The Goldenville Experience

Every so often on my physical journeys to a particular location a spirit will tell me a story of it. This was my experience in a small hamlet called “Goldenville” near Sherbrook, Nova Scotia. I had been searching for a friend’s sister who had gone missing for several weeks. Rumour had it she landed in the clutches of some Manson-style self-proclaimed guru who had bought some property there. I knew this creep only too well, and when he came around with some dubious premise that he was under psychic attack- I played along with my own plan in mind. Needless to say, my suspicions were confirmed. He had her there drugged on rediculous amounts of synthetic mescaline. What he didn’t know was that I had a high resistence to the stuff since my LSD days in Westphalia, Germany. When the lot were too busy getting wasted and talking a lot of pseudo-religious nonsense, I buggered off into the shale fields to work out my plan of escape. It was there after a while I felt something call out from deep within that rock, a very ancient spirit. I sat down and let the images come to me as it told me its story. Where I sat was once the center of a great continent many millions of years ago. I saw the great swamps that formed in its midst, teeming with strangest life. Then came a great catastrophy and the continent divided. Spirit then explained how these cataclysmic cycles contributed to the great diversity of life forms out of which we were born. Although I knew much of this already, Spirit helped me put it together into a tangible stream of causality. This was excellent, as I was otherwise wasting my time there in that bleak landscape. As for the guru, on the following morning I threatened to torch his house lest he drive me back to Halifax, and he knew I certainly would have. Of course, once back in Halifax with 50 dollars to buy my silence, I informed my friend’s mother, who immediately sent the RCMP to raid the place on the charge of kidnapping (snicker).

About Ghosts and Spirits

It's a popular misconception that ghosts should appear transparent, rather they are a very solid looking manifestation of altered time. Take for instance the case of Roman legions marching through the basement walls of a house that was built atop an ancient road. The figures look very real, yet, pass through the basement as if its walls didn't exist. Indeed, these walls didn't exist in their time. These, however, are not to be confused with spirits, whose forms can be highly suggestive. Either way we can forget about catching them on optical frames of visible light, rather, would require algorithmically mapping their quantum signatures- something which our brain actually does quite unconsciously- that we have yet to replicate technologically. At most we can only catch the thermal absorption anomalies they leave behind, otherwise it's about as effective as trying to photograph radio waves.

The earth is a great natural dynamo for all the tidal forces in its atmosphere, the great oceans, and the magma convections under its rather tenuous crust. This, along with the gravitational effects of its mass spinning at an equatorial speed of 1,674.4 km/h or 1,040.4 mi/h has a measureable effect of distortion on the fabric of spacetime, and that’s aside from orbiting the sun at a speed of 29.77 km/s. Thus, it should be no surprise that we see some pretty strange things wherever these forces attenuate into the transcendental.

Spirits are a different story, for the simple fact that they interact with us; though most times on a subliminal level. They are everything from wights and little people, down to the unresolved souls of the dead. One must understand local spacetime on this earth as a multilayered thing, with the occasional “thinning of the boundaries” at the nodes of these attenuating forces. We can suddenly find ourselves within their alter-reality in a different order of time- where a few seconds can seem like hours or quite the opposite. They may come to us through a mere energy signature, rather like a signal- the experience of their presence seeming more a tele-projection or dreamlike synthesis. Sometimes we may only hear a voice, or perceive a very vivid scent. To understand the nature of these different manifestations gives us something more tangible to work with in comprehending their messages- in effect, learn how to work with them in a better understanding of existence as a whole. This is the essence of spirituality as nature intended it.

Encounters With Johnston

The six years I spent in Westphalia Germany, was in an old fortified medieval town called Soest. A great circular maze of old cobbled streets, alleys, and houses so ancient, their walls of clay and straw were seldom straight. There were plenty of strange old spirits. You could even hear them joking and playing cards in the old guard house of the town's main gate on warm full moon nights. Thus when we moved into an old colonial Victorian house in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, I was already well accustomed to these things. It would happen late at night, just as I was drifting into sleep, something relentlessly pacing throught the attic above. The mutterings would escalate into somekind of philosophical perplexity, as whoever it was, was obviously trying to figure something out. Whenever I sat in deep thought at the window or on the door step, it would empathically intervene, in cynical agreement of my insights. Despite my young age I already had quite enough of society's rediculous gestalt games. He agreed that humanity had obviously missed the big picture somewhere down the line. Then he would ramble on and on about some strange mystical formula, that I later learned was Rosicrucian. He was looking for the key to some higher realm of existance. It was right there under his nose, but he just couldn't see it for all his mystical precepts. It was futile. He just wouldn't let go of any of it, eternally trapped in his own quasi-temporality until hell knows what for the sake of immortality. Thus these late night haunts became tediously annoying, to say the least. Then the news came from Germany of my grandfather's stroke after a low flying fighter jet had shattered all the windows in his neighbourhood. It was barely a week later, I was tossing in my sleep with the most nagging feeling of his imminent death, when the pacing suddenly stopped with a loud crash. The phone rang and it was my father calling to tell us that Opa had just died.

For my brother, it was a different story. He actually saw the man one morning at sunrise, hovering cross legged before the window, leering at him. I think what shocked him was the fact of something so alter-real actually blocking the sunlight as a solid form. My friends, however, were a foolish lot, often dabbling in things they just didn't have the guts for. One night they tried to hold a seance in my bedroom. I only laughed and said "heh, I hope you realize what you're getting yourselves into". Needless to say, our resident spook did not approve, and a cold hand on the shoulder soon sent them fleeing out of the house.

The large house had been divided into a duplex, and our side of it had no access to the attic. In the basement there was a door to the other side, but it was locked. Of its "living" residents was a divorced woman who worked at the bus terminal and her elderly bed ridden father. She had a terrible reputation as a nattering gossip, so I did my best to avoid her. At first I wondered if the pacing at night was the old man, that maybe he wasn't so bed ridden. She was always giving him hell, which was very disturbing indeed. I felt for the poor man. Then one day he died, and the house was up for sale. We were not yet required to move, pending the decision of the new owners. Nonetheless the pacings and mutterings did not relent.

With the other side now vacant, I took the liberty of picking the lock of that basement entrance. Reaching the ground floor, I found myself in a beautiful spiral stairwell with a stained glass skylight. I ascended into the attic but all was empty and silent as it should be, still there was a feel to that whole side of the house, of something lurking on the temporal borderline. A well educated quaker friend, upon learning where I lived, told me it was the "Johnston House", the summer residence of one of Nova Scotia's first premiers. An extremely eccentric chap who despite his public Christian standing, was a notorious Rosicrucian. My brother went down to the Dartmouth Heritage Museum to check this out. Not surprisingly the face in the picture matched the one he saw leering at him that one morning. When we finally moved out, I could feel the man watching from his attic retreat as he said "You'll be back", but I knew deep down it was only his wishful thinking and turned away.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_W._Johnston

2009 Parliament of the World’s Religions

I thought this article in the Pagan Newswire was brilliant so I just had to post it here. It's exactly what I've been trying to get through these pentacle waving trendies for years:

In the world of Interfaith relations, where religions, faiths and traditions seek to find cooperation and peaceful coexistence, the labels and definitions and how they are used are important. Descriptions of faith practices are the way interfaith speakers share information that leads to greater understanding, and the clearer the language used, the better chance all parties will be able to find common ground. In this case, for a very long time Paganism has been defined by the Christian definition of any non-Abrahamic religion. This has been considered a derogatory term by many faiths, and seen as insult to many including members of Hinduism, Buddhism, Native and Indigenous faiths. They each desired that they be seen as an equal religion with their own title and definitions to be used. In this, by agreement, Paganism is not used to directly describe any faith simply because it is not Christian, Muslim, or Jewish. This agreement has allowed each faith attending to put aside the use of this word as a central description of their faith.

So the term Pagan itself is being redefined from this old Christian based definition. Part of the Teaching of Traditions series, created with the help of Pagan Trustees, describes Paganism as follows: “Paganism” is a collective term that most aptly defines Indigenous cultures of pre-Christian Europe, the Celtic and Germanic Tribes, The Balts, The Scandinavians, The Basques, The Slavs and many others.

The first Pagan presentation of the Parliament helped begin this change of identity and was called “People Call Us Pagans-The European Indigenous Traditions”, by PWR Trustees Angie Buchanan, Andras Arthen, and Phyllis Curott. The opening of the description is as follows: As the World confronts environmental devastation, we are beginning to appreciate the wisdom of Indigenous peoples who have lived thousands of years in sustainable harmony and spiritual connection with the Earth. After hundreds of years of suppression, most Westerners have forgotten that their ancestors once shared this wisdom as the Indigenous traditions of Europe. *

This concept of Paganism as being based deeply in European Indigenous Traditions has fascinated and found ground among American, European and Australian members of the Parliament. It helps move Paganism from being a New Religious Movement to an Indigenous tradition, and offers many more opportunities to reach out at the parliament.

As described by Andras Corban-Arthen most forms of modern Paganism can be described as part of the New Religious Movements as they were formed in the 20th century, yet there are several Pagan ethnic traditions that have survived Christianization. One such example is Romuva of Lithuania. It is these ethnic traditions that fit better into the description of Indigenous traditions, instead of New Religious Movements. It allows Pagans to be part of both New Religious Movements and also recognized as part of the Indigenous traditions. By accepting that Pagan Traditions are indigenous to Europe, then individuals must take another look and it presents them with a different paradigm of what Pagan stands for.

Further, Andras Corban-Arthen points out that Wicca, for example, cannot be seen as an indigenous Pagan faith practice and is instead a modern syncretic movement. Under this description Wicca therefore would not fall under the definition of Pagan, and would be squarely a New Religious Movement, while British Traditional Witchcraft could be considered a Pagan and Indigenous faith tradition.

This concept of redefining Paganism as Indigenous Faith Practices of Europe has been seen as a way to change perceptions. River Higginbotham, Author and Pagan, who has heard this definition for the first time at the Parliament, describes this change as one that will benefit many Pagans, and he accepts that most Pagans he knows draw on European traditions to form their own practices. This allows them grounding in culture, and this description has given them a better understanding of where their faith is coming from.

Angie Buchanan offers that recognition of Paganism as an extension of the faith practice of Indigenous European Religions gives modern Pagans grounding in their own traditions. This will help them find their own customs and rituals. This will discourage modern Pagans from raiding other Indigenous faiths rituals and practices, which is also known as Cultural Appropriation, which many Native Americans and other culturally based ceremonialists describe as a form of spiritual theft. By having Pagans focus on their own European roots, they can avoid creating situations that would aggravate cultural appropriation that harms interfaith efforts.

Linda Hart, Interfaith Liaison for Pagan Awareness Network of Australia, feels this is a good description for Paganism, and finds it useful for non-Pagans to understand. It is a useful tool in dealing with other indigenous faiths, which do not see themselves as Pagan. Instead this allows Pagans to share as fellow Earth-Based Spiritualists.

So we see that Paganism is beginning to be used to describe Indigenous European faiths, and that other practices by Indigenous people are being seen as part of a larger family of Earth-Based Spiritualists; That some forms of what we call Paganism are really independent of that term and are better described their own name under New Religious Movements.

In all cases, the definition that Pagans are those who practice a faith not covered by Christianity, Judaism, or Islam, should be discarded as politically and socially unacceptable. That we must look beyond a definition forced onto the world by missionaries as a way to divide us, and instead accept that each faith practice can and should be called by the name of their choice.

For many self-described Pagans, this is a different lens to view themselves with, and offers a chance to reexamine their faith as Pagans, Earth Spiritualists, New Religious Movements, or something else yet to come. It may be time to examine the entire Pagan movement under this new definition and allow it to evolve into more than simply one community; that understanding these differences and the labels they generate can allow us to interact more fully in a multi-religious and pluralistic Interfaith World, as shown at the Parliament of World’s Religions.

*PWR Program Handbook, 2009, pg.142-143

Örlog and the Joys of Bureaucracy

My mother took a stroke back in the heat of August, refusing to drink enough fluid. She always had that ugly habit of resisting my advice, tooth and nail. Of course, to further complicate things, my pleas to the village doctor's office for a paramedic, were not given all due urgency- and that despite my thorough description of the symptoms. At least the red cross came in due course and we rushed her off to the stroke unit. Thus doctors were able to dissolve the blood clot within ample time for a full recovery. However, given the old brain damage from the impact of a 20 meter fall in 1953 they decided against putting her into an artificial coma (as is procedure for the body to process the neurological effects of recovery)- rather, put her under heavy sedation and restraint for 24 hours with my brother's permission. He also confirmed the information I gave on her disabilities. The rest was pretty self-evident in the scans and her response to the treatment. Needless to say, the doctors had never seen anything like it. She made such a speedy recovery though, that they had trouble keeping her in bed, thus continued to sedate her. I had a job interview that day when they resolved to transfer her to the psychiatric hospital in Emmendingen some 40 kilometers away for the standard three to four weeks rehab. "We need you to go with her and talk to the staff there" they said. "Oh joy", I thought, as it was the hottest day of the year, and would undoubtly have to wing it to the train station on foot afterwards to make it back in time for my appointment. Indeed, what an arduous trip that was, and I had to keep watch over her as the ambulance driver had to wait 3/4 at the reception there for them to process her transfer forms. Fortunately the staff in the ward she was admitted to were friendly and most accomodating so I was able to get back to Lahr in time. Well, as if I didn't have enough trouble, that job interview turned out to be a come on. It was clear they had already picked their lot, but under quite different conditions than the agreement they made with the local "Kommunale Arbeitsförderung". Now I am familiar with the trick questions that time-share agencies use to profile their applicants, but this verged on the totally ridiculous. This girl couldn't have been older than 20, and went through her questions like an automaton fresh out of business school. She looked through my CV and said "Oh you're a Canadian" even though it clearly read "German" then comes out with- "where in Canada do you come from?" "Sorry", I replied politely, "but there is no one place in Canada that I come from, and I've been living in Germany now for 40 years". As I suspected, this was not the answer she wanted, rather, like most of these deluded Lahrers, take Canada for some promise land they can't imagine why anyone would leave. Just how do you explain to such twits that thanks to your mother coming from the east zone you've been treated like some stateless persona ungrata for years- not to mention all the secret government agencies that try to fuck you over for what you'll never know why. Then came the stupid question: "What would be your dream job?" I damn near fell out of my chair. This is a question you ask a young apprentice and not someone 55 with decades of professional trade experience. Others I talked to who the Komunale had also submitted, were in no way received like this and assured me they would have been just as gobsmacked by such impertinent questions. Through them I found out these buggers were lying about providing us a steady workplace without need of a car- rather, as I suspected, looking for temps they could send anywhere on the spur of the moment. "Springers" as is usually the case with such time-sharing outfits, and given the inadequate public transport where I lived, naturally ruled me out. So, in essence the interview was only insofar as to convince the Komunale that they "reviewed" all applicants. Nonetheless, my sympathy goes out to my classmate who did get hired by this lot. Everyone's suspicions were confirmed when Acromed phoned her up just two days before the end of the course, asking when she could come as they needed a springer. She is not a happy camper, to say the least, but better her than me.

Well, after getting all that behind me, I get this letter from the medical insurance asking about the alleged "accident" from which my mother sustained the head injuries and subsequent dementia. With it they included a standard form, for which the most part would have required a crystal ball to fill out. Heh, that all happened in Hameln back in 1953, a year before I was born. She scarcely has any recollection herself, rather, most of it I had to piece together from what her father and my father had told me over the years. She was working as a German state employee for the British stationed there. A job she got from her father, who was the town's employment director at the time. He was given the position as a rehabilitation for his 5 years incarceration in a nazi labour camp. At the time there were plenty of old nazis still malingering about, forever scheming to do away with the allied occupation in whatever devious little underhanded ways they could. Needless to say, they took it out on his daughter, with every intent of revenge. A mysterious phone call, luring her out to the gangway overlooking where the vehicles were being serviced. All she vaguely remembers was a forceful hand pushing her from behind as she looked down to see who was there. The town police had their suspicions and investigated the matter but could find no witnesses. It happened after hours and the building was empty.

After I filled out the form to the best of my knowledge and got my mother to sign it, I phoned the woman who sent the form and explained that if they want documentation they will either have to contact the civil archives in Hameln or Berlin. By all accounts records kept by the British forces stationed in Germany are also available in the Berlin archives and were meticulously kept. I just can't foot the cost of so much research. I guess that was enough, as I haven't heard from them since and all my requests have gone through without recourse. I have yet to locate the documents of my mother's involuntary service in the Luftwaffe. By all accounts, the Americans buggered off with all those records when the Soviets put up the Berlin wall and haven't returned them since. Frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if that was also party to my run-in with MK-Ultra. Just don't talk to me about örlog, I assure you I've had enough of it, thanks but no thanks.

Let the Leaves Fall

Well, I'm finally catching up with all that fell in arrears during that crash course in nursing aids. Not surprisingly the question remains, just what do I do with this qualification for what. Indeed, that's what my employment counsellor called me in to ask. The funny thing is, he was the one who sent me on that course. Ahh, gone are the days where administrations kept their people informed, but what the hell, what I learned that month is certainly practical in my circumstances at home. I'm also back on facebook, for what it's worth. Even in my absence the buggers swamped me with a total of 90 requests. After I blocked all the silly game apps, idiotic personality quizzes and worn out gift ideas I finally had it down to a manageable number. Of course, no sooner I accomplished that, the smaller forum of a friend went and crashed. Scheisse. Still, things on ning have settled down for a while and the gardening's almost done, so I've had time to reflect. What springs to mind was that last drama of Jan's and the burning of her own bridges. She was always crying wolf, trying to lobby us into the firing line of her jealous contentions. That same old game of playing both sides against the middle, as if we should feel some dire need to compete..but what's the point of explaining that to the god-fearingly pretentious? Either way, they're going to deny it. So Jan, save posting your flakey comments on Mojie's wall. We're just not buying it. That should have been obvious since we left. Although, I do occasionally enjoy refuelling their fears, it's rather like shooting fish in barrel whenever I don't feel up to much else. A real no-brainer.

Home Sweet Home

Coming back from Emmendingen today, we took the alternate route through my favourite part of the Rhine Valley. Pity I didn't have my camera with me, it was utterly beautiful. The blue Vosges against the golden hues of the slowly setting sun on the one side, and the lush green hills of the old volcano on the other. The vast expanse of field and forest as far as the eye could see. There's something about this place so deeply imbedded in ancestral memory. Indeed this was homeland of my predecessors so many generations ago. Always such a deep reaching experience everytime I pass through these parts. This was also Goethe's favourite haunt. Sigh...I think I will come through here again in the fall, with my camera of course. Somewhere I have some pictures I took from the Haut-Koenigsburg overlooking these parts. I must find them and post them once I have a little more time to spare...