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Posts Tagged ‘hakim bey’

"The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun," by William Blake

“We are more closely connected to the invisible than to the visible.”
—Novalis

Beginning in 1990, the [Eulessynian] Hot Tub Mystery Religion (HTMR) celebrated Greater and Lesser Mysteries in two sanctuaries, both on Silent Oak Drive in Euless, Texas, bounded by miles of dark woods surrounding the Trinity River. Fueled by Dionysian excess and theme park aesthetics, Epopts sought to create installation-variations on the ideal of the pleasure dome, inspired by the imaginations of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Moorish Luminary Doctor Jabir ‘abd al-Khaliq. Prince Krazie, Son of Yippie, a reformed COINTELPRO fink, artist and charter Epopt, described a typical rite as,

“A small speck of light and beauty in an unreal, sick world…receiving the most holy sacraments from the most high of the highest…black light…strange sounds, music…naked nymphs splashing in the rippling water.”

It was in this heady vat of high-minded fun that Forbidden Books, a local cafe and bookstore, rose to the surface, caked in luridly colored sargassum like some rubber-clad, hyper-saturated B-movie creature. ‘Zines, Re/Search, the Amok catalog, titles from AK Press and Autonomedia all found their way into our hearts and minds through that tavern of blameworthiness. It also served as a community center for the extraordinarily weird. HTMR pamphlets and samizdat erupted like wildflowers proclaiming “Big FUN!” and urging the reader to contemplate the koan: “How much fun can you have before someone tries to stop you?” Oh, how we’ve tested this axiom and its boundary repeatedly and under conditions both mad and sensible.

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Peacock Angel camp, Flipside 2006, TX*

I was a senior in high school when I first heard of the Pleasure Dome. I had just been kicked out of J.R.O.T.C. for a series of subversive pranks, and an agreement was reached with the Drama Department that I could finish out the year there and receive full credit. My drama teacher was a Rosicrucian who was having a fling with my best friend at the time, who was a sociopath. She gave me Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan” to read for a UIL competition. “I think this fits you,” she told me. I went on to give a listless reading but the poem haunted me afterward.

In the early ‘90s, I read an interview with physicist Nick Herbert in Mondo 2000 in which he suggested diverting a portion of U.S. military spending to fund a series of pleasure domes. It seemed like an inspired idea. I returned to Coleridge’s poem, finding fresh inspiration, and began to do some research, learning that the dome had actually been a large yurt, Xanadu’s Summer Palace of Kubla Khan, grandson of Genghis.

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What does it mean to be a patriotic American in this day and age?  If we shop at Wal-Mart, we may be under the impression it means buying red, white, and blue plastic crap—extruded petroleum from China, of course.  Newspapers suggest that being patriotic means supporting the wars du jour, rooting for the home team and providing support for “our boys over there” by forking over streams of taxed money while our infrastructure at home crumbles beneath our feet.  For many of us, the Decline of the American Empire has removed any meaning of these words.

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3.

PKD realized this world is deranged, to the point it destroys any attempts to heal it. But the physician (the plasmate) is moved by love, and risks all to plant the seeds of knowledge: that this psychosomatic illness is easily treated, once one becomes aware of what it is that is really wrong. The homoplasmate enables healing, at least among those who seek it, desire it, allow it. It is the anti-virus, the meta-virus. It is the outstretched hand of the universe, eternally waiting for a response to its invitation. It is beauty. It is love. It is the physician. It is what enables us to put the pieces (of the Deranged Mind) back together. From the disparate pieces emerges the One, the All, the Light. The heavenly chorus sings Hallelujah; the golden cords illuminated stretch from each of us, to each of us. We become connected—online, mechanomorphically speaking.

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"Consulting the Oracle" by John William Waterhouse, showing eight priestesses in a temple of prophecy

In America, we have words to describe the experience of hearing voices: wacko, delusional, crazy, schizoid, etc. To hear a voice speaking to you, whether out loud or in one’s mind, is not allowed. Hearing voices, especially those of God, is viewed as insanity within the rational paradigm that provides the framework for everyday life. To talk about such insanity is to open one’s self up for a trip to the loony bin and forced medications. As Horselover Fat made note of his crack-up theophany in Philip K. Dick’s novel Valis, “When you are crazy you learn to keep quiet.” However, hearing a voice might be more common than you may think. Just because no one talks about it doesn’t make it a false reality. As psychologist philosopher Paul Watzlawick remarked,

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Excerpted from Hakim Bey’s book Immediatism. For the entire text please click here. In this section Hakim Bey gives us a taste of what a possible “Immediatist potlatch” would look like, fit with homemade gifts and performances.

iv.
The main purpose of the potlatch is of course gift-giving. Every player should arrive with one or more gifts & leave with one or more different gifts. This could be accomplished in a number of ways: (a) Each player brings one gift & passes it to the person seated next to them at the table (or some similar arrangement); (b) Everyone brings a gift for every other guest. The choice may depend on the number of players, with (a) better for larger groups & (b) for smaller gatherings. If the choice is (b), you may want to decide beforehand whether the gifts should be the same or different. For example, if I am playing with five other people, do I bring (say) five hand-painted neckties, or five totally different gifts? And will the gifts be given specifically to certain individuals (in which case they might be crafted to suit the recipient’s personality), or will they be distributed by lot?

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William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905), "The Youth of Bacchus," (1884)

Saturday, Oct. 31    (Samhain) ’09         (3:30 PM)

I went with some friends of mine (including Charles Stein, David Levi Strauss & Raymond Foye) to a place in Accord, NY, where two rivers meet: the Rondout & Rochester Creek (formerly called the Mombaccus Kill). I’ve been fascinated by this spot for years. Although it possesses great geomantic atmosphere it remains unmarked & unknown to tourists.

In the 18th century Dutch colonists noticed that Indians had carved a Face in a sycamore tree on this spit of land, & called it Mum Bacchus, the Mask of Dionysus. Ethnographers agree that this figure must have been Maysingwey, the Bear God & “Master of the Game”, chief deity of the local Algonkans (Esopus, Munsee, Mohican, etc.)

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