The Diamond Island

Lately, as I’ve walked around the loch with the honeycomb hideout bunch, there’s been a most unusual sight. The days were getting shorter so basically it’s night by the time we get around to our grand excursion of the day.

I’ve been seeing a lot of homes that have replaced their lights with ultraviolet-blue colored bulbs. At first I thought it was a Halloween thing, but they’re all still up. Even though the holiday lights came out, still they persist.

The lights add an eerie, spectral quality to the portions of the walk where they exist. However, I also find them comforting and inspiring. You see, lights of these kinds always reach into the hidden crevices of my mind and draw forth feelings and imaginings of the strangest kind.

What causes the secret, hidden wonders of the night to glow? The sound of the vuvuzellas, of course. A quality in these lights is aware of the call and answers with it’s own light.

Or rather, perhaps the glow is perceived only by those who hear the call of that buzzing noise—noise—noise! We see reflected back at ourselves the glow within that dances with organic, firefly mystery in the concealed reaches of our inner haunts.

What comes out to play if we but listen? Our true natures, hearing the rousing dirge of ecstasy that inspires and illuminates what was shadowed and unknown.

If you hear, you will see.

No sooner have I witnessed the spectacular display of magnificent enlightenment that is smarter than the average bear then I’m drawn into watching videos of erupting lava. Unbelievably hot material charged by the heat of the earth and forced onto the surface. Lambent orange-yellow creation and destruction that is dangerous, hypnotic, and moving on a deep level.

The forces of our central being called forth to the range of our consciousness by the awakening sound of the noise—noise—noise!

It is an actual external event we behold with our senses and contemplate with our innermost thoughts. We are reminded of when it is an internal event, our vast panorama of experience widened and enriched by the forces inside ourselves.

Sometimes, forces we did not expect demolish towns we built for ourselves. At other times we are fortunate to be removed enough from the process to have a reasonable level of safety, but are close enough to allow the magnitude of the event to move us.

This eruption of energy from the deeper levels of our existence brings new land, full of delicious minerals for the plant life that inevitably follows. It is true we need the greatness inside to come out and renew our conscious life.

It occurs to me that while there is a certain impersonal fate to the catastrophe of an eruption in the external world, there may be a meaningful connection to the volcanic activity in our psyche. There is a story, a drama hidden in the seemingly inscrutable mystery of how we came to be experience this eruption, however we find ourselves participating in it.

The world hears the call and responds, dancing. There is movement and heat, and the flush of release and timeless joy.

And what is our part in that?

Pick out some movies that use eruptions to drive the situation such as Dante’s Peak, or resolve it: like One Million Years BC. We are forced to adapt and respond to what has come forth as a result of the call.

The vuvuzellas have been calling all this time. The difference is that someone heard it.

They look closer at what is happening, they are alert to the change in themselves. The journey to widen their small worldview has begun. Kaboom.

I admit, does one really want to be around when the ultimate volcano finishes off all the dinosaurs? At least in the psychic adventure, all that was no longer needed or had become a wasteland of inauthentic life gets destroyed. Blown away.

It’s time to know you live, so that the world may live and be renewed. Hear the call; accept the eruption that is the response.

Yet always there are still those lost souls who need to experience the call through others. They have wandered too far seeking the dew from faraway flowers in shadowed glens.

Yogi Bear is a generally decent being. Smarter than the average bear, he hunts the elusive picnic basket while dodging the romantic inclinations of Cindy Bear. The Ranger does his best to keep Yogi (a yogi? A teacher?) within the confines of general bear existence without havoc ensuing to either the tourists (voyeurs?) or the picnic baskets (containers of food—life—bliss?).

Kind of a standard cartoon tension you find from Hanna Barbara outfits. Well sometimes things get turned upside down and all havoc breaks loose. That’s kind of what happens in the old early-eighties movie Yogi’s First Christmas.

After those killer bees woke me up to the vuvuzella phenomenon and dialed me in before I missed the train completely, I started getting the shakes one day. You know, patrolling the perimeters of the neutral zone for invaders from butt-town who don’t like to get down.

Hey! That’s right, wasn’t there this movie with Yogi Bear in it I actually liked? Sensor sweep is ON, Babykins. Oh yeah there it is coordinates ready to beam aboard for ducats transfer. Hey, cheap considering the civilization one is poring over.

So in a nutshell, what is that dang show about?

It’s winter at the Jellystone Ski Lodge. Yogi Bear and his compatriot Boo-Boo are fast asleep in hibernation land, so the Ranger is looking for some well-deserved (he thinks) rest. When the bears are down and out for the winter, he gets his summer vacation so to speak.

Special guest stars include various characters from other cartoons. Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy, Snagglepuss, and Huckleberry Hound. Besides offering a number of views on events in the movie, they also double as generic extras in every scene requiring “people”.

Their presence is to ensure that this is a memorable and fun holiday at the lodge. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with such a festive and interesting bunch? Who wouldn’t sympathize with them and their friendly outlook?

Only, the manager of the ski lodge says there’s trouble! The owner of the ski lodge, a Mrs. Throckmorton, is coming to inspect the premises and make a decision as to whether or not to close the lodge permanently. See, there have been all these strange happenings driving visitors away…

Chances are, unless the staff puts on a grand show of all grand shows the lodge is finished! Because while the Ranger is good at dealing with Yogi Bear, he is generally poor at just about everything else. The manager is really just a satellite extension of the Ranger, representing “the suits” behind administration.

But wait, there’s more!

There’s a mean old hermit who hates Christmas and all them “do-gooder city folk” ruining his solitude with their crummy good cheer. Well, this time, he’s decided he’s had enough and is going to go Nuclear Grinch on all their big behinds.

Although, he doesn’t have any elaborate plan other than ruin or destroy stuff. Which is actually kind of funny even though if he’d pulled any of it off people would have gotten hurt or killed.

Extra bonus!

Mrs. Throckmorton’s nephew is a spoiled rotten little brat who hates everyone and especially hates Christmas. He decides to make everyone pay by makin’ mischief. Oh! Who could it be pulling these pranks on us nice cartoon characters?

The little brat eventually hooks up with the hermit and they join forces to make this the worst Christmas ever. After a song where they sing about their mutual hate of Christmas and the horrible things they will do, of course.

Good times.

Looks like the lodge is toast. Not only that, but the good guys are going to work their little rumps off trying to make a good impression, and when they fail will probably think it was all their fault for not trying hard enough!

Unfortunately for the bad guys, Yogi Bear hears Christmas singing and wakes up. He decides to find out what the noise—noise—noise is all about and leaves his cave. Boo-Boo has to keep an eye on him of course, and follows Yogi through the secret cave tunnel that leads RIGHT TO THE DAMN LODGE!

Okay, we are in weirdo land here folks. The Ranger finds all his powers useless during the winter. Yogi declares his intention to see what this Christmas thing is all about, and there’s not a thing Ranger can do but gnash his teeth while the manager panics. A bear on the loose is clearly much worse for the lodge’s prospects than all the vandalism and near-fatal accidents going on.

The guest stars are, of course, delighted to see their friend in a holiday special and support him fully. Yogi then proceeds to use his magic powers of effortless compassion and easy going slack to foil every damn plot by the bad guys by sheer dumb luck.

Every. Dang. Time.

Mrs. Throckmorton is immediately impressed by Yogi Bear and makes sure he is promoted each time he does something amazing. I mean, with a ski lodge with Yogi Bear protecting it from all danger and making everyone smile, who wouldn’t be impressed?

Somewhere off screen the owner must be seeing dollar signs, but from what I can tell she is just really excited that there is this awesome bear who fixes everything and is super polite and friendly while he does it.

Oh yeah and Cindy Bear gets wind of Yogi being up and decides to pursue him despite the need for her beauty sleep! Mistletoe and a music number showing Cindy at her most alluring, hoo boy.

Will Yogi manage to stay awake long enough to see Santa Claus? How will our two villains make out on Christmas Day? Will the lodge be saved instead of sold down the river for an oil refinery or strip mall? I’m pretty sure you can guess the answer to these important questions.

Watching this old show, I’m struck by how wholesome the story is. Ever since dark realism infected the popular entertainment feed trough, it’s been difficult to find any shows that dare to tell a story where things work out like gangbusters and pull it off. It all comes down to stance and technique, folks.

Yogi Bear rides the luck plane on nothing but good-hearted excitement and optimistic curiosity. This is the true spirit of adventure folks; watch a master at work. We’re all in need of this kind of energy awakening in ourselves to see and do things that have never been done.

All the other characters are driven by immediate, real world needs–responsibility of one form or another and the fear of rules not being maintained or of not doing one’s duty. The villains operate from a more selfish and dissociated form of behavior; sabotage of a system in which they feel cut off from.

Along comes Yogi Bear with his evergreen heart chakra glowing with warmth in the heart of winter. He hears the noise—noise—noise and is affected. Do we hear and are we affected?

The vuvuzellas are calling, even in the darkest night of Xmas Not.

The other day I went about my patrol business as usual. It’s a strange charge and a difficult burden being the park ranger for the Mysterious Island beyond the reaches of many imaginations. Boiling coffee in a hat can be a drag. Pulling improvised cosmic torpedoes out of your bag of tricks is a common state of affairs.

Then those ding dang killer bees started making noise in the main hallway of the honeycomb hideout. What is that crazy noise?

They’re all set with sweet sweet honey for the winter, plenty of mega-zhord stings stored up for a beastly Spring of ultimate bushwhack, and wing music beats from the sampladelic depot near party central to keep them warm. They may make surprise jackup-in-the-box snow strikes in time for Xmas Not, just you wait Henry Higgins!

That’s what that noise is. Those glorious, outrageous, thrilling vuvuzellas that made the world wince and tremble during World Cup time. The videos were enough to make me tremble with longing, such awesome noise—noise—noise!

A lot of Grinches were pretty put out by those things, laughably complaining that they should be banned because they were “too low”. This from a sport that invented the term “football hooligans.”

Methinks it was a little bit of the ol’ jealousy of being outdone to infinity, mixed in with a general dislike of brown people.

I used to have a red vuvuzella when I was a kid and lived in New Hampshire. Ivy league students would blow them furiously during an annual bonfire in the central park of the university I lived beside.

I thought it was outstanding, so I badgered my folks into getting me one. Wasn’t hard, as they liked the noise too. Though the scale could hardly compare to those videos on YouTube—that sound was epic, man.

Broke my vuvuzella and forgot about it, until the killer bees reminded me.  “Hey, like dig, right? Remember that thang you used to have and blow every now and then? Check it out, it came back and you shluffed the notice.”

Argh! They’re right. As much as I am listening and straining with all my might to understand, still the boundless life rushes past me in countless ways.

This time, I gather to myself a number of mp3s of the noise—noise—noise, droning incessantly like a world of bees insisting that the people awaken. Awaken to judgment and resurrection to the sound of trumpets blaring in a chorus of people answering angels with a swarming sound of “yes!”

This gets me back in the frame of mind of beekeeping. Not just the physical manifestation, but also the psychic one. Of hearing the sound and recognizing my own innate calling to myself of the call.

Xmas Not is coming, and the Grinch came sliding down in a sleigh blaring a trumpet having awakened his heart.

The Celtic new year has just gotten underway, and here I am a little dazed at the last year of activity. Never mind all the nuclear meltdowns spewing radiation from afar, east coast earthquakes that feel like a jackhammer wedging of earth, hurricanes of doom missing by a few hundred feet, and rainfall soaking the loch above levels I’ve not seen since I can remember. The external world has been an expression of an inner volcano clearing its throat for an eruption.

Building a UFO can seem a little like a Noah’s Ark project at times like these.

Internally, all my life energies have gone into deep, sweeping currents rushing through the earth. I’ve had to get by on emergency life support and reserve warp only. Right at a time when I’ve been fighting a lot of battles on the home front. Lucerna’s kung fu lessons have basically kept me alive long enough to adapt to the transformational energies going on. The last year has essentially been panic and fear, dialed way up for sustained periods of time. The blinking and beeping lights on the emergency panel have been loud and overwhelming.

Thank goodness for the life support music from UFO girl!

In other news, it ain’t just me. Hek-sistah X is off on a retreat to re-visit places of great meaning to her, Hexe the Incorrigible is recovering from illness, and Alexi is busy fighting for his dream in a new land. The Quest Station is full of notes and doodles galore, all around adventure is ON THE GHOD-DAM AIR.

The garden is in shut down procedure, cats are in snuggle mode, and the honeycomb hideout and killer bees are settling in for the long winter. And it’s going to be a doozy—ran into a wooly bear and it had no orange stripes, which means you better be stocked in the larder and armed with plenty of anti-ice-weasel traps. Ol’ winter wolf has reared up dramatically and her howl is driving away the last of the summer lifeforce. Batten down the hatches and brace for impact at your stations of the cross, icy depth charges ahoy.

I made sure to give out lots of candy to the monsters dressed as humans and the kids dressed as monsters, while I still have candy to sacrifice.

In a previous post, I discovered instructions from UFO Girl contained within my past self-explorations.  Decoding the instructions has required I “sit on it” for a while and let the recognition sink in fully. Now there is a growing thought in my brain that I’m ready to examine what’s available for consideration.

A being transport of pure sound, conveying mobility through space and time, enabling us to experience new ways of playing. The time has come for me to hypnotize myself into understanding the plans and going about the ceremony of putting together what has been uncovered.

I imagine a number of qualities such a vehicle of the mind might require for it to be a useful conveyance for me.

• Imminence, or a sense of the ability to move one location or state of mind to another.
• Intuition, that ability to understand and reason by mysterious and irrational means.
• Integrity, which is to say both completeness and honesty as a way to “hold it together”.
• Consonance, or the ability to maintain harmony and accord.
• Epistle, that is, messages and transcripts across gaps of perception.
• Precursor, or the ability to project one’s intentions and ideas through crossings in affect.
• Organism, which simply means the awareness and maintenance of life consciousness.
• Psyence, because one always needs a new word and which represents healthy models of system.
• Constellation, that process by which disparate parts and wholes organically relate.

There was this article in a science fiction magazine I read a while back. I still have the magazine somewhere in one of my transport boxes.  The article was about this guy building his own cylon robot out of available materials.

At the time I took it literally and seriously. Could you really make a cybernetic brain using sauerkraut as a baseline ingredient? If only I could save the shef boi-ahr-dee cans and use them to build my cyclon’s armored covering!

However, there is an important lesson here in building anything out of ideas and into substance. The stimulation of the imagination and the working out in one’s own psychic make-up how such models might work is an important step.

Is the plan we have built a put-on? Might it not also be a signpost, saying “look here, in this box for the diagram of your dream.”  Sauerkraut and tin cans indeed!

Watching the glowing light in my brain, I find myself getting wide-awake-sleepy, tick-tock.

I ran into a whirlwind chimera the other day.  I invited her to sit down for a spot of refreshment and we got to talking about some of the systems of doom we were working on.

She’s the sort of adventurer who works with Chaos magic and prefers to storm the walls of challenges with a sharp sword and a little surprise cleverness.  You know, the random encounter table does come up with some interesting unique beings when you roll double-ohs.

We swap stories and techniques, and then I get to thinking that since she might be on to something with this direct, full on warrior vitality, maybe I could stand to learn a thing or two about taking action.

Sure, sure, I’ve read all about it and have a good grounding in the theoretical principles.  I’ve taken a few tumbles in the school of sword swinging through active and immediate striking against obstacles to certain kinds of experience.

But you know, the fact is I go with the flow a lot of time, and find all those people out there taking action non-stop a little confusing.  How can they waste so much energy moving decisively?  Then again, I understand I must do the same to them–how can anybody waste so much time doing nothing?

So as of now, I’m taking action on something that’s been rising to a boil in my brain. That’s going to be my technique for practicing a larger field of experiencing another side of me that’s been coming to the forefront of consciousness lately.

In Dungeons and Dragons, the Tomb of Horrors was an adventure module known for the sheer number and interconnectedness of its many traps, tricks and puzzles. The module was sheer death and destruction for any adventuring party that attempted to reach the central tomb, where a monstrously powerful spirit dwelled among a pile of treasure.

Well, it’s another name for the super death trap maze a part of me built in my psyche to hold some of my treasure.

So how will I go about evading or disarming the traps, defeating the tricks, and solving the puzzles–especially since I am woefully poor at such things?  I shall draw them out of me and transform them into items of art for my own amusement!

And as I do so I shall glean small insights into, and experience of, the nature of an important aspect of me.

Stay tuned, wayfarers!

I was reading a blog post today (which vanished and then came back), where the blogger did a shout-out to their call to adventure.

Basically going over what they had done in the past.  A recitation of their years of struggling with ordinary life, leading up to the moment in which they realized they needed to return to their quest.

We meditate like this, going over our treaded paths again and again until we see.

What stood out to me in their shout-out was the the early part.  About going out into the world on their adventure ready to die for the cause of goodness.  I thought rather than die for it, maybe the real adventure is to live for the cause of goodness.

The thing about goodness is that it can’t exist except in the face of evilness.  What does one do when one finds out they are the enemy?

Yet, evil spelled backwards is live.  Recognize the shadow at our feet.  As surely as the moment when Luke Skywalker standing triumphant over his father takes a moment to stare hard at his mechanical hand, we all have to eat a bit of dirt before we die.

Adults telling us how great we will be—putting their fears and hopes into us with their grandiose, inflated expectations might be one of those most horrific things they do to children.  It sets us up for disappointment and distracts us from our real nature.

What if we aren’t so great?  What if we are far from destined for glory?  Is it so bad to sweep floors and be content?

The temptation to imagine grand fantasies of our self-importance is one of the most devious tricks the One Ring plays on Samwise, filling his head with leading an army to defeat the Dark Lord and save the day.  Wisely, he turns away from this projected image and remembers that he’s just an average Joe.

Taking the One Ring to throw down the Dark Lord (and take his place!) or carrying on with the worst burden imaginable—which is the most glorious and noble act (if there is such a thing)?

“There’s a way to live with earth and a way not to live with earth.”

Holding on to one’s dreams and confronting the expectations society places on us are both common themes for women adventurers.  The system wears a black cape and works long hours draining the lifeblood out of dreams, distracting people with duty and responsibility.

Ultimately, the hero/heroine must surrender and die to themselves if they are to avoid being the tyrant of tomorrow.  This is the part of the journey known as the sparagmos—the tearing asunder, the sacrifice of the hero in the fire, the destruction and plunge into the abyss.

Evil. A failure. A nobody. Empty dreams and a lifetime of carrying buckets.

“I will fight no more forever.”

The labyrinth is filled with the bones of those who cried out in despair until they expired, lost in the woods to be picked apart by wargs…or worse.

People forget that what they imagine is real. The Black Hats are packing real guns and really do shoot women and children in the back.  Both in real life and in fantasy.

Hey! What are you doing listening to that voice telling you to get up? Stay down and scrub that floor, drone!

The Prophet Gibran speaks of evil being good tortured by hunger and thirst, drinking of dark waters by necessity.  That to stumble is only to walk without balance and may lead to a surer step.  Even a lost person may find their way, just as truly as a wicked person may step out of the mist and find themselves in sun.

Failure is discovery, and in our screw ups are found salvation! Even a nobody is somebody, for nothing is something.  Dreams can strike without warning and waken you to the secret Kung Fu concealed by a lifetime meditation of waxing on and off cleaning the floors.

It’s stupid and foolish, and pointless, but we crawl on.  We live, transformed and transfigured by dying in our minds.

Humbled, head bowed on hands and knees, we see the glint in the dirt.

The camel throws off its burdens and becomes a lion.  To the sounds of tumultuous thunder, you stand up.

“The wolves are running.”

Can you feel all the heroines who passed on to become queens through the ages standing beside you, dazed as you are?

The lengthy and lonely moments of longing and hoping, of wondering are a feature not a bug—or if they are a bug then they are the secret and hidden Goldbug!  Now you can see what is before your eyes and truly behold the treasure you were seeking.

Time to get to do the thing, lioness.  You have one more change to undergo and recognize before you complete the journey.

Now begins a different set of challenges. Only this time you can see in the night, having accepted the darkness inside your own self.

Last year I learned terrible news. If I had learned of Molly’s passing earlier, it might have destroyed me.  Instead, I took responsibility and danced. For a whole year I have held a candle and sung a song of hope and peace.

Now I square the circle and complete the grieving.  The time has come to let go and forget, so that the universe may continue to spin a spiral of love.

Keeping and releasing. This is how we find an experience of being alive.

I think now of how we go through our lives and miss so much, waste so many chances to make a connection, and this is okay.  The universe is generous and this is harsh on us.  We who are limited by our smallness.

It’s funny, but there’s a part of me the universe revealed that belongs to myself and only I. This secret can never be replaced or duplicated to my knowledge. That mystery knows Molly now and will remember if the other parts of me forget.

Caring transforms our darkness into the light of sorrow and suffering so that we might know ourselves and the human depths and heights of our unknown nature.

I imagine ecstasy, seeing my friend and almost lover in the ways she might have been and may yet be beyond the realm of our Mesozoic understanding. She is released from the obligation to carry the torch of life through the darkness of precipitous living.

I rejoice, knowing I have made meaningful some small part of her brief course in the span of time and space. That is, after all, what our calling often is as human beings.

She is free to travel, and I am released to continue on my small and winding night of the body for as long as is needed by my barely glimpsed destiny.

I love you Molly Kleinman.

I find myself staring at three stickers of Michael Jackson, next to which are two pennies found in the street of some forgotten time and place.  Two bits for the eyes of a corpse, three prizes reinforcing the message of This Is It.

I am transmutating again.

The bees sing to me in harmony with the skeleton trees in the valley. The world is rumbling and washing our small lives to pieces, exposing the lies and falsehoods by which dysfunctional wretches have guided our lives in place of us taking our power for ourselves.

The nasty tenacity of a badger is what is required to heal ourselves.

Though I am reminded of don’t know mind, still others clutch at me hoping the crutch of my caring will carry them along to the next rest stop. It’s too late for any of that; people are responsible for their own lives too, and I am mindful now of the need sometimes to step back and let people have an experience of their own dark helplessness.

The light can exist only in the face of the shadow.

Hoping we will overcome our fiends and foibles is madness as surely as the never ending expectation of accomplishing all the goals we set for ourselves: Always have the dishes washed, call all our friends regularly to let them know we still breathe, regularly take those steps to improve our desired skillset so we don’t feel we are wasting our lives.

Nonsense.  Hiding ourselves from the truth of our vast self because it hurts.

In this place there is the conclusion of running, endgame.  I’m done, assent recognized and heard.  All that remains is to turn around and face that which has most frightened me. No longer will I cast this task upon my mirage, or the now-escaped lost boy who I believe will find himself, or dark forces I imagine acted without my need or assurance.

Confront the specter of my own willful standing in the way.

I was willing to pass away rather than fail again so severely, but I lived on and reached this place of understanding. I knew I would rise up and look myself in the eyes, assent to return as surely as I gave in to departure.  Take off the mask of failure and behold the truth behind my collapse into nothingness.

The dark specter welcomes me; the happy are awakened and revealed.

The only one stopping me is me. Now I see what I must do and need to experience in the deepest parts of my being.  I want to be in that place. I want to understand. With that commitment illusions fall away from my eyes and I see surely that which is needed most for me to know nothingness with juh-joy.

Supermoon rising to midnight, deep self delving the farthest reaches to uncover gold.

The ebon shark and the xanthous bee are together.

There is perilous, sweet honey.

I’m moonwalking.