I hope it was worth it. Thanks again.



8/29/18 – Wednesday


Almost a month has gone by since I started the ketamine protocols. I feel good; I feel like a large chunk of bad processing has been converted. I’m not healthy yet – if you were to look at a prime example of someone who is mentally well I am not that person. I still take naps when I should be out hustling. I still watch reruns of Frazier and The Office as a means to blunt my senses. I lie around too much and don’t exercise as much as I should, if I expect the world to take me seriously as a yogi (this is a bad sentence; nobody should ever expect anyone to ‘take them seriously as a yogi’ but it’s the best way I can convey the sense that I need to cultivate some inner drive).

However, I have learned something interesting about my depression. I believe that the Fourth Way approach to humans as multi-centered beings is proper, and that fighting depression is more a matter of embodiment than mentation. I believe I have stated this before but also that it bears repeating. To put it succinctly, one (I) cannot think one’s (my) way out of depression half as well as one (I) can booty-shake one’s (my) way out of it.

Also, I believe that my life follows a pattern of relative normalcy followed by a need – and I mean a need; an internal drive I have that is on par with the need to pass one one’s genes – for a break in reality that will somehow change my paradigm once again. So, when other people grew up wanting to be pediatricians, detectives, pilots, and judges, I had a drive for this thing. The problem is there isn’t a word for this path in our language. “Shaman” sounds too trendy, “witchdoctor” might be more apropos for the level of weirdness I encounter.

Ketamine and cannabis are my most effective medication tools for dealing with my mental state. However, a continued dedication to the yoga-spokes; Hatha, J’Nana, Bhakti, Karma, and Raja, with a sharper focus on the Kriya and Ashtanga principals will curb tendencies to overmedicate. The Fourth Way teachings of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky help me to navigate through the continuous slightly altered reality structure of my life.

I am directly responsible for my fortune and fate. I choose to hustle and chase papers, while giving more to my community than I receive. I choose to walk the twin paths of temerity and rectitude.

If one is brave and one’s intentions are clear and honorable, nothing can stand in one’s way.

I continue to grow ever craftier, more energetic, more dangerous, more loving. My words continue to flow more eloquently as bits and pieces of what I thought I was – and what “I” thought life was – crumble away under the momentum; the momentum that invariably kicks off the moment a human being stands upright before the angular momentum of Sun-God Ra and accounts for his or her sins. There’s a lightening in the lightning strike.

In that, every catastrophe one survive brings one’s true capability and perhaps Will closer to the surface of consensus reality.




Ketaphysics Pt. 3

9/19/18 – Wednesday

The abyss exists in a convergence gap between thought and language. One morning, I realized the significance of this underlying hypothesis – that language and thought are separate phenomena.

Or, at least I may be permitted that spheres of descent allow for higher modes of thought, existing beyond our capacity to frame them in human language. This can be demonstrated through an admittedly gruesome thought experiment:

Take a populace of humans of average intelligence, and put them on a chemical-laden diet that fucks their endocrine system so badly that it damages their brain chemistry. Then, prescribe daily fluoride pills to shut down their pineal gland, dimming their once incandescent imagination to a dull blip. Meanwhile, forcibly and under threat of imprisonment, enroll them in schools designed to crush their individualism and natural spirit of inquiry, all the while programming their medicated child-brains to believe they are still free.

When the resulting mass-scale cognitive dissonance threatens to crack their heads open, conduct psy-ops to induce terror, thereby reinforcing their dependence upon the State. Raise them on pop-culture, and then use their dependence upon pop-culture to turn adults into perpetual adolescents, to where grown men can’t even take their partners out on dates without wearing the adult version of kids’ sneakers, cargo shorts, and T-shirts branded with their favorite sports logo or comic book superheroes.

Purposefully fail to teach them about things like politics, finance, and spirituality, and then program them to believe these subjects are too difficult to understand without the help of a daily diet of cable news. Create a fake mass media-based culture and fill it with the children of high ranking military intelligence officers. Create a fake counterculture and fill it with CIA operatives. Put more CIA operatives on the cable news.

Teach the spiritually minded that money is dirty and shouldn’t be pursued. Teach the financially adept that spirituality is a waste of time. Corrupt as many politicians as you can until there are more corrupt than non-corrupt; kill as many dissenters as you can get away with. Leave clues – not enough to get caught, just enough to hang the conspiracy theorists on.

As more and more people lose their way, come up with more and more medications with more and more brain-blunting side effects. Give them to children. Then, just for the hell of it, start giving them to dogs.


Far-fetched as this scenario seems (and yeah, I got a little crazy at the end) this quite hypothetical group of mentally ill people could be conceived of living in a world where certain ideas lie beyond their capacity for speech. One could make the bad joke – if not quite the argument – that such a fanciful group might even be capable of speaking without putting any thought into the effort whatsoever…

Breathe. Relax. This is just satire. Anyway, here’s the 3rd installment of notes I compiled during last month’s ketamine journeying. Be safe out there.

(Originally recorded 8/11/18 – 8/14/18):

8/11/18 – Saturday

The following is a fair and true account of events leading up to the 6 ketamine sessions I conducted with Dr H in the period from Wednesday, 8/1/18 – Saturday, August 11, 2018 (Today). Some readers might find the following subject matter upsetting. To them, I apologize in advance.

From sometime around my 2nd semester of kindergarten (1980) until the end of the 5th grade, I was sexually assaulted a number of times. I won’t go into much further detail other than to list a couple of things, in order to bring some clarity to this moment in my life.

I did not like it.

I developed a major fucking attitude about it.

I thought the situation resolved itself to my satisfaction.

I thought that if the people who did this to me were out of reach, that I was out of danger.

The physical world repeated this data back to me over and over again, but it did not sync with what my interior world was telling me.

My interior world is what literally kept me alive during the worst moments of my childhood.

This created a fractal pattern of schisms between me and consensus reality. I knew that my inner self was more often right than the data presented to me from the outer world. Breaks in reality are what attracted me to Horror, and the occult. I remember when my older brothers –

Break: I should mention that my family is fucking awesome. What happened to me had nothing to do with them and this isn’t their fault.

Anyway, my older brothers showed me The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when I was probably way too young to watch it (my brothers really are the best and I’m genuinely sorry I’m so difficult to live with). I remember when Marilyn Burns thought she got away the 1st time and just shaking my head. This world hides poison in its pockets.

When I was a kid I thought if I became literally the toughest motherfucker on earth it would get the world (Ouspensky’s Devil) to maybe tone down the danger signals some. I joined the wrestling team but sucked at wrestling. So in high school, after walking up to a couple literally the biggest kids I could find and ragging them until I got my ass kicked, I took up boxing. I didn’t suck so badly at that.

I joined the Marine Corps.

I went Infantry.

I scored high enough to join a counter-terrorism unit.

I became literally the baddest motherfucker in that unit – meritorious this, ironman that, made Corporal at the age of 20.

I lost my mind again.

I began slinging MDMA and LSD. I rode a ferry over to Seattle every night and tagged freeway underpasses with teenage runaways, then slipped back on base in time for reveille, sometimes without sleeping for days.

I did not fuck the runaways.

I hung out at nightclubs all weekend selling drugs and beating the shit out of people who fucked with my friends. I eventually got caught and went to prison.

Nobody ever did so much as a day in jail for whatever transgressions they may have committed in my presence.

I know how to keep secrets.

I can still do that. But I don’t have to about everything anymore. Releasing this constant tension is a key to unlocking depression/PTSD/Mother Saturn.

Here’s a secret I’ve just been randomly hanging on to, for no real reason. You guys that are into magic, the occult, and conspiracy theories ought to get a kick out of it.

Check it –

A lot of people have been talking about Enochian this and John Dee that lately, and it’s all impressive old school magic. So, Dee studied under this other cat named Johannes Trithemius, and he’s going to be the subject of a bunch of books in the next couple of years. Him, and especially his books on steganography.

Now, you guys that are already hip to that should do a google search on something called the Olaus Wormius Necronomicon. I’ve heard that the Trithemius steganography is used for a lot of modern day encryption.

And the Olaus Wormius Necronomicon appears to be some sort of encryption code for the collected works of Johannes Trithemius. Go play around with it a bit and you’ll see for yourself.

It’s bloody fucking interesting, isn’t it?

Anyway that’s about all I can do. At this point my brain is good for frying up some eggs and potatoes and then going to sleep.


8/12/18 – Sunday


Apologies for the sort of self-indulgent turn I took yesterday. So, I’ll start today on a more universal tac, but will end up veering back into that other country before the end of the post. To differentiate between the two lines of thought, when I start wandering into stuff that happened 20 years ago and forward (I was in the Marine Corps from 1992-1996) it’ll have more of that bullet-point style. If you want, you can skip all that junk.

The reason I’m typing it up has to do with my new understanding of operant belief mechanisms, and the 4th Way model of self-remembering. Belief can be, for lack of a better metaphor, a sort of muscular contraction (perhaps it’s the pineal gland squirting out a microdose of DMT, I don’t know enough about cerebral anatomy to argue for the possibility of such a thing) that occurs within the mind, and then creates changes within the individual’s operant version of consensus reality. This is the underlying power behind things like religion, logical positivism, and chaos magic as I understand these practices. The idea that belief has anything to do with some ontological root reality, and that by developing a better understanding of reality we can, and should, adjust our belief models is the exoteric doctrine pushed by the State (or Yaldaboath & the archons or the BDP or whatever you want to call it), sometimes at the expense of the individual.

It’s also flawed; not incorrect, just merely flawed. There is no root reality but there is a consensus reality that makes for a fairly approximate map. And there’s probably nothing wrong with remembering as much of the map as you have to in order to keep up with the conversation at dinner parties.

But you owe nothing to consensus reality. Not a goddamned thing. So, with practice, you can alter your belief system in a way that it moves alongside reality, but without you having an attachment to that reality.

This is where my approach to self-remembering comes in. I believe that, while under normal circumstances I don’t have a proper understanding of self-remembering yet as an exercise in mentation, being placed into an altered state of consciousness that many times in that short of a timespan has given me an embodied sense of the state, enough so that when I finished coming out of my final dose yesterday that I intuited this line of data needed to come out; that if I want to not suffer from PTSD and depression, that I need to do this expurgation of sins, so to speak. Anyway, here’s some more personal bullshit.

I was only in prison for a few months – at the Sands Point Federal Penitentiary outside of Seattle Washington while the higher-ups decided what to do with my ass.

NCIS had a fucking hard-on for me, and wanted to push a “narco-terrorism” beef. This was on account that they believed I was pushing serious weight (I wasn’t really, I always preferred staying on what I thought of as street-level), and that I had publicly clowned one of their undercovers (no comment).

In my corner were a fucking badass Major and an equally badass CWO3 who had recently managed to depose an actual rogue Colonel from command and have him forcibly retire.

I don’t know the story behind how or why they did it, but they were fucking awesome and fought for me to be tried on my base on 1 count of failing a piss-test and 1 count of conduct unbecoming.

In exchange for this, I served out my full term and stood 2 more meritorious boards before getting out.

Per the UCMJ “zero-tolerance” policy I was given an OTH (other than honorable) discharge at the end of my 4 years, with a 4.8/4.8 pro-con score (the highest possible you could get was 4.9/4.9).

An officer who shall remain nameless quietly drove out with me that morning to a mediation session. My OTH was reversed before the ink dried on my DD-214

Part of the deal was that Seattle WA was not a place for me to hang my hat anymore.

I had already distanced myself from a lot of my night-self pals by then.

If I hadn’t, I might have started bringing heat on them from whoever might be friendly with my NCIS watchers.

Besides, I was well-behaved enough but there was always this monster in me that could flip out at any moment. To this day, I feel like an unexploded hand grenade sometimes.

So in 1996, off to Phoenix AZ I went.

A year later I was married.

2 years later I was divorced, with 2 sons.  I now have 2 sons and 2 daughters. All but one are grown up.

The boys are both military now.

One of them struggles with depression.

This is enough for now. Fuck, it’s like yanking a never-ending stream of snot out of your sinus cavity.

8/14/18 – Tuesday

The 2 week trial ends. I took my final dose a couple of days ago, and went out pretty much the way I came into this; barely able to handle the trip aspect. I don’t have a hard time letting go. It’s coming back, not knowing who or where I am that fucks me up. Whatever spark that serves as the proto-Dub feels danger lurking everywhere when he comes back. I wander around, asking the same nurse practitioner who I am, and why I’m here. I cried a couple of times. Once I actually pissed myself. Only a little, but still…

The protocols dictate I can come back whenever things start to go grey again, but usually it’s about 3 months between visits. I probably won’t take the every-other day injections again anytime in the near future. At least I hope not.

So, enough bitching – the big question is, was this an effective form of treatment for PTSD and depression?

My answer is a cautious yes so far. I mean, I feel pretty great. Feeling is the operant word in this case. I think that in least my case, one of the big takeaways is that I fight my mental illness more effectively through a conscious approach to embodiment rather than mentation.

You can’t destroy the castle with the king’s tools –or something like that.

We appear to be multi-minded organisms; carrying these minds throughout our physical bodies in the form of nerve and endocrine clusters in and around our brain, heart, gut, sex organs, and the base of the spine, to name a few. Additionally, during certain peak experiences these clusters appear to correspond to energy systems that may exist both outside our material bodies and within the deep mind.

I do not understand the deep mind enough to really talk about it, other than to say this:

Proprioception is our sixth sense, and the door to an inner world that is larger than the external material world. Biometry proves the existence of electrical impulses that originate from within our physical bodies, but extend beyond the outermost layers of the epidermis. This indicates a fundamental misjudgment of both how we interact with the physical world and our own anatomy, possibly. Essentially, we may possess energetic tentacles that extend far beyond our own ability to measure them. This makes both Ouspensky’s idea of shape-shifting superhuman imagos and PKD’s mycelial alien intelligences worth reconsidering.

Most interestingly (at least to me), my vision has color shifted. Since my fourth session last Tuesday, I see yellows, oranges and browns differently. Flecks of gold appear everywhere, and sunlight has a different quality, especially in the morning. It’s pretty freaking delightful, actually. Also, my night vision appears to have improved. If this starts to fade, I’ll post an update.


Ketaphysics Pt. 2

As we move into the Coptic New Year 1735 (or 8-8 to the numerologically inclined) my thoughts and prayers are with Charlie Sheen, as they so often are. Depending on who you talk to, there either was or wasn’t a Jesus Christ. But there isn’t a person alive today who doesn’t know Charlie Sheen. And while Jesus may or may not have died for our sins, Charlie Sheen lives a life of sin so that we may celebrate our freedom of choice, even if all that means now is we know for sure that we spend most of our lives choosing to live vicariously through others.

The following chunk of text comprises the period surrounding my 3rd and 4th ketamine treatments, which I underwent last month as part of a program to help mitigate my depression and PTSD. You can check out the previous post for more info, and feel free to post questions/comments below. Thanks for stopping by.

(Originally posted Sunday, 8/5/18)

3 space missions down, 3 to go.

I keep a notebook right next to the official medical beanbag that serves as my Launchpad for these experiments. A lot of it is, not surprisingly, utter gibberish. There are moments though…

So the big thing today happened on the first “lower” dose. I remember being about 10 minutes in, and very aware of gravity. I lay on my back, sprawled out, swimming in the Great Beige. It was like trying to dance while strapped in to the Gravitron at the county fair. It was more than this, but that’s the best I can do. I sat up, heedless of the crystalline wires that the beings I’ll call “The Little Sisters of Eluria” (thank you very much, Stephen King) spent all that effort stitching into my head. They can get back in there whenever they want. Anyway, I sat up, feeling very much like a half-sentient monkey balancing on a rock hurtling through space at 77,000 miles per hour, grabbed my pen and furiously scrawled out the following:


Then I lay back down, caught my breath and danced a little while longer.

Getting shot up with medical grade ketamine on a Sunday afternoon by a licensed medical professional in the back of an office complex in Salt Lake City nothing like vomiting your guts out in a tent somewhere in Peru. Instead of icaros, I’ve got a playlist of songs I downloaded from the internet. I’ve seen people check their Twitter feeds between shots.

I’m not judging. What I want to express is how utterly unglamorous any of this is. Everyone is here to do work. This shit gets spooky.

I think one of the hells ketamine has to offer is the “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” (thank you very much, Shirley Jackson) feeling as you start to come out. No matter how groovy things might be on the other side of the abyss, when you come back, there’s no getting around the fact that you have voluntarily allowed another reality to alter this one. You are the one who signed the waiver, rolled up your sleeve. You watch a needle puncture your skin. This is your life, your mind, and there is something about the reality that you were handed that is so unsatisfactory that you are here now. The Little Sisters of Eluria can do their work if you call on them, but it’s still you laying there getting the work done. You can’t escape you, no matter what you shoot into you.

Here’s something else I wrote towards the end of today’s final trip:

“I was told there would be bright colors.”

For the Tarot, I didn’t even try to make predictions last night. I watched half of a bad movie and fell asleep early. Here’s today’s draw:

  1. Page of Wands
  2. King of Wands
  3. 8 of Pentacles
  4. Ace of Swords
  5. Queen of Cups

That’s all for now.


(Originally posted 8/6/18)

Monday morning – No work this morning due to crane issues. That’s okay, beige hell has very much been on my mind since yesterday, and last night’s post sounds crankier than I really think I felt at the time.

Lately at work, I’ve been re-listening to the Exegesis of Phillip K. Dick (actually it’s my first listen, but second read, if that makes sense). A few years ago I was listening to somebody interview Tessa Dick, and I remember becoming very stressed out at the description of how he passed away. I know that brain embolisms are rather quick and painless affairs, but the description of him laid out in his living room, behind the couch, really affected me. I thought of how active his mind was, contrasted by the banality of his final surroundings. I don’t know why this upset me so much, but that’s the human experience in a nutshell, right? Everybody gets freaked out by different things.

Anyway, when I’m fully in ketamine’s tentacle-y embrace, as we are waltzing through space into Saturn’s orbit, the gates to the abyss where the big C-motherfucker lies waiting… I’m trapped – paralyzed really – in a setting that probably looked quite analogous to what P.K.D. saw when he breathed his last in that bodily form. And it still freaks me the fuck out.

So there’s one theory. Another is that beige hell is our karma as Americans. We send our kids to beige deserts to kill. We ignore the plight of starving millions while driving to work in beige upholstered bubbles, until we sit in beige offices and go home to beige colored apartments. When our parents grow too old, sick or forgetful to take care of, we send them off to beige colored retirement homes where they breathe their last while staring at beige colored curtains until a nurse in beige scrubs starts unhooking them from the final few strands that held them tethered to this earth…

God this is depressing.

Be good to each other, and spend some time staring at some flowers or cuttlefish today. It’s probably good for the soul.

(Originally posted 8/7/18)

Tuesday, how predictable; a breakthrough. I’m using sarcasm (poorly) to mask the very real feeling of awe that I experienced today.

So, where to begin. For the record, I’m not entirely straight yet. Not by a damn sight; I got my final injection about 2 hours ago, and the world is still only behaving semi-normally; as if it would be a breach of etiquette for everything under my feet to pop.

I’m super into semi-colons right now. They’re like the Swiss Army Knives of syntax.

So, if you’re good then life is good. If you’re lucky enough to do good a hundred percent of the time, congratulations on being an Ipsissimus; the rest of us are stuck here in the trash strata. But for whatever reason, today I started meditating on what’s good here in the trash strata – and maybe that’s where years of listening to bands like Kyuss and Fu Manchu paid off. I started seeing gold.

Gold sunlight, gold refracted through junk lenses

Old timey Defender video games and T-top Trans-Ams with golden fiery Phoenix wings that spread across the sky – Hail unto thee who are Ra in thy rising, Hail Tiphareth, Hail the Christ Consciousness.

You aren’t supposed to know how this goes, but also you aren’t expected to know how to be good in every possible situation; only the situation you are actually really in at this very moment.

Let’s hear it for the semi-colon.

This is the way out, the release in here. I’m not trying to unravel the secrets of the universe. One of the many, many differences between PKD and me is that I have no use for a weltanschauung.

So, how to explain this then? Mother Earth is the trash strata sphere, informed primarily by Mother Saturn. But it’s not just those two; simply that they are the most powerful symphonies (I’ll explain this in a minute). But there are many spheres between the two Mothers, some beneficent, some maleficent, and even these are only descriptors for forces that beggar description. I know that Manly P. Hall does a decent job talking about the crystalline sphere metaphysical models that permeate much of the classical magical texts, and I cannot stress enough that I have no investment in these ideas as truth, more of an teleological lens through which one can view things when the reality goggles get yanked.

So if Earth is everywhere (which it is – under normal circumstances you can’t detect anything but the Earth sphere with your 5 senses), and through the influence of Saturn everything is beige, what if one was to focus through a different sphere? I think I did this for a moment on Sunday to horrific effect. I was thinking about how sucky this all was and then boom! Everything went Dario Argento-red, and I think that was Mars.



(8/8/18 Wednesday) – I almost cut all of this stuff out because it’s weird to talk about it openly. I’m going to admit some things that I don’t talk openly about, because I’ve always thought one’s metaphysics should be kept to oneself. Also, it just feels weird talking about it publicly. But, my original purpose for posting this online was to help anyone who might be interested in trying something like this. And if I can’t talk about the methods “I” used to deal with the really heavy trips, then how the fuck am I helping people?

On the flip side, I have a hard time with stating anything that sounds boastful. In a weird way, I’m sort of proud of the fact that I was able to come out on the other side of this. And 99% of the time, if I do something I’m proud of, announcing it to people either across the internet or at dinner parties seems like a terrible breach of etiquette. So here’s the dilemma.

But even that’s bullshit. Because “I” didn’t really do anything. If anybody did something yesterday, it was Dr H. He’s led who-the-fuck-knows how many people through this very same hedge-maze, and probably knew all along what he was doing with me. So, I survived this in the same way somebody survives a Class-5 river rafting expedition by hanging onto the side-rails. “I” was not doing the paddling.

But I did some stuff before the trip this time, and maybe it gamed the results some. (Here’s the openly admitting stuff). I have an ancestral altar in one of my rooms, and yesterday I made an offering to both my pantheon and my ancestral lineage. The offering was frankincense and myrrh, plus a copy of the receipt from my payment to Dr H’s office. I made a promise at my altar to try to let my heart lead the way through the parts of the trip that my head couldn’t tolerate. Then I meditated on the new hypersigil I’ve been working on for 10 minutes. This was the last thing I did before heading out to Dr H.

So the sphere of Binah/Mother Saturn sits on the left shoulder, Chesed/the Sidereal Realm/something like the Akashic Records hovers just above the right shoulder. These are the devil/angel dynamics depicted in religious woodcuttings and Tom & Jerry cartoons (the fucking best). Mother Saturn speaks to you through the Gates of the Abyss where Choronzon dwells. This is Daath and the awareness of speech programming not only your operant paradigms but the construct that you mistake for you.

To realize that you are simply a story that you are told is to realize that the story began long before your comprehension of language existed in your own temporal reality. I realize that this is a little dense, so I’ll try it a different way. You process the world through language, and somewhere in all of the language you have picked up is a single through-line; the “you-code”. You aren’t the code any more than the story of the Giving Tree is an actual tree. But the story of you started before you became you. Therefore, your primary source code was written by something other than you. And that game of “pass the baton” has been going back since before we knew how to build campfires.

So you have to surrender that story to pass through the gate of understanding beyond where our capacity for language lies. I think this is where you have to allow your heart-center to take the reins. To do this is to view the Earth Sphere through the lens of Tiphareth. This can be done. I did this, and the only way that I can admit it is to admit that “I” wasn’t the one doing it.

This is another step on the path to individuation.


More about the gate, and what it does. Concurrently, I’m thinking about something Ouspensky wrote about the tarot trumps and how they pair off with each other (or in his words, how I would have understood him to have written abo…). To further his (rather, my understanding of his) position, this metaphysical/archetypal gate could be the flashpoint where they meet – in this metaphor I guess the flashpoint is the “burning now” that one only experiences when the idea of self is dissolved – and how in some cases this can induce specific forms of madness. In particular, I’m thinking of the pairing between the 7th and 16th trumps; these being the Chariot and the Tower.

With respect to religion, these two provide glimpses of the lead-up to and fall-out from a damaging experience of kratophany. In this case, the chariot represents an attempt to experience the numinous, but conflates an attitude of proper reverence with self-righteous piety. At the omega-point of kratophany, the chariot meets with the Godhead, and the Tower is the fall-out. You can see physical evidence of this phenomenon by checking out some of the odder-looking fundamentalist churches within the US “Bible Belt”. I don’t doubt that any of the more freakish snake handlers and faith healers have had genuine spiritual encounters. But not having prepared for it, the fallout makes them even more armored, fearful and xenophobic.

To someone who has encountered “other” with a nothing but a head full of Old Testament fire & brimstone and some American exceptionalism to fall back on, xenophobia might seem like a valid reaction. This is the poison of Yaldaboath at work; a sentient mind-virus spawning 3 new 700 Clubs every time a Pat Robertson passes away.

The flip side to this madness is the form of hardcore Satanism described by theorists like Maury Terry and Linda Blood. Animal and human sacrifice erase the primary you-code, but instead of Yaldaboath, something even darker and more immediately dangerous can slip in.