Sunny Afternoon

(Sir William Russell Flint – The Girl with the Sickle)

Well, it looks like a move is coming soon, we bought a new webhosting package, and will be moving soon to the new addy. I will keep you posted. Morgan Miller and I will be sharing space on the new server, and more than likely collaborating on some new projects, so stay tuned.
Hung out last night with our friends Ed n Janice, as well as their friend Carol having mojitos’ and food late into the evening. lots of laughs and giggles.
Rowan finished up with his SAT test, and just bounded into the house. All quiet has now fled.
I talked to Tim from The West Cork Writers Group via Skype. Amazing really, to have this technology to communicate around the world!
More coming, though it may be in bits and bobs due to the move.
Blessings, Gwyllm
Sunny Afternoon

DMT and Hyperspace

Poetry From The Gaelic

The Kinks – A Well Respected Man

Artist: Sir William Russell Flint

________
Sunny Afternoon….

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__________
(Sir William Russell Flint – Waves)

DMT and Hyperspace
by Peter Meyer
In this section and the following one I shall present a view which

elaborates on interpretations 2, 6 and 7. This is speculation but

nevertheless provides a preliminary framework for steps toward an

understanding of what the use of DMT reveals to us.
The world of ordinary, common, experience has three spatial dimensions and

one temporal dimension, forming a place and time for the apparent

persistence of solid objects. Since this is a world of experience it

belongs more to experience than to being. The being, or ontological nature,

of this world may be quite different from what we experience it as.
Psychedelic experience strongly suggests that (as William James

hypothesized) ordinary experience is an island in a sea of possible modes

of consciousness. Under the influence of substances such as LSD and

psilocybin we venture outside of the world as commonly viewed and enter

spaces which may be very strange indeed. This happens as a result of

changing our brain chemistry. Why then should we not regard ordinary

experience too as a result of a particular mode of brain chemstry? Perhaps

the world of ordinary experience is not a faithful representation of

physical reality but rather is physical reality represented in the manner

of ordinary brain functioning. By taking this idea seriously we may free

our understanding of physical reality from the limitatons imposed by the

unthinking assumption that ordinary experience represents physical reality

as it is. In fact physical reality may be totally bizarre and quite unlike

anything we have thought it to be.
In his special theory of relativity, Albert Einstein demonstrated that the

physical world (the world that can be measured by physical instruments, but

is assumed to exist independently) is best understood as a four-dimensional

space whch may be separated into three spatial dimensions and one temporal

dimension in various ways, the particular separation depending on the

motion of a hypothetical observer. It seems that DMT releases one’s

consciousness from the ordinary experience of space and time and catapults

one into direct experience of a four-dimensional world. This explains the

feeling of incredulity which first-time users frequently report.
The DMT realm is described by some as “incredible,” “bizarre,”

“unbelievable,” and even “impossible,” and for many who have experienced it

these terms are not an exaggeration. These terms make sense if the world

experienced under DMT is a four-dimensional world experienced by a mind

which is trying to make sense of it in terms of its usual categories of

three-dimensional space and one-dimensional time. In the DMT state these

categories no longer apply to whatever it is that is being experienced.
Some persons report that it seems that in the DMT experience there is

information transfer of some sort. If so, and if this information is quite

unlike anything that we are used to dealing with (at least at a conscious

level), then is may be that the bizarre quality of the experience results

from attempting to impose categories of thought which are quite

inapplicable.
The space that one breaks through under the influence of a large dose of

DMT has been called “hyperspace” by Terence McKenna and Ralph Abraham and

by Gracie & Zarkov. I suggest that hyperspace is an experience of physical

reality which is “closer” to it (or less mediated) than is our ordinary

experience. In hyperspace one has direct experience of the

four-dimensionality of physical reality.
Parenthetically we may note a mildly interesting case of historical

anticipation. In 1897 one H.C. Geppinger published a book entitled DMT:

Dimensional Motion Times, Development and Application (reprinted Wiiley,

1955), an appropriate title for our current subject. However, he was, of

course, quite unaware of what the initials “DMT” would later come to mean.
When reflecting upon his mescaline experiences Aldous Huxley suggested that

there was something, which he called “Mind-at-Large,” which was filtered by

the ordinary functioning of the human brain to produce ordinary experience.

One may view the human body and the human nervous system as a cybernetic

system for constructing a stable representation of a world of enduring

objects which are able to interact in ways that we are familiar with from

our ordinary experience. This is analogous to a computer’s production of a

stable video display — for even a simple blinking cursor requires

complicated coordination of underlyng physical processes to make it happen.

In a sense we are (or at least may be thought of as) biological computers

whose typical output is the world of everyday reality (as we experience

it). When our biocomputational processes are modified by strange chemicals

we have the opportunity to view the reality underlying ordinary experience

in an entirely new way.
Einstein’s four-dimensional space-time may thus turn out to be not merely a

flux of energetic point-events but to be (or to be contained in a

higher-dimensional space which is) at least as organized as our ordinary

world and which contains intelligent, communcating beings capable of

interacting wth us. As Hamlet remarked to his Aristotelian tutor, following

an encounter with a dead soul (his deceased father), “There are more things

in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Should we be surprised to find that there are more intelligent,

communicating, beings in the higher-dimensional reality underlying our

ordinary experience than we find within that experience?

—————————————————————————
The “elves”
Hyperspace, as it is revealed by DMT (revealed to some, anyway) appears to

be full of personal entities. They are non-physical in the sense that they

are not objects in the three-dimensional space to which we are accustomed.

Some of the beings encountered in the DMT state may once have been living

humans, but perhaps such “dead souls” are in the minority among the

intelligent beings in that realm.
In his classic The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries, W.Y. Evans-Wentz

recorded many tales provided to him by local people of encounters with

beings, variously called fairies, elves, the wee folk, the good people, the

gentry, the Sidhe, the Tuatha De Danann, etc., who inhabit a realm normally

beyond our ken. The belief in this order of beings was firm among the

Celtic peoples of Britain and France at the time Evans-Wentz conducted his

studies (c. 1900), but has since been largely supplanted by the beliefs

instilled in the public by the rise of materialistic science and

technology. Evans-Wentz collected numerous reports of elf-sigting, such as

the following (which is part of an account given by a member of the Lower

House of the Manx Parliament):
…I looked across the river and saw a circle of supernatural

light, which I have now come to regard as the “astral light” or

the light of Nature, as it is called by mystics, and in which

spirits become visible… [I]nto this space, and the circle of

light, from the surrounding sides apparently, I saw come in twos

and threes a great crowd of little beings smaller than Tom Thumb

and his wife. All of them, who appeared like soldiers, were

dressed in red. They moved back and forth amid the circle of

light, as they formed into order like troops drilling (pg.113)
Reviewing his data, Evans-Wentz writes:
We seem, in fact, to have arrived at a point in our long

investigations where we can postulate scientifically, on the

showing of the data of psychical research, the existence of such

invisible intelligences as gods, genii, daemons, all kinds of

true fairies, and disembodied [i.e., deceased] men. (pg.481)
He then goes on to quote an earlier researcher:
Either it is we who produce these phenomena [which, says

Evans-Wentz, is unreasonable] or it is spirits. But mark this

well: these spirits are not necessarily the souls of the dead;

for other kinds of spiritual beings may exist, and space may be

full of them without our ever knowing anything about it, except

under unusual circumstances [such as a sudden change in brain

chemistry]. Do we not find in the different ancient literatures,

demons, angels, gnomes, goblins, sprites, spectres, elementals,

etc? Perhaps these legends are not without some foundation in

fact. (Flammarion, quoted at Pg.481)
Evans-Wentz concludes (pg.490) that a realm of discarnate, intelligent

forces known as fairies, elves, etc., exists “as a supernormal state of

consciousness into which men and women may enter temporarily in dreams,

trances, or in various ecstatic conditions,” such as, we may add, the

condition produced by smoking DMT.
I suggest that the fairie world studied by Evans-Wentz and the objective

space into which one may enter under the influence of DMT are the same.
From Psychedelic Monographs and Essays #6, p50

_______
Poetry From The Gaelic….

(a favourite poem starts this selection, that I have shared before…. I hope you enjoy! G)
Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig

-Sorley Maclean
The window is nailed and boarded

through which I saw the West

and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig,

a birch tree, and she has always been
between Inver and Milk Hollow,

here and there about Baile-chuirn:

she is a birch, a hazel,

a straight slender young rowan.
In Screapadal of my people,

where Norman and Big Hector were,

their daughters and their sons are a wood

going up beside the stream.
Proud tonight the pine cocks

crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra,

straight their backs in the moonlight –

they are not the wood I love.
I will wait for the birch wood

until it comes up by the Cairn,

until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice

will be under its shade.
If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig,

to the sabbath of the dead,

where the people are frequenting,

every single generation gone.
They are still in Hallaig,

Macleans and Macleods,

All who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim:

the dead have been seen alive –
the men lying on the green

at the end of every house that was,

the girls a wood of birches,

straight their backs, bent their heads.
Between the Leac and Fearns

the road is under mild moss

and the girls in silent bands

go to Clachan as in the beginning.
And return from Clachan,

from Suisnish and the land of the living;

Each one young and light stepping,

without the heartbreak of the tale.
From the Burn of Fearns to the raised beach

that is clear in the mystery of the hills,

there is only the congregation of the girls

keeping up the endless walk,
coming back to Hallaig in the evening,

in the dumb living twilight,

filling the steep slopes,

their laughter in my ears a mist,
and their beauty a film on my heart

before the dimness comes on the kyles,

and when the sun goes down behind Dun Cana

a vehement bullet will come from the gun of Love;
and will strike the deer that goes dizzily,

sniffing at the grass-grown ruined homes;

his eye will freeze in the wood;

his blood will not be traced while I live.


Be As A Tree…
Martin O’ Dierain
Man who makes poems,

Keep back their true import,

Conceal by three

Be as a tree,
Gather in all that’s known,

Man who makes poems,

Don’t stir, don’t bend

Before this present tempest.
Stay steady,

Unswaying,

Watching the weather

Until the right day.
Let the wind disarray,

Maker of lays,

All your outer foliage;

Your trunk don’t budge.
A tree is alone

In the wood’s midst,

Among people a poet

Above all is loneliest.
A tree is steadfast

In its portion of land,

Poet, set yourself, man,

Take a stand!
Save your frame,

Gather your knowing,

Focus in every way

Prepared for the poem.
Maker of poems,

You are half womanly,

Be male, be whole,

Be as a tree.


All That Came In That One Coracle
Aonghas Dubh MacNeacail
cast every stone to the ground,

let the weeds grow wild –

there’s a breath remains in the earth
still the tongue with force,

keep the mind oppressed –

the body will not be a corpse
every current

will carry a vessel
put a seed, like memory,

into the vessel
like the breath of a people

in the vessel
carrying a home

in the vessel
from high derry

of tenacious oaks

a seed-candle came

in the slender coracle
a dove was vessel

for the seed

that came across

the bald-browed sea
that seed burst out

on slope and lawn,

its green green leaves

like a dancer, bold
that was the stream

spread through the land
a people’s words

went through the land
the power of knowledge

went through the land
the leaves of knowledge

through every land
and though the light

had lost its peak,

in the grey mist trail

of the black black flame

of empire states,

the seed’s cargo

flowed underground
the smallest threads

of flowing veins

kept the fluid voice

through a cave of pain,

the unquenchable voice

sang a nursing sun

for the bloom of light
and did you count,

bold dove,

in your slender ship of skin,

the leanest days

that fell on us

since you sailed out

across the moil, with

your great embroidered book

wrapped in your language,

impenetrable shield

against devastation
and though the shepherd went,

though the ploughman left,

this ruin remained, like a husk

awaiting its seed
and see, over here, between

birch wood and salmon sea,

all the glass and stone

rising like new blossoms,

the golden light of next year,

fort of hopes, fort of promise
_______
The Kinks – A Well Respected Man

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________
(Sir William Russell Flint – Madamoiselle Sophie)

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