Terrible words that do not come anywhere near close to explaining what they’re describing and which probably do active harm because they’re so terrible at not coming anywhere near close to explaining what they’re describing:
Vibrations
Frequencies
God
I haven’t given too much thought to God in recent years. Sometimes because God just seemed so vacant. She was pretty, pretty vacant. And she didn’t seem to care. Plus, the vibrations, or the frequencies, began to hum at such a grinding level that even if she was there and she did care, the tritone playing over the top of everything was cancelling out the possibility of really entertaining her very existence at that particular point in time.
I would like to talk about those three things but they’re all so vast and large and beyond the words.
Can’t we evolve some new way to communicate beyond words? Let’s go telephathic, that would be fun.
I wrote a short story once, published in Tincture Journal, described lovelyishly by its editor, the lovely Mr Daniel Young, as a dystopia/utopia. I loved that so much that I promptly didn’t have anything else published for a few years. No, that’s not true. That gives the impression that I was sitting around in a smoking jacket determining when I would next have something published, which is quite stupid because if I had that power I would have had more things published than I have :) But anyway, as I was saying, I wrote a short story where The Colours had came, after the shutdown that led everything to, well, shut down and the internet got turned off and the plug pulled out. But at the same time as all this horrid dystopian stoppage, the Colours had started, some kind of visible evidence of the hearts of people now on display so that, yea, all the swindlers and the vulture capitalists, they did doth skulk around the darkened streets of the Melbourne CBD because their Colours, they were brown, as putrid as their personalities, their insides turned outside.
I feel like something comparable could possibly be at the beginnings of beginning to happen now, but I could be wrong. And as it involves two of the words listed above – and, who knows, maybe even three, what the hell would I know? - I unfortunately am unable to talk about it. Which is probably good, really, to be forced to not be able to talk about things because they’re too big. Good when they feel good, rather than all the things we’re forced to not talk about now because our glorious new society is happy to have its cultural discussions tempered by the directives of the wonderful UnileverRaytheonPfizer corporate government none of us voted for. Being forced to not talk about things you want to talk about that are lovely and feel fuzzy and evolvey and spiritual is good because it stops me sounding like a dickhead talk about that stuff. I can just look like a dickhead instead, pointing to them and going, ug.
There was this drawing method I came across several years ago, invented by an art teacher called Betty Edwards into a book called Drawing On the Right Side of the Brain. You don’t draw what you’re trying to draw, but you draw everything that is around it. Sort of like a drawing negative capability. That technique she taught was pretty astounding for me. I wish I could be bothered getting up to see if I can find the before/after pictures I did after employing her technique. I was already a pretty okay drawer (When I was about 12 I sent an assessment to a commercial art course provider who said I should apply. I wish I had. I could have become a child commercial artist, drawing pictures of Cinzano bottles for advertisements, making a nest egg that I should have then used to get a plane ticket as soon as possible :)
Anyway, what was I saying? Yeah, so the difference in your drawings when you don’t draw the object but you draw the shapes that surround it instead is pretty amazing. It really curles my toes under, how well it works.
I wish I could talk about the shapes that surround vibrations and frequencies instead of them, and then maybe it all wouldn’t sound so damn ditzy and frustrating. So many limitations. Restrictions, hamperings. I see some restrictions are lifting here in Victoria on covid-19, when the thing’s been endemic for ages already anyway. Not on people in a bunch of industries being forced to get boosters though, boosters which don’t seem to work very well and are even doing harm, and I don’t want you to get it, please don’t get it, please don’t get it, please. You really should all be rising up now about that. Surely it’s quite plain now, despite the blanket of mass psychosity that’s draped itself over every squaare millimetre of fucking everything for two years, this bizarre need to prove to a bunch of governments and unelected bureacrats that you’re very coastal, very sophisticated, very sciencey, that maybe the ladder’s on a different wall, that the biggest upwards transfer in wealth in history may have been a feature rather than a side effect. So I think it’s time people rose up, just simply out of principle on why are you being forced to take something unnecessary to keep doing your job, even if it possibly makes you sound like you’re that most repulsive and disgusting and reprehensible of things, an anti-vaxxer. Like, it’s quite reasonable a question to ask. I can guarantee to you, Brownie’s honour, that asking a question is really very, very good. That despite the parameters set for us, it’s not going to make you anything at all resembling a right-wing Trumptard science hater if you do begin to ask this most basic of fucking questions.
In fact, you will be something quite opposite that.
Anyway.
There’s other words that don’t mean anything anymore:
left wing
right wing
socialists
anarchists
Even conservative. I mean, honestly, I have to admit that I suspect there are a bunch of people who I once, before 2020, blanket-judged as the kinds of small minds who would be all for a system of oppression just as long as they were on the good guzzling end of it, and who would insist upon a small government under that system because of some stupid competitive dumbass fuckheaded desire to ensure the working class gets even less than the due it’s already due to compensate for all that’s been stolen from us. But of course, great swathes of those people appear to be identifying as conservative because they’re identifying as against “the left”, anti-woke, Anti-whatever-the-left-has-become-now-it’s-been-coopted. They seem to see conservatism as that. Not as pro-capitalist. Which is the first thing I see about conservatism, which is why it’s so repulsive. But so many conservatives who stood up to the tyranny of the past two years don’t even seem to see the system. Or else they’ve suddenly started seeing it and they’re just quietly absolving themselves of it and searching for what’s a kinder, better, more logical way. That’s it, boys and girls, come to the tent with the big A on it. Step right up and come right in. The door is wide open and we’re waiting for your call.
I have never been so certain in my life that the future is an anarchist one and that we’re just naturally going to step into it by necessity. It’s springing up in manifold ways. Maybe not here in Melbourne but elsewhere :)
I hate Melbourne, can I just say.
~ ~ ~
I’m struggling to keep up with all the things that are changing. It’s partially do with the vibrations and the frequencies, but as I can’t talk about them, Kenneth, I can’t really talk about that. Except to say that if you imagine vibrations and frequencies are the stuff of what the planet thrums to, the songs of the spheres, the zeitgeist, the unseen mist that we roll in whether we like it or not, then I’m finding those to be quite amenable lately – since the Jupiter/Neptune conjunction if I’m going to be really honest, just like the astrologers said would happen.
It’s funny how astrology has become more widely accepted now. It’s weird how the only astrology I once knew about was the horoscope – the blanket statement that traded in certainties rather than possibilities, the measure that was too broad to really mean all that much in the end. Now it’s broadened out into a deeper understanding of my own natal chart, which is really the only way to go, and out in the other direction into a deeper understanding of planetary forces that affect everyone but which, when applied to that natal chart, make all the difference. In my Xtian days, I read a book written in the late 1800s which was a work of astrotheology, which told the story of the Christ (Pisces) measured in the stars.
Which is where he should be, if he exists.
Is this the dawning of the age of Aquarius, the age of Aquarius?
Anyway, I feel like I’m jumping all over the place here, rambling. Maybe it’s quite evident from reading this that I’m floridly psychotic. I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. But then maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just terrible at sticking to one subject. I’m quite happy actually, that I’m writing anything at all, considering I’ve partaken of more than several peace pipe puffs and that I haven’t written anything here for an entire month, even though I said I was going to write something three weeks ago, and this has been a lovely experience and not at all painful and yukky like I was imagining it would be.
So the vibrations. I mean, it feels like they’re good. It feels like they’re clear and ringing and expanded and very spiritual. I can conceive of God here in a non-fist-shaking way. I can conceive of the idea of a birthing. I go down into the murk and despair and it’s so dark there’s not much to conceive of at all there, at times, except fist-shaking like a tantruming toddler. Although even the dark downward shift, that dog, that’s shifted too in the last few weeks. What is happening? Even there has suddenly become more purposeful, somehow. Before, it was upset and disquiet that the last two years had apparently resurrected every single trauma response I ever had in my childhood so that they all jangled at once on every end of every nerve. How depressing, to experience all of that again, like being punished twice. How to love a body that betrays you in such a way?
But then I’ve remembered what the practice of internal family systems and a woman on YouTube helped me to remember when I finally stopped shuddering at what’s been going on globally. A switch came on finally and reframed it. These experiences do not come up to torment you passively; they come up to be resolved actively. IFS has really been an eye-opener. These dead bones live. They turn in your direction when you call them. They’re dead but they’re energetically alive. I should know this, but I didn’t know it until I did. You talk to them and they will talk back. They will clamour to a space in your body and will pulsate there for you, waiting for you to cup them, to ask their name, to offer up to you what they’re carrying. They will offer it up and they will respond when you tell them they’re frozen in time, that they absolutely are not four years old in 1975 anymore or whatever, but that you are the age you are and now you can let it go. And then you do.
Anyway. Do I want to talk about old trauma tuff? Not really no, I don’t. I have before and that was fine though the reverb was not but I just don’t see any need in rehashing it now. It’s at peace in that regard. I just want to talk about its energetics instead. I want to talk about the shape and the jangle and the music of it and how if you listen to it play it will give up its old song and play something new. Buzz inside you. Transmute. Carbonate from lead to fizz that, on occasions, fizzes up your spinal cord and out the top of your head.
Like I said. Vibrations, frequencies. There’s nothing more likely to make you sound like a total, absolute ditzy freak.
I’m not even sure if I care so much now. I would have even a month ago. Maybe I will again in a month. But there’s so many people I admire who believe the world is electric, why should I be concerned if I sound like a fruitcake alongside them? I mean, my god, look around. Why on earth would I be worried about what this basket of cases thinks of me?
I really hope Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys doesn’t impale itself inside my head as an earworm because I absolutely do not like the sound that song’s vibrations make.
Anyway, suffice to say that I’ve begun way too many sentences with the word anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say, in this sort of Seinfeld nothing post, is that things are on the up and up when they’re not in the contraction part of this birthing process I’m going through, pushing out of the universe’s gaping vagina into the universe’s next version of doing things differently, when I’m not in the contraction, I’m in some clear, spiritual air, an air I wasn’t sure I would feel again, an air that is supportive as if it’s made of finely-knitted-gossamer but more spacious, feels like you’re wearing nothing at all, holds your gut in space. Like, space. Spaciousness. Where the fuck did that come from, after all that’s been going on, all these congealed years of Persephone doing double shifts? And then bam, I’m in this. I’ll take it, I’ll take it. I’ll take it. And then splat, I’m out into the next contraction and it’s back down again. Except now there’s this window of light on the situation, where it’s like, this is just a working out. A letting go of what can’t come forward with you because it’s getting too heavy too hold, it’ll crush you under its jackboot. So let it go. And even then, even when I know that this is to be sat above, that it’s just a working out, don’t buy into its tale, I nevertheless buy into its tale as if it’s happening. Until I get tired of identifying with it and I climb out, it passes and I’m in the clear again.
Weird.
I’ve never given birth (in this lifetime at least) but I’m pretty sure that if I did, I would be a ranting and railing banshee from hell.
Anyway. So anyway. Anyway, all this to say, I was thinking a few weeks ago about how I’m struggling to write lately. How it feels like the people on the other end of whatever I write that gets put somewhere on the internet are a mean conglomerate, a baleful vaginaeye of Mordor, judging, criticising, or worse, disinterested and attention-deficient. Terrible that I have had such a horrible view of whoever is reading my writing. So congealed. The internet did this to me. The internet, I say, did this to me. Because of that sad state of things I was thinking back to the days when I blogged at Discombobula 1.0 and it was the mid-late 2000s, and the blogosphere was still a thing. Blogging carnivals did happen. People did thoughtfully blog at length about various subjects and others did thoughtfully read and then respond at length. It was lovely. It was the loveliest writing time I’ve ever had. That time drips with sepia. Giant globs. And I was thinking about some of the people I used to regularly blog alongside, like Mike, and Kent, Urbanmonk. How stimulating and lovely it all was and it may as well be a century ago.
And so I was thinking of Mike and then up he popped from a decade ago and subscribed here, as if I summoned him, like a genie. So there you go, Mike, you and the frequencies have brought some of the olden days with you. Thank you for that :)