Aqua Regis

When the irrational joins with the sane
As Hellfire ceases to be absorbed by
Angelic water
While the springs of Hope are tempered
by the venom of despair,

An inverted love is still love

Flight through fright,
A shallow hook
Though with true weight
A fish is landed -
wouldst thou cast again?

Cornucopia, an Imagining

Cornucopia

I recently returned to my hometown. Again. Once again however, I hear the voices whispering:

"You're a coward. You've ran away from Amsterdam. And now you're running to hide in your parents house. You can't hide forever."

I shut them up by reminding myself that I chose to come here for a reason.

I went on a walk today. Not far, in `normal' terms, but far enough to clear my mind. After a while I realised I was walking across fields, following the map in my memory's mind. I started to ask myself that eternal question all adventurers ask in this day and age - "What am I searching for?"

The Holy Grail? The Lost Ark of the Covenant? The Spear of Destiny? Atlantis? The Philosopher's Stone? All of the above! Although after a while each knight must face his own doubt within him, the shadow companion who dances round his psyche while he walks, gibbering and laughing.

To seek these items in a literal sense is futile. They are symbols, representations of knowledge we once had, and has been lost, or more correctly, corrupted over the centuries. These relics are symbols of potential cures to our mental ailments - whatever is currently making us unhappy in the world.

Everyone is asking the same questions in the same way, and losing faith when they do not receive the answers they seek.

"How do we cure cancer?" ,"Is Abortion Right or Wrong?" ,"Did God create the world in seven days?"

Cancer is merely something that eats away at us. Something we have let fester inside too long, and without the correct treatment, we are consumed. Yet we fail to appreciate the beauty in cancer, the natural way of controlling our population. People have argued for millenia what this cancer is within us, as a society. Is the cancer crime, like the good people at OCP thought? Partially, crime is a symptom, once again of a larger illness. A society is judged by the way it treats it's prisoners. We only need to look to our apparently benevolent leaders in areas of the U.S. to see how more "advanced" they truly are.

Under the hypothesis that we share a global consciousness, each man serving 23 hours of solitary confinement is suffering. Each man, woman and child are sharing his suffering. Does the man enduring this hardship learn anything new about the crime he may or may not have committed during that time?

Rarely, even more rare that if he did he would be given the chance to prove to his peers that he has been reformed. Economically, the same system drains funds by providing slave labour (ala The Shawshank Redemption). Honest businessmen cannot compete with greedy corporations. Nothing is learned. History repeats itself.

We can learn a lot from how to act from our elders. People who lived in simpler times. In certain tribes, when a man stole from one of his neighbours, the rest of the village would go around to the offender's house, and instead of lynching him with pitchforks, give him gifts of food, and other luxuries.

They would apologise, "Please, we are so sorry for ignoring your needs so much that you felt you needed to take without being able to ask permission. What can we do to help you?" Perhaps we need to end the failed “tough on crime” stance.

Walking today I saw a church group advertising for Street Angels, to patrol the streets keeping towns safe. The towns are safe. It's the violent vigilantes, inflicting their beliefs with the stick upon whomever they feel is intolerable. The idea of these people being giving taciturn approval by a scared populace feeds my own fears.

Is abortion Right or Wrong? The answer is always both. It can be the right decision for the time, yet the effects of the action will be felt for a long time afterwards, and correctly so – not in an ethical sense, but in a psychological one – I have rarely met a woman who has had more than one. Once bitten, twice shy? The terms pro-life and pro-choice seem once again a false dichotomy. Alarmingly, if I'm wrong, the arguments we have presented are between “Living and choosing, or dying oppressed. Kind of tempers the fire.

God created the world in seven days in an allegorical sense (as in IT created it for us to live and respect different aspects of the world in different days: a day of Sun, of Moon etc.) so Creationists have a point, yet try and read the phrase in a literal sense and confusion is bred.

So if we are all asking the wrong questions, what are the right ones?

I have been trying to study the answer to that question for a long time, with little success. The same problem plagued Douglas Adams (or did it...42?), but when I started to open my channels somewhat, as in to listen to more, shall we say, alternative suggestions from branches of science, I found much more that seemed to crossover successfully with religion.

I think it was the fact that I approached most `new' science with a spiritual bent that I developed my...strange way of seeing the world. One of my mantras of late has been “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

For example, I mentioned earlier I was walking with no sense of direction. Aimless in more than ways than one in the world, I decided to just to go wherever I felt like, wandering across verdant fields and gorse-covered hills, near the Great North Yorkshire Moors, between Scarborough and Whitby.

Dante may have had to pass a leopard, a lion and a she -wolf on his trip through the dark woods, I only had to contend with some cows, a horse, a skittish deer and a worm.

I say only. Every animal is intelligent, whether we can sense it or not.

I felt the cows fear of me as I approached them nervously, practically courting their friendship. Eventually they approached me after I lowered myself before them. After staring at the Sun for a moment, I looked back at the cows, who had all lowered their heads and were staring at me. Their coal black skin and eyes was only offset by a yellow barcode branded in their ear. I gazed about me at their `prison'. Yes, they had no freedom, but as I walked away from them, the mad thought that many women pierce their ears ran through my head and I giggled maniacally for a moment, and then stepped over a toppled iron gate, and looked back at the cows. They were still watching me intently, but had stopped following me a little distance from the exit to the field. They were happy. Everyone in the farm was happy, except you (me?). I shivered and walked away, trying not to glance behind me.

I came across a red circle in a hay field. Curiously there was some hay in the centre that looked a perfect place for a lay down and a smoke. My mind was filled with pride. Of how I should write of a new Utopia, a Utopia achievable in my lifetime. It is to be called Cornucopia. There is enough resources for everyone. I just need to collect enough data to prove how it can be done to others. Writing gets easier...

The horse was enclosed near the entrance to the Hayburn Wyke public house. I climbed through the barbed wire fence, and approached the horse with even more trepidation. I had been wishing for a horse of my own, as a companion with me on my travels. Maddeningly, I reasoned I was here for a reason, and with a gesture of peace approached the Shire Mare.

She stood her ground as I approached, sniffing me curiously. Not surprised with some of the stuff I had been smoking. I gently tried to stroke her mane, and she pulled back as if stung.

Wounded, I returned my hands to their sides and let her paw the ground slightly before she advanced to me one more time. I closed my eyes, and lowered my head. I listened to her breath, and was surprised by her rubbing the side of her muzzle to my hair. In return I stroked hers for a second, before she suddenly came to and moved away again. I watched her, partly in anger (why can't I touch her?), and partly in sorrow (I'm not worthy to touch her, to ride her).

She ground her teeth, I started to think how she has learned to distrust humans, even though she does not fear them. The wave of distrust swept over me, and I start to cry. I whirl around and walk away from the animal again, my pride sufficiently lowered.

I head to the pub down the long winding wooded slope, all the while amazed at the coincidence – I had been to the same pub with my father, mother, and sister's dog the previous weekend, yet I had arrived here from a completely different direction, with no intention of visiting here until I saw the sign (beer!) and the horse.

I enter the bar and order a pint of Black Sheep. Always was my favourite ale. I start to drink and can hear nothing but incessant titters and giggles from a group of 50 year old men sitting to my right. A man, his wife and dog sit at the table in front of me. I try to drink to take my mind away from them. The beer was perfectly poured, and well settled. Yet I cannot drink more than a few gulps, before I angrily snatch my bag and walk away, leaving the pint practically untouched.

I do this like I'm acting out a script that I read the day before. Yet at the same time it is all completely ad libbed.

Walking in weariness once more, feverishly trying to rewrite my own script, I see a earthworm on the ground. It is on the path of the Cinder Tracks, a disused railway line that links the two towns. I watch it for a minute, seeing the way it flexes and contracts to move, it's proboscis snuffling the dry, rocky gravel path. I am seized by a dilemma once more. Should I move the Earthworm from it's difficult path onto the damp soil of the adjacent field? Is the Earthworm suffering unnecessarily? I try to shut out the cacophany of questions and pick up the worm, and place it gently in the grass by the field. Was I right to attempt to save the worm? I decide that as long as I thought I was helping. How hypocritical of me. It is only now thinking back that I consider both the hermaphroditic aspects of the worm, and that a worm under certain circumstances can be cut in two, and two worms will survive.

Rather than mention the skittish deer, whose representation of temptation I trust is obvious, I encounter as I type the final animal encounter of the night. I'm distracted by my typing by a movement in the shadows to the right. I flick my gaze right and see a large house spider crawling quickly towards the mattress on the floor that I sleep on. I look on, nearly paralysed as it moves on it's razor spindles towards me. The rational part of my brain that normally tells me “This is a house spider. It is harmless.” has vanished. Instead I can only think of Ariadne, spinning gloom and cocooning her victims. The spider dances on, moving along edge of the mattress behind me. I glance down and see the spider walk under the overhanging edge of my pillow. The paralysis breaks, I breathe, and lift up my pillow.

The spider, feeling my fear, my mind dying, absorbs this dreadful energy and moves towards my naked leg. “Jesus.” I close my eyes and look again. The spider trundles away towards my father's laptop, and disappears in the shadows.

An exercise in futility, I try to put it out of my mind. Already I feel tingling goose-bumps on my flesh. “There's a spider crawling on you...it only has a small bite. Barely a pin prick. You won't feel it.” I banish the voice by reminding myself that scaring myself has stood the hairs of my legs on end, and it is only them rubbing on the hastily-wrapped-round duvet that I feel. I hear a snicker.

It's healthy to remember the power animals have over us, they were here a lot longer before we were, and we are the usurpers. Respect nature in all it's aspects and in turn you shall gain the respect of Gaea.

Or so I hope. Dear God in Heaven, I hope. Gone 3am. Forget the day. You've wrote something down. You're getting better. You're still free to leave anytime you want. The sticky coating of concern that draws tighter and tighter around your throat is for your own good. The phosphorescent netting that bites into your ribs is a healing balm. Don't struggle. It makes it so much more difficult. It's the circle of life you know...we all need to feed...

Departing the Dam, Dante-style

Dante tells us that at the centre of the Inferno, Satan lies bound to his waist in ice, endlessly devouring Cassius, Brutus, and Judas Iscariot while waiting to be freed from his prison, and to rise once more upon the land of the living.

That may well have been true once, but Mr. Aligheri has been dead for some time, and the temperature continues to rise around the globe, and the ice dwindles with each day.

There are many more deserving souls than the assassins of Caesar that deserve to be the primal focus of Lucifer's ministrations. Judas carried out his orders, fulfilled his destiny, praised God.

La Divina Comedia can be read on three levels: The literal, where Dante stumbles upon a gate to Hell and goes on to be guided through the three Catholic afterlives; The political, where Dante puts those he disagrees with through eternal torment, while heaping God's favour on those he deems likeminded; and most importantly, the allegorical - where Dante's journey represents the one we all make - through each Canto, moving from Inferno, to Purgatorio, Paradiso, and finally our self/soul/will joins God and becomes the All.
The eternal fallacy that this is a just world we live in continues to plague the downtrodden, the despised. I'm getting ahead of myself.

Dante gripped me immediately.

I too felt midway through my life, confused, or lost in a dark wood. I felt plagued by more than three symbolic beasts. I needed to walk outside of the city, to escape the corruption and malice temporarily.

We both met messengers claiming to be from God, asking to guide us back home. However this is where my path and Dante's differed. While he accepted Virgi's offer, I asked him for directions and walked on by myself.

Where am I going with this? I am sat in my new apartment in Amsterdam, and couldn't face a day in the office. I have been lured away from my chosen path with false desires. Negative influences pervade me, flowing through me as I walk through the city, and as they do they stain - dying my lighter hues a murky black.

My body follows my infected mind, and screams at me for release.

I shouldn't have settled here. The ultimate trap of the open prison, the one I fell into, is to give the prisoners exactly what they want, provided they are good prisoners.

In Purgatory any type of vice is available, and yet it seems each person here has lost their tastes for most vices, following a hazy script, carrying out sin by mechanical action rather than deliberate thought. Following the wrong orders.

Purgatory is a different system to Hell, with different goals. Here, suffering is the knowledge that we have left behind Hell, but we are not yet fully awakened in God's Presence. Everything is taken for granted. I need a walk.

The weather outside is almost trademark Dutch: 19 degrees celsius, dry, huge black thunder clouds above. Since starting my new job here in Amsterdam I noticed very quickly how obsessed with the weather people are. Checking the forecast before making any decisions, complaining that the weather doesn't fit their schedules. Perhaps this ill will shapes the climate? Once again I'm running off on a tangent.

I have arrived at the conclusion that Amsterdam has lost it's sparkle for me - I lose sight of it's beauty when I don the blinkers of the mind, and stare at the cobbled stones, the bikepaths...the floor. Some part of me misses the Inferno of my life. With almost characteristic haste, I have decided to quit my job, move out of my apartment, and with a month's salary head to Morocco, then through Tunisia to Libya, and finally, the spiritual destination of my pilgrimage, Egypt.

I have spent so long bitching and moaning about the world's media, I have decided it's time I create some of my own. So, I plan on getting a cheap camera, packing a sleeping bag, and after a weekend in England having a last catch up with friends for a time, I will travel by bus to Barcelona, and then hitch-hike to the very south of Spain, and catch the ferry to Morocco.

While there I can acclimatise to Africa, adjust to the almost assault on my senses. Already I can feel the dream thread tugging, telling me to hurry, to move. But I can wait slightly. Once a decision has been made, a certain freedom is revealed and a burden is lifted.

Amsterdam is still unique, and it holds a special place in my heart. It has it's own energies, both light and dark, that flow into you, pick you up, spin your mind around, and place it back down behind you. Yeah.

No matter how saintly or sinful you are, this city leaves it's stains on the psyche, in a way that is both cleansing and cursing.

My point is that this city is multi-faceted, and each of it's reflections dazzle - for a time. It is a vicious city - it swallows you - irregardless of colour, creed, or religion, but the process of digestion is not pleasant.

Desperately trying to blend in with Dutch culture, I started to notice my attitude to possessions and money began to change - when you "Go Dutch" you don't just split the bill evenly - everything is worked out meticulously to make sure "what's mine is mine and what's yours is yours".

Which, for the most part, is fine. Good, even. But this is not true sharing. True sharing isn't charity, but a way to mutually benefit. Whether this benefit is physical, financial or spiritual, the act of giving helps the giver more than the recipient. So when you remove this aspect from the equation - when everyone gives only exactly their share, the soul is never fufilled. Each major religion holds to this tenet - that to give brings one closer to God - whatever description of God you use.

Maybe that's one reason the depression rate for the Netherlands is fourth in the world (according to Forbes), falling behind the US, Ukraine, and France.

The golden rule of "When in Rome, do as the Romans do" can cause suffering. We have all heard the comparison that when you go to someone else's house you play by their rules. Visiting someone's home is a lot different to living in it. I found my typically English politeness and deference to be treated by scorn, or as a sign of weakness by certain inhabitants. I found I had to identify each person I met, assess their want with me, and then nine times out of ten politely refuse whatever they were offering me.

Suddenly I was in a city thronged with people, talking to everyone, and completely alone. At least Amsterdam taught me that - how to react to such a wide range of situations, in a completely new style. But when you gaze into the abyss, it also gazes into you - what I saw in others, they saw in me. Mutual hatred? At times. Isolation can breed despair, and fear. That fear becomes magnified onto others - and when we cause other people to be afraid, they either fight or flee. Neither is good for a healthy relationship. Purging myself of this initial distrust to the world remains difficult, but a worthwhile struggle.

Perhaps Saint Ambrose should have spent more time in Rome and glanced at some of the cucifixions there before making twee remarks.

My thoughts are full of the bad times here, and I feel I'm being overly critical. The city life is getting to me. I find it hard to breathe sometimes (nothing to do with my smoking habit thank you so very much for asking), feeling the vibrations of the city pulse in my head. A constant chatter of information that I can't drown out.

I need to escape - not from Amsterdam per se, but The West. Morocco represents the cheapest and easiest way out of the continent. From there I can start to truly learn, and wander, to The East.

Gormless Gibberish

Felt the need to put pen to paper (literally) again. Sat outside in the Sun, writing whatever forces it's way into my brain...


_________________________________________


Hope springs eternal
Springs dry up in time
Move time to the side
See the glass lightly

Third eye, going blind
Libations with Amrita
Delve inside their minds

Destitue through fury
Paralysed with fear
Warm them; Enduring
Keep them ever near

__________________________________________

In battle-frayed cloth
We await the sign to
Anoint ourselves and walk on
to a fabled arena

No blood stains this barren Golgotha
Air dancing, crackling with menace

Gaze, unblinking at the enemy,
The whooping taunts of the beserk

Blood

Lust

___________________________________


Sun beads slide down the temple
The faithful assemble

Seated before majesty,
Yet the seasons slip

Confusion reigns, king for a day
The fools speaks, and
is dismissed

God answers misspoken desire,
Beggars ride, once more
they lead the charge into the tide

Where drowning laughter infects, destroys
The spiral narrows, sucking hope and
Mounted lost fire, flares.

A beam pierces the cloud,
The flock gathers, then spreads,

A new message is transmitted

God leaves us then- another stands in his stead
Judgment day is this then
The rise of the living dead

______________________________________

If there was one target, one aim,
Should it be taken no matter the cost?
Battle lines blur
"No plan survives first contact"
"All agents defect and all resisters sell out"

Whichever victor emerges must resist the temptation
For glory
Sacrificing the many
For privilege.

Privilege be damned.

Line us up in rows
Start the Thanatos machine
Those whose voice is driven by fear
Wolves lie in wait

"Fear is the mind killer" the
killer
is focused into anger
futility

We fight amongst ourselves, while
others sit back, pick up the pieces

We must unite at last against the common enemy
My friend
Else free thought will be cast down forever

_______________________________

Terror, terror, in the heather
Run away! Now or never
I'd rather bite the fucking leather

________________________________

The Shaman's Secret II: Hopped up in Holland

Since my last post about Salvia, I have had the opportunity/necessity to take it again twice more.

I had decided to buy the 25x again, not that I wasn't keen to try visiting the 'other place' for a longer, and more immersive time, but I somehow knew that I would be sharing at least one trip with someone else.

Rumour and misinformation continues to be spread about this plant extract, and therefore people are experimenting in a potentially hazardous way. I was talking to a group of Greek tourists the other day, and they wanted a party drug, similar to MDMA and were considering Salvia as it was legal and affordable.

I told them how Salvia is a completely unique drug. No other psychedelic works in the same way. It works as a dissociative, which by itself is relatively common-place, but combined with the plant's other properties, allows for a existential journey. They decided to try some nitrous with their weed instead, which was much more fun all round.

The first of my salvia trips this year was in Rotterdam. I was working in the worst office imaginable – a call centre that specialised in surveys. The horror, the horror. I had been feeling increasingly depressed, putting effort into giving large corporations personal data instead of doing something worthwhile with my life.

Paid by the second, with very little money, I decided with customary abandon to fuck it all, and spend most of the little money I had on drugs and poker. The rest I wasted on food. I mention this to demonstrate what I mean by the “necessity” to take Salvia – I needed guidance. I felt lost.

While at my local coffee shop, Bamboo, I began talking to a Colombian gentleman who had also emigrated. As he may not be comfortable with having his story told publicly, I'll call him Manuel. He told me over a couple of chess games how he was making good money now, in a job he liked, and had no desire to return to his homeland. We swapped stories about travel and women, and as the roaches piled in the ashtray, we began to talk of deeper things.

Nothing particularly out of the ordinary, at least for people who spend any amount of time within a recreational drug community, but eventually the topic of conversation moved from terrestrial journeys to psychonautical ones.

We had both taken mushrooms and discussed the fractals we saw, the perspectives we gained. He had also taken Salvia, but with little success. I told him I had some that I had been wanting to take, and he was welcome to join me. He agreed to meet me at the cafe the same time tomorrow.

True to his word, we met again, smoked some more to prepare, then walked to his house nearby.

He put on some ambient background music, we arranged the furniture, then he prepared the pipe. In my opinion he put a little too much in – I usually use a fairly decent pinch but he filled the bowl, and I told him we can both trip on this amount. He was skeptical, having tried before, but I reassured him, telling him to hold the smoke in for a lot longer this time.

He nodded, and lit the extract with a BIC lighter (zippo's aren't too good), inhaled, and holding his breath passed the pipe to me. I copied him, and slumped back on the pillows. I started to count the seconds in my head. We stared into each other's eyes, unblinking – each feeling the strain of the hot smoke in our mouths, throats, and lungs – willing each other to hold for longer.

My eyes began to well with tears as my mental timing passed the 30 mark, whereas he still looked non-plussed. I felt a cough begin, and tried to hold it back, but in the same way you can't completely hold back a sneeze, I coughed a little with my mouth closed, making a sort of rasping noise, and I felt the need to laugh maniacally at the absurdity of the situation.

My lungs bursting, I let the smoke out, before immediately taking a few more breaths. Smiling, Manuel watched me then calmly blew out the smoke. Git.

Immediately, the world around me began to change. It's a very hard process to describe, especially without using jargon. Phrases like “breaking on through” and “tripping out” conjure images not nearly adequate enough.

The wall in front of me was plain white, and in my peripheral vision was the computer screen and an empty chair. When I exhaled, it was like someone had dropped an invisible pebble in the centre of my vision, and like water, transparent ripples began to spread across my eyes. The ripples resonated slowly, similar to a stop-motion film, in time to the music, although the music had changed. Not in the same way it changes on cannabis – where you can appreciate extra subtleties of the music, here a purely instrumental piece had changed: All I could hear was a few bars of a artificial voice saying the same nonsense syllables looping again and again, I smiled in recollection and closed my eyes – to a vision of what seemed outer space – shooting stars whirled across me momentarily, suns dazzled me. Keeping my eyes closed, I moved, not physically, but with will. I glided around this bright, throbbing light, the same nonsense verse repeating in my head, and felt the presence of Manuel briefly. I opened my eyes, and the room was normal again, although the music had completely gone. It occurred to me that the music shouldn't have stopped, and I felt disappointment that the artificial voice had left.

Reality had returned all too soon. I looked at Manuel.

“Where is this. I don't like it.” he said, saucer-eyed. He had moved his legs protectively to his chest, and was fixated on the corner of the desk.

“Relax, man. It's ok. You're fine.”

“No, no. I don't like it here.”

“Stay calm.”

He turned and looked into my eyes once more. This time, when he looked at me, there was no challenge, no bravado there – only the fear of a man who has been confronted with proof of his God.

He said something in Dutch, and I told him I didn't understand. He ignored me and said something else. I repeated myself, and he ignored me again. I patiently listened to him have a conversation I understood none of, waiting for the feeling to return to my legs.

I tried a different approach, and waved at him. He blinked rapidly, then sat back with his feet on the floor again.

“Whoa.” he said, superfluously.

“Yeah. How are you?”

“I didn't like it. I saw a lot of things. You were an old man with a grey beard, and you were talking to me in Dutch, telling me things I needed to hear.”

“Uh....huh. I heard you speaking in Dutch, but I just told you I didn't understand.”

“No man. You understood. I don't want to do it ever again, but I feel like I know what I have to do now.”

We smoked a couple more joints, and feeling a little jealous I received no revelation of my own, I walked back to my flat, much of what I had seen and heard already slipping from my mind.

The next day I decided I had to get out of the call centre. I started applying for jobs all over Holland, and my attitude at the call centre grew to confrontational levels. Previously only sneaking out for a cigarette, I was now calmly walking outside and having a joint. Yet I remained employed. At GDCC, an “agent” (employee/drone) is measured by the number of “interviews” (surveys) he completes with a respondent. Respondents were only people who met certain criteria, which varied project to project. These projects were all for large corporations – American pharmaceuticals, nternational well-known software companies, and others. For example, on the first project we were told to say we were calling from a company that is doing research for the NHS, and if there is anyone in the household who is 18 or over and suffers from atrial fibrillation or heart arrhythmia.

As we were calling randomly generated numbers in the UK, the “incidence rate” (number of people who fit in the survey's criteria) was about 1%. We were set a target of one completed survey per four hour shift.

Between 8am and 8pm we wasted the time of every type of person imaginable back home – old people's homes, hospitals, everyone. I felt the hatred of every poor person who was awakened on Saturday morning by my request to discuss heart disease with them.

When someone was lucky enough to speak to someone with the condition, they tended to want to talk – they were usually people in their 60's or older, who liked having someone to talk to.

After completing my first survey (I wasted an hour of a 84 year old woman's time who struggled to reach the phone), it became apparent that the company who had paid for GDCC to carry out the survey had nothing to do with the NHS. Questions like “Have you ever been unable to receive a test due to medical bills?” or “How many times did you change your insurance provider in the last 12 months?” made it fairly clear they were a US company, and “Would you rather take your medication once daily or twice daily?” shows they were concerned about redeveloping their brand rather than saving lives.

I decided to start encouraging people to talk to me, even if they didn't qualify for our surveys, and my success rate was the highest in the team. As you can imagine, the staff turnover at GDCC was unbelievably big, and as the only way to distinguish yourself was through survey success, I was worth more to them than they were to me. They turned a blind eye to my constant late arrivals, smoking in undesignated areas at undesignated times.

I felt invulnerable, but still trapped in the prison of a call centre.

I wrote how I saw society as a prison ( http://duskmoor.blogspot.com/2011/05/pyrrhic-plutocracy-by-martin-peel-on.html – Pyrrhic Plutocracy ), infuriated by the constant hidden barriers around us.

On my lunch break a couple of days later, I was rolling my customary after-lunch joint next to Central Station when a police man and woman approached me.

“It is illegal to smoke here.” the man said.

“I'm not smoking, I'm rolling.” I replied, standing up.

“What are you rolling?”

“Weed. “

“How much do you have?”

“I don't know, about 2 grams.”

“It is illegal to smoke here, only in coffee shop or your house.”

“I know. I wasn't smoking, I was rolling.”

“Show me your identification.”

I sighed, all I wanted was a quiet joint before returning to the hell of the call centre. I handed over my passport, and the man walked away slightly and checked my details with the station. He walked back to me, but didn't hand back the passport.

“You were in Amsterdam in 2009?”

“Yes...”

“You were given a fine for 110 euros that you did not pay?”

“I don't think so...for what?”

“You were sleeping in the streets.”

It came back to me then. It was raining, and I had no money. I was in my sleeping bag, shivering, only partly sheltered by an slightly enclosed alleyway. I saw a police car pull up, and a uniformed man walk towards me. Thank God, I thought naively. He'll take me to a shelter, or at least let me stay in a cell for a night.

He stops in front of me, and hands me a yellow piece of paper. I look at it, uncomprehending.

“It is illegal to sleep here. You must pay 110 euros.”

The anger I felt was immense. I couldn't believe that Holland, so proud of it's liberal “don't fuck with me I don't fuck with you” attitude had laws like this. I tried to explain to him that if I had 110 euros I wouldn't be sat on the street in the rain, but he told me to tell it to the people in the station, and that if I didn't pay it within 14 days the fine would increase.

Furious, I packed my soaked sleeping bag and walked to the station. I was told there was nothing on the system, and I had no fine to pay. Assuming this was the cop's way of making me move from where I was, I shrugged and slept in an alley a little further out of the centre.

Back to Rotterdam, and I explained my story to him. He told me that I must either pay the fine now, or because it has not been paid for so long, go to jail for two days. I laughed in disbelief and said I don't have 110 euros until payday. He shrugged and said I must accompany him to the station.

I asked if I could make some phone calls to try and borrow some money. He said it would

take too long, and was unacceptable. I asked if I could tell my boss what was happening – he said I could ring someone as we went to the station. I rang a co-worker and blubbered something about what had happened in 30 seconds before I was told to hang up.

I had no choice but to walk with them. As we walked, the female police officer said “You people are all the same. You don't have money for a house, but you have money for drugs.”

The poisonous bitch. She didn't listen as I practically shouted how just because people can't afford to pay vastly over-infalted house prices doesn't mean they cannot have a few small luxuries. I knew it was useless though. Her blinkered view of the law rendered her incompetent to serve it.

As I was being checked in, two plain clothes detectives came up to the desk next to me, laughing and joking with a man who had been arrested. One of the officers was juggling with a bag of white powder, easily 10g, probably cocaine. I later found out that interestingly it is legal to possess cocaine, and he was given it back when he was released. Not that it held my attention for long, as I was told I was going to be searched.

He walked me into a private room, and told me to take my clothes off. I saw him put on some surgical gloves and cursed. I started to remove my underwear and he told me that was fine. He waved a metal detector over me and then after searching my clothes gave them back to me. However, I couldn't keep my belt, or shoelaces in case I tried to kill myself, and my boots had steel toe-caps so I couldn't have them either. I was given a pair of what looked like reformed carrier bags, and then taken to my new home for the next 48 hours.

I was given a letter ( http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150344851774050.403677.756839049&type=1#!/photo.php?fbid=10150344852149050&set=a.10150344851774050.403677.756839049&type=1&theater ) explaining, amongst other things, that I would be given two cigarette/exercise breaks of 30 minutes each every day, that the button on the sink dispenses two cups of water every ten minutes, I would be given reading material, that in order to flush the toilet I must use the intercom and ask the guard, and, most importantly, I have a right to a lawyer.

During the next 48 hours I had a lot of time to think, and I couldn't help but take notice of the sequence of events – after feeling the need to remark on society being a prison, society decides to send me to an actual prison.

Having convinced the officers at the station I suffered from bi-polar disorder, I was eventually given medical grade valium to help me sleep through my stay, but the experience has stayed with me.

When I was released I was given back my possessions (including my weed which was a first) and stepped out of the station into perfect sun shine. I walked 100 metres from the station and smoked a joint. It tasted incredible.

That feeling of joy stayed with me for about a week, until the crushing monotony of the call centre raised it's head again. Every second I was there hammered home the fact I was still in prison. Unable to leave the desk without losing pay, I repeated the monotonous script on the computer screen to thousands of people all over the world.

In my spare time, I continued to tell anyone who would listen about how we are controlled by an oppressive media. Murdoch's name was synonymous with every negative aspect of the regime we constantly suffer under.

So the system saw fit to test my character, and I was given a job with Tribune Media Services, an American mega-news corporation. It is now my job to write the descriptions and input schedules for services like TIVO.

Huh, “Gotta Serve Somebody” by Bob Dylan just started playing...interesting. Anyway, I am now working for the enemy for good money, and still feel trapped.

Hence I was feeling lost as before, and felt like a second Salvia trip was in order.

This time I would be on my own, in a more comfortable environment, with no-one else to distract/concern me.

It was about 10:30pm. I was sat at my desk after what felt a long day, the small electric lamp and the glare of the netbook the only lights inside my room. I put enough in to give me three hits if needed. My mp3 collection was playing on random, and with a deep breath I took the first hit. I held my breath for 40 seconds, and calmly exhaled. The music immediately changed to the same voice as before, in the same style, although I THINK different words were being looped in my head. The ripples emanated from the desk lamp this time, and I quickly took another hit. The effects grew stronger, and the ripples became more violent. Nothing was recognisable any more.

I closed my eyes, and the same light show was happening, although the colours were reversed almost. I opened and closed my eyes a few times. No changes. Suddenly I heard my landlord's voice, within my head. I feel panic rise, and resist the urge to stand. Instead I will myself backwards and wheel around. Bobbing gently up and down, close to a brightly pulsing yellow area, is a cartoon old man, drawn in sky blue.

While I am considering this person, my landlord says to me how he was wondering when I would do this, even though I told him I wouldn't do drugs on his property. I think to myself that he knew I was smoking on the balcony, and fuck it it doesn't damage the room. The cartoon grinned at me, and a few seconds later I heard the same voice. “Ja... ok ...”. The cartoon floated away from the yellow area slightly.

“How are you feeliing? Can you move around properly?”

As I tried to move around, I felt a small part of my brain process (I know how this sounds but I can't explain it any other way) show where I thought I was moving and there was a line connecting me to another circle, which I presumed was my body. I willed around, and heard the landlord again.

“Ok, I think you should maybe lie down, huh?”

I turned to where I thought my body was at the desk, and it robotically got up, and got into bed fully clothed. My viewpoint remained the same.

He told me other things, which sadly I can't remember. They were remembered on some level though. I have a vague recollection of talking to other presences and discussing my short term future. We were talking about what I would like to do, but I cant remember what was said.

I woke up the next morning fully clothed. I got up, well rested, jumped in the shower, got dressed, went to work.

I had my 3 week review. I was congratulated for doing a good job. My previous loneliness was quenched when I finally got the chance to go on a proper night out with my co-workers. My longing for a soul mate shrinks when I speak to a woman from Sweden who will come to live with me soon. I am spending my money satisfying my immediate desires, with little regard how I will survive the next weeks. I am finally independent. Everything I have asked for, I have been granted.

So why am I still unhappy?

I feel like I am being bought. Remember in The Matrix when Cypher sells out Zion to the agents just so he can have a nice suit and a rich steak? That's kind of how I feel – Rather than trying to fight against what I know to be wrong, I am lazing back, accepting the blood money, wrapping myself in the dream, rather than waking others up.

As similar minded people have told me, some people aren't ready yet. But while I continue to be aware of the daily illusion, I shall continue to try and find ways to escape this prison. I feel like I have tunneled out and have crawled back to tell my cell-mates, but they are institutionalised. They tell me they can't wake up just yet, they need a bit more money first. I try to point out the lunacy, and end up a lunatic myself.

It's sometimes difficult to talk in dreams. But some forms of communication go beyond our five senses, and I honestly believe that simply thinking the right thoughts can influence more people than solitary action.

I only intended to write a few paragraphs as a trip report, and as usual all this comes spilling out of me. I know I need to work, to write, but I start so many things, have so many ideas, I finish nothing. A problem I have faced my whole life. Someone who has everything isn't that different to someone with nothing.

Soporiphic Suffering

As cords we fray,

Sending desolate sparks

that fire – midday

brief jubilee

Madness lies here.

Gold shines ahead

you see glitter

Gnawing, pawing rutting cutting

you tear me with silence.

Goad, grieve, rend, cleave

your wail of woe

Feeding your fear.

Anger hastened leads

me inward

Accustomed to gloom and

murk those tendrils tighten

And I join your amicable

misery

The Trial

Paralysed by fear.

Indecision spurns anxiety, narrowing the window between deciding on an action and where no action becomes an action in itself.

Focus.

Step out, survey.

Stare down each path, each choice, weigh up and analyse the risks and the rewards, those who will be helped, and those who will be harmed by your choice.

Panic grows with the responsibility that comes with awareness.

Who are you to choose? What possible value do you have? To make these life altering decisions without consent of others?

Turn inward.

Hate. Hate self. Feed on others. Fuel hate.

Take the path of least resistance?

Walk, claustrophobic alongside fellow sufferers, light at the destination blocked by shuffling grey empty souls.

Desire to escape grows. Break through the throng, ignore angry shoves in the back. Perhaps they push forward?

Off the path, darkness. Swim through. Find another path.

Exalted, set forward once more.

Clear ahead, run cackling past old souls, feel their envious stares.

Suddenly stop.

Look back at the other path. See them from your new vantage. Tired eyes, furrowed brows. Tears.

Fly back. Give directions.

Silence. Avoidance. Shout and scream, stupefy.

One looks up, hopeful.

Smile, take their hand, pull them out.

Walk on. Don't look back.

Salvia Divinorum : The Shaman's Secret

I feel like trying Salvia again in a couple of days, and I guess I want to share my experiences with this powerful mental, physical and spiritual plant.

So what is Salvia? Where is it from? Who used it originally?

Courtesy of salvia.net :

"

Salvia is endemic to the Sierra Madre Mountains in Oaxaca, Mexico. In this region it is used by Mazatec curanderos and curanderas in different rituals. The plant is mostly used when these shamans felt they needed to discover the cause of a patient’s illness in the supernatural world. The shaman entered a visionary trance that allowed him to see what steps have to be taken to cure the patient. This is still a common usage of salvia under the present generation of Mazatec Indians. The plant is also used for prediction, meditation and the search for the divine.

Little is known about the usage of Salvia divinorum before its Western “discovery” in the 20th century. It's probably been in usage for hundreds of years, but it was only when R. Gordon Wasson, the famous botanist who also introduced psilocybe mushrooms to the Western world, brought back a specimen in the 1960’s that the plant became an object of scientific research. However, it remained an obscure plant until the 1990’s, when Daniel Siebert began his research on the plant. Nowadays, salvia is widely known and sold in many (web)shops. But, there is still a lot of research to be done into the chemistry and effects of salvia.

Modern research into Salvia divinorum started in the 1930’s. Salvia divinorum was first recorded in Western literature in 1939 by Jean Basset Johnson, who did research on the use of hallucinogenic mushroom in Mexico. He saw that the Mazatec Indians used the leaves of “Hierba Maria” to induce visions. R. Gordon Wasson continued research in the 1950’s and confirmed the psychoactivity of salvia. Together with Albert Hofmann, the discoverer of LSD, and Roberto G. Weitlaner, he was the first to bring back live specimens back to the west. They sent one of those specimens to Harvard University in 1962, where it was analyzed by Carl Epling.

It remains unclear how long salvia use dates back among the native inhabitants of Mexico. It is suggested that the plant was introduced after the conquest of the new world. The evidence to support this is that the Mazatecs do not have an indigenous name for the plantl: they use names referring to Mary or sheep herding(“Hierba Maria” or “ska Maria Pastora”), while both christianity and sheep were introduced by the Spanish. Moreover, the Mazatecs have a method of consumption that is quite inefficient, which suggests that they are not aware of the enormous psychoactive potency.

However, R. Gordon Wasson, and others after him, suggested that Salvia divinorum could possibly be the same plant the Aztecs called "Pipiltzintzintli" (literally "the purest little prince"), , which was described by a Spanish author in the 17th century. In the 1980’s researcher J. Valdés III continued to investigate the history of salvia prior to Wasson’s "discovery". He suggests that "Pipiltzintzintli" is most likely cannabis, not salvia."

OK, so now we know that it has been used since time immemorial, by Mexican Indian shamans to enter the spirit world, where they could identify illness in a person by looking inside them.

It was used in religious service as well, for meditation, and exploring the inner conscience that usually remains quiet within us.

Salvia is nothing like weed, save the easiest way to ingest it is to smoke it. If you eat anything on Salvia, you will likely vomit. I tried to give an Italian friend some water while he was tripping, and he poured it down his shirt. I held to his lips and he took small, frightened sips, his eyes rapidly blinking as he no-doubt reacted with madness to the feelings of the water trickling down his body.

So how long does it last? What does it feel like? Am I breaking the law taking it?

The effects of Salvia typically come on very fast, reaching their peak between 5 - 25 minutes after inhalation. The effects also subside quickly, leaving you (relatively) normal in a couple of hours.

However I cannot stress enough that Salvia is not a party drug. You will not be looking and acting your best while tripping. It is true that it can be hilarious to watch people tripping ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7dDGJo_qkc ), and it is always a good idea to find a trusted friend who is sober to sit with you while you explore another dimension.

I'm going to be quoting salvia.net a lot, and I reccomend that if you plan on taking Salvia, check their website - read trip reports, thoughts, opinions, and share your own afterwards!

"A number of people report that the effects of salvia became stronger after having used it a couple of times. Some people appear to become more sensitive and will reach a higher level of effects after a couple of times. On the other hand, quite a large percentage of people (around 10%) are fairly insensitive to salvinorin. Many of them will reach effects at a higher dose, but a minority will still feel nothing, even at higher doses.

If you are a first time user, it is advised to use only a small dose to test your sensitivity, because the effects can sometimes be overwhelming. Always make sure a sitter is present."

"Salvia is often grouped with other hallucinogenic psychoactives, but in fact its effects are unique. Salvia is sometimes marketed as a legal cannabis substitute, although the effects are in no way similar. During the trip several states can occur: 2-dimensional hallucinations, out of body experiences, becoming an object, traveling back in time, being in more places at once and uncontrolled laughing. On his website www.egodeath.com Michael Hoffman discusses what he considers the religious effects of Salvia Divinorum. Erowid mentions the following reported effects in their Salvia FAQ:

• Loss of physical coordination
• Uncontrollable laughter
• Visual alterations or visions
• Experiencing multiple realities
• A contemplative sense of peace
• Sense of profound understanding
• Dream-like veneer over the world
• Sense of total confusion or madness
• Seeing or becoming part of a tunnel
• Loss of sense of awareness as an individual
• Experiencing a “non-Euclidean” geometry
• Sense of flying, floating, twisting, or turning
• Feeling of being immersed in an energy field
• Feeling of being connected to a larger “whole”
• Feeling of being underground or underwater
• Appearing to travel to other places and/or times
• Becoming inanimate objects (a wall, stairs, a couch, etc.)
• Viewing patterns or shapes that are tube-like, snake-like, or worm-like

The famous salvia-researcher Daniel Siebert made up a scale for the strength of a salvia experience. His S-A-L-V-I-A trip scale shows 6 trip stages:

• S - SUBTLE effects, Relaxation and increased sensual appreciation may be noted. This mild level is useful for meditation and may facilitate sexual pleasure.
• A - ALTERED perception, colors and textures are paid attention to. Thinking becomes less logical, and more playful.
• L - LIGHT visionary state. Closed eye visuals (clear imagery with eyes closed).
• V - VIVID visionary state. Complex three dimensional realistic appearing scenes occur. With eyes closed you experience fantasies. So long as your eyes are closed you may believe they are really occurring.
• I - IMMATERIAL existence. Individuality may be lost; one experiences merging with the Divine.
• A - AMNESIC effects. Loss of consciousness. The individual may fall, or remain immobile or thrash around. Dangerous!

When smoking or chewing salvia leaves or extract, many people will be able to reach level 5. For them it is not necessary to experiment with stronger ways of taking salvia. We advise you to try smoking or chewing (or a combination of both) a couple of times and to gradually increase the dose, if you are experiencing little or no effects. Stronger forms of salvia should only be used if you have some experience and know how sensitive you are."

Music is extremely synthetic to a Salvia trip, but not in the way you'd suspect. In fact, it's nearly impossible to predict how you'll interpret music during a trip. Most people listen to relaxing music that doesn't have much in the way of vocals, so you should probably go with that until you really figure out what a Salvia trip is like. I also strongly advise against listening to any “scary” music until you have plenty of experience.

So there you have it. The best news about this drug is that it's (as of May 2011) legal to buy this amazing plant.

Pyrrhic Plutocracy by Martin Peel on Saturday, 21 May 2011 at 01:09

Prison takes many forms. It's all around us, and we can feel escape is always round the corner, but after every wall we climb, another, higher one stands behind.

This prison has many cell blocks, and naturally the prisoners look to their own for protection. The wardens enjoy controlling a segregated prison. For while we are divided, we fall.

Society has become institutionalised. Some of us are old cons, adopting a secret language to communicate without alerting the guards, moving between the cracks in the walls, but in their hearts every prisoner still thinks back to their days of freedom, before this false imprisonment.

But the prison is becoming over-crowded. The wardens are scared, and rightly so, for as everyone knows, fresh fish in this fetid, stagnant ocean soon either learn, or die. Money is scarce in prison, and prices are far higher than normal.

Prisoners are used to their contraband, and when they can no longer afford it they become agitated. Before long a guard dies from an unseen hand, and uproar sweeps the prison staff.

The guards react in unison, for one of their number has been slain, and we must be taught a lesson about power. The slightest infringement is dealt with draconian punishment.

The prisoners murmur amongst themselves of riots, of defending themselves. Some speak louder than others, and they are placed in solitary confinement.

Ringleaders are beaten and humiliated. The voices of discontent grow in number, and fights break out between some of the prison gangs.

The flames of anger are fuelled by a deep source, and the riots do not quieten. Eventually there is a meeting amongst the wardens, and they decide to change their tactics.

The guards introduce new features to the cells, and the fire is extinguished. The prisoners find themselves hooked on a new drug, and the bars quickly fade from existence. They find themselves in strange worlds created by human hands, and they let their consciousnesses drift to other artificial lives.

Lulled into a dreamy catatonia they believe themselves to be mighty soldiers, secret agents, adonises and kings, while their muscles contract and weaken, and the mind blunts itself in contrast between the two realities.

While the prisoners are sedated, cracks and tunnels between walls are patched up, and the screws are sitting back, remembering all the past times this has happened over their long careers.

They laugh and incite the violence, sitting back and planning how to increase the profits from their low-earning workforce while counting their ill-gotten gains. History repeats itself.

The drug is not for everyone though, and not all the escape routes are discovered. The prisoners talk in yet new ways, with the guards unaware of the power of their little toys.

For while they are told to kill each other in their alternate realities, they soon discover that death is not the end, that at the press of a button they will be born again, refreshed.

The mindless sex, violence, money and roles eventually become tiresome to some, who seek more than just the scripted sequences in their new lives.

Some become skilled players, discovering glitches and loop holes to exploit. Knowledge is shared at an increased speed, and some of the prisoners begin to wean themselves off this illicit drug.

The cons find a way into the source code, the programming of the system set to hold them. Passage between the cell blocks becomes easier, and the prisoners once again mingle freely.

Soon alliances are formed, based on social groups, rather than labels. Another wall is torn down. The wardens take notice. Once again the guards go into the yard, and try the time tested tactic of terror.

Again the spirit of revolution is in the air, and the prison network begins to grow into a single unified group.

These are the times we live in. Eventually we will march to the wardens, and they shall flee to their vaults, and there shall be a long bloody battle between the old powers and the new.

The path is not clear. We stumble blindly forward into uncharted territory, and we are once again at a crossroads.

The last walls of reality are tumbling down. Our wings are sprouting, and we look to the heavens anew, and they are reachable. If the turmoil can end, we can take flight. If these turbulent times cripple us, then we are doomed to the hell we have created for ourselves.

The Price - Written 20/10/09 on a serviette in Leeds market while having a nervous coffee before my job interview.

Icarus soars, heritage a curse
None dare watch his captive pride

Prometheus laughs through his pains

Then stirs - A flutter of wings

Torments destroyed,
patricide

Knowledge arrives by hearse.

Reflections - Something A Little Different - Monday, 06 July 2009 at 11:32

I went walking last night.

Above the Marine Drive, I scanned from the castle across to Scalby Manor. I felt my skin grow cold and clammy to the touch. I grabbed my arm, god knows why, maybe just to try and rub some life into this husk of a shell I wear.

I stared at my hand as I moved it, and it stopped in front of the moon, a perfect symbol of unity. I realised I was smiling, and the cool sea breeze deadened my fever. I began to reevaluate, thinking perhaps I was too harsh in my constant hatred of society. Things seemed pretty good from here.

I took one final look at the calm vista, and turned around.

I was confronted with empty, run-down hotels. I felt myself beginning to shake again, as I remembered why I held my world views.

Man. That was the problem. Man.

A prime example of manhood was sat at the steps of one of the particularly soul-destroying buildings. He was in his 40's, dressed in a baseball cap, wearing tracksuit top and bottoms. He was rolling a cigarette lazily, and I noticed LOVE and HATE were tattooed on his knuckles. I looked around and saw no-one.

I looked upward, and saw no cameras. I stared back down at my quarry, and clenched my hands into white fists of rage. I thought over all the things people like this had done. I remembered seeing 8-10 of people dressed the same way jumping on the head of a 13 year old girl. Thoughts like this were good. They gave me focus. A cold calm came over me. I stared up at the moon one last time, grinned, and walked up to the man.

When he noticed me, he stopped laughing, though the smile remained on his face. I started to laugh. He continued to just look at me, smiling. My laugh grew in strength, as I noticed the "No Vacancies" sign in the derelict hotel. The guy just kept sitting and smiling. Eventually, my humour cooled, and I sat down. I was feeling a little better, so I got out a cigarette of my own, and lit it. The smoke filled my lungs, and the rage I felt dissipated slightly.

I had drifted off, but snapped back into life as the guy spoke to me. "Giss one o' them." he slurred. As he spoke, his right eye continued to open and close half-way, while his left remained completely focused on me. It was unnerving to say the least. Then the smell of this guy hits me. His hot, sweaty, whiskey rotted breath rasped into my face. I leant back involuntarily, grimacing at the drunk as fluids drooped from both his mouth and his nose.

I held up the pack to him. "Last one, man sorry." I started to put the pack away, when suddenly I was on my back. The piss-head had just hit me. He was surprisingly quick, and I wasn't, so he had hit me about four more times before I had got onto my feet. He staggered back, the energy of punching me damaging him much more than me. I lazily rub at my jaw with one hand, and with the other I flick out a quick jab to his nose.

I don't have the strength I used to have. I'm lucky if I can move a barrel of beer without grimacing. But sometimes you just get a lucky punch. My jab connected, and his nose crunched down and to the left.

"FOOKAH!" he spluttered, holding his nose. I laughed again at the man, who couldn't even stop the blood from spurting between his fingers. This was great. Now I understand the people who do this sort of thing on a weekly basis.

It's a drug, an addiction, like any other. The adrenaline I felt, the bloodlust, as this prime specimen of humanity was wounded, was shown to be weak. I saw the drunk notice my realisation, maybe he even came to the same one himself. His eyes grew wide in disbelief. In my mind, I could just imagine what those eyes were saying.

"What the fuck? This doesn't usually happen! Usually I get my cigarette! Usually they have the blood!" Maybe I was still high after all. I advanced again towards the shit, and picked it up in my hands. I slapped his hands away from his nose. He cried out but offered no resistance. I gently took hold of his stubbled, slimy face, and turned it up towards my own. I smiled, and like the retard he is, he smiled back at me.

After I headbutted him, I walked away. I sat on the road outside The Albert, and opened the pack of cigarettes I had concealed in my coat. Shaking, I flicked the lighter, and gazed upon my relfection in a car as the sparks illuminated my ghastly visage.

Bits of blood, mucous, and god knows what else were covering my face and hands. Inhaling, I stand up and look closer at myself in the car. I look deep into my eyes. I notice that the reflection of my eyes has it's own reflection, and I stare at that, holding the lighter up close to my face. The person I see in that reflection is not myself.

He has a similar face, and hairstyle, but when I moved, he did not. I was brought back to reality once again, this time by bright blue lights, and cacophonous sirens. I considered running away, but then realised that I felt proud of my crime, and wanted the world to know. I stood up, and started walking back towards where I had left my victim.

An ambulance blazed by. It parked ahead of me, and two paramedics ran out to the body. I sat down on the wall opposite the scene, smoked and watched. It took them about 40 minutes to get the guy into the ambulance. The drunk woke up as they were moving him, and started trying to run off. They calmed him down, and drove off.

I finished my cigarette, and walked over to where I had taken my new drug. A pool of blood lay stagnant on cracked tiles, and once more, lighter in hand, I gazed at my reflection of a reflection.

Heaven of Hell, Hell of Heaven by Martin Peel on Wednesday, 06 May 2009 at 21:34

With fleeting words and unleashed tears
I am cast down at the end of my years

Proud as Lucifer before his fall
I mocked all around me, walking tall

The feelings I had became too much
I could no longer see, I had to touch

I fought with weaklings, I battled fools
I mocked the vanquished, I broke their rules

Finally my youth turned fey
My eyes were dull, my hair ran grey

My enemies had number through their common cause
Of Pyrrhic battles, long fought wars

Overpowered and alone
They dragged me from their golden throne

So again like Satan, I am cast down
Through hate of God, for lust of crown

I am sentenced by my peers
To suffer through my lifelong fears

My punishment is just and undisputed
My rise to power soon refuted

No moral is learnt, no fable here
Save to love your brethren is to live free from fear

Ache - 05/04/09 16:09

Wandering, grasping, seeking,
I searched for you, lost and dreaming.
Endless laughing for your touch,
By my side, you are my crutch.

Mirrored on our journey,
Silently you stir me.
Focusing through pain,
Your eyes keep me sane.

Picturing your lips and smile,
I beg of you to stay a while.
You turn your head as you leave,
Bereaving me, my heart you cleave.

Remembrance From A Quiet Afternoon in the Pub. - Transcribed from A5 paper written shakily on a bar. 21:21 02/04/09

As a child, I grew up on a steady diet of fantasy. From The Hobbit and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe being read to me as a young boy, I was engrossed. Here was a window out of a mundane, repetitive childhood.

A magical, bright land of quests, nobility, monsters, and best of all - it was believable. I recast the protagonist as myself, and it became a common sight in my infant school playground to see me hunched over a battered copy of The Lord of The Rings, seemingly unaware of the sunshine, or the other children, playing happily at their own game, their own escape routes.

I devoured any piece of fiction I could. Soon, I began reading horror, sneaking through my father's collection of that which previously were too daunting to consider. I read cover to cover the collected works of Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft.

I was thrust into a world of alien landscapes, shapeless, grinning malevolent entities, possessed houses, and good men corrupted by the atrocities they had witnessed. I started to lie awake by a small lamp until early in the morning, then sleep in discomfort with over-used eyes, a creak in the neck from the angle of my bedside reading, and terrifying dreams in which I faced down countless terrors, dreamt themselves by a fevered imagination.

I began to both love and hate this early period of my life, my night-terrors now seeping over into my days. I shut myself even more away, turning my bedroom into a makeshift study. I noticed my father's occult texts then, and began to style myself after Aliester Crowley, as countless other people have before, and since.

Teachers became worried. I stood in direct contrast to the other children, who talked about Superman, or their favourite footballer. I talked about invocations in Egypt, of hideously powerful demons kicking sand over protective circles, and destroying men's minds. Parents were called in, and I started to rebel at this creative restriction.

For my next project I was assigned, I deliberately tried to offend. Entitled Infamous Murderers, I wrote in lurid detail about the crimes of such twisted personalities as Charles Manson, The Moors Murderers, Peter Kurten (The Vampire of Dusseldorf), and The Son of Sam.

My teacher, despite despising the subject choice was impressed by my analytical skill. I had drawn comparisons between motive and parental abuse. Unknown to me at the time, my suppositions were keeping in line with accepted criminal psychology at the time.

Grudgingly accepting to change the title to Infamous People, I had my photo taken for the front cover, and my project was forced to be hung alongside such masterworks as My Weekend, and Things I Like.

I still possess this early writing, and stare at my face on the cover whenever I wonder how I ended up this way.

Cry For Dawn - 30/03/2009

Despite my inward feelings that made me hesitate, I knelt down and kissed her forehead while she slept. It was a foolish thing to do, but I knew it would be the last time I ever saw her. Even if my goal is achieved, I realise that many years will pass before she would forgive me. I brushed her hair softly with my fingertips, and she sighed in her sleep, perhaps sensing somehow the future that awaited her.

The small dagger shined in the candlelight, lighting up the room in strange geometry, as I dipped the blade into the liquid. I uttered the words. “Clavia. Astrata. Baal.” I repeated them slightly louder, then traced the blade across her skin, almost lovingly. A frown passed over her previously angelic features, and the slight marks I had made inscribed sigils on her, to please those I seek to beg from. Blood started to well and pool, and smoke slightly – the poison on the dagger doing it's work. I lent over her stomach, and drank steadily. A moan passed her lips, she arched her back, and any doubts I had were dispelled.

The candles in the room went out one at a time by an unseen hand. The woman froze, her face contorted in agony now, not ecstasy, and I am reminded of the fine line between the two. Her skin grew taut on her body, and she seemed to age before my eyes. Dark hair turned grey, eyes became sunken, and her nails grew brittle and fell away. She spoke then, in a voice that man was not meant to hear.

“You are in the presence of Prince Orobas, commander of twenty of Hell's legions, and speaker of truth. You shall not be deceived in my presence, Magus.”

A thrill ran through my mind at the sound of that last word. Magus. The culmination of ten painstaking years, trawling through decaying grimoires, and studying from insane fools. It took a further five to discover and translate the ritual I had just performed, and I was acting in haste. Fate had sped my hand. The woman spoke again, distracting me from my idle thoughts. “Why do you summon me?”

A fair question in any other circumstances, but in these I grew suspicious. Orobas was supposed to hold all knowledge in his power, and could do naught but speak the truth. At least according to Solomon. Suddenly nauseous, I feel I have been tricked. What if one of the other demons from the Ars Goetia had been summoned? Belial, lord of lies and guilt? Astaroth, prince of accusers and inquisitors, who reigned over Earth during the inquisition? I speak in a voice that does not betray my fear.

“You should know who I am, Orobas. Show me your true form, and tell me all you know of me.”
A child's giggle came from the woman, and she started to dissolve into a vile, black, tendrous smoke. This drifted away, before re solidifying as something much worse. It was not Orobas. I retched as I saw the body of a large wolf materialise, with a tail of some infernal serpent, and the head of a raven. The raven-headed beast smiled, showing canine teeth, and fire danced in it's throat.

“Be careful, Magus.” The demon spoke much more sarcastically now, seemed sure of victory. “You bear no protection from me. These trite tokens mean nothing to me.” he said, surveying the dim room I stood in. “I am Amon. Seventh of seventy-two. Duke of Hades. Allier of foes, procurer of love, and I serve Astaroth in the house of Wormwood.”

Alas! I had heard of this demon. Although he could offer me what I wanted, I had to change my plan of action, otherwise I would be cast down into the abyss, to be tortured mentally in Pandemonium, my pain serving to augment Hell's forces.

“Wise Duke, I am but a humble mortal, who wishes to serve his soul to Hell in exchange for mere words.” I spoke with humility to the beast, who flicked his tail back and forth impatiently. I cajoled, I pleaded, I flattered. Eventually Amon decided that it would grant me my boon, in exchange for my eternal soul. I raised conditions though, so that if at any time I die without gaining my wish, I would be untouchable to Hell, and proceed straight to Purgatory, if not Heaven. I remembered the demon's sarcasm at the word Magus and I knew it thought it was dealing with an amateur. In truth, it was.



I thought back to what made me end up like this : Bargaining everything I ever shall be, all for knowledge. I wasn't always like this. I was happy once.

It seems like forever now, but in truth was no less than twelve years, my 31st birthday. I was married and devoted to Dawn, my beacon in the darkness, her a Beatrice to my Dante.
I was confirmed as bipolar since before we met, but occasionally I would sink under the weight of my depression, and she would be there, keeping us both afloat.

I was unemployed, coasting from one soul-crushing job to another, while she was a professional – a career woman with a bright future. I could never understand what she saw in me, why she put herself through it all. When my depression did attack, even with her help I soon started to need medication.

Desperate for a job, I could not visit a psychiatrist to prescribe me anything to help, so I self-medicated. Starting off with the relatively safe tobacco and alcohol, I soon escalated to stronger drugs.

From cannabis to LSD, the psychotropics were my favourite, and worst. On a typically black and dismal night, I was encased in my room, surrounded in blackness, visualising on the matter of the universe, when I am suddenly assailed by a bright light.

Unknown to me, my darling Dawn had arrived at the time fitting her name, and with her came the sunlight from the door. In my intoxicated state however, she seemed to be my dead father, descended from heaven – calling upon me to do my duty to the Lord, and repent of my wicked ways.

I panicked, and looking frantically around. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand; one of my needles. With a guttural cry, I jumped from the bed at my loved one and plunged the contraption into my wife's throat.

She gagged, grasping her throat, and fell back with a crash amongst my papers. I laughed maniacally, and sat on the floor, rocking backwards and forwards. I was woken upon hearing a few muffled shouts, and then dragged screaming into a van, and then jail. Claiming complete amnesia (a truth) the police informed me that I was found covered in blood, murder weapon in hand, next to my murdered wife.


I was referred to a psychiatric prison and served 9 months, a sure sign of society's ineptitudes. I started to have slight recollections of the night, and from then on I could never sleep, my insomnia guaranteed by my ghastly crime. Knowing my only hope of salvation would be to discover the true message from my father in Heaven, I scoured the world on stolen credit cards, for any tome, grimoire, or item that would help me to commune with those supreme servants of God, angels.

I believed that I must speak to Michael, as he alone could tell me of those on the other side of the veil, servants of his satanic majesty. I walked to a holy place, and inhaled deeply from the mixture I had bought from Marrakesh. I stared at a mural of Michael fighting Beelzebub, sword poised proudly above his head, ready to swipe at the adversary's head. I closed my eyes, and reopened them to a different mural – that of Michael cast down in flames, two demons torturing him endlessly. I interpreted this to mean that the message from Michael concerned Hell, and the false message from my father came from the same place.


I cursed God, and began to study a different path, that of dreaming monsters, biblical blasphemies, and power untold. I grew in power as a magician, progressing through the ranks, from Neophyte, to Ipssisimus. Yet with all my power, I could not determine the point of the message, from Hell or Heaven.

So there we have it. I have given all that I have and ever will be to merely know what my accursed father meant me to know. I select a particularly unkempt prostitute from the streets, and with a flash of money lead her to my apartment.

Surprisingly beautiful once cleaned, despite the needle-marks scouring her body, I spike some wine with all the pills I can find in the house, and watch her drink it. I carve the marks with the dagger as I mentioned previously, and then repeat my story to the Duke, Amon.

After hearing my story, Amon laughs the laugh of razorblades, and stares at me, with hideous equine eyes.

“Very well, Magus, you shall see Hell's message for you.” With that the room dissolves, and I find myself in one of the middle cantos of Hell, where my father is being stung in the eyes by mad hornets, buried up to his torso in leeches. His pains of scream double in intensity as he sees me next to his captor, Amon.

I stare at the Duke, and with a gesture the torture stops, and my father regards me with sorrowful eyes. I question him, and he hacks up blood into the writhing leeches below, and starts to speak.

“My son, it is said in the good book that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons. This has never been more true. Despite my pure motives, I too fell into the same pit of despair you are now in. We are from a blessed bloodline, with a quest so valuable that we are chosen to do it by God himself. Our thirst for secret knowledge is to aid us, and we gorged too long, too deep. We alchemised a holy quest into a sinful journey. We were swayed by the Earthly delights, and blocked out the heavens. Once I had died in sin, the demonic forces knew that Heaven's last chance rested with you, my son. They tortured me until I agreed to help them, and I gave the message to you. Heaven knew you weren't ready. God knew that some words aren't meant to be heard by humans. But you listened. You should have known that Heaven relies on faith to do it's work. But now it is too late.”

My father paused for breath, and Amon giggled behind me, like a child that has just pulled a leg from spider. The demon clapped it's hands (claws?) and the leeches and hornets resumed their work. The demon spoke again with it's suicide voice,

“The contract is complete. Your soul is ours. The earthly plains will be ours again. Your pain begins.”

Impaled suddenly by a hundred swords, sounds I never thought possible issued from my throat, and the swords began to fly through the air, carrying me with them. I see the world go by faster and faster, and I make out a bejewelled-red sword, eight feet high, easily distinguishable from the desert I am now in and black sky. I am carried above the sword, and somehow even more painfully, the swords are removed.


I fall, dying, and am skewered. My pain turns into something even greater, mixing with fear as I realise the sword is being powered from the desert, and the night sky. I remember there is no day in Hell.


I am crying in the night.

I am crying, and I cry for Dawn.