Creepy People pt. I

When I was first invited to join this blog, there were in my mind, certain things I was hesitant to write about. How much do I want to give away about myself without sounding like an absolute nut-case? Should I just write about inconsequential things? Perhaps I cannot keep silent any longer. We live in a somewhat accepting society, one in which it would take a great deal to 'put people off,' so to say. Now, as I accept that when you read the next few paragraphs I am about to write, you may feel like I am pulling your leg or just being sensational. I must assure you that I am being very earnest with my admission and that I hope you allow me the same courtesy and understanding and curiosity that you would should I be sitting across from you.

I seem to be a magician. Is that what it's even called? Hell, I don't even know. The style has been called many things. Mystic, witch, occultist, wizard, hermetic, chaos magician, sorcerer, Thelemite and weirdo. Personally, I prefer occultist or as Erasmus Herzen liked to call me 'a Rosicrucian.' Well, that's partially right, but far too specific. But for all the names, magician is the one that sticks. I do not dress in dark clothes, I wear no trinkets or jewelry besides an earring, I have no dripping candles in my room, no crystal balls or incense. I live a very normal life which I conduct in odd ways. The way I conduct it is very important and not something that I shall share; for one reason in particular. When I do so, say, at a party or something, people rush off like I've just ignited a stink-bomb.

So yes, Magician. First thing I usually get asked when I say this is, 'Well can you do tricks?,' either seriously of jokingly. I laugh (laughter is actually the most important part of being a magician, it really is) and blush a little, but answer sincerely;
'Yes, if you give me time.' This tends to confuse people because tricks usually rely on being spontaneous and the tricks that I have pulled off never, ever happen suddenly. If they did, I'd probably be a far different man than I am today. No, the tricks that I accomplish are small things that are in aid of me becoming a better and more willful person, but most importantly- Understanding the world and my role in it.

The next thing I'm asked is usually 'So what, do you believe in gods and devils and demons and that stuff.'
'No, and yes' I reply, 'I'm open to every idea, but also not at the same time.' By this time, those who have been patient suddenly leave, writing me off for being a 'crazy.' Remaining an agnostic magician is a very beautiful thing. I shall have to quote at this point the greatest magician of the last 150 years, Aleister Crowley, who put it better than anyone ever could about what to believe in, so far as magic is concerned-

"In this book it is spoken of the Sephiroth and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them."

So, yes I think there may be Gods and devils, UFOs and ghosts. I also think there may be volcanoes and buildings, horses and chairs.

My perception and understanding of things is very unconventional. I have accepted this fact. If at this point somebody should ask the question (which nobody ever has, I really wish they did), 'Hmm. That's interesting, why aren't more people magicians?'
"Well, because of several factors. For one, it actually takes time and work. You make your own world.' I'd remark.
'So, you don't follow anybody?'
'No, but you listen to certain things and people and choose your own pieces of the puzzle. It's a great deal of work.'
'How so?' They would ask quizzically.
'Well, you have to understand certain things about yourself, and build from there. Once you have done this it moves to murkier water.'
Here's where they'd lean in. 'Murkier water? Like what?'
"Well, there's ritual... Ritual and err...' I would pause.
'Yes?'
'Sex.'

End of pt. I


Oh, and Happy 200th Post, Knowing Doing!
Let's keep on Knowing, but do more Doing!

Happy Bloomsday Everybody!

Yes, I know I've been a non-entity on this blog for a while. I promise to be better. It brings to mind a song I once heard, while walking from Dublin to Galway.
It goes a little something like this:

The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
  (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
           Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
  (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
           Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
  (Chorus) And religious reform,
           Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
  (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
           Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
   on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!


        Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
   and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
  (Chorus) With his bucketshop store
           Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
   company
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
  (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
           Then he'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
  (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
           On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
   Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
  (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
           He is, begod.


Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
   the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
  (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
           The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
  (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
           Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
  (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
           Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
  (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
           The largest ever you seen.

   Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
  (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
           And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
  (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.

- James Joyce

Enjoy your June 16th! May your house never be big enough for all your friends.

football is retarded, as is my "opinion"

Hi, this is simply a short post to express my scorn and smirking indifference to the spectacle of the 2010 football world cup. See, I'm worldly enough to call it what it is... a world cup, but simple enough to admit my heavy shrug, my profound yawn, yes it's profound because the oxygen will not enter my lunges without earnest and well-funded coaxing. Yeah, young men showcasing their thighs whilst chasing an inflated ball sort of sucks sucks in way that is difficult to express without money. Luckily, money is a large part what makes young men chasing and kicking balls so meaningful to so many non-thinking human beings. Maybe this team will win, or perhaps maybe that team will win.... how exciting? Yeah, an obsession with young men sprinting around a carefully manicured field kicking an inflated toy around is the stuff of immortal legend. Wow, like, there is a super competition about who can kick the most balls into the most goals. I can't wait to see who wins because no one will forget and everyone will be talking about it forever more, just like the last world cup, which was also like very exciting and important.

Seriously, the universe is mocking us when we place our identities on the flexing thighs of unthinking young men. Is it really so exciting that a young man might kick a ball into a guarded net? Who gives a shit? No one. Seriously, let it sink in... no one at all cares about whatever young man protects and kicks a ball into a "guarded" goal. Woe betide, woe plague the many idiots, likely many corky thatchers, who assume that because they breathe and defecate that they are more important than the basic and forgettable individuals who are nothing but the extra help (this sentence is especially incoherent.) Life is great, for the worm.

I fully acknowledge the offensiveness and mean-spiritedness of this post. My many friends who love the sport, please accept my sheepish apology and know that I was a little drunk when I wrote it. What do you expect? My Irish heritage demands such things, ahem, such rants, from time to time. Enjoy the flexing thighs!

Lock up your daughters...

I will be writing something... Personal, shall we say, in the next week.

Bobbing for memories of mom

It's Mother's Day and appropriately I've been thinking about my mom. I heard the clamor of Caribou's Bowls and was as usual plunged into confusion, my gossamer-delicate grip on the present instantly dissolved and I became submerged in contemplation of my briney origins. I was with spoon and bowl, incessantly raining blows upon the half orb, and if I'm not mistaken both my hammer and correspondent anvil were coated in a sweet paste-like substance. Yes, now I remember, it was mom's doing, a batch of chocolate chip cookies were soon to be birthed from the oven, and I was biding my time exploring the mixing bowl's sonorous potential. I'm not exactly certain this memory corresponds to an exact experience, but I can assure you, one and all, that it is probable that I have once or twice hit a bowl with a spoon. Perhaps you too have had this opportunity? Moms the world over are well-known for demanding that their children at least help to get rid of the remaining cookie dough. Here I do not wish to place too hard an emphasis on "cookie" because I can only imagine the undocumented variety of sweets mothers everywhere make for their children. And doesn't it soon follow that the banging of bowls by means of spoons is a human universal?

In any case, the minute universe of my toddlerhood was well acquainted with mom's baking, and I would with skill and painstaking diligence clean the bowl and spoon the best I could. Like a greedy fledgling I elbowed my siblings away but alas, mom was always there to ensure an environment of sustainable equanimity. Perhaps I did indeed whack a bowl or two, a whacking for the ages perhaps not (perhaps ageless bowl whacking must be left to the caribous) but at least it can't be said that e. herzen never once met wood to glass. Ah yes, these wisps of personal antiquity, cored deep and essential to one's life, yet somehow off limits other than as glimpses of echoes of shadows. These thoughts about mom's cookie preparations and bowl whacking stayed with me all day, fitting given that it was basically her day. But what wonder and coincidence was this?! Was that a mother walrus I saw, bobbing gently in the arctic seas, her newborn cub cupped in her enormous frond-like flippers? Yes it was. I watched as she cradled him like my mom used to do in the pool with me. My memory of this is also one of those wisps of glimpses or whatever, but this time the outlines are stronger and I'm certain that I was cupped like a walrus cub by my mother. It's as clear to me as the ringing of bowls or the fact that a pool is really just a large bowl, a bowl big enough for walruses to swim in.

All of this chatter about spoons and bowls, gently cupped and bobbing walrus babies, and me and my mom has me thinking about origins. My origins are ultimately in my mother, and not just in the walrusian, which is to say mammalian way, but also in her kindness and patience, her sensitivity and concern, and her unrelenting encouragement - "go on, hit the bowl erasmus" - "please son, I want you to hit it" - "no really, there's nothing preventing you from hitting it" - "the spoon was designed with only bowl drumming in view." Life can be tough, at times it really is a large quantity of bodily evacuations, but it's also filled with warm cookies and safe and sound baby walruses. I will remember these things because of you mom.

The beliefs and passions of our elders

I've heard that dreaming becomes more complex and vivid as we age. I think I read it somewhere, or perhaps an old person told me so in between fork-fulls of green beans or spinach. In any case, our elders like green vegetables a lot because these foods generally receive sympathetic recommendations from the venerable MDs who listen to the whizzing of their phlegm-filled lungs. It's kind of sad that the world that old-folks lived most of their lives in has so quickly become obsolete. They didn't know any better though, so while their lives are sad, grossly limited compared with those of us coming into our own during this blazing present, it's not their fault that everything they paid attention to and enjoyed is primitive beyond belief. Who now can imagine going to a concert without the familiar glow of smart (brilliant, fucking genius) phones basking our faces in blue light? How did anyone enjoy anything without recording it with the intention if not plan to post it on the internet? What a waste, those old folks and all of their old-school experiences. What's the most they might be able to do with it? Only the most talented and motivated among them might have tried to express what they had experienced with anything more complicated than "It was a great show."

The most shocking difference between the old people and the new is that us new folks don't need to know anything anymore, whereas the old ones had to go medieval and use books, and words written on cards and papers and stuff. It must have taken forever. Luckily for us, there are some really smart business people who make machines for us to buy, and if we want to know something (but we rarely do, knowing stuff is like, super old) we can use the machine to tell us. It's the new knowledge; so long as the business people keep making things for us to buy, we'll continue reaping the rewards of the cutting-edge times we live it. The old people didn't realize how dated and tacky their ways of life were. But let's be fair, what websites had they to inform them of their folly? Fortunately, ours and future generations will rest easy, knowing that our lives are forever cast as the most special, least tacky that ever were. Even our distant grandchildrens' grandchildren will be amazed at our skill at choosing between this colored computer or that one, this phone which beeps like this, or the one that beeps like that. "What skills they had in that gay old time!" the future grandchildren will exclaim via a businessman's consumer product in their minds.

The old people need their vivid dreams because they cannot handle the failure that their lives have been. They cannot grasp the wasted years, the half-hearted existences they've been forced to endure through no fault of their own. Sure they had radio, television and cars, sure they had pharmaceuticals and CAT-scans, but what are these compared to our ability to watch everything that's ever been filmed within a seconds of having thought of it? What are lawn sprinklers and air-conditioning compared to the next iphone or the next generation of Honda robots? "Not much," will be the eternal judgment of posterity. So let the old people dream the rest of their muted lives away. Let's not disturb them modern folk! Set your machines to silent, glance only discreetly at your phones so as not to disrupt their stupors. And when they smile at you and motion to you to sit by their sides, do not worry because your ear bud cannot be seen. That way you will appear to be listening though you are not. At least this way the semblance of humanity will persist, virtually speaking!

*Title comes from this