The Free Radical

On Astral Travel and Out-Of-Body Experiences (OBEs)…

I’ve written about years spent using my own sensory deprivation tank to explore short dream sequences (realities– while you’re in them), but that’s more a loss of body awareness than an OBE. Suspended in the saline of the tank, it’s as though the body actually dissolves as it fades from awareness. I’ve already told you about my friend Jake who flew out through the top of his head one spring day, and couldn’t find his way back in, as his body had fallen into the river… all during an ayahuasca trip. We collected his body a few hours later, downstream. And there’s wild tales on my blog of adventures with DMT, the ‘spirit molecule.’ But those instances had me in two places at once: bi-located. I could ping-pong my awareness between myself up in the sky and myself lying on the ground… and somehow I could even be in both locations simultaneously. But these all kind of skirt the topic.

I’ve long had an odd relationship with the astral.

I’ve decided to share a song this week. It’s about the astral. It’s imagery came from a dream depicting my odd relationship to the astral realms. Oh, and it stars one of the characters from my Muse Trilogy, Little Sparrow.

The song is called Collapsing Paper Mansion. The astral is a house of cards built upon unused human consciousness potential. The astral lies in the outward direction, beyond the physical. This contrasts with the etheric which lies in the inward direction, and is the energetic underpinning of the physical. The astral is accessed through the pineal gland in the brain; the etheric is accessed by the dream body, which is a complete body emanating from the gut.

This was all given to me in dreaming as a group of metaphors; those metaphors became this song. When the song first came to me– and they always come as complete, self-coherent, finished things– I figured out the chords straight away, but you should have seen me trying to work out that rhythm! It took days of struggle; I remember a few times exclaiming “Yeah, that’s it!” and then muttering to myself “Now what the hell did I just play?” Anyway, this is generally how it goes…

Please click HERE for the link to the video on Facebook. (Currently, this video is only published on Facebook, and so is not embeddable.)

(Lyrics included in the video.)
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As always, you are invited to join our Mystical Masters Group on Facebook to explore the other perspectives and discussion associated with our weekly topics.

This week’s topic: Grief and Loss

The Story of Jazz

D’oh – Ray – Me – Fah! – So? – La – Tee – Rrrroooo!

“Rrrrooo!” was the only note she could sing. She’d tip her head back until her ears flopped open. She sang the note often… and always at the most appropriate times.
But this isn’t really about singing; it’s about Jazz… my dog.

Portrait of Jazz by Wolfgang Kunze

Although we lived in the same house together all of Jazz’s life, she only became ‘my dog’ after the divorce… not mine, my housemates’. I lived in the basement, and Ian, the bass player in my band, lived upstairs with his first wife. Ian and I had purchased the house– and detached garage– together, so that Missing Peace would have a place to jam. The wife was a later addition. Ian already had a dog by then, a big, beautiful golden retriever named Randy– a name corresponding to the perfect adjective to describe him. Oh, he was a randy devil… and subsequently Jazz’s father!

Jazz’s mother was a husky-lab mix, named Kokanee– the local big-name beer out here. She was a good dog, and her owner had done such a diligent job of keeping her out of the reach of the male dogs during her heat. He’d only left her tied up for a few minutes outside of the local general store, at the very end of her fertile period. And that’s all Randy needed; he sniffed her out in an instant. Right in front of the store? That was Randy’s turf, so yeah.

Months later we received the fateful phone call from Kokanee’s owner; he was on his way to take the puppies to the Invermere pet store for adoption and wondered if he should stop by on his way. Sure… no harm in seeing a few puppies. Ian and I had discussed that we were both agreed that we had enough to manage already in our household without adding a new puppy to the mix. When Ian reminded his wife, as the puppy-mobile drove up, of the agreement for “No new dogs!” I backed him up.

And then, alas, it was I who cracked. As I turned to walk back into the house after viewing the litter of adorable pups– especially the mostly black one with the cool white markings in her face nestled in her new mommy’s arms– as I turned away, I said, to no one in particular, in a modest– almost quiet– voice “I wouldn’t mind it so much if there was a puppy around here.” Ian loathed me for a moment, and of course good-naturedly berated me for it ever after.

So it was my fault that Jazz was admitted into our household.

And it was I who came up with her name too. I suggested Jazz, which was adjusted to Jasmine by Ian’s wife, but everyone called her Jazzy. And once she was mine, she was just Jazz again.

Jazz was three when the divorce finalized. Ian was not prepared to take on the responsibility for another dog when the first wife split. Randy was already more than enough, and he asked if I would take Jazzy; otherwise, he would have to find her a new home.

It was the only home Jazz had known. She’d lived nearly her whole life in the constant company of her father, Randy. He taught her how to lift her leg when she peed; as a result, most of the people in the neighbourhood mistakenly thought Jazz was a boy. I couldn’t fathom Jazz having to disentangle herself from such an idyllic circumstance, so despite my fierce reputation for being very selfish with my time, it was only natural that I agreed to be Jazz’s new dad. (I usually go for the least disruptive solution.)

Jazz was a good dog and a very wise soul, and like every wise soul I’ve known, she could really piss you off too. She was an odd mix of polarity. Due to her abandonment issues as a result of the first wife exiting her life suddenly, Jazz appeared to be the most loyal dog ever when I brought her to parties and other social engagements. In crowds of dozens of strangers, she stuck to me like glue, always waiting right outside the bathroom door for me whenever I had to pee. This earned her the reputation of a ‘daddy’s girl’ among the Fairmont socialites. But this contrasted markedly with the other side of her nature which featured a fiercely independent aspect.

All her life Jazz had the run of the neighbourhood. Our community bylaws don’t allow for fences and we didn’t ever tie our dogs up, so they were left to roam. Everyone knew Randy and Jazz as they daily patrolled the community. Jazz eventually established a routine circuit wherein she’d visit certain local businesses whose owners and employees were in the habit of giving her treats whenever she came by. The corner gas station, the local pub and the Greek takeout place were consistent haunts. Jazz visited them all every day; I barely had to feed her any food at home.

And then out in the woods, Jazz didn’t think anything of it to just go off chasing deer or elk, yelping excitedly as I’d hear her from miles away. Unfortunately, she could be gone for an hour or more. I never worried much about her in the woods after the time I saw her chase a big black bear, only to come running back a few minutes later with the bear chasing her. No worries; Jazz was very fast! She learned the forest’s dangers, even having been stalked by a very large cougar one winter while we were living in the bush. I had to persuade the cougar not to eat my dog; it was a tense conversation, face-to-face, only a few meters apart. (That complete story can be found HERE.)

Throughout our relationship, Jazz and I communicated very effectively with each other. I always told her exactly what I was up to throughout the day. If I had to go somewhere without her, I always told her exactly where I was going and when I intended to come back. Friends who witnessed this thought it odd at first, saying “She can’t understand what you’re saying, you know.” I never argued, but eventually those same friends after witnessing the whole routine several more times would invariably say “Holy shit! She understands exactly what you’re saying!” Like most dogs, Jazz only understood a few key words in my speech, but she always understood the overall tone or the gist of what I was telling her. She honestly appreciated my forthrightness with her.

And it was Jazz who first got me into researching nutrition. Her first suggestion to me was that I should try cutting down on my wheat consumption and reducing my grain intake in general. How did she communicate this to me? By playing hide-the-bread over the span of a few weeks. It happened several times in quick succession that I’d go to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich only to find that there was no bread. “I could have sworn I still had bread,” I would mutter to myself. Finally, during a rare thorough housecleaning, I located all the partial loaves of bread craftily hidden throughout my basement suite. She had taken them off the counter when I wasn’t looking, never eating any of it herself, and stashed them in hiding places I would never think to look. Once I took Jazz’s advice on the overconsumption of grains, my health and weight really improved. Smart dog! And satisfied with the adjustment to my diet, she never stole and hid my food again.

Being single and having no kids of my own, as you might imagine, Jazz and I became extremely close. I’ve likened it to a non-sexual spousal relationship– a constant companion for life. She lived to the age of thirteen– not bad considering her steady diet of sausage rolls, donairs and leftover pub food, or whatever else the neighbourhood was feeding her. Nevertheless, her end came unexpectedly, and yet she dragged it out, for my sake, so I could get used to the idea of being without her.

The first indication of Jazzy’s distress came one day when we were out on a Sunday walk in the woods near my parents’. As we were climbing up a short steep hill, she suddenly let out a distinct yelp. I quickly scanned her for any signs of injury, but found nothing. For the rest of that walk however, she stayed right on my heels the whole time– a very uncharacteristic behaviour for my Jazz.

I had nearly forgotten that incident when a couple of months later we were out on a forest walk again with the other dogs and the next indications came rapidly and undeniably. The two-hour walk had proceeded normally enough, but when it was time to jump into the back of the truck, Jazz couldn’t do it. She insisted that I lift her up. And then as we got home, on the way from the truck to the door, Jazzy wavered in her walk– stumbling– until she suddenly collapsed in the grass. She couldn’t get up; I had to carry her to her bed downstairs.

Of course I didn’t want to admit to myself that anything could seriously be wrong, but after a couple more times of her stumbling like a drunk and collapsing defeated and exhausted to the ground, I knew I had to make an appointment with the vet. The diagnosis was made through deduction and a few inexpensive tests. Her symptoms were mimicking severe anemia. The doctor explained that he was reasonably sure that she had a cancerous tumor and during certain strenuous maneuvers it would cause ruptures which would bleed internally. It was a condition that she’d probably had already for quite some time. Only now, that she was getting older, her body was unable to produce new blood cells at the same rate at which the internal bleeding depleted them. Furthermore, it was surmised that the cancer was somewhere within or alongside her digestive tract, as eating her regular food often gave her discomfort.

I pulled out all the stops. When she wouldn’t eat for days, I would feed her with an eyedropper filled with liquid spirulina and chlorella. I went to a local farm to procure for her raw goat’s milk too. It kept her going for another month, but there really wasn’t much overall improvement. She was slowly withering away.

Jazz already knew that she would soon be gone… and she also knew that I was still in denial, hoping for a full recovery. She co-operated with my efforts for my sake, not hers. Every morning I got out of bed and immediately went to Jazz’s bed to see if she was still with me. I laid down beside her a while each morning, always asking her for a kiss. She would look me in the eye to acknowledge the request, but she could scarcely lift her head. I didn’t get any kisses those last two weeks… until the day she died.

It was the Thanksgiving weekend. That morning, before I had to go to work, I routinely asked her for my kiss… and this time she complied! I didn’t know until later that she was saying her final goodbye. Throughout the day, I made arrangements to come home from work periodically to check on her. She was standing up and moaning in distress each time. After work I tried to lie with her to see if she might get some rest– she was exhausted from standing most of the day– but it pained her too much to lie down. She was most comfortable standing, but she was utterly depleted. I could finally see the writing on the wall.

“Do you want me to call the vet?” I asked with tears spilling from my eyes. We both knew what the question really meant. She answered me with her eyes. It was an unequivocal “Yes!” It was then that I realized that this morning’s kiss was a farewell.

Being the Sunday of a long weekend, I had to make some phone calls to wake up a vet, not in my hometown though. I had to take her to the nearest city; our local clinic was closed for the holiday. That was a long journey through the darkness, knowing that my best friend and near constant companion would not be making the return trip home. I kept one hand on her the whole time as I drove. I carried her into the clinic where the vet was waiting alone. We briefly went over the medical options, but when the question was posed as to how to proceed, there was only one answer I could give. “That’s not my dog anymore. That’s not Jazz,” I answered, looking at her frail form on the clinic floor. The vet nodded and assured me that I was making the right decision.

The vet gave us a moment alone. I curled up with her on the floor and kissed her goodbye. Through the obvious pain, she understood. Moments later I watched as the animating life that I’d known as Jazz slipped quietly out of her body and into the infinite night.

The drive home, alone, with my already terrible night vision, and now with tears crowding my sight every moment, was probably pretty dangerous. But now there was a special angel watching over me; I made it.

In the weeks which followed, I reminded myself perhaps a million times to not focus on the loss and instead to celebrate the life she’d lived. Jazz had lived the most spectacular life a dog could ever hope for… and where’s the sadness in that?

Me & Jazz at the Lake of the Hanging Glacier

As always, you are invited to join in the discussion with the Mystical Masters Facebook Group, where multiple perspectives are offered on our weekly topics.

We’re stepping out of the old muggle-maze, and stepping into a labyrinth of a different sort…

(Seven Is a Jolly Good Time by Egg from their 1970 self-titled debut album)

Set the mind in the mood of gladness in odd time signatures. Set off on the foot that cares not where it goes, and let the other tap along… if able.

(White Rhino Tea by Ozric Tentacles from their 1988 album Sliding Gliding Worlds)

The mind wanders along grooves made by pouting lips sipping White Rhino Tea… with the natives; we’re all natives… to Earth… that’s why we’re here.

(Flying Teapot by Gong from the first album of their Radio Gnome Invisible Trilogy, Flying Teapot; the Trilogy was released during 1973/74)

Now we’re on our way… into the Gong mythology… It’s easy going. There’s plenty more tea. They play a lot of jazz FUSION on the surface of the sun…

(Oily Way by Gong from the second album of their Radio Gnome Invisible Trilogy, Angel’s Egg)

It’s not the Milky Way… but it’s a nice place to wander… Alice had it easy in Wonderland! Don’t slip on that saxophone!

(Grooving On Mars by The Tangent from their 2006 release A Place in the Queue including Bonus CD)

Lids get heavy; introspection folds awareness in upon itself; one eye looks at the other with suspicions of love, and neither dares to blink… confirming syncopation, entanglement…

(The Pothead Pixies by Gong from Flying Teapot)

A booster-shot of lightness. If you’re not crazy, you’re weird! But what’s that, over your shoulder?

(A Gap in the Night Part 1 by The Tangent from their 2004 album The World That We Drive Through)

Paranoia hides in curls of smoke… There’s darkness in shoulder-length inquiries… head full of questions! Pull it together and try not to implode!

(Perfect Mystery by Gong from the third album of their Radio Gnome Invisible Trilogy, You)

Melt together… Be the Fruitcake…

(A Gap in the Night Part 2 by The Tangent)

Eternity stops a moment from its inexorable flow through grasping fingers; “you can see the end of the world… on a clear day”… and oneself, on the horizon of invaginated awareness.

(Just the Same by Gentle Giant from their 1975 album Free Hand)

Okay, let’s work this out… Who have I been these unbecoming days? Same as I ever was; never again. You got it!

(I Never Glid Before by Gong from Angel’s Egg)

I never glid before either… the gliding’s good…

(Kick Muck by Ozric Tentacles from Sliding Gliding Worlds)

Might as well dance… at least, on the inside. Git yer schwitz on! But don’t trip!

(The Isle of Everywhere by Gong from You)

Okay! Spread out… one… oozing multiplicity. Yeah, Gong’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there! No self-respecting Prog would.

(On Reflection by Gentle Giant from Free Hand)

Let me talk this out… in my head…

(DIY Surgery by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue)

Do try to not hurt yourself… Come in… out of the darkness.

(Promises Were Made by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue – Bonus CD)

“Shake yourself alive again. Wake yourself!” We’re on our way back to the ‘real world’ now.

(Eat That Phone Book Coda by Gong from Angel’s Egg)

Yeah, lighten up… just for a moment… and the one after that…

(The Sun in My Eyes – extended mix by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue – Bonus CD)

It takes eternity to do it up right. We’re living the extended mix, slow apocalypse in retro overdrive.

(Coily by Ozric Tentacles from their 1999 album Waterfall Cities)

One last groove before Andy Tillison takes us back into the matrix… some essential programming there. *wink*

(Follow Your Leaders by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue)

Ah, smells like home! the comfort of familiar misery… Conformity is the Default Setting here.

(Forsaken Cathedrals by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue)

We are the tenants of these Forsaken Cathedrals, paying with our lives for rent.

(GPS Culture by The Tangent from A Place in the Queue)

And now we are firmly returned to the Matrix.

On the topic of Great Souls…

I tried to kill two birds with one stone. The embedded poem (in all caps) in the following narrative is from the ancient Chinese sage, Chuang Tzu; it is titled The Empty Boat. That is also the title of my favourite book of all time– a modern interpretation of the Chinese classic by a most politically/spiritually incorrect mystic.

Chuang Tzu

The voice in this first-person narrative is… well, I’ll just let you figure that out for yourself as you read along…

The Empty Boat and the Demon in the Knitted Cap

HE WHO RULES MEN, LIVES IN CONFUSION;
HE WHO IS RULED BY MEN LIVES IN SORROW.
TAO THEREFORE DESIRED
NEITHER TO INFLUENCE OTHERS
NOR BE INFLUENCED BY THEM.
THE WAY TO GET CLEAR OF CONFUSION AND FREE OF SORROW
IS TO LIVE WITH TAO IN THE LAND OF THE VOID.

When I accepted the assignment, he was still just a little boy. As I reflect upon it now, I can only conclude that even then– he was scarcely out of diapers– that I was already too late.

There was nothing normal about the boy. He was mischief incarnate, unruly; all who knew him in boyhood called him the devil himself. And that was very much an affront to me and my Master. At first appearance I thought it was all well and good, that my task was already half done, but the place where the boundaries of decorum and the values of discipline should have been placed upon him, there was instead an endless empty sky… filled with a child’s raucous laughter.

It was the grandmother’s fault. They say she raised the boy. She did no such thing! She spoiled the incorrigible little bastard so that it was impossible to raise him… or lower him, for that matter. He held no place in heaven’s hierarchy, flaunting structure and station with every breath; he was the very winds of hell, blowing across the battlefield, causing the war machines of centuries to hiccup and sputter in total disbelief for this unforeseeable human condition.

He argued with scholars from the age of five, and set them in their place, I might add. There were no crafty philosophies which could nail him down, no bait to make him bite. He was hooked to nothing, not even the acerbations of his own endless wit. The policies of kings, the doctrines of erudite men, even the poetry of mystics and saints– these were his preferred playthings, and he marched through them all, rendering them naked and nearly invisible.

Perhaps he saw himself as the undoer of the world.

IF A MAN IS CROSSING A RIVER
AND AN EMPTY BOAT COLLIDES WITH HIS OWN SKIFF,
EVEN THOUGH HE BE A BAD-TEMPERED MAN
HE WILL NOT BECOME VERY ANGRY.
BUT IF HE SEES A MAN IN THE BOAT,
HE WILL SHOUT TO HIM TO STEER CLEAR.
AND IF THE SHOUT IS NOT HEARD HE WILL SHOUT
AGAIN AND YET AGAIN, AND BEGIN CURSING —
AND ALL BECAUSE THERE IS SOMEBODY IN THAT BOAT.
YET IF THE BOAT WERE EMPTY, HE WOULD NOT BE SHOUTING,
AND HE WOULD NOT BE ANGRY.

The structures and protocols of formal academia seemed to afford me my first stabs at his ego. At first I thought “This is too easy!” In the corridors of higher education, he was good, better than the rest. And that was the problem. Usually, my job has me investing a little energy into each inflammation of the ego– you know, encouraging it… by poking it with a stick. I was puffing him up. But it didn’t take me long to realize that he WAS the best. If anything, I was bringing out the very best WITHIN him. Imagine my chagrin!

I firmly came to believe that there was no one on the planet who could make Rajneesh eat his words.

And his words were gaining popularity… They were being gobbled up.

IF YOU CAN EMPTY YOUR OWN BOAT
CROSSING THE RIVER OF THE WORLD,
NO ONE WILL OPPOSE YOU,
NO ONE WILL SEEK TO HARM YOU.

Blah, blah, blah… words were designed as shackles; their very nature is to bind and fetter, but this one– nicknamed Rajneesh– could turn them inside-out, enticing them into the costumes and pageantry of a dance to freedom and liberation. Can you fathom how loathsome this might be to my archontic nature?

I can only tear down the messenger; I cannot touch the message. But the bastard refused to identify himself with the message! He sent it out to stand on its own, just like his grandmother had done with him.

And they called him “Bhagwan,” Blessed One, God’s left nut. But he just stood there; and they heaped upon him the epithet of “Shree,” or sir– a real man among men… except that he was real in a way that no one else seemed to be. Was he still among his own kind? Had he ever been? The realest among men left me no purchase in his mind…

And he knew I was there, in his mind, rattling around like a ghost. I remember one of his earliest interviews in english with an american journalist; he was asked “Who are you?” And he smiled devilishly replying “I am the demon in the knitted cap.” The finger which tapped against his head was pointing right at me! Yes, he knew I was there.

If only he would’ve engaged me, mocked me, ridiculed or berated me; or offered me the balm of his salvific philosophy. But he was no one’s saviour, least of all, mine.

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh… the untouchable.

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

THE STRAIGHT TREE IS THE FIRST TO BE CUT DOWN,
THE SPRING OF CLEAR WATER IS THE FIRST TO BE DRAINED DRY.
IF YOU WISH TO IMPROVE YOUR WISDOM
AND SHAME THE IGNORANT,
TO CULTIVATE YOUR CHARACTER AND OUTSHINE OTHERS,
A LIGHT WILL SHINE AROUND YOU
AS IF YOU HAD SWALLOWED THE SUN AND THE MOON —
AND YOU WILL NOT AVOID CALAMITY.

Yes, like one who had swallowed the sun, he shone. And as such, he attracted an orbital entourage of varied and mostly useless satellites– whose numerous, common and persistent shortcomings provided finally the fertile ground for a proper archontic intrusion. I had to rely on my fellows. Over time, we established our own little archon network, playing one inflamed ego off another like acned teenagers making out– zits colliding! Pop! Splat! Puss everywhere…

When he amassed a fleet of Rolls Royces, I thought “Surely…?” But no. Could he be blamed if people liked to buy him things and he once mentioned that his favourite thing of all was a Rolls Royce? He had never asked; it was true.

It was all fodder for the appetites of public opinion anyway. It didn’t look good… but the Rolls Royce Guru is old news. Memory faded quickly from the public mind. Meanwhile, he had 93 of them!

A WISE MAN HAS SAID:
“HE WHO IS CONTENT WITH HIMSELF
HAS DONE WORTHLESS WORK.
ACHIEVEMENT IS THE BEGINNING OF FAILURE,
FAME IS THE BEGINNING OF DISGRACE.”

The wicked Sheela, gloriously enflamed bitch of a woman– so rigid and tight, yet so easy to penetrate: woman, we whispered “betrayer,” and you blushed. I had hoped that you had indeed betrayed the realest man, but alas, you had merely betrayed that which he’d hoped to teach you. How could you ever hope to feed him his own words, when his silence merely continued to allow the world its own madness?

WHO CAN FREE HIMSELF OF ACHIEVEMENT AND FAME
THEN DESCEND AND BE LOST
AMID THE MASSES OF MEN?
HE WILL FLOW LIKE TAO, UNSEEN,
HE WILL GO ABOUT LIKE LIFE ITSELF
WITH NO NAME AND NO HOME.
SIMPLE IS HE, WITHOUT DISTINCTION.
TO ALL APPEARANCES HE IS A FOOL.
HIS STEPS LEAVE NO TRACE. HE HAS NO POWER.
HE ACHIEVES NOTHING, HE HAS NO REPUTATION.
SINCE HE JUDGES NO ONE,
NO ONE JUDGES HIM.
SUCH IS THE PERFECT MAN —
HIS BOAT IS EMPTY.

He was the still spoon, standing in the cauldron, upright and centre, while the soup swirled about him, stirring the world to near panic. Who could take him? No country would have him. The man was too real for our systematic schemes. They all wanted some of his inside-out words, but they didn’t know what to do with an inside-out man. And no one wanted ALL of his words, except perhaps he who had spoken them. While he was alive, the perception was that they came only as a package deal.

He had 5,000 copies of “Rajneeshism” burned, his divorce from Sheela’s legacy– our debacle to fill the silence… nearly come to fruition. Drat!

Sheela killed Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh.

And now you probably know him resurrected as Osho… and you probably love some of his words… and have mixed feelings about his silence. He’s dead, you know. For quite some time: 1990.

Rajneesh lies buried beneath the message-standing-tall. I can do nothing to tear it down now. And Osho, that empty old boat, floats in its shadow, tittering and giggling, while pointing to the demon– tangled– in his knitted cap.

Osho was my biggest failure… since Chuang Tzu.

Actual Mugshot in Oregon

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