Easter resurrection psychic phenomena thought experiment

Warning: This easter thought experiment is not so Easter-y it is more like Halloween in some parts!

Finishing up the Law of Psychic Phenomena by Hudson…..a very progressive scientific work that would be cutting edge today, shows it's Victorian era roots in the last couple chapters discussing the moral degradation of spirit mediums and their tendency toward "free love" (yes, he used that term…..the hippies got it from Victorian slang)

Anyway, the last chapter that was cutting edge in science was about the topic of catalepsy …..which is like being in a comma accept you do not show any vital signs and for all intensive purposes you appear dead.

The cataleptic subject is in a deep trance that slows the heart because the subject was in some psychical or mental stress  and the body needed to recuperate so it shut down……but the subject is aware of what is going on around them but can do nothing about it.

It is also well documented that Indian Fakirs who sometimes voluntarily undergo being buried alive to prove the strength of the cataleptic trance they can put themselves into at will, are sealed into tombs of brick and mortar buried in the earth. Oxygen is not needed to keep the subject alive when in the trance.

One psychic of that era had a tendency to fall into these trances……one time he fell into a trance around strangers and was declared dead…..a hasty autopsy was done even though he was still alive….

There are a lot of documented cases of this that continue up to the present day. 

An example of this can be found in the book Psychic Discoveries Behind The Iron Curtain.

There is a famous Russian psychic named Wolf Messing who was the only psychic that was allowed to preform in public during Stalin's rule. His speciality was mind control through suggestion. He could break out of jails, get free train rides and at the request of Stalin himself……steal 100,000 rubles from the Moscow Gosbank with complete unknowing compliance of the teller as well as other i-dare-you scenarios from Stalin.

Once Wolf Messing was working as a messenger and was running around without any food and became so hungary and overworked that he fainted. He woke up in a morgue and simply walked out. After that he could bring about that state at will.

Now here is where it becomes Easter-y

And I am not saying this is necessarily true but it is a kind of neat thought…..

What if Christ during the crucifixion became so over taxed from blood loss and the heat and hunger and thirst and the general horrific-ness of it all ….that his body shut down into a cataleptic trance.

And he woke up resurrected …but really resuscitated…. in the crypt.

how did he move the stone?

you got me!

Automatic writing surreal dream poem short story

This is a fragment of a looonnngggg loong long poem.

This is an automatic writing

I was sitting very still in my favorite spot in the woods

when I got a feeling I should be writing

so I hurried home and wrote this thing which

I don't know if I should call it a short story or a really long poem

so here is the very beginning 

CRINKLED FABRIC IN THE BEING HOUSE

In the beginning the washer went round and round and round. It was hypnotic. The void has to be constantly washed or it wouldn't be the void. It would romp around and get bits of sun and stardust and sticky honey from forbidden jammy sandwiches all over it's existential coveralls and after a while it wouldn't be the void anymore now would it?…..it would be a mess. or a something. a place…or perhaps a person depending on it's mood. 

So to keep the nebulus  ragamuffin from being it had to be washed, hung out to dry and pressed because we do not want any wrinkles in time now do we?

All of this is very sensible and wise. You know this because i say so. 

The washing machine grows lily pad step ladders down into it’s mouth. And where is this divine washer at the beginning of creation you may ask?

well let me try to explain. It isn't really a washer like at a Laundromat with the shining coins and shimmering bubbles and the one belligerent man grumbling how long does it take to yucka yucka a pair a nickers up in here……?

i say washing machine because it is the closest word i know to describe this odd metaphysical event……

for this place in the abyss was like a house. THE HOUSE in fact. The being house or the house of being though it did not have walls or a roof any mason could build and they know a lot of things about everything! 

listen!

listen….

i'm really not sure what i saw…….

but i'm telling you about it any way….because it is important.

the washroom is green and warm but cracked as well. Like a green house over grown.  It is a place you feel at home…it is the first memory you ever had…there is humming. soft humming and the smell of blossoms and her perfume…oh biology biology…..

everything is peaceful and serene…the wash room grew from a seed.

the house is kind of like the house i grew up in but different…..my house did not bloom at least I don't think so 

you can see the clothes line out the window…..i remember……

Drying clothes hang flat and smooth….planes blank…undyed.

But they want to be worn…but they don't understand!!!!

To be worn is to be wrinkled….chaotic crinkles etched into the fabric

not to even mention stains

rips

but you can dance upon the body, dance and dance

then come home to mama

and she will iron you flat again

buttons and zippers which nudity slides underneath 

to tease

the body gives it shape

and it lies insatiate upon it

Catatonic in it’s ice cold silk silhouettes. Siamese twin neckline. Octopus sleeves. Arachnid hemlines. 

dimension of the mend and stitch, the reality of pattern chatters forth in polka dot profusion…..hidden inside symmetry 

The washroom tiles are an inch underwater. Sweat drops and creates ripples around mama's feet. The mechanical earth mother stands near her ironing board generating electrical fins with her circuits slowly shorting out. fins of fish and sharks and whales zipping with brilliant energy in the pool of collecting water. Mama is straight and silver. Whip thin. Long neck of chrome rings. Unblinking quicksilver eyes. chain dreadlocks. oil spill etched skin. an Egypt head. The being house is triangular like a pyramid sometimes. Her posture balances marbles of sweat, rolling. She is the center pole. A wanted lightening rod. Diverting the energy. Fierce, hungry, soulless energy. Into random heads. Space between neurons which is what the washroom is I think. The mechanical electric space between. Spread limply with rolled up eyes on the ironing board is her soul and in steaming out the indentation left by a necklace she notices that there is still a golden honey stain left. She put her finger on herself and tasted her soul. Honeycombed. Rooms and hollow storage. Disfigured tribe antenna.  And the taste made the busted zipper and the buttons all falling off something good. Something sweet. The earth mother irons her soul as one with her infinite selves. Her wardrobe is unending and of the most refined taste.

 The washroom used to be a place of wonderful electronic humming apparatuses. Glowing screens, glittering functions. Printing X-rays and water purifiers. Super computers.......now divided and divided and divided into the washroom. Almost barbaric. The mechanical nothing between matter. Now green. Matter at that time didn’t exist. The green is part of the myth. A garden at the beginning of time. Eden. 

There was only one plant that was not a metaphor, a folk tale. A yarn.

It was that tree out there….

the one the clothes line hangs on.

strung up in webs……

upon it grow blue apples

that is what I ate before I came here. I got it from a naked virgin

out in the desert

name eve

but the police came and took her away

for indecent exposure 

and the moon turned blue

so I sat down…woosh! And here I am with mama……the umbrella mama 

when reality was tidy

Where is matter?

why we have to cook it up!

and a kitchen grew in the being house with a big stove

The kitchen was white and clean

because no one has cooked a single souffle there yet. 

But what to bake with? Nothing was in the cupboards! 

But knock knock…..it was the milk man.

my dad says I look like the milk man

but my mom says no

I look like my uncle

who was a strong man in the circus

and bathed in ox blood

to become stronger then a strong man

where did the milk man get those frosty glass bottles of milk

there are no atoms, never mind cows

he tracked dirt into the laundry room

where did the dirt come from?

there are no dead things, no decay

because nothing is yet alive

accept electric fish

and a blue apple tree

of a hallucinogenic nature 

but then the milk man took mama and kissed her with a wheat seed carefully placed in his mouth. She was so taken aback that she didn’t notice that she swallowed the seed until the timer on the oven chimed.

or beeped.

and with oven mitts of a most allegorical nature

she put the pie in the window sill and went back to smoothing out wrinkles

in the laundry room

The blue apple pie had many crumbs

and from one crumb came a little boy

But we are still cyborg....really.

because the apples are made of blue metal

and other hardware bound in nectar and photosynthesis 

and the bees who are angels

collect the nectar and make

a honeycomb matrix

to stain the fabric.

Dadaist collage visual surreal rant poem philosophical sketches

What is this? The syphilitic ramblings of a madman? No!

At least I don't think so…….

Is this a tweaked rant from the hand puppet of an oracle princess??!!

I doubt it……

what is it?

it is a dadaist collage of sometimes coherency 

hush! It's already starting.....

when science becomes religion:

science is a way of looking at reality that invites the challenging of the status quo. Using objective observation and the scientific method scientists test and re-test findings for validation and further explanation. Findings are meant to be treated like a hypothesis, a constantly changing frame work. But science is not that way about the arcane, the occult and the mysterious. Where religion accepts these things without question science in turn rejects these things without question. But there should be more questions either way. 

the drug problem in our country is not just heroin or weed or pills……it has to do with our addiction to thoughts and triggering those thought reactions. 

throughout time mankind strives toward perfection but let us hope we do not reach our goal for we would no longer be human

being human is to be in constant flux, traveling, breaking and fixing......our imperfections keep us in that dance but once we hit perfection everything goes still and maybe turns into nothingness…then …no polka dots or tacos!!! oh dear oh my!

Or maybe it would result in divine polka dots and ultra tacos!

The end result of a Sumerian calculation: 195,955,200,000,000

were they calculating the tenth planet's orbit or

how many votive statues

went on strike 

on the 

holiest day

of mica 

is the world really that cruel…..that the tender little buttercups….raaiiisee up out of the patch and the BAM! some mother fucker STOMPS ON EM! HEH? HEH? IS THAT WHAT IT'S LIKE STOMPPIN' ON THE BUTTER CUP PATCH?!

You cannot be one thing or the other.

You can only be all things.

ummmmm……. 

this random banana looks to me like an aura

he he!

Automatic writing, surreal trance drawing sketchbook part 2

The most well known artistic trance is automatic writing. I guess I do that too…..I write about stuff that I don't know anything about, well, not enough to explain it off the top of my head…..in styles and voices that I cannot replicate if I tried. It's good for the writing process but bad if you have to explain it or give a lecture on it. 

The different voices and themes are highly based on what I am reading at the time, shows I'm watching, conversations I've had, and places I've visited…..

Which shows that it pays to be around not only smart, quality media and situations but also upbeat preferably whimsical things as well……

I think all creative people experience this or something like it

It is rather infuriating sometimes, but other times it is delightful……

But it illustrates the creative process. Artists appreciate and study other people's work, expand upon it….add their vibe to it….reinvent it…remix it…

That is why I am against most copyright laws. 

but that rant is for another time.

anywho…..

My writing process is pretty much me mindlessly tippy typing on the computer…..leaving the room…..maybe singing a song to my fish….and then going back to the screen to read what was there as if it were new to me and I would either think "wow this is good" or "what does that even mean….this is all nonsense!"

 It is always a surprise as to which one it will be as well.

Sometimes I walk away and don't check it out right away and it's like reading a secret message from fairy land and it is also usually unfinished……and unfinished it remains unless i catch that vibe again. 

That is why I am no good at writing for hire…..

To develop this technique the Victorian occultists had a thing called a planchette which was a movable piece of wood with a pencil stuck in it with small legs which would glide over the paper. You would lay your hands on it and not try to move it but think of nothing and then small movements of your hand would create words….

it looked like this:

Sounds pretty familiar to anyone who had a sleep over on Halloween…..or even Christmas…(at least at my house) . it was just a skip away from being an ouija board which came into popularity in the late 1800s. 

Perhaps building a planchette or another similar digitally oriented device would help me tame this tendency of automatic writing or also drawing so I can use it at any time. 

Same thing with my drawing…..sometimes I pick up a sketch pad and it seems nothing I do is any good. When that happens I tend to think about what I'm doing and it seems forced. Then other times it is effortless and the result is pretty good. 

The problem is it doesn't happen as often as I would like. 

Maybe I should enroll in an abnormal psychology class in a dark lecture hall again……

I can hide in back with my easel and planchette and if I got caught I can say…."I am conducting a scientific experiment of the utmost importance!"

With paint all over my face, ink on my fingers and a clear subconscious understanding of abnormal thoughts……

Shit Glitter trance writing automatic writing

automatic trance writing about the topic of passion

This poem is a little loose and unrefined as I just let whatever words I thought of flow out of me
I am leaving it unedited in the spirit of the topic...

Shit Glitter

The flame rises from the hollow

where guitar strings cross

and fingers wiggle

bidding the tongues to consume

the litter of cranium vomit

they all peer at him with eyes like diamond earrings

in the pocket of a man

suffering from hypothermia

they look at him with all the cold glitter

of my blue blood

but wait

the old man is just a mask

underneath he is Marilyn Monroe

and his burning guitar is just the kiss on the lips of a stiff body

MRI scans of diamond brain waves

we all wear pearl choke chains

even an old man

burning in the summer

red high heels

and the legs in plastic sheets

we’ve all stopped trying not to walk the cracks in the pavement

and we have broken our mother's backs

and crippling our own smooth saunter

heels broken  

we pace in odd walks

circling the place where a star was once planted in the soil

we do not know we are monotonous

because the surface is white

and our footsteps have been erased

open up my skull and pull out the old man’s flame

flickering in the barn

like fishnet legs in a red light district

just blow out the candle and smell the singed skin

of a drag queen who takes a bow

and leaves her purse on his door so she has an excuse to

come back later

apply the lipstick

and hope for the best

cause the old man is burning the guitar strings again

the old man burns the lips that talk like Marilyn Monroe

heel broken

wink at the camera

press your hand in the cement

and then throw your diamond ring to the pigs

take a bow

at their indigestion

they now shit glitter

automatic drawing trance drawing surreal sketchbook part 1

There's been talk of hypnotism and trances in the Collective lately. I'm not a very good subject for that kind of stuff…..don't get me wrong…I am highly suggestible but you have to wrassil my brain for attention because if I see a movement in my peripheral I would immediately turn and go "oh, bunnies!"

It's not because I'm a flighty dame but because I am the type of person who uses the term "flighty dame."  Regardless of that little snafu, I was once in the perfect trance inducing situation. It was an abnormal psychology class in a lecture hall. The teacher's voice happened to be very soft and melodic. It was a night class so I was a bit tired. The windows were already dark but the lights were mostly turned off and an old slide projector was used to show definitions of different terms on a large screen. The screen faintly glowed in the darkness and the projector had a hum to it. 

I was on one of the upper tier seats in a VERY comfortable chair….unusual for most class rooms….. 

While I was listening to the lecture which composed many fascinating subjects of distorted realities I would doodle without looking down at the page or thinking much about it

unlike jaja I am an average american in my capacity for concentration….my attention span is very short so in order for me to meditate or become hypnotized I have to be bamboozled by ambiance…..

I find that some churches also have that effect even though I am not very religious in a traditional sense, the atmosphere creates an almost epic mystical space…..the ultimate art installation….

It was only after reading jaja's posts that I realized I must have been in a trance-like state and the drawings were automatic…..subconscious….

the result…..

some neat doodles that sometimes look like stuff!

Here are some

all from the same class by the way.......

The Curious Observations a surreal poetic adventure tale

The Curious Observations of Faintly Snuffulous the Marque Of The Lower Interior  

5,000 spiders long and 20,000 eels across there lie the ill begotten monolith....prostrated in utter delinquency as if swollen on an intoxicant  most ethereal in nature and manipulating it's garnet in a most frightful way. The obsidian on the other hand protruded past the mind. I must say the great rock did know the kiss of lavender and moss but in it's knowing quite forgot it's duty to boundaries for it did melt into the roots so as to disfigure it's individual status into something grander, a scape of lotus sweeping; it's mica leagues as the crow flies casting shadow and eye in it's angular curiosity. Considering these inalienable observations there could be little hesitation in the true knowledge that the temple sprawled alongside this monolith crept across our good earth with such audacity against known things and the reality of them for it was a loud cacophony against the eye. The architecture therein submits to no known laws and therefor it is an outlaw itself that robs one of their senses and leaves them befuddled, fanning oneself on the floor as if a woman with the case of the vapors most fearful in intensity. 

"Who is priest here?" I asked the natives.

They said, "There is no priest."

"Who is god here?" I asked the natives.

"There is no god." They replied.

"Well well I say! No god no god; how do you do it?" I inquired quite quite-ed and quite-ing as it were.

"It is most irregular to erect a temple with no god", I informed them for I come from a learned world of academia and the intellect in all mental curiosities but apparently they did not care for my great prestige for one spat there upon the ground so the buttercups quivered under the shattered derogatory mucus.

"We worship the votive ones." He spake with flipping clippy tongue and much other noises besides one could hum to it.

"I say do you say that you worship the worshipers or some such riddling?"

"Well, yes, they own the eyes after all!"

Then I took a single step back from the tendrils emitting mystery to my senses, confusing my logic for I understood their eyes were made of the most exquisite blown glass and explained the uneasy gaze I found myself under for they did not blink within their sockets because moister was not needed nor anticipated upon their crafted pupils. 

"Did they take your eyes?" My mouth asked.

"We gave them readily in exchange for something greater."

"What could possibly be greater then the faculty of sight that you would so gouge and disfigure your own persons?"

"The confoundment of wise men."

"Surely you jest?"

"We do so jest but it is a point well made."

"Where are your eyes?"

"In jars,.... in hands..... on stones.... it is all the same to us."

"Can I enter the temple?"

"Yes, but first you must surrender your sight."

"My good sirs it is that very faculty I wish to administer on the inside of said temple. Going inside would be pointless without them!"

"Exactly."

"Exactly what?"

"The whatness is in fact exact, you are correct."

"Oh bother! This conversation is quite pointless."

"That may be a truth."

Then my friend the most amazing spectacle transpired for one native so did sneeze and hiccup at the same time and yon round glass orb eye did shoot out of his head to the one who spake leaving him insensible on the ground and then that same one eyed man so outraged with his own indiscretion looked around wildly and ran into the temple where I heard a loud clank as if a lock were being secured and that is when I knew the lord Jesus did not walk here and if you but knew the word there would be no such barbaric incident as eyeball projectiles conquering the faculties of another.  

In this endeavor I knew that I was right, for Jesus would let us keep our eyes right where they are.

DIY reupholstered psychedelic fabric piano bench and musical accompaniment

Sit down day dreamer…..

https://www.etsy.com/listing/91407994/vintage-piano-advertisement-for-erard

                           

and jam out

creating a divine racket 

https://www.etsy.com/listing/127359284/sexual-music-piano-lesson-art-print-8-x

or shyly learn to play chop sticks

and strike all the right keys

on this psychedelic piano bench 

A mix of art nouveau and futuristic psychedelia this piece would be at home in your bohemian boudoir

 or as a constant companion to your favorite piano 

https://www.etsy.com/listing/111952697/strick-zeidler-player-upright-piano-w

a beatnik harmonium with poetic accompaniment……

https://www.etsy.com/listing/122438506/orgue-harmonium-hammond

or your trusty phonograph 

https://www.etsy.com/listing/98363118/phonograph-for-sd-70cm-bjd

the metal legs of this chair are also very ornate, curved in an organic elegant way….

A new upcycled creation from Curioscity on etsy!

Using my psychedelic fabric called Within Without

Within Without

You can purchase this item here:

at Curioscity's store

or follow her curious finds and lovely creations

If you make a creation with my godhead fabric I will promote and share your item here as well. As a collage artist I believe in remixing and evolving creative designs and ideas……that's how invention really works!

it takes a seed to grow a blue apple tree!