Back in my reckless and feckless youth, (or “yoof”, if we’re being regionally appropriate), I was obsessed with learning how to consciously Astral Travel, and with learning how to invoke lucid dreams.  I learned a very cool trick from an interview with Chris Barnes – the vocalist from Cannibal Corpse, who was incidentally way into this stuff – in which you program your subconscious as you’re falling asleep, by implanting triggers in your mind which allow you to ‘wake up’ in the dream, and start making conscious decisions while you are fully asleep.  This is unbelievably effective.

What you do is this:  As you’re dozing off – preferably not whilst driving – think of a light switch on a wall, next to a door.  Make it as vivid as possible, and meditate on this until you are asleep.  For vividity’s sake, I saw a bright green light switch on a red wall.  Do this every night for a while; make that your falling-asleep mantra.  And then in your dreams, on any given night, keep an eye out for this light switch.  Once you see it, your mind will recognize it as a cue, and as soon as you see this cue in your dream, look at the palms of your hands (if you are lucky enough to have them).

What happens is this:  When you look at your hands, you will immediately teleport into another place in the dream – could be anywhere.  And because you a) saw your cue, and b) made the deliberate decision to look at your hands, you become fully cognizant of your dream surroundings, and can then walk round and go wherever you please.  (I highly recommend doing this after watching several episodes of the Magic Roundabout!) Not only will you then get to enjoy absolute freedom to go anywhere in the world, but you will also remember every detail of the dream / trip when you wake up; this in and of itself is priceless – especially if like me, you have a memory like a whatchamacallit.

So I used to always go looking for said power animal, but in the last ~ 20 years, never found it, and started to discount the power animal story as being hokum.  But recently I’ve begun doing this again, and something occurred to me:  The Power Animal can be whatever you want it to be, and if it doesn’t find you, fkit – go and find it.  Better still, program it in there.  After all, spirit guides aren’t ACTUALLY animals – obviously.  That would just be weird.  They’re ghosts / telepathic aliens made of light / inventions of our perspective / small gods / whatever.  So they’ll adapt to whatever form works for you.  Since I moved to the US, I’ve had a particular affinity for frogs.  This stems from a small metal statue we have on the coffee table of a frog sitting in a Buddha pose.  This little statue has made me feel so Zen over the years, I named him “Peace Frog”.  (Hmm – maybe my power animal is Jim Morrison – I could live with that too).  So the conclusion of this is actually quite boring – nothing has yet happened with my power frog, but I just decided that’s quite appropriate.  So I’m going to go to sleep tonight, astrally travel to someplace swampy and fetid – maybe a fetid swamp – and I am SO going to hang with my amphibious friend, to see what the hell is going on around these parts.  Because while I’m awake, I live in a state of perpetual confusion and bewilderment.  If anyone wants a souvenir, (like a bag of dead mosquitoes), let me know.  You have about 8 hours to get your requests in, and then I depart.

Peace Out!

CC

I play an insanely diverse range of guitar styles, and my favourite instrument at the moment is my beloved Spanish nylon string, which Josh helped me pick out; I have been getting back into it with a passion. I’m also fanatical about jazz, and have been listening to a ton of really incredible lightning fast flamenco players lately too. So a while ago I decided to start writing some crazy jazz, as well as go through a self-imposed guitar-practice boot camp, focusing on really honing the speed and accuracy of my right hand fingerpicking. I’ve been playing almost 25 years, so it wasn’t too hard, but I wanted to surpass where I was at before and take it in a really new direction. (I took about 4 years off from any playing whatsoever when I moved to the US from England in 2004.) The best way I knew how to get back was to go back to the Spanish / Classical masters, immerse myself their styles completely and become the best, fastest & most accurate Spanish / Classical / Jazz technician I could be. A basic fact is, if you want to play fast, then you have to learn to play the fast piece slowly, and perfect your style before you speed up. The temptation is always looming to run before you have become intimate with the walk, but then you TRY to play fast anyway, it sounds like mud mixed with crap, and your heart sinks. Then you wonder whether you’re cut out for this, when other people make it look so easy and natural. Follow this advice and it will become natural for you too. Call it Guitar Buddhism, if you will. But just go slow, get familiar, be neurotic about the accuracy of your style and rhythm, become Zen with the music, and then in a surprisingly short amount of time, something amazing occurs: the speed just happens out of the blue, and sounds absolutely gorgeous, crisp and clear; you’ll amaze yourself, I tell ya.  Your fingers will have memorized the patterns so your brain and attention can wander, you can pay full attention to the dynamics and the mood, and you will be able to enjoy watching your own improv like an outside observer.  I swear, this state is the closest thing to Astral Travel you can get whilst fully awake and busy, and I suspect that astral bodies travel by harmonizing with the various wavelengths in our world. And obviously they’re intelligent and sentient, so why not travel outward on the coolest soundwaves available? Makes perfect sense to me; I’m gonna try it out tonight.

So my recent revelation was this: I don’t particularly want to play in a band again, but I am craving playing live. And it is pretty tough to fill a room with awesome sound from one single unaccompanied guitar, unless you write and play music that sounds like there are two at least. I wanted a sound which simultaneously covered the bass, the rhythm and the melodies, used every single style of playing and cool trick I ever learned, made my thighs and heart tingle when I heard it, and would make other people feel absolutely energized and transported when they heard it. The world always needs more jazz.

So I embarked upon that mission, not only to write music which enabled one room to be rocked by a single nylon string, but write the coolest, most psychedelic, harmonic, funky, groovy and twangtastic jazz-flamenco classical fusion I’d ever heard. I do see myself gigging in the not too distant future, but want to test the water with pretty low-key stuff, like open mics / small basement bars / coffee houses.
So far the mission is going well, and I’m absolutely loving the music; I have two songs written and the backbone for the third, which is a trippy jazz waltz; jazz chords forming the basis, but the time signature being ¾, (waltzes use triplets – one-two-three one-two-three…), and I haven’t really heard much of that time sig used in jazz at all, since the scratchiest old 7-inch records in existence. My wife described this newest sound as “Gypsy Jazz”, which thrilled the cacka out of me, because what could possibly be cooler than that?

The only thing is, my mind can’t help but naturally orchestrate bigger and bigger music, and no matter how full the guitar sound may be, in some places I really want to hear the music accompanied by a seond classical guitar, a violin, upright bass, a 3-piece drumkit, occasional vocals (somethin along the lines of Squirrel Nut Zippers) and sometimes a Bodhran. (And more cowbell.)  But that would require more effort / time-commitment than I have available.  Besides, I want to make this sound grow tentacles, and spread through Providence like Cthulu, traveling down the canal during Waterfires on its own custom-made Lovecraft.

  • I just woke up from a dream in which I had long hair, and painted it orange, because we were going to a fancy-dress party and I was unprepared.  For some reason, I thought this would be cool, and I was absolutely right.  I was a hit.
  • I’m so lazy that I typically pull the table / desk towards me, because it requires less effort than shuffling the chair towards the table.
  • This was a Woodstock-themed party we went to last year.  That day was amazing, and then we went to Providence Waterfire.  I love where I live, and I love how we live.  It’s like being a kid with a car and access to all the stuff I want, but with nobody around to say “No!”

That’s all I got for today.  I hope it was worth your time :)   Oh, yeah, one more thing:  I need a new tattoo soon.  I have it drawn up.  Have a wonderful day, and in 3 days, remember:  May the Fourth Be With You!

Kin Hippies.

 

 

 

I love love love Ancient Greek culture.  The old Greeks were just so insanely intelligent, sophisticated, brilliant, innovative, and in addition to all this, they fought like bastards when the need arose.  One such amazing example – which (screw you, Persia, or Iran, or whatever you wanna call it these days) – was the battle of Marathon.  Marathon is a town in Greece, about 25 miles North East of Athens, and was generally known for minding its own business and enjoying life near the Aegean Sea.  (This region being one I had the pleasure to visit, incidentally during the awful week surrounding 9/11/2001, albeit I did not visit Marathon itself).

So one day, the Persian Empire decided to claim Greece, and this was in 490 BC – almost 150 years before Alexander the Great was born.  Believing they had no chance, (seeing as Persia sent an Armada of 600 ships), the Greeks were a tad perplexed. After all – between the Atheneans and the Plateans, Greece had just over 10,000 soldiers.  The PERSIANS, however, had somewhere in the region of 20 to 100,000 infantry and a 1,000 strong cavalry.

Long story short – Marathon had 2 major ways in and out of the region, and so the Greeks first off decided to block these exits, and spy on the massive Persian encampment.  Then one day, when the Persian cavalry was temporarily away from the camp, (at the local pub, I surmise), the Greeks said “Aight, let’s se what we can do.”  (Specifically, this was a Greek general called Miltiades.)  So they did some stretching, flexed their muscles a bit and opened up their whup.  And won.  The final score was something like:

Greek Casualties:  192 Athenians and 11 Plataeans.

Persian Casualties:  6,400 Dead and 7 Ships Destroyed.

Although there are gaps and historical inaccuracies – probably helped on by the original Roman Emperors such as Augustus destroying records in their bid to monopolize knowledge – the widest held theory is that after the battle, a Greek messenger called Pheidippides ran all the way from Marathon to Athens, to report the good news.  This messenger’s journey became legendary, as it marked the beginning of the 200-year era of Classical Greek civilisation.

The Marathon as an official race was introduced in 1896, in the Athens Olympic Games, and the original route was from Marathon to Athens, to mark Pheidippides trip.  This was also one of the earliest recorded battles in world history.

According to Herodotus – the Father of History and the man who recorded these events, the location of this battle was a sacred close belonging to Heracles.

Marathon

Some of my favouritest bestest family-in-law members got together earlier this week to celebrate an intensely special and significant event.

My sister-in-law was running the Boston Marathon for the first time in her life.  She is an unbelievable runner, and has ran her way through hell since losing her son and my nephew in law, who was a spark in everybody’s life.  His passing was seventeen months back, and was the worst event any of us has ever lived through.  J was 23 and amazing in every way, and K was running the Marathon in his memory.  So Monday came round, and although I was in the spirit I had to work, so we couldn’t attend the race.  But my wife was meeting up with them later for revelry, and I had initially elected to sit this excursion out.  We live in Rhode Island, about 45 minutes south of Boston, and a lot of my family-in-law live in and around the city.  So Monday arrived, and K drove down from VT and was running with two friends.  These people are incidentally pure warriors.  K has been running races between 26 and 100-miles for a few years now, having traversed the world collecting such trophies as a vase handmade by a super-athletic and famous long-distance running tribe in Mexico called the Tarahumara (hope I got that right!).

So lately I’ve been living a turbo-Zen lifestyle, tending flowers, meditating, exercising and tramping through the woods whenever possible like a dirty hippy trying to psychically connect with the birds and squirrels in this gorgeous spring weather.  Early Monday morning I exchanged a couple of pleasant emails with a friend about coincidences and such, and then went to work.  I share an office with about 6 other folks who were in and out through the day, and then about half past 3, I was immersed in something or other.  In the background I heard serious-sounding conversation, as the 2nd shift people had just arrived and been listening to their radios, but I wasn’t paying attention.  Then someone turned the news station on, and I heard the words “flames” and “smoke”, and came out of my work-trance.  I asked what had happened, and after they said “two bombs went off at the Boston marathon finish line”, I almost threw up.  In the background I could see it on the monitor, and then heard them talking about the casualties.  I panicked, my friend / colleague talked me down, and I tried to ring home but got no answer.  I quickly talked to my boss, then headed out.  The drive took about 20 minutes, and I was wracking my brain for the most likely people to be attending the marathon.  First I called K directly, but straight to voicemail – as expected, she was running, but worth a try.  Then I called my wife’s cuz M, who gave me an update on who else was there.  Uncle D was last seen at the line to cheer K on, and his daughter MK couldn’t get a hold of him, so was understandably crawling up the walls.  (As were the hundreds of thousands of other people connected to the global and massive crowd, because what better and more important place is there to be at the world’s most famous Marathon, than the finish line?)  I was losing my marbles, freaking out, invoking the ancestors, raging to the pagan and Viking gods, praying to any single deity, angels, ghosts or aliens out there that our folks were OK.  There has been too much loss in too short a time lately, and the unthinkable was trying its best to break in.  I had to stay logical and calm.

I got home and my wife had already talked to her Cuz, and nobody had heard anything yet.  She was inundated with calls, and so I started looking through every picture I could find of the attacks, on the off-chance I could get a glimpse of one of them standing out of harm’s way.  There was no shortage of pictures, all deeply disturbing, but no-luck recognizing anyone either.  Then I hit Twitter, to see if I could find anything of use via the various hash-tags, and someone shared a great web-page / database application put together by Google’s emergency response team, which would let you search for missing people and was updated real-time.  In the end my effort was fruitless (except it served well in keeping me focused / preoccupied), the main communication channel became Facebook, and we finally got the news our folks were OK.

Because of the circumstances, we went out together that night, and met up with the runners and some of the cuz-in-laws and friends for food and beers, which turned out to be probably the most intense, emotional and surreal tribal gathering I ever attended.  K and her friends were about half a mile from the finish line when the explosions happened, and Uncle D was standing about halfway between the two blasts.  I am so unbelievably impressed with not only the Joint anti-terrorist task force, but amazed by the sheer bollocks and fight within and around Boston.  I always loved this city even before I got to live over here; the place has so much fun and life and unabashed raging revelry and celebration it attracts people like me in droves.  The way this situation was resolved has confirmed that all my awe was merited.  I was also unbelievably impressed by the media conferences after they took the bomber into custody -  especially with the MA State police commissioner Ed Davis, and the way he graciously and eloquently handled the rabidly curious and aggressive questions, despite looking like the guy hadn’t slept in days.  These people went to war, and took the threat down within four days.  Who the fuck did the sick cancerous pubes think they were messing with?  These are the folks who ejected the ENGLISH MILITARY when they got tired of eating George III’s imperial shit.  Boston is amazing.

I have a very nice life on the East Coast of America, but have been through some unbelievable doses of crazy to get here.  I rarely ever speak about the most formative times of my life, but every now and again I feel like it.  I’m not American – I hail from Northern England, but came here to get married –  literally speaking, with the clothes on my back and a relatively small suitcase, in 2004 (October 1st – the day before Gandhi’s birthday).  Specifically, I come from a place triangulated between Barnsley, Doncaster, Rotherham and Sheffield, called The Dearne Valley.

When I was born, the Dearne Valley had a major coal mining industry, and everyone was gainfully employed.  My grandfather drove coal trains at Manvers Colliery through his whole post WWII career; it supported everyone.  But then around 1984, when I was about 8, the National Union of Mineworkers went on strike due to shitty working conditions and abysmally low wages, and the rest is sadly history; the pits all closed, almost everyone I knew lost their jobs, my parents had a grocer’s shop for a while which they had to close because nobody had any money for food, and the place very tragically crumbled into the pits of hell.  If you ever saw Billy Elliot, Brassed Off or The Full Monty, that is EXACTLY what it was like.  People were cold, hungry, desperate, scared and had no idea how they were going to buy their next meal.  Two of my childhood friends and peers (brothers) were killed aged about 9 and 12, digging into a railway embankment for coal one night to keep the house warm, when a makeshift tunnel they dug off Railway View collapsed.  Suicides and eviction went through the roof.  Everyone went hungry, and we all became experts at sustaining on potatoes and home-grown vegetables.  Maggie Thatcher just died last week, and I could imagine one or two street parties being thrown to celebrate her demise.  Although I don’t fault the Iron Lady or know too much about the political intricacies involved – she was leading a country with a situation on its hands; she may have made some questionable decisions, but she didn’t make the coal run out.  Fossil fuels just runs out; end of story.

But despite the turmoil and the tragedy, the adults in my community worked VERY hard to shield the children from how scared they were.  (And it is tough trying to implement optimism and hope to a kid living in a warzone.)

When the strikes happened, and the “scabs” (fkin HATE that word) were trying to go to work and NOT strike, a lot of violence happened in and throughout my community.  Every village had a pit – sometimes two – and you couldn’t go anywhere (including school) without walking past picket lines.  When we came back from playing football on the rec, the picketing miners outside Goldthorpe pit would always, always share their sandwiches and water with us, and shoot the shit about who won, and which teams we all supported.  Then two days later you’d hear about that same sandwich-sharing man getting his head busted in by a police truncheon, when a fight broke out because another decent man tried to go to work, and a riot broke out.  These were the fathers and uncles and brothers of my friends, who were going to war with each other.  When I was 8 we were escorted out of school, because rioting between miners and cops spilled through into the streets, and one day, into my school itself.  They bloodied up the yard pretty good, and at one point, several cops chased several miners actually into the main school building, which culminated in some very violent arrests outside a classroom where 6-year-olds were finger painting.  It was very exciting at the time; I’m 37 now, and to some extent, the trauma is only just starting to catch up with me.

One thing that occurred to me only recently though is the real root cause behind all of this industrial death:  There was no coal left, and the pit bosses were all too aware of this.  A decade earlier, Sheffield’s world-famous Steel Industry had suffered the same horror, and putting 2+2 together, it was because of the lack of coal.  The Steel Furnaces run on a LOT of the stuff, and towards the end, the coal board were having to choose between whether they kept supplying the steel industry, or sold the remaining dregs to the locals so they could heat their houses.  In the end, we all lost.  And almost 30 years later, self-esteem is in very short supply in that region.  It killed not only people, but everything.

So all is pretty good these days and the place is much more stable; but based on that, I do still have a hard time listening to very privileged people hating on “social welfare systems” and “free healthcare systems”.  To those people, I have only this to say:

If you haven’t lived through desperation, then please tone it down a bit, because you have NO IDEA what you are talking about.  Every “handout” you attack puts bread in the mouths of children.  Every “free” doctor’s appointment saved the lives of MY PEOPLE who would be stone dead without it.  Every scornful face I see ridiculing “Socialist” programs is very lucky to have a place to live, and everyone who resents paying into a system that helps the under-privileged does not deserve to live in a place that would be willing to do so.  If you really do feel that mercenary, I would challenge you to go it alone, in some paradise where you can’t take it all for granted, and the police ARE to be feared and hospitals don’t exist.  Words are deceptively cheap and easy, but can make or break friendships in a heartbeat.  Be kind to everybody; it doesn’t matter where they’re from – it only matters that they are here.

In one form or another I’ve had that “Ninja Pencil” blog theme kicking around in various guises, initially as the term used to relate to artwork I was trying to promote.  But now I’m not there any more, I’m here, a few years later, and so I’m bidding the ninjas farewell and going to train under the warrior monk Lu-Tze, from Terry Pratchett’s Thief of Time.  I obviously can’t stop thinking about time-travel.   Pratchett and Star Trek are equally responsible.  And maybe Galactica, with their jump drives and FTL technology.  I think if I need to get serious about my writing, I need to start channeling JJ Abrams or Gene Rodenberry in my pre-scriptionic meditation rituals.  And if I can channel the Great Bird of the Universe, then I’m gonna start channeling Robert Johnson, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Charlie Parker and Cliff Burton when I play guitar, and Jerry Goldsmith when I write music.

I joined the local YMCA a few days ago, and the place is great, not to mention yuge!  They’ve got a big indoor rock-wall which I’m dying to try out, and they have induction sessions which I plan on attending pretty soon.  So yesterday I swam for the first time in forever, getting to about 750 or 800 meters before they closed at 2.  I wanted to keep going, so instead I sulked in the steam-room for about forty five minutes.  It was most traumatic.  And then, for consolation, I met a friend for beers at Dave’s on Post Road in Warwick.  Yesterday was fun.  This weekend, I am doing as little as possible.

CC

I’ve always been obsessed with time travel, and then something startling – you might even say ASTONISHING – occurred to me today: I am a frackin time traveler. In late March 1976 I decided, “this womb is getting stinky”, and so I decided to bail. And holy cow, was April Fool’s Day an apt day to escape, because this place has got NOTHING on the womb – joke was on me BIG TIME. I turned round to crawl back in, but my biological mother was already in the bar, on her third vodka.
When I realized I was born for good, I decided to time travel forward by a few years, and try school. So I boosted about 5 years, and then quickly decided that was an error. So I curled up in fetal position in bed that night, and elected to go back to my fourth Christmas.  But this time round, right before my brother bit that chunk out of my back, I planned to sidestep his sneaky chompers and watch him hit the deck in full lunge, maybe even land his face in a bowl of cereal. So I closed my eyes, set the dials and went back. Guess what? My plan worked exactly – there were cornflakes stuck to every wall in the house, by the time I was done with my deft ninjistics. He had no idea I knew he was coming, I almost felt bad for him it was so easy.  Next day I was done with being a baby, and decided I wanted to be thirty-seven, hilarious, good looking, popular, talented, sardonic, and develop a wit that wove in and out of sarcasm like a sine wave.  Or, a wit-weave-wave, if you are an appreciator of alliteration.  So here I am, happy at last! I love my life.

Place smells great right now – I’ve got a Shepherd’s Pie in the oven. I kept seeing all these vegan and vegetarian recipes everywhere, so decided to be radical and try the cannibal version. I found a sleeping shepherd – I’ll spare you the details – but you can substitute the human for either ground turkey if you are a carnivore, chick peas if you are a vegivore or both if you are an awesomnivore. I put extra chunky onions in there, an extra carrot, peas, sweetcorn and some Coleman’s sauce. I’m salivating like Pavlov’s Dog round about now, so I’m going to go sign off, savage my postal delivery person’s leg and then hi-five my late lunch.

Have a nice weekend, cats!

CC

Reblogged from Adrienne Jones:

Click to visit the original post

I'm guest blogging today for the book site My World for their 'Mythical Monday', about using mythology in fiction, particularly angel lore, as referenced in THE HOAX and TEETH OF GODS.

Did I mention, Adrienne Jones is a great, great writer? Check out this guest blog, on the topic of Angels Among Us. And... Happy Birthday Me! Proudly April Foolin since 1976, across two continents, 37 today!

Excellent people, great writers, hilarious blogs and entertaining content are all I want from my online experience.  Via the WP medium I have found some of the coolest things on the net.   As such, I am going to occasionally pimp people put who you all need to know about, just in case you didn’t already.   If you are feeling kind, please link back and promote the hell out of these posts and people, as I want to maximize the exposure we are all getting through our work.

Shortlink to this post is:  http://bit.ly/YRpVXE

Today I have 2 amazing endeavors I wish to introduce, and ask that you PLEASE check out their work, blog, tweets etc.  You will not be sorry:

ADRIENNE JONES:  Author Extraordinairre.

Spec-fic and sci-fi novels, with all kinds of blended genre elemnts in there, Adrienne Jones’ writing has sincerely and seriously changed my life.  The Hoax is about THE best book I have ever read, and the Amazing new sequel “Teeth of Gods” just came out through Mundania Press.  Her other great books include Backbite, Gypsies Stole My Tequila, Seeded and Brine, as well as a plethora of short stories and non-fiction pubished throughout the world.  If you enjoy sci-fi, genetic mutations, hiliarious humor, amazingly real (like, REAL) characters, f***ed-up concepts that will blow your mind, then Adrienne’s work is for you.

Follow her Blog:  http://adriennejones1.wordpress.com/

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/adrienne_jones

* * * And * * *

FRANKIE LEMMON School & Developmental Center

The Frankie Lemmon school is a voluntary organization in Asheville, NC, dedicated to providing free education and support to children with Autism and Developmental diffculties.  In addition to their amazing charity work, Frankie Lemmon has also partnered up with local BILTMORE WINERIES, also in NC, as part of Biltmore’s Cork Recycling Program - basically, you send your used wine corks to Biltmore estatees, they will recycle them, and they will then give $$$ to Frankie Lemmon.

If you wish to promote this effort, use the tag #WinosVsAutism

Link back to  this post:  http://bit.ly/YRpVXE

Biltmore Cork Recycling Program:  http://bit.ly/iew3zY

Frankie Lemmon School:  http://bit.ly/XsWX4m

CC