Good times santa cruz horoscope

Worst of all, they were based in only the most tenuous way on any real astrological understanding. Any reputable practitioner would have told you, for instance, that in order to assess the cosmic energies with any authenticity, you'd have to meditate on the movements and relationships of all the heavenly bodies, not just the sun.

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But newspaper horoscopes based their ersatz "predictions" solely on the sun's position. They made the absurd proposition that the lives of millions of people who share any particular "sun sign" are all headed in the same direction.

Nova Geração de Santa Cruz - GOOD TIMES 2017

In full awareness of all these truths, I struggled to drum up a rationalization for pursuing the gig -- I wanted to write the column in ways that would not feel fraudulent. That's when I hatched my plan to become a poet in disguise. Both in and out of academia, I had long been composing stuff that loosely qualified as poetry. True, I couldn't help but notice that the culture at large regarded poetry as a stuffy irrelevancy; people I considered huge talents, like John Berryman, W.

Merwin and Galway Kinnell, were not getting rich selling their lyrical creations. To a degree, I sympathized with the hoi polloi's underwhelming appreciation of the art form I loved so much. The majority of poets were humorless academics who seemed to have studied at the feet of a single constipated celibate.

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  • It was shocking how little entertainment burst from the caste I thought should be in charge of mining the frontiers of the imagination. I was perfectly willing for poetry to be demanding, complex and subtle, and even maddeningly mysterious. Yet the whole point of poetry in my opinion was to dynamite the ruts cut by ordinary waking consciousness, to sabotage clichi and common sense, to reinvent the language. But why did so much of this noble effort have to be uniformly listless, pretentious and inaccessible? And then there was my secret agenda. I was peeved that so few of "the antennae of the race" had enough courage and integrity to blow their own minds with psychedelic drugs.

    How could you explode the consensual trance unless you poked your head over onto the other side of the veil now and then?


    Allen Ginsberg, at least, had the balls to go where shamans go. Berryman seemed to have accomplished the same feat with the help of alcohol. As for myself, I had been drawn to and in contact with the other side of the veil long before resorting to psychedelic technology. I regularly remembered and treasured my dreams throughout childhood, and when I was 13 years old I also began to record them. This fervent ongoing immersion in the realm of the dreamtime imbued me early on with the understanding that there were other realities besides the narrow little niche that most everyone worshipped.

    Meanderings: Duality In Pisces

    As I gained confidence in the suspicion that my formal education had tried to conceal from me nine-tenths of reality, I tuned in to the paper trail documenting the existence of the missing part. It had been mapped by shamans, alchemists and magicians for millennia -- so my readings of Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell, Robert Graves and Mircea Eliade revealed. Their work in turn magnetized me to the literature of Western occultism, whose rich material was written not by academics but by experimenters who actually traveled to the place in question.

    The myriad reports were not in complete agreement, but many of their descriptions overlapped. The consensus was that the other side of the veil is not a single territory, but teems with variety, some relatively hellish and some heavenly. And there was another issue on which all the explorers agreed: Events in those "invisible" realms are the root cause of everything that happens down here.

    Shamans visit the spirit world to cure their sick patients because the origins of illness lie there. For cabalists, the visible Earth is a tiny outcropping at the end of a long chain of creation that originates at a point both inconceivably far away and yet right here right now. Even modern psychotherapists believe in a materialistic version of the ancient idea: that how we behave today is irrevocably shaped by events that happened in a distant time and place.

    As I researched the testimonials about the treasure land which almost everyone I'd ever known had conspired to hide from me , I registered the fact that dreams and drugs were not the only points of entry.

    Become a Jetsetter

    Meditation could give access, as could specialized forms of drumming, chanting, singing and dancing. The tantric tradition taught that certain kinds of sexual communion can lead there. As does, of course, physical death. I wanted to try all those other doors except the last one. In my work with dreams I had seen a steady growth of both my unconscious mind's ability to produce meaningful stories and my conscious mind's skill at interpreting them. But my progress was sketchy in the work of retrieving booty from the holy places where drugs took me.

    The big problem was that unlike the other techniques on the list, the psychedelic substances bypassed my willpower. Their chemical battering ram simply smashed through the doors of perception. No adroitness was involved on my part, no craft. One of my meditation teachers referred to drug use, no matter how responsible, as "storming the kingdom of heaven through violence.

    Instead I affirmed my desire to build mastery through hard work. Dream work, meditation and tantric exploration became the cornerstones of my practice. I must confess, however, that my plans did not immediately bear the fruit I hoped they would. Even my most ecstatic lucid dreams and illuminated meditations, I'm afraid, did not bring me to dwell on the other side of the veil with the same heart-melting vividness once provided by my psychedelic allies. Even my deepest tantric lovemaking and music-induced trances failed to provide the same boost. But then, after a while, into my life came a consolation: the 19th-century artist and visionary William Blake.

    My encounter with his work alerted me to the fact that there is yet another name for the fourth dimension -- a name that also describes a common, everyday human faculty that most of us take for granted. Here's the special message Blake seemed to have written just for me in "A Vision of the Last Judgment":. I exulted in this discovery. Blake became a secret weapon I could use in my covert war against all the poets who refused to be antennae of the race, against all the poets who regarded the visible world as the only one that deserved to have poetry written about it.

    It's true, however, that some of these poets, whom I called "materialists," were great inspirations to me. William Carlos Williams, for instance, taught me much about the art of capturing the concrete beauty of each earthly moment.

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    I loved this Williams' poem:. Williams was, for me, the best of the materialist poets. His work exhorted me to hone my perceptions and employ vigorous language. But my old pal William Blake gave me the doctrinal foundation with which I could rebel against Williams and rise to an even higher calling. Blake suggested that the worlds you dream up in your imagination might be more real than the red wheelbarrow. Might be was the key qualifier. Even then, at an unripe age, I was cautious about the indiscriminate use of this liberating proposition. I had read the Russian occultists Ouspensky and Gurdjieff, and they had made me aware that the out-of-control imagination is the function by which most people lie to themselves constantly, thereby creating hell on Earth.

    Obviously, this was not the kind of imagination Blake meant, and I vowed to keep that clear. More real than a red wheelbarrow. Blake showed me there was another way to access the fourth dimension: working as a creative artist, striving to discipline and supercharge the engine of the imagination. That was an extremely pleasurable realization. Furthermore, if it were true, as Blake and the shamans said, that every event on Earth originates in the spirit world, then the skilled imaginer was potentially God's co-creator -- not just describing conditions here below but creating them.

    I wanted to be like that. I wanted to fly away into the fourth dimension, reconnoiter the source of the messed-up conditions on the material plane and give them a healer's tweak. Retrieved July 22, The Stranger. Good Times Santa Cruz. Nuz, Inc. Retrieved July 19, Retrieved July 20, Images Are Dangerous.

    Santa Cruz, California: Jazz Press. The Televisionary Oracle. Frog Books. Metro Publishing, Inc. Retrieved May 23, Pronoia Is the Antidote for Paranoia. Categories : Living people 20th-century astrologers 21st-century astrologers American astrologers American astrological writers American male non-fiction writers American male singer-songwriters American singer-songwriters.

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