“Pray for Calamity:” our muffled, soul-searing cry for a return to original nature

Boldly Through the Darkness

by td0s

I wake to rain. Hard rain falling on the steel roof of our cabin, a torrent surrounding us, not pitter-pattering but rushing through the tree canopy and over our heads with a roar. Dawn is not yet broken, and in the dull gray I hear the rain and am satisfied. I fall back into sleep.

In the late morning I walk with my daughter to the front of our land. Rain still, and we in our slickers carry the day’s compost load and a small cloth bag which I use to collect eggs. My daughter trails several feet behind me, slowed as the umbrella she insisted on carrying blocks her view.

Through the gate into the chicken paddock, a maybe six thousand square foot piece of land at the forest’s edge. Behind the chicken house a blue open topped barrel catches rainwater, and as I approach it, I hope it has at least filled to the halfway point. The days and weeks have been dry of late, rains sparse, just enough to keep the well-mulched garden alive. Across the county creeks are empty, lake waterlines low. I see that the barrel is in fact totally filled, water running down its bulk. I am grateful. In the back corner of my garden is the duck house, with its own blue barrel and small pond to boot. Both are full. Likewise, the rain collection tank at the barn is topped off.

We made it through another summer. In a few months this water freezing will be my concern, but not today. Today I give thanks.

Autumn finds me a bit morose this year. The season for me is a time of culmination and reflection, and while a bit of melancholy coloring the edges of my mind this time of year is not unexpected, it has come heavier this particular season. I am feeling the wounds of the world. My gut cries for the wild, and I am tugged by yearning, wanting to run and to howl and to pant for breath in a deep and fecund wood in some other time, in a place long before or long after humanity’s grand attempt to subdue and control the beating heart of the Earth.

A man shot and killed a lot of strangers in Las Vegas the other day. The immediate reaction of many people was to presume this man belonged to an opposing political faction than their own, and in a macabre game of hot potato they tried to excoriate their enemies by tossing him like a live grenade into the other’s camp. Some howled for gun control laws. Others crafted bizarre conspiracy theories. We have seen this play out time and again in cases of random mass murders. Such events are almost a seasonal holiday in the US at this point. With such frequency it is a shame that so rarely is it uttered with any volume that these happenings are the result of the particulars of the culture.

Life in the modern, capitalist west is tedium. It is an exhausting bore. Without any substantial sense of belonging or meaning, stripped of spirit and tasked with an endless quest for money that buys less and less, people are miserable. Life has been shorn of all of the ceremonies and customs that once bonded a people and gave them a sense of purpose, and they are left with mere commerce. If a person out in public is not engaged in some act of buying or selling, they are loitering, they are a nuisance to be moved along. Most of the public has come to understand this unspoken premise, and they enforce it with vitriol at the sight of the homeless, the panhandler, the protestor. “Get a job!” they yell, but what they mean is “participate,” by which they mean “succumb, as I have, and call it virtue, as I do.”

The malaise of existence in this world where the wild is all but extinguished is felt far and wide, whether it is understood as such or not. Absent community and a deep sense of both autonomy and personal value, people become damaged. This damage expresses itself in myriad ways, as each individual filters the abuse of the dominant culture through their specific experience and biology. For many, self-medication is the obvious solution. People drink away the boredom and the sorrow. They smoke away the frustration and rage. Some turn to harder drugs, those with money buy them from a doctor and stay on the safe side of the legal apparatus. Those with less acquire their narcotics from a street dealer. Both buy their way out of feeling the depression, the pointlessness, the pain. The former boost pharmaceutical stock prices, the latter boost the share values of private prison enterprises.

For others, it is all too much to bear, and they kill themselves. In rare cases, the desire to kill turns outward.

It’s actually strange that this outcome is seen as strange. We are a people who isolate themselves in personal domiciles, personal cars, individual cubicles. From others we hide under headphones and behind screens communicating without voices or faces, just curt text and childish pictographs. By and large our hands never touch soil, our noses never smell wood smoke, our muscles don’t pump with lactic acid, our brows do not know sweat, our eyes do not know starlight. We have hammered the circle of time into a straight line, and bent the circles people used to sit in while they sang and laughed into single file queues in which we are silent, eyes cast down lest they meet another’s.

We do not live. Living is active. We are only active in the pursuit of making someone else rich while we earn just enough to make it until the next paycheck, and then we are passive. We sit and stare, trading entertainment for experience, hoping that watching others pretend to live will suffice by proxy.

Of course, there are outliers. There are some who recognize the ugliness of this existence, who with blood pumping in their veins take to the streets against the police and politicians who hem us all in with laws, with the confiscation of the commons, and with the baton and gun that back it all up. These people are too few, and the great proportion of the public spits at them. Any mention of the great crimes and shortcomings of civilization indicts all who refuse to act, and most prefer not to act, knowing that to act against power is dangerous. Further, most know that acquiescence of conscience and soul is far easier when one’s fellow downtrodden don’t ever talk about it. If we all agree to call the cage freedom, then it is freedom. If we call the plantation the country, or the economy, then we cease to be exploited and can through the power of linguistic device instead be the citizen.

Of course, the heart and the head can only be fooled so much. So the cracks in the veneer are filled with alcohol, drugs, shopping, watching, and occasionally a foray into homicide.

I was reading about the buffalo the other day. In the nineteenth century the US military set out to intentionally destroy the buffalo, even if by turning a blind eye to white hunters who illegally killed buffalo on Indian lands. It was remarked by Col. Dodge that “every buffalo dead is an Indian gone.”

After the plains Indians had finally succumbed to the genocidal pressure of white settlement, and their remnant bands were forced into reservations, white ranchers brought cattle to their lands. There were some Indians who asked if they could hunt the cattle, primarily as an attempt to maintain their culture. They wanted to sing their hunting songs and perform their ceremonial dances. After allowing it briefly, the whites decided it was best to just package the meat and give it to the Indians.

What becomes of people when you strip them of everything that makes them human? What becomes of people who no longer sing? What becomes of people when they have been taught to insist that the world is silent, and dead? This is all of our heritage. Somewhere far enough back, your progenitors were brought into the fold through death and indignity. Their songs are silent. Their ceremonies are forgotten. And so we stumble blindly forth, in dark corridors seeking. In the black, some remain broken, others take up with history’s killers, and angle to fill the role of the abuser.

In my region there are those who want to cut the forests. They think that they have observed the forest long enough to know how to control it. They think they have the wisdom to manage a forest better than it can manage itself. How does one argue? The only words they will accept are in their own language, the language of domination, the language that insists on seeing only disparate pieces in a grand machine, the language that has exorcized the sacred.

I cannot convince you to leave the forest be in that language. I cannot convince you to seek the wild with those lifeless words. I cannot convince you to abandon this culture in the language that it birthed.

You have to feel it. Perhaps you do already. Perhaps you aren’t sure what you feel, other than a general sense that something is not right. Do not snuff it out. Nurture it. Breathe life into it. Let it guide you to others. Give yourself permission to feel even if it is only the pain. Move boldly through the darkness, and listen for the howl.

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Green Acres Village News: love, food and work!

Green Acres Village: Romance, Community Dinner, and Straw Bale Expedition

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Pockets of Regeneration Inside this Fading Empire

Mr. Fish

If the U.S. were a human person, I would certainly not want to be his (or her? let’s say his) friend. I couldn’t trust him. He will do or say anything to get ahead, to be the boss, to be the last man standing on a ruined planet. Just like a kid playing with matches, he is in love with fire, and either can’t see the consequences of his continuous destructive actions, or else doesn’t care. Probably the latter. For this “friend” is a sociopath. Nearly robotic. Runs on automatic. A continuous rat-a-tat of bullets screaming and spraying anywhere but to his own heart. Where they belong. A friend like this should be put out of his misery before he ruins everything around him.

But the U.S. isn’t a human person. It’s worse. He’s a “nation state,” crammed full of ravenous bureaucracies and competing alphabet agencies and endless rabbit holes of corruption and scandals galore and continuous secrecy — all in the name of “national security” and powered by fiat money. Lots of corporate silos of info and/or disinfo, mapping and zapping everybody’s brains and DNA and emails and conversations, sitting side by side, reaching for the sky in downtown skyscrapers or squatting like fat pigs in gigantic buildings lining beltways around D.C. and other major cities, all competing with one another for funds to promote the next war, the next false flag, the next dumbing down pharmaceutical or “educational policy,” the next major two-faced political campaign or private prison or security apparatus, the next violent T.V. drama or movie with which to hoodwink “the people” into ever deepening layers of the fear-porning mind-control matrix.

Below, I post three pieces that speak to this reality, all of them cynical. Too bad. I admit, it’s hard to think in other ways, unless you live and work/play in one of the tiny little seedlings of regeneration like our Green Acres Village that are cropping up inside cities and towns all over this vast fading American empire. As a group that toured our village yesterday evening exclaimed: “It’s another world!” Yes, it is. And yet surrounded by all the gunk that our culture is capable of. After just a few years lived with conscious intent, our village enjoys a frequency that infects all who venture inside its tiny borders (all in all, with three houses and grounds, and greenhouses, chicken house, shed and soon-to-be common workshop space — only .6 of an acre total!), to the point where visitors talk about this place as huge! Enormous! And it does feel that way, all due to its many tiny spaces, each one its own little nourishing universe, lovingly cared for, flowing into the others, all flowing into the whole: fractal. Just like the entire world could be, permacultured from the ground up into community inviting the cosmos!  If only we would all wake up to the multidimensional abundance that is possible, to what lies within us, to our ancestral remembrance of  the mystery and magic of Mother Nature.

Chris Hedges: The End of Empire

and

Gordon Duff: We Have Met the Evil Empire and It Is Us

and

Julian Rose: The Megalomania of Modern America

 

 

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Is this the “definitive last word” on the Mandalay Massacre?

Of all the enormous number of citizen journalist videos and commentaries, this one, to my knowledge, connects the largest number of dots. Going straight to the heart of the matter, it lists parallels between Las Vegas and 9/11. Correctly?

If so, how do we respond? Last time we trotted out the flag, submitted to the so-called “Patriot Act,” and had the word “terrorism” and “endless war” drummed into our sorry brains by the MSM that we have since learned is in cahoots with the perps. Thus, this time we’re not so naive. In fact, within minutes of when the ominous rat-tat-tat began we started to mutter the words: “false flag.”  

The Deadliest Terrorist Attack on U.S. Soil since 9/11

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A.K. Reader: Saturn/Neptune in Libra — an example of “generational astrology”

As an astrologer, my favorite topic is generational astrology. In other words, the larger “outer planet” configurations that move so slowly that they are present for great masses of people — born during a certain year, or a certain decade, or, for my generation with Pluto in Leo, over a 20 year period (1938-1958). 

In the following essay, written during 1989, I talk about the generation born during Saturn’s conjunction with Neptune, back in 1952-53, and its impact during the next conjunction of those two planets in 1989, begun on the very day this essay was written.

Now, nearly 30 years later (one Saturn cycle) after writing that essay, I’m once again looking at the meaning of the original Saturn/Neptune conjunction  and how its meaning, for me, continues to mutate through time. More than anything else, Saturn/Neptune in Libra refers to the effort to put a structure around personal relationship, for example, and especially, to what we call “marriage.” When I saw this old essay, and decided to post it here today, I had to laugh. For, as usual, an uncanny synchronicity attended that decision: — today fully three of my Green Acres Village mates have traveled to different cities to attend marriages! 

I talked with one of them before he left for Indianapolis. About how marriage as the honoring of relationship is wonderful, but that unfortunately, it so often turns into a dead form that the couple thinks they must honor “until death do them part,” no matter how it stifles the growth of one or both. 

But enough of that. Here’s the old piece. 

 

YOU’D THINK WE’D GET CYNICAL

 

By Ann Kreilkamp

WTPE, Gemini 1989

Note: For the Neptune in Libra generation (1942-1957) — born, it seems, to experience over and over again the blooming and fading of romance — one would hope that this year’s Saturn/Neptune conjunctions in Capricorn would mark a turning point in our understanding of ourselves. I confess, however, that, at least for me and some of my friends, the first conjunction on March 3rd seemed less than auspicious . . .

On the night before the first precise conjunction between Saturn and Neptune in 36 years, I couldn’t sleep. (Saturn refused Neptune.) The next morning, feeling too exhausted to work, I decided to spend the day doing errands.

Driving around this mountain valley [Jackson Hole Wyoming], I was feeling so spacey, so “out there,” that I had to continually remind myself I was in a lethal machine hurtling down an asphalt highway at 60 miles an hour. Wherever I went, I would get sidetracked, forget what I had really come for until miles later, when I would suddenly remember and have to go all the way back, start over again.

At day’s end I had covered more than 90 miles, with very little to show for it.

That evening I spoke to my friend Linda about the conjunction and my experience of it. She was astonished. “So that was why I kept staring at the walls (Neptune) today, unable to concentrate (Saturn)!”

My friend Clare, over lunch that same day: “Over the last couple of days I have lost the light. I feel only the darkness. My motivation to work [at her art, creating sacred images] is gone. I feel the [world] situation is futile, hopeless.”

For Clare, Neptune’s supernal light was eclipsed by Saturn’s stark realities; and she felt her depression as a universal condition. Mari, on the other hand, admitted (Saturn) for the first time in her life that she was personally depressed (Saturn). “I’m sick of my false optimism (Neptune). I’ve been faking it all my life. Here all this time I thought I was actually getting somewhere, and I’ve been living in a dream world!”

Only my friend Beatrice seemed to be experiencing the Saturn/Neptune conjunction in a balanced, centered manner. She had made a list for that day, a very precise list, noting absolutely everything she had to do, and in what order. “Things are going well,” she said. “I just go from task to task, one foot in front of the other, paying attention to each step along the way.”

Beatrice was born in 1953, during the last conjunction of Saturn and Neptune. No stranger to this peculiar combination of energies, she has been working with it all her life.

Saturn and Neptune were conjoined in the sign of Libra during her birth. Beatrice is a member of that subgeneration within the larger Neptune in Libra generation (1942-1957) which carries the Saturn vibration. She and her peers are mandated to bring the Neptune vibration down to earth, to embody this most mysterious energy within space/time reality.

Neptune in Libra: a utopian yearning for uterine bliss, funneled into marriage and other forms of one-to-one human relationship. Saturn/Neptune in Libra: making Neptune work, making it real: true union, communion with one’s idealized other, the “soul mate.” Beatrice and others born during 1952-1953 are driven by an unconscious need to anchor (Saturn) our utopian dreams of relationship (Neptune in Libra) into real life (Saturn).

For some of these people this means hanging on to their current relationship for dear life, no matter what the cost. No matter how pressing the needs of each for growth beyond the relationship. No matter even if they end up killing each other — slowly, slowly the bitterness sets in — so “committed” are they to “making it work.”

These couples put blinkers on. Refusing to notice the negative emotion between them, they project it outside — onto scapegoats. Huddling together in mutual protection from the harsh world outside, they grow increasingly insulated and dependent — on each other. Relationship here, as closed circuit.

Used in this way, Saturn symbolizes that energy of refusal, denial, a sort of numbness or depression. Saturn sets up as a thick cement wall to prevent our experience of the dark side of ourselves. If only we realized! It is the very act of acknowledging and embracing the shadow within which pushes open the door. We sense and move towards the light from which that shadow was cast.

Functioning in a more positive manner, Saturn/Neptune is experienced as a shimmering breathing diaphanous membrane, an open channel that gives specific identity to what is inside and yet links inside to outside through continuous osmosis. Through this channel both the dark and the light of Neptune’s most mysterious energy can flow.

Beatrice is unusual. She is actually working in a positive, conscious manner with the Saturn/Neptune sub-generational mission. For several years she has been attempting, with great integrity and focus, to understand the correct, mature and discipline way of going through relationship, of completely processing (Saturn) all the confusing emotional stuff (Neptune) — both dark and light — that comes up and moving it through into clarity (Saturn).

Not that she hasn’t had her struggles. I can remember the first year after they were separated. Beatrice was angry, bitter with her ex-, who seemed to be having such a good time without her. It took another lover coming into her life before she could begin to let go of the past and open to her own future.

And I remember the two of them when they were still married. She looked like a scared little mouse, busy cooking for and cleaning up after him. He fulfilled the archetype of the irresponsible artist, always dreaming of where the grass was forever greener. Whenever I saw the two of them together, they were literally leaning on each other, as if that continuous physical contact could succor them, protect them from a world of which they were both so fearful, so hesitant to forthrightly enter.

Interestingly enough, on just the day before this year’s first conjunction she filed for divorce. Finally, after pondering for three full years on how to conduct a fair and honest divorce, how to create a custody agreement meeting their child’s needs not only now, but until she came of age. Saturn conjoins Neptune, bringing the situation to a climax, so that a definite decision is made.

That evening, she and her ex- and their little girl and his new girlfriend all got together for dessert. “It was okay,” she tells me, “We had fun.” Meanwhile, her sister called from California, leaving a message on the phone. “Oh Beatrice! I just wanted to call you on this day, knowing how hard it must be . . .”

Beatrice chuckled. “My sister has no idea what is going on out here. How can I explain it to her?” she asks me, in the usual exasperation we feel when we sense ourselves to be living in two separate worlds.

The world of marriage and divorce, especially for the entire Neptune in Libra generation, is experienced as the battleground within which we are processing this confusing issue as to how to create healthy, vital one-to-one relationships.

Her sister sees Beatrice’s divorce the usual way, as failure, a broken vow. Older than Beatrice by only one year, she is also Saturn/Neptune. Moreover, with her Sun in Capricorn, she is particularly attached to the traditional view of marriage. She thinks the way most people do, in linear terms, where the wedding is the first point on a line that stretches into the future ‘til death do us part. To stop before death is, by definition, within a linear framework of consciousness, to fail to endure to the end.

For me, those words “’til death do us part” sound like a death sentence. Yoked together forever. Bound. Bound up. In bondage. No release . . . Gag! I feel suffocated already! On the other hand, I can conceive of a relationship that lasts beyond so-called “death” into other lives as well. To speak of a relationship as certain to continue for a predetermined length of time before it has already taken that time is, to my mind, the kind of knowledge we do not, in advance, possess.

Relationships occur in cycles. We have no idea, when a cycle begins, how long it will last. It could be five minutes, or five years, or five lifetimes. The important thing is to “commit” ourselves fully — not to the person, but to the process we are undergoing with that person. Not to any “vows” we make which are socially traditional, but to the inner vow within each of us to allow our unique nature to unfold.

We promise to fully and consciously appreciate each and every relationship we have with anyone, and of whatever length it ends up being. In this commitment, we agree to process every single point in our relationship as it comes up; to be utterly and honestly and courageously present within each moment, so that it can come to full flower — open to the miracle, the freshness of a universe forever new, an endlessly flowing fountain of energy, of grace — and then yield, to the next point, the next moment, the next step. Throughout the period of time we spend together we are learning — about ourselves, about each other, about relationship. Throughout this time we are growing, to become more fully, each of us, who we truly are.

For me, if our relationships do not grow, or evolve, in this sense, each of them point to point on their own unique trajectories, they are dead — whether or not we are married.

Beatrice also thinks in terms of circles, cycles. And she sees her marriage and divorce as a particularly interesting cycle in her life, one which she wants to understand as a whole: to recognize why she and her ex- attracted each other in the first place, and to extract and transform the psychological patterns which they enacted throughout their 18 years together. For Beatrice, this was a cycle so rich with significance, that even in its ending, she is still learning from it.

To begin to see relationships in terms of cycles is, I feel, one of the messages that the Saturn/Neptune in Libra generation has to give us. Indeed, it is a lesson these people are forced to learn — through shock: the planet Uranus in Cancer squared their Saturn/Neptune planets at birth. Despite an unusual need for permanence (Saturn) in a utopian relationship (Neptune in Libra), they are more than usually subject to sudden and unpredictable changes in family life (Uranus in Cancer, square Saturn/Neptune in Libra).

Uranus in Cancer, for them, also signifies their penchant for creating unusual “family” situations. Many of them are open to admitting others into their family circle, so that it is not so tight and constricting. Ideally, they learn to value each individual who joins them for his or her utter uniqueness, and to appreciate the bonded spaciousness of an extended family tie that both nourishes and frees. An example here: Beatrice eating dessert with her ex- and his lover on the night after they filed for divorce.

Now we have the conjunction of Saturn/Neptune in Capricorn. What are we to learn during this time? The timing of Beatrice’s filing for divorce might give us a clue. Capricorn is the sign of manifestation. What has been standing in the wings now comes to pass. Definite decisions are reached.

During this Neptune in Capricorn phase of human history (1984-1997), the entire Neptune in Libra generation (1942-1957) is being activated through Neptune’s square to its original placement at our birth. This activation is being emphasized especially during 1989 and 1990, as both Saturn and Uranus also travel through Capricorn.

Yet on the day of the first precise Saturn/Neptune conjunction, I suspect few of us were so ready for it that we were able to utilize the conjunction in a productive manner. The stories of me and my friends — full of confusion, spaciness, depression, and futility — certainly illustrate that.

This is not surprising. This is typical for the first of a series of three rare conjunctions between major planets. Hopefully, by November 13, 1989, when Saturn and Neptune make their final conjunction, more of us will be seeing and acting on especially these mysterious relationship issues with as much clarity as Beatrice.

Saturn’s conjunction with Neptune sets into motion whatever comes next. Saturn plants the new seed. Whatever takes place on the subtle levels during 1989 will bear fruit not only during these coming years of Neptune and Uranus in Capricorn, but throughout the new 55-year cycle between Neptune and Saturn which the conjunction initiates.

During these years we will, no doubt, see many people in our generation getting married — again. We cannot avoid it. Our collectively unconscious needs demand that we learn, through personal relationship, how to ground the spiritual into the physical, how to bring the most elusive energy of Neptune into tangible Saturnine form.

We will also see many people deciding to live together monogamously on a more or less permanent basis, choosing not to marry. Not, as before, because they want to keep their options open, but because, for reasons more or less (usually less) articulated, they fear marriage will ruin their relationship.

The first option is traditional; the second option has also been around for many years — ever since Pluto went into Libra (1971-1983). But the increased emphasis on relatively long-range monogamy (Capricorn) is new to us as a generation. It’s as if, until now, our subtle Neptune in Libra yearnings have taken the back seat to the compelling and narcissistic self-absorption of our other deeply unconscious generational energy: Pluto in Leo.

Pluto began its long sextile to Neptune in 1942, the same year Neptune went into Libra. This long term harmonious link between these two great planets will remain in effect until well after the turn of the century. The sextile between these two planets signifies the gradual regeneration of the collective unconscious mind of humanity and constitutes a deep bass note that accompanies all other evolutionary changes.

For most of this period, this deep bass note, though present, operates in a disassociated manner, not integrated with the other urges in our collective psyche. During two periods of this century however, this deep bass note plays in harmony with the other two great planetary energies, Saturn and Uranus. As we might expect, the first time was during the fabled ‘60s, when Uranus conjoined Pluto, sextiled Neptune, and opposed Saturn.

The second time is now, beginning in 1989, and lasting through 1993, as Saturn and Uranus conjoin Neptune to again participate directly in the regenerative sextile with Pluto.

This, I predict, will be the time when the generation born with Neptune in Libra and Pluto in Leo finally grows up.

Back then, we attempted to both express ourselves completely and have utopian relationships as well. We accomplished the first — with a vengeance. And the second Well, we’ve done it over and over again, this business of relationships, this need for, this fear of “commitment.”

Naturally, since this entire subject, for us, is governed by Neptune, we still wonder what in hell we’re doing, what it’s all been for. All these relationships, each one beginning with such stars in our eyes. All these many divorces later. You’d think we’d get cynical. And we do. But we don’t. Someone else comes along. The light in their eyes dances towards us. We cnnot resist. We project Neptune out once again, idealizing, romanticizing . . .

Neptune, Saturn and Uranus in Capricorn sextile Pluto in Scorpio, we now settle down into learning to commit ourselves to the process of being within our deeper selves (our original Pluto in Leo now squared by Pluto in Scorpio) precisely through the process of being in relationship with others (our original Neptune in Libra now squared by Saturn/Uranus/Neptune in Capricorn). The one feeds the other. We unearth deep ancient collective forms of relationship and process them to the point where they are utterly changed. We build the new world on the basis of these changed selves, as these changed relationships with our fellows.

 

 

 

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Grant Cameron: If telepathy is real, then “everything in time and space is connected.”

 

Bingo! Grant Cameron approaches the question of ET contact from the point of view of consciousness — non-local consciousness, i.e., “the ground of being,” that which “produces matter.” He notes that most of those those who claim personal experience with ET say that the communication is telepathic, that they hear a voice in their heads. Cameron likens this voice to intuition, to that which arises in the mind when we manage to still the left brain and allow the spaciousness of the right brain to fill with what we are meant to receive. Those who “hear voices” — I count myself among them — have long known that these voices give direction to the soul, helping us discern the future that we are destined to lean into. The question always is: “What am I meant to do next?” This question is for oneself alone, the soul contract YOU came in here determined to fulfill. And the question, at the end of life, is again for yourself alone: Did you do it? Did you fulfill your contract?

I really appreciate this focus on consciousness rather than on “craft.” To witness materializations in the sky is not the point, folks. That only betrays our culture’s materialistic bias — something that much of the UFO community is also fixated on. Without realizing it, many people, no matter what their “beliefs,” assume that matter is primary, and that ET must use crafts to get here! Rather than recognizing that all of space and time is connected, many people still point to the so-called laws of physics that say nothing can exceed the speed of light.

But if consciousness is omnipresent, if consciousness is non-local, the intelligence beyond any of the phenomena associated with ET, then the goal, for us silly humans — who still act as if we are alone in the universe, and proceed, meanwhile to continue to devise more and more lethal ways to kill each other  — is communication, contact.

Don’t expect ET to come down and land on the White House lawn. Given the uncivilized state of this culture, they’d be instantly gunned down.

Rather, to receive contact, all we need to do is open our minds and hearts.

Cameron assumes that “disclosure” is occurring world-wide, bottom up, through experiences that many many people are having.

All this goes very well with the global movement to introduce CE-5 protocols to small groups everywhere that Steven Greer introduced, and that Kosta Makreas is now leading.

Glad to be a part of it.

BTW: if everything is connected, then separation is an illusion. As Cameron points out: “evil always stems from a belief in separation” which is the fundamental pillar of our capitalist system of competition and scarcity. As long as capitalism is the system we live within, then military people everywhere will be “paid to be paranoid” and fear (of “evil aliens”) will sell tickets to UFO conferences.

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A.K. Reader: “This frozen male rage within us all”

This morning’s post on Joni Mitchell, her insightful perspectives on her many male/female relationships, I am reminded of my own. Just this morning, I was telling someone about how wonderful it is now, in my mid-70s, when the dramas of personal relationships are not experienced as nearly so intense. How I can play with them now, rather than take them seriously. Back in my 40s, I took them very seriously, as I took everything in my life. Meanwhile, I was consciously attempting to “take back my projections” each time I found myself “hating” a man, and to recognize the quality I despised in him as in reality an aspect of the male part of myself.

Still flinching while listening to videos of the last Sunday night’s semi-automatic gunfire in Las Vegas, I pray that more of us learn how to do this kind of inner work. Perhaps the “frozen male rage inside us” that more than ever threatens to gun down the entire world will finally be able to melt, gently, and thoroughly, so that the sweetness that lies underneath can well up into love.

So, here’s a piece from 1989, during a time when I was still in the throes of trying to understand relationships between men and women. It seems fitting that I present it now, just after the Aries/Libra Full Moon, and still inside the reverberations from the Las Vegas massacre. 

Note, BTW, that the piece speaks of what was then current, a rare conjunction among Uranus, Neptune, and Saturn in (sometimes frozen) Capricorn. Nearly 30 years later, primal Pluto is moving through Capricorn (2008-2024), eviscerating cultural and other structures, grinding them to dust.

 

THIS FROZEN MALE RAGE WITHIN US ALL

March, 1989

Welcome to Planet Earth

 

Note: The sign Capricorn is commonly associated with external government, something outside ourselves, controlling us. The recent actions of the dictator Khomeini offer a telling example of the terrifying excesses of which Capricorn is capable. From a more Jungian and/or metaphysical point of view, however, Khomeini holds up the mirror to humanity’s internal governance. I begin by discussing a typical incident in my own daily life.

Friday Night’s Dinner Party

 “What? Sam is no longer going with Marcia? Quick. What’s her phone number?” William turns to the woman next to him. “I mean it. What’s her phone number?”

He laughs, clearly savoring the moment. The rest of us are silent. The woman, my good friend Terry, looks shocked at this gauche display of male chauvinism.

I am sitting on the coach with another close friend, Linda, watching him perform. His behavior, of course, is acutely embarrassing to me. Immediately, instinctively, Linda and I turn to each other, recoiling. Our eyes meet briefly. I feel her knowing look, her sympathy. Tensed, I turn back to watch him. What will he do next?

“Just kidding, just kidding,” he assures us, having picked up the vibes. He laughs again, this time to cover his embarrassment.

William and I have been together for 15 months now. Our needs are beginning to shift. The initial time of intense privacy is no longer so compelling, and we are moving out into the world. This small dinner party is the first for the two of us with my friends.

Several more times during that evening, he mentions Marcia’s name, elbows one of the women there about learning her phone number. Always, he assures her, he is “just kidding.”

Afterwards, he struts around, asking me, “How did I do?” Clearly, he thinks he was the life of the party. I hesitate, and then respond tactfully, “Well, you certainly were ‘on’ tonight.”

By this time, I have forgotten the “Marcia” remark. Feel only a vague unease which I don’t bother to truly acknowledge. Spend the rest of the weekend with him, enclosed, as always in his wonderfully warm Cancer Sun womb. I bask in this love; it feeds me, replenishes me. After 46 years of denying my emotional needs, I cannot get enough.

Monday evening Terry calls me. She mentions the incident concerned Marcia’s phone number, and says she and Linda have been talking about it, how disgusting that remark was.

It doesn’t take much to refresh my memory. Suddenly, I am thrust back into Friday evening’s dinner party, and the hurt of that remark rises to the surface.

Impulsively, I call him, tell him what she said. Let him know in no uncertain terms that he was not the life of the party. There is a moment of silence. Then he explodes. “That was just a joke! You know that!” Pause. Then, “I am sick and tired of being scrutinized all the time. Just sick and tired of it.” He cuts off further conversation, says he needs time off from our relationship. I can just see him, scuttling into his Cancerian shell, licking his wounds.

My ego is feeling triumphant now, having just had the last word on the “Marcia” incident. The child in me is terrified. What if this is it? What if he leaves me?

Over the next few days, I go back through my memory of that evening, slowing it down like a film in the editing room, taking it apart step by step, frame by frame. I notice how, when he says that, I flinch. I notice how I feel the woman next to me on the couch flinch too, how we turn to each other for solace.

I notice the inside of my brain during those few tense moments, remember a fleeting point of decision, when I considered whether or not to call him on it, by saying, “Hey, do you realize how much that remark hurts me? Do you really want to hurt me that way?”

I decided then not to bring it up. It would have embarrassed him, and I didn’t want to do that. His Cancer nature is highly sensitive; had I criticized him in public, he would have been overwhelmed.

Thinking back on it now, I realize it would also have changed the mood of that evening entirely, to something much more serious and awkward. Earlier in my life, I would have relished doing just that. My first house Venus and Mercury in early Capricorn make an exact yod formation with both Pluto and Saturn: I used to love stripping the mask off so-called pleasant social situations.

But I am no longer so young, so radical. I am learning to let many things pass — at least until someone brings them up again.

And here I am now, faced with my memory, my pain.

Processing, Processing

Over the next few days, I continue to feel more deeply into the meaning of that incident, one small event in my life, one of thousands upon thousands of such tiny hurting moments. I notice how, by not wanting to embarrass him — though it was his intent to embarrass me, however unconscious he was, however much he didn’t “mean” it! — I was, in fact, colluding with him in his unknowing, but powerful denigration of the female. [Here I am falling into the pattern of the “woman who loves too much”: Venus/Mercury make a close square to Neptune at the Midheaven.]

Powerful, because invisible. Such incidents seem so trivial at the time, so unimportant; they slide back, submerging within the texture of our daily lives. We don’t notice such incidents; we dismiss them as too small to hold our attention, much less fuss over. We don’t want to appear neurotic or petty.

Powerful, because ubiquitous. These events blend into the background context of things; they color the very atmosphere within which everything else is noticed. They help define the parameters of what is possible, to say, to do, to be with one another as human beings.

I tell Terry what I am thinking. Tell her how I see that incident as symbolic of something much more insidious. That underneath, way down deep, William hates women! Tell her I see this not just in him, but in men generally. That this male rage against the female is all-pervasive, constituting the very texture of everyday life, only we don’t know it, so busy are we females in unconsciously colluding with their unconscious hatred of us.

Oh my God, she says, I think you’re right. I see that in my man, too. I think way down deep, he hates me.

I phone Linda, tell her, too. There is a long pause. Then, slowly, meaningfully: “Oh my God, I don’t dare touch that one. That one’s a can of worms. If I really allowed myself to get in touch with it, I’m afraid I wouldn’t let men into my life at all.”

I get off the phone and wonder about the passion I am feeling concerning this subject. What is going on here? This is no discovery; this is something we women have been talking about since the late ‘60s. Is this merely one more wave of feminism rising up within me? Am I just getting my kicks out of hating men?

If so, I think, it’s justified . . . or at least understandable! We females are full of rage, too — the rage of resentment, of the slow bitter burn — at them, for perverting the use of our female sensitivity to them by unconsciously requiring us to collude in denying the reality of their rage against us.

I think about the three men we are connected to. Though very loving, and liberated from the most obvious elements of chauvinism, William is old-fashioned in his values and lifestyle. He would be horrified if anyone lumped him together with me and others in the “new age.” On the other hand, Terry’s and Linda’s men are enjoying liberated lifestyles with their mates, and take pride in their “new age” attitudes.

Yet I see this pervasive, but hidden quality of fear and loathing of the female in all three of these men equally. It runs on beneath their conscious atittudes, it constitutes a substratum so fundamental that lifestyle and conscious belief changes do no more than disguise its most profound quality.

Back in the ‘60s, we newly created “feminists” were obsessively discussing societal roles, how unfair they were to women. We were dealing with the subject of male/female imbalance as if it were a social problem, to be solved by reforming society. How naïve!

In the years since then we have discovered that current social attitudes are nothing new. Feminist research into “herstory” has uncovered patriarchal values throughout “his story.” Indeed, we are beginning to realize that recorded history is the story of male domination over the female. In order to discover a time before that we must look back 10,000 years, to Mesopotamia, and the mother goddess cultures of those ancient times.

But that is feminist scholarship; of the mind. It merely scratches the surface.

What I am experiencing is visceral, compelling. I’ve fallen into the underworld, diving into the deep past as it is reflected in the mirror of the present. As I dive, I feel a great resistance. As if the water I am moving through has been compressed to the point of solidity, so that nothing can move.

I chip away at this ice of frozen feeling. I notice layer upon layer of it, the same thing, denial and resistance of feeling. Thousands of years of denied rage, of frozen energy, which, if only men — and our “animus” counterpart as women — could get in touch with it, would burn so brightly as to rival the sun. Would generate so much creativity that never again would there be a need for cruelty as its perverted expression.

And Yet More Processing

Then, last week, during the time that Pluto was stationary retrograde (around February 6, 1989), a series of dreams. Each of them a variant on the theme of male/female integration within myself. Some images from these dreams:

What looks like a faucet, but all that comes out of it is noise, a terrible nerve-racking hissing. I cannot turn it off. I can only turn it down . . .

The negative male energy inside me, my brain, obsessively thinking, ticking, figuring everything out. There are still times when I am insomniac for nights on end, my head buzzing with what I call “mind static.”

A large candle (in the dream it is orange, but in memory it switches back and forth between orange and green). The candle has a swiftly rotating disc attached to the front of it. (In the dream, I see it as the spinning earth.) The candle gets larger and larger. A fountain starts within it. By the end of the dream, it has transformed to a woman sitting on her heels. Her back is to me, and her posture is straight, upright, and gently arched to one side.

 The dream this image is taken from arrived immediately after the first one. I saw it as the promise of coming into the deep, receptive, spiritual, mysterious female aspect of my character. This dream was imbued with a sense of hope; unlike the other one, which felt futile. Stuck with the hissing. Having no way to turn it off.

Certain other images in these two dreams showed me that they had to do with the time of my first marriage, and the time immediately following — nearly 20 years ago — during he late ‘60s when I, along with thousands of others, was discovering feminism. My God, has nothing changed in me either?

My new visceral appreciation of the ancient roots of male rage begins to find its parallel in the ancient roots of my own life.

In order to contact deep female energy, I had to break up that marriage; but in order to survive in the world, I had first to contact the assertive, male side of myself.

Not surprisingly, my initial experience with the “animus” was difficult. In the process of contacting the male within, I first came up against the cultural forms with which this deep male has been clothed, most of which are perversions of what he is capable of. I became the hissing intellectual, going around the world obsessive scrutinizing. (The yod configuration: Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Pluto.)

A third dream coming the very next night solidified my sense of the other two and helped make sense of the task ahead.

I am on a pirate ship (like Bluebeard’s) on the high seas. I am in the captain’s quarters, about to give an astrological reading to a young couple. She is quiet, sweet, innocent and pure. He is elfin-like, magical, solicitous of her, and very glad they are to get the reading, as it is to be about him, and she will then understand him better.

 I begin by saying that he has Mercury in Libra, so is interested in cooperation, making peace, harmonizing, blending with her. Hearing this, he beams. But, I continue, you also have Mars and the Moon in Aries, directly opposite Mercury. I begin to describe his insensitivity, impulsiveness, his lack of responsibility. Now he looks shocked, alarmed. Suddenly, he freaks, and leaves. After he is gone I notice he also has Neptune in Libra, conjunct Mercury. So, I think, he has been deceptive to her, has been lying.

The woman within me is sweet and pure, but deceived: Venus square Neptune. She is asking to integrate with an aspect of my animus, the puer figure, magical and irresponsible: for me, Mars in Sagittarius is tightly opposed to Uranus in Gemini from the hidden 6th/12th house axis.

During the time of these dreams, transiting Uranus was, for the first (and only) time in my life, approaching exact conjunction with natal Venus in Capricorn. It is now time to integrate those two systems within, male and female, Mars/Uranus and Venus/Neptune.

I grew up with a powerful father, the senex, as opposed to the puer (so, of course, the puer is the shadow, the one who can only show up in dreams and, even then, he freaks and leaves). My father was a patriarch, of near-biblical stature and presence, and his Saturn and Pluto in early Cancer were both stationary direct when he was born and karmically placed, directly opposite my Venus/Mercury, triggering my Yod.

In defense against his relentless judgment and denial of his own feelings, I became the judge, denying my feelings, relentlessly scrutinizing.

William’s Cancer sun is also karmically placed, in the same point as my father’s Saturn/Pluto. He illumines the scrutiny and nourishes me to the point where it is no longer so necessary for survival.

William at the party was the puer male, acting out his ambivalence about being with me through his pretended(?) interest in getting another woman’s phone number. At first I was the passive, sweet and pure woman, eternally accommodating. Later, I became the senex, relentlessly judging, pinning him to the wall.

At other times, William becomes more female, reminds me of my mother, a sweet, pure woman, eternally accommodating. (Her Libra Sun is exactly conjunct both his Moon and my Neptune . . .). I am attracted to his gentleness, his acute sensitivity — and, it drives me crazy; I want to break him (me) out of it through some kind of intellectual shock (Mars/Uranus).

Superimposing our charts upon one another, William and I create a complete cardinal cross, the cross involving male/female polarities: Aries/Libra and Cancer/Capricorn.

 As Within, So Without

A few days after my three-dream sequence, my friend Susan called me to discuss a series of three dreams she had during that same Pluto turning time. Again, the theme seemed to be male/female integration, but with a difference. Rather than the puer (the child, Cancer or Aries), she was dealing with the senex (Capricorn); images of policemen, army officers, other uniformed authority figures crowded her dreams.

This is interesting, in view of the fact that her father was an inventor (puer) who gave her no discipline (senex), and mine was the opposite, a disciplinarian who seemed to have no imagination. Each of us is seeking a balance within, allowing the shadow aspect of the animus to come to the surface, integrating it with that aspect of the animus which has been more conscious.

On the international scene, during this same Pluto turning time, the entire human race encountered the terrible face of the senex archetypal energy in Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s rage over Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. Khomeini bears an uncanny resemblance to God the Avenging Judge in the Old Testament, as he fiercely and murderously and righteously defends the honor of his own bible, the Koran.

These private and public events all revolve around exploring the dynamics of various aspects of archetypal male energy, and Khomeini himself is the example in extremis of what the human race now attempts to transform within itself. As we look upon his terrible face, we see ourselves. All wars are religious wars. All wars rage against the female and our mother nature. War is possible only if we continue to be deeply unconscious of the long held and deeply rooted emotional patterns within ourselves, patterns which have been governing our lives for 10,000 years.

Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune now in the sign of Capricorn are putting us in touch with the structural characteristics of this internal government, how it has dominated us and each other through rigid forms of perception, precipitating literally constant scenes of violence, torture and death.

Mighty Capricorn! What, until now, we have only imagined, becomes present among us. The word becomes flesh. What we do now is irrevocable, and makes a difference. Each and every act carves reality into shape.

Pluto in Scorpio, moving to sextile these three planets in Capricorn, is the life force breathing the miracle of fresh energy into this planetary process, allowing us to contact, illumine and release these deeply buried patterns, this profound sense of separation between male and female, between humanity and the planet, this frozen male rage within us all.

 

 

 

 

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New Yorker: Linguistic Appreciation of Joni Mitchell

Looking back on my long long life, and how its time/space cycles spiral simultaneously outward and inward to carve ever larger and deepening meaning, I come across this just published essay on 73-year-old Joni Mitchell who was born within months of me, who helped shape our generation’s iconic journey, and whose songs startle memories from those times they were a’changin’.

Dan Chiasson gifts us with this beautifully rendered paean to Joni Mitchell’s  decades-long lyrical rendering of our ensouled life on earth. Delicious phrasing from both author and the author’s subject. How often are we treated to such a refined linguistic aesthetic? Grateful.

Joni Mitchell’s Open-Hearted Heroism

 

 

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Green Acres Village: Preserving Party, Work Hour — photos, and nature’s music

I’ll never forget Eva’s demonstration of a horse’s whinny at last week’s Community Dinner. She turned around so that her back was to us, composed herself, and then let out an utterly uncanny long sound. I could feel a horse materialize right then and there! Unfortunately, we have no audio record of it.

This week’s Community Dinner is tonight, and if the rain continues, will be here inside the Overhill house. Dan’s in the kitchen now making his signature dish, black eyed peas and collard greens. He’ll vacuum and clean the bathroom after he gets off work (at the library) at 5 p.m. I’ll make stuffed squash this afternoon and clean up the kitchen.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a bunch of photos here from recent occasions in the Green Acres Village, plus two audios that illustrate what Andreas and Rebecca were talking about when they paused to absorb the ambient sounds during our regular work party Tuesday evening.

First, Rebecca enticed Dan and I over with an offer of a Preserving PARTY Monday evening, and then was persuaded to give us beers while we worked, since, after all, the emphasis had been on PARTY!

Setting to work, shelling bean pods for their heirloom seeds:

Next, our regular work party on Tuesday night. As usual, we all gathered to hear from Rebecca the various tasks.

She put me on harvesting whatever’s left (except for kale and chard) in the main garden.

A tiny part of the harvest:

She put John and Dario back on the bamboo fence project.

Notice that it’s starting to get dark . . .

Andreas was assigned to weeds.

Notice that the gracefully beautiful bamboo structure that held all the beans is now broken from the weight. Dan is already busy working on a new and heftier design for next year’s structure.

Dan, Sam and Logan were assigned to moving dirt — part of ongoing project to make the basement of this house utterly rainproof.

Notice it begins to get dark here, too!

Okay. Now on to the exciting part. And back to audio. Andreas and Rebecca were working on weeds, and discussing the sounds made by birds, when Rebecca noticed a screech owl calling.

Andreas, who is completing his doctorate in music at IU, was of course curious:

How big are they? I asked Rebecca. Oh, about like this:

Here’s the sound of an eastern screach owl:

I told Rebecca and Andreas about the cricket chirping sound slowed down. Crickets are ubiquitous here. They’re calling right outside my window today, in early afternoon.

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Full Moon October 5, 2017: Our Balancing Act

I wondered, hmmm., when is this Full Moon?  And discovered it’s in almost exactly three hours! Not sure why, but this time, I’m going to do a ceremony during the Full Moon. My deceased husband Jeff and I used to do these ceremonies during both New and Full Moons. First, we would create a tiny altar on the floor, and sit across from each other. Then, we’d sage each other, light the candle, and ring a bell to signify the beginning of a five minute meditation. Afterwards, each of us would speak our Truth to the other, with the other listening closely, and without comment. Then, utilizing various mantic methods — Tarot, Animal Cards, Runes — we would each discover what the symbols of the day have to offer, internally  blending these in with both the meditation and our truth telling. Finally, we would blow out the candle and ring the bell again to signify the end of the ceremony. All very satisfying, and taking up less than one contemplative hour every two weeks in our otherwise very busy lives.

Ceremony seems like a good idea, eh? Especially during this particular Full Moon, which happens to be in Aries/Libra. Since Libra is the sign of balance anyway, a celebration of the continuous balancing act, the dynamic dance between one’s own path and the blending of one’s path with another is always welcome. And again, especially when this particular Full Moon also happens to be square (90°) — in friction with — Pluto, the prime mover, who first destroys in order to regenerate, the continuous seeding, growing, maturing, decaying of people, plants, worlds — what does NOT change? All is change. Heraclitis said it: we can’t step into the same river twice.

What has changed for me is that for the past 15 years, Jeff no longer sits across from me in meditation. Now my dance is internal, the continuous balancing between right and left brains, love and light, head and heart, male and female within. There is no stopping it. There is only the ever blooming NOW. So grateful!

And wouldn’t you know. The chart for Bloomington puts the Ascendant at 7° Capricorn, exactly upon my natal Mercury! No wonder I decided to post this! Synchronicities abound. There is no end to the divine orchestration of events that hold us in sacred communion — within ourselves, with each other, and with the entire universe. HELLO, fellow travelers!

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