I could FEEL something nagging at the back of my mind, like the pieces of a dream. Only this something wasn’t only appearing in the nighttime theater in my head—it was in the air and in the sky. It started to drive me a little crazy—I was like the Richard Dreyfuss character in Close Encounters of the Third Kind—dogged by an obsession I couldn’t even name. It was a vision coming in from the periphery— stubbornly interjecting itself despite of logic and sense:  a new era that would begin in earnest precisely on Dec 21, 2012.Could it be that what felt like pipe dream of an impossible utopia was actually a working blueprint?  

I could FEEL something nagging at the back of my mind, like the pieces of a dream. Only this something wasn’t only appearing in the nighttime theater in my head—it was in the air and in the sky. It started to drive me a little crazy—I was like the Richard Dreyfuss character in Close Encounters of the Third Kind—dogged by an obsession I couldn’t even name.

It was a vision coming in from the periphery— stubbornly interjecting itself despite of logic and sense:  a new era that would begin in earnest precisely on Dec 21, 2012.

Could it be that what felt like pipe dream of an impossible utopia was actually a working blueprint?


 
I spoke to him about the extreme fragility of life, while he continued to play on mute, his eyes staring straight ahead.   I emphasized the importance of remaining vigilant—so that one didn’t miss the warning signs when they came. This kind of talk always made him laugh. “Even if you stayed awake all day and all night and did nothing but look out for possible life changing events, you’d STILL miss something. You can’t be everywhere—all the time.” He suddenly switched the console to Netflix and began scrolling aimlessly through the new movies.  His ADD was acting up. “You’re trying so hard to understand 9-11 that you’re missing the whole point: 9-11 is about not understanding. It’s about how real change has very little to do with so-called progress.” “But what if there’s a way to stop the next one?” I said, “What if we’re being given clues that will give us more time so that we could go to the media and hit the internets and let everybody know? Don’t we have an obligation to find out as much as we can?” “The only obligation we have in this life is to die.”

I spoke to him about the extreme fragility of life, while he continued to play on mute, his eyes staring straight ahead.   I emphasized the importance of remaining vigilant—so that one didn’t miss the warning signs when they came. This kind of talk always made him laugh.

“Even if you stayed awake all day and all night and did nothing but look out for possible life changing events, you’d STILL miss something. You can’t be everywhere—all the time.”

He suddenly switched the console to Netflix and began scrolling aimlessly through the new movies.  His ADD was acting up.

“You’re trying so hard to understand 9-11 that you’re missing the whole point: 9-11 is about not understanding. It’s about how real change has very little to do with so-called progress.”

“But what if there’s a way to stop the next one?” I said, “What if we’re being given clues that will give us more time so that we could go to the media and hit the internets and let everybody know? Don’t we have an obligation to find out as much as we can?”

“The only obligation we have in this life is to die.”

On this historic night of protest, I find myself thinking about Egypt and how beautifully poetic it is that humanity’s collective shift to the next level of civilization was initiated over there, on the land that contains the pyramids, which were built around the same time that the Long Count of the Mayan calendar began—a 5125 year cycle that is scheduled to end in 2012. What happened in Egypt reminds us that every ending is a beginning—all that exists is the mega-ritual, the world-wide event, the synchronicity of creation which is at the same time a discovery of that which was already there.  Android Jones’ painting, “Power to the Pyramid” depicts the magical confluence of past and present taking place in Egypt.  It reveals revolution in the age of the internet—the clashing of forces beneath a surface hyperlit by the glow of millions of tuned in screens.  At the retreat in Utah, where he was in attendance, I was gratified to hear Android explain that the figure in the center of the painting with fist defiantly raised was an homage to Michael Jackson.

On this historic night of protest, I find myself thinking about Egypt and how beautifully poetic it is that humanity’s collective shift to the next level of civilization was initiated over there, on the land that contains the pyramids, which were built around the same time that the Long Count of the Mayan calendar began—a 5125 year cycle that is scheduled to end in 2012. What happened in Egypt reminds us that every ending is a beginning—all that exists is the mega-ritual, the world-wide event, the synchronicity of creation which is at the same time a discovery of that which was already there. 

Android Jones’ painting, “Power to the Pyramid” depicts the magical confluence of past and present taking place in Egypt.  It reveals revolution in the age of the internet—the clashing of forces beneath a surface hyperlit by the glow of millions of tuned in screens.  At the retreat in Utah, where he was in attendance, I was gratified to hear Android explain that the figure in the center of the painting with fist defiantly raised was an homage to Michael Jackson.

I have second-long visions of everything around me engulfed in flames—there’s a flash of fiery destruction and then it goes back to normal, except I can’t shake the sensation that I’m in a recreated rendition of where I was before—a museum set piece with automated parts revolving around wax people.  Hey! Check it out, it’s the pre-2012 era, right before everything changed.

I have second-long visions of everything around me engulfed in flames—there’s a flash of fiery destruction and then it goes back to normal, except I can’t shake the sensation that I’m in a recreated rendition of where I was before—a museum set piece with automated parts revolving around wax people.  Hey! Check it out, it’s the pre-2012 era, right before everything changed.

(via capturedcastle)

Although our first Evolver Intensives video course, “Awakening the Cosmic Serpent” ended a few weeks ago, it continues to serve as a guiding light in my life, illuminating a shadowy edge where obligation and inspiration meet.  The course was a plant medicine primer hosted by Jeremy Narby, the psychedelic anthropologist. Getting it off the ground was far more difficult than we’d anticipated. I spent long days and nights flailing in a sea of tech issues, giving up my precious writing time to help build out the site and market the one of a kind content we were blessed to be able to offer. There were points when it was too much.  My mistakes were stacking up and I was getting sick of swallowing my pride and always apologizing to everyone.  A part of me wanted to say f-it and run away but I stayed not only because I’m trained by many years of school and office jobs to stick things out, but because I fundamentally believe in the magical power of connecting strangers over the internet and felt like we were on to something new and NOW.  Despite the issues, a relaxed experimental vibe permeated the sessions—it turned out that meeting on each others’ laptop screens allowed for an instant intimacy between students, guests and Jeremy himself—who asked questions and improvised in between conversational riffs like a DJ dropping a set. The plant medicine content was like a living entity, pressing forward for release while at the same time being stifled.  I consoled myself the same way I always do when things stop making sense—by telling myself that it was all a part of a bigger plan, even if I couldn’t see it. I held on to what I’d learned in the course of my spiritual journey:  the resistance was my own projection—my own doubt over the goals I’d set, my own rejection of the value of my efforts.  The key was to continue to work hard while giving up on all notions of progress and completion, especially when our slim start-up resources made the whole thing seem hopeless. It was during one of these low moments that Jeremy forwarded me an email sent to him by one of the students, John Hazard.  It turned out that John was the director of the last known video interview with Terence McKenna, shot in 1998, shortly before Terence was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  John was inspired by the “long form” conversations of Awakening and thought that Reality Sandwich and Evolver might be the right place to finally share this riveting, uncannily prescient message.  He wanted to know if we would be interested in running it. I started writing him back before the video even finished playing—yes, yes, yes.  I felt like a long-waiting soldier who had finally received her orders.  As I listened to Terence describe what he thought the future that was NOW would be like, I had the strange sensation of staring into a black mirror. Instead of my face there was ghostly glimmer—remnants of my eternal silver soul, radiating just beneath the surface.

Although our first Evolver Intensives video course, “Awakening the Cosmic Serpent” ended a few weeks ago, it continues to serve as a guiding light in my life, illuminating a shadowy edge where obligation and inspiration meet.  The course was a plant medicine primer hosted by Jeremy Narby, the psychedelic anthropologist. Getting it off the ground was far more difficult than we’d anticipated. I spent long days and nights flailing in a sea of tech issues, giving up my precious writing time to help build out the site and market the one of a kind content we were blessed to be able to offer.

There were points when it was too much.  My mistakes were stacking up and I was getting sick of swallowing my pride and always apologizing to everyone.  A part of me wanted to say f-it and run away but I stayed not only because I’m trained by many years of school and office jobs to stick things out, but because I fundamentally believe in the magical power of connecting strangers over the internet and felt like we were on to something new and NOW.  Despite the issues, a relaxed experimental vibe permeated the sessions—it turned out that meeting on each others’ laptop screens allowed for an instant intimacy between students, guests and Jeremy himself—who asked questions and improvised in between conversational riffs like a DJ dropping a set. The plant medicine content was like a living entity, pressing forward for release while at the same time being stifled.  I consoled myself the same way I always do when things stop making sense—by telling myself that it was all a part of a bigger plan, even if I couldn’t see it.

I held on to what I’d learned in the course of my spiritual journey:  the resistance was my own projection—my own doubt over the goals I’d set, my own rejection of the value of my efforts.  The key was to continue to work hard while giving up on all notions of progress and completion, especially when our slim start-up resources made the whole thing seem hopeless.

It was during one of these low moments that Jeremy forwarded me an email sent to him by one of the students, John Hazard.  It turned out that John was the director of the last known video interview with Terence McKenna, shot in 1998, shortly before Terence was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  John was inspired by the “long form” conversations of Awakening and thought that Reality Sandwich and Evolver might be the right place to finally share this riveting, uncannily prescient message.  He wanted to know if we would be interested in running it.

I started writing him back before the video even finished playing—yes, yes, yes.  I felt like a long-waiting soldier who had finally received her orders.  As I listened to Terence describe what he thought the future that was NOW would be like, I had the strange sensation of staring into a black mirror. Instead of my face there was ghostly glimmer—remnants of my eternal silver soul, radiating just beneath the surface.

(via fuckyeahlordoftherings) We’re the last generation of the old world—once lost and now found. We’re stretched out across the divide, our bodies forming Kafa-esque bridges between one age and the next.  It is our blessing/burden to be called to a place across the abyss of which only the poets have caught glimpses—a shimmering shore where dark, unknowable objects are pulled from the sea and made real. A place fertile with new reality in which spells go off in the corner of your eye and time moves in circles and loops while thoughts are fractals that simultaneously fall apart and come back together again. So much more and so much less than our world. We fought through the wilderness—we crossed mountains and mall parking lots and fought bad dreams born between synthetic sheets as we journeyed to the end of the world—finally taking to the deep blue sea that divided us from heaven, sailing through the storm and pressing our hands like Truman on the wall of the horizon. There is a door leading out but it is up to us to walk through it. We are the End of the Family line.We are Legend.We’re the ragtag group of survivors who make it to the end of the horror movie.  None of us are stars, however, so the audience knows we’re still dispensable and that our jubilation is perhaps a bit premature…This one goes out to all those who were spared so that they could tell the tale. http://www.realitysandwich.com/2012_solar_bomb Every ending is a beginning—just look back and see…

(via fuckyeahlordoftherings)


We’re the last generation of the old world—once lost and now found. We’re stretched out across the divide, our bodies forming Kafa-esque bridges between one age and the next.  It is our blessing/burden to be called to a place across the abyss of which only the poets have caught glimpses—a shimmering shore where dark, unknowable objects are pulled from the sea and made real. A place fertile with new reality in which spells go off in the corner of your eye and time moves in circles and loops while thoughts are fractals that simultaneously fall apart and come back together again.

So much more and so much less than our world.

We fought through the wilderness—we crossed mountains and mall parking lots and fought bad dreams born between synthetic sheets as we journeyed to the end of the world—finally taking to the deep blue sea that divided us from heaven, sailing through the storm and pressing our hands like Truman on the wall of the horizon.

There is a door leading out but it is up to us to walk through it.

We are the End of the Family line.

We are Legend.

We’re the ragtag group of survivors who make it to the end of the horror movie.  None of us are stars, however, so the audience knows we’re still dispensable and that our jubilation is perhaps a bit premature…

This one goes out to all those who were spared so that they could tell the tale.

http://www.realitysandwich.com/2012_solar_bomb

Every ending is a beginning—just look back and see…