Was at Occupy Los Angeles today, in solidarity.

Today was a historic day. I can't even quite comprehend the magnitude of what is going on right now in the world. If nothing else, people are realizing their power.... they are realizing the truth that power comes from everywhere, and it can never be given, only taken.

I come home tonight with a renewed resolve to persevere on the mission to walk the line between scholarship and activism - to be an ambiguous mystic, straddling those two words, refusing to be confined by either one. Unfortunately I'm learning the system is configured to prevent exactly that. Fellow academics: Postmodern thought is a tool to be wielded very carefully, for as John Zerzan warns, after the human subject is completely obliterated and designated as a product of history, “who or what is left to achieve a liberation, or is that just one more pipe dream?” No, it’s not a pipe dream.

Us queers and freeqs within the academy shall not let postmodern rhetoric get out of hand. It shall not replicate like a virus, colonizing all of our thoughts, even our thoughts about ourSELVES. That’s what the corporate powers that fund university research are hoping will happen to the humanities — weakening them even more than they already have been. Rein it in. Postmodern thought has allowed many great insights to be established within the great Conversation: And yes, there are many truths, and yes, everything should be examined in context, and per its situadedness - but ecology and its related fields are just as good a framework for that ethic.

Just don’t take it to the point where YOU are the “subject” that is destroyed.

Don’t let universities work for the corporate state — recognize that many of them already are and consciously make the choice to resist — don’t be afraid of living in this world and advocating for social change.

To paraphrase part of Ghandi's philosophy: Knowledge without character, and science (including social science) without humanity... are some of the greatest dangers to human virtue.

A series on growing up as a queer mystic: Part one

This forthcoming content will be far more personal than is the norm for this blog, but I've realized I have to be open to this blog evolving as I do. The last two years have been rough personally for me, and I'm finally in a place where I feel like I can safely share some of the "stuff" that was really congesting my heart and soul during that time. I've lagged a bit with this blog during that time, and I deeply miss the celebration of life and ideas that this blog used to allow me on a more regular basis. So here goes attempting to integrate parts of myself that have been more compartmentalized in the past: I’m going to write a little series of stories about growing up/coming of age “queer”, which will help elucidate what “queer” means to me. A few weeks ago I journaled about this a lot and was able to see a lot of my history in a new way. Part of this clarity has come with moving across the country from where I grew up, cliche as that is. So I’m going to transcribe the story so far here and break it up into several posts. Enjoy, and thank you all for reading! Peace.
***
In high school and for much of college I lacked motivation, and also self respect. I had no vision of my future—particularly of my future self. Would I grow up to be a man or a woman? It was to me an obvious question (though not an obvious answer) because I really felt like neither girl nor boy. Perhaps boy more than girl, but my body (especially increasingly after puberty) certainly did not match that vision. So I felt ashamed because secretly I would entertain what I saw as a delusion… I saw my cross-gender identification as childish and fantastical. Thus at low points later in my life I felt a strange, unexplainable revulsion at daydreaming and unabashed use of the imagination. I think right before I found the language to describe how I felt, it was the worst. And I love imagination, it is the birthplace of magic and so central to our humanity… but I had developed a love/hate relationship with it, and something had to give…
I finally finished college. It barely seemed like a triumph, because although I’d had some amazingly formative experiences in the realm of the intellect, I did not have much to show for emotional development. During semesters I took off from school, it actually felt good to prolong the inevitable—that college would end and I would be thrust into the adult world, still feeling like a child—perhaps an intellectually intelligent one, but that hardly mattered, I realized. I don’t even know how much I subscribed to the idea that the end of college marks some kind of entry into a world more “real” than any other. But the residue from that myth, created like a cloud in the cultural ether, still weighed on me, and caused me to be afraid.
It ended up that I took to academia. Other than being fulfilling and stimulating mentally and thus (for me) socially, I took great comfort in the almost monastic, disembodied ritual of it. At my best, I thrive there, and at worst, perhaps hide from the world of people, consumerism, popular media and thus… gender roles.
Also there was a strange solidarity to be found in the scholarly realm. Not queer or transgender per se (for, I admit with some regret that befriending people who I shared that with was “not my thing” at the time—I was confused about where I belonged, to say the least). Rather, the solidarity I found there was one that tacitly implied some sort of outcast or “freak” self-identification on the part of us scholars. I repeat those epithets of course in their empowered, liberatory forms. Us queers-of-the-mind… we studied human culture, the human body and the human condition, and somehow this discipline seemed to help many of us cope with our own feelings of alienation from that mysterious subject… that confusing and messy text: humanity.
Academia is a sort of ascetic discipline. Especially grad school and especially the humanities… because it’s text, text, text all the time, that we ingest, and digest, and excrete. We bleed text, like the ancient desert father of Christianity did with respect to scripture. Athletes of the mind… or the soul, or your disembodied self of choice.
To be clear, this is no criticism of academia—far from it! Indeed I think that some semblance of these feelings are what drives scholarship and research forward. Maybe its simply “nerd solidarity”, but whatever it was, it helped me feel like I fit in somewhere.
Gradually I’ve learned how people leverage that positionality in as healthy a way as they can, and use that focus on “anything but the self” to help solve some of the world’s greatest mysteries and problems.
These people are scholars, professors, teachers, and doctors, to name some. High-level nerds, geeks and warlocks-of-the-word (and also not to forget the lifelong scholars—the "freelance gnostics" (term coined by Erik Davis) who work outside of the institution of academia, and these people are often the most graceful hackers and scientists-artists of all). Anyhow, I welcomed the opportunity to lose myself in the annals of history and anthropology, as if I was an alien from another planet, studying homo sapiens and their semiotic legacy.
If I didn’t have this academic rubric that concentrated my focus and took it away from myself, it seemed I would slip away on a cloud of fantasy, obsessing about things I felt I couldn’t change.
Scholarship —more precisely Christian history and the history of asceticism— is my magic wand. Magical items are just things that concentrate the attention, like light through a prismatic crystal, and beam it toward something specific.
I guess what connects me to the humans who founded mystical and ascetic theology thousands of years ago is this: We develop armaments of the mind, and they keep demons away. Define demons however you wish, but the method is tried and true, and in a world where many say that “God is dead”, it’s still working for me.
How is my quest for knowledge so different from those of the ancient past, who lived before universities existed? The impulse is the same…it is the human semiotic drive, and no one can escape its allure, not atheists, nuclear physicists, computer programmers, naturalists, nor people of faith. The mystery of the symbol is far too powerful. As I like to say, in the beginning was the Sign…and the sign was…
(To be continued…)

Survival Trip (Part 1) and a foreword about environmentalism

The first day of our wilderness survival trip (Saturday the 11th of June), we were to meet at the parking lot of the school at 7 AM, whereupon our three instructors would take us by car to an undisclosed location. This would be the location of our 4-night/5 day survival trip, for which we’d undergo “pocket checks” to make sure we weren’t bringing anything but the clothes we were wearing. Yes, this is actually what we signed up for!
Of course, having known “the rules” in advance, we were able to strategize a little bit by wearing several layers, top and bottom, including (hopefully) rain gear. Rain gear—along with the synthetic clothes some of us were wearing—are not admittedly neolithic, but this was at the same time quite a bit closer to that reality than many of us had ever gotten. We were all very, very pumped.
We ended up experiencing one of the wettest and coldest trips that our instructors had sent out (although we were only the third such group) — but in the end, the rewards only multiplied in the face of such adversity. Over the next few posts I’ll try to recount the highlights of the trip — which will tie in to the class of which it was a part, and in turn the larger social movement of re-skilling and stewarding ancient living skills of which that class is a part…
We were incredibly lucky to be a group of 7 very independent, upbeat people who were all really motivated to learn these skills. Together we took a 9 month course in which we learned the foundations of wilderness survival—including but not limited to what was needed for a “successful” 4 night survival trip in June in Vermont (a time of year where Mother Earth would be predictably generous—within a certain range of possibility, of course). Successful here means (true to the genre), simply surviving, not necessarily thriving (but trying to!) We met approximately one weekend a month, with a longer meeting in the beginning, and lots of homework in between, on everything from primitive hunting weapons (throwing mostly) to plant identification, to martial-artist-like perception and awareness training. It was hard to keep up with the homework, especially because of the contrast between the group solidarity and isolation from the civilized world we enjoyed during our weekends—very conducive to focused study and practice—and the clock-and-work driven life that we inevitably led plugged into the grid of the modern world. The latter, I came to realize, introduced its own brand of loneliness and isolation. In the living forest, with a few present and good-hearted people, or even no other humans at all, one can somehow never feel lonely or bored… especially when you have a task at hand, for which out of necessity you must in some way or other merge with your environment.
Over the year we studied, constructed and slept in several different forms of primitive shelter for short-term (or emergency) use, including tight little burrow-like debris huts that slept one person, quincys (snow shelters), and the teepee-style group shelter that would most likely be our home on the survival trip (unless unforeseen circumstances forced us to go with a quicker, less optimal structure). One of the core relationships we cultivated as a group and as individuals was with fire—preparing the way for it, making it, stewarding it and keeping it alive to cook for us and boil us water. In some ways primitive fire seemed to be the backbone of our training, as it is quite literally the hearth that makes a home, however temporary that home may be…
We mainly focused on two methods of firemaking: Bow drill and hand drill. Bow drill consists of five parts, hand drill of only two, but bow drill is significantly easier to get a coal if all the parts are tweaked right; the success of hand drill is more contingent on individual skill. Thus emphasis was placed on the former (although by myself I have been stoked to get a lot of great practice in with hand drill — and there is nothing like starting a fire that will spit roast an animal for your whole family just using your hands and two sticks!), and as a group we graduated through many challenges throughout the class whereupon we would be asked to procure a bow drill kit and make a fire using less and less modern amenities (like a knife or a modern string for the bow), and with more and more parts for the kit sourced on-demand from the woods, where you have to work more with what the forest gives you and things might be wet or partially rotten. Finally, in a few hours we could make an entire kit, get a coal and turn it into a fire using no modern technology at all — just local stone that we knapped into something approximating a blade.
We also learned water-skills — finding springs, making primitive filters with charcoal, moss and sand to eradicate chemical contaminants as well as of course boiling, which for us was done by carefully skinning the bark of young white pines to make origami-like watertight vessels. In these vessels we would boil water by transporting glowing-hot rocks from our fire, using a green branch as tongs (on the survival trip I found a cow or moose scapula that worked like a dream!) If you get enough large rocks that are hot enough, you can boil almost a quart of water in like three minutes. Neolithic technology can literally can beat my MSR backpacking stove!
10,000 years ago getting water would have been as simple as finding a clear-looking stream. Now, because of pollution and animal agriculture, very little surface water is safe to drink, and in a true survival situation the last thing you want is diarrhea. Like, really. Springs that bring water to the surface from deep aquifers are the only reliable sources of clean water, where in some cases the water bubbling up has not seen the sun in a thousand years. That there is one of the most valuable things I know of - ancient water.
Just an aside that is worth mentioning: You won’t see me demonize “civilization” or the like in these pages, or anywhere where I express my experiences as an earthling discovering the possibilities and limits of what it is to be human. I may be an anarcho-primitivist of sorts, but I don’t hate modernity or modern technology, and I don’t blame individual people—historical or living—for “not being connected to nature” or whatever, and I don’t think very highly of deep ecology or any environmentalist philosophy where humans are considered a “cancer” on this planet. I think we are all connected to something and it is our intense propensity for connection—through many modalities both sensuous and subtle—that makes us both experience suffering and joy, separation and oneness. When I’m at school working on a big term paper, my human nature allows me to be almost completely connected within a very tightly-wound ecology consisting of my computer, desk, a stack of books and a word document… so much that for a time my whole world is made up of those things; mantras of academic text flow through my mind at random, and what I sense and perceive is often filtered on some level through the creative work going on within me. The sensory “deprivation” of a white-walled room takes the experience to new, often unexamined heights of mental trance.
It is this same capacity for connection that can connect us to the earth and has evolved to sustain our life and allow us to survive. As humans in today’s world, our environments can be so radically different from one place or culture to another that it is hard to grasp that the manner in which we merge with our surroundings always has the same mechanism. The forest, unlike a classroom, is exceedingly multi-dimensional, extending in all directions; moreover almost everything you look at is alive! The forest sucks your consciousness into it, beckons your awareness to expand into its every crevice, whereas being isolated in a small, geometric man-made chamber can do the opposite: keep your awareness inside of you. This isn’t a bad thing, because sometimes it might be necessary to get a job done. But it behooves us to know about this way of the mind - this respiration of consciousness, so that we may navigate our way on this undulating sea, avoiding storms and making use of winds and waves. The type and quality of the connection merely shifts with our attention and focus — or lack thereof. We have an amazing ability to connect with and synergize with many different types of complex dynamical systems. Whether the yields of such symbioses are “good” or “bad” is not up to me to judge. What I see is evidence of potential.
Hate and cynicism (and most emotions) are not the ways in which I like to approach the world in which I live. Mostly the things I feel about the world are curiosity, and sometimes a kind of sadness that actually feels a lot like love… I’ve thought a lot about that ineffable feeling, in myself, in others and in history, and one way I understand it for myself is that it is the feeling of beauty and harmony imprinting itself on our neural and limbic systems. It is sad because it is very often fleeting, and even the feeling itself quickly becomes indistinguishable from its own shadow. I digress, but to return to my original point: As an anarcho-primitivist (but also a humanist and believer in social ecology) Love for natural ecologies, animals and wildness does not create inversely proportional hate for “civilization”… because “nature” and “culture” are not opposites (and neither are hate and love for that matter). I think that dichotomy, like many we create, is worth deconstructing.
Stay tuned … there’s so much more to tell, and although my wilderness survival class is now over, in the institutional sense, the warrior’s journey has really just begun.

Similar posts:

My Vision Quest and some Notes on the Nature of Anarcho-Primitivist [Trance]endence
Jedi Training in the Hundred-Acre Wood

My survival ceremony and some notes on the nature of anarcho-primitivist trancendence

Seems like the dog days of summer have come early this year, because the demons have been loosed on my psyche with a special force as of late.
In less than a month, I move across the country, and in the meantime (tomorrow, actually) is a 5 day survival trip that I’m embarking upon with 6 other people with whom I’ve been training in wilderness survival/primitive skills for 9 months at ROOTS School. On the trip, we will be “set loose” in an unknown (to us, not to the instructors) woodland (rich northern hardwood, I’m assuming) and bring nothing with us but the clothes we are wearing for 4 night and nearly 5 days. We will build a primitive shelter, collect and boil water, make fire, and make primitive traps and weapons using no metal knives, only local stone that we find on site. No matches either, only completely neolithic methods of starting fire. Nearly all of the aspects of our survival trip we’ve already had some sort of preliminary or prototypical run-through of, so all that remains are the meteorological variables of Mother Nature, and perhaps our attitudes, as those are where all this creation must come from.
I signed up for the course at ROOTS because I knew I needed a space this past year where I, alone, could galvanize my power as a human being, an earthling — in a space beyond gender. That space is the woods. This is my space where I get in touch with my sacred identity. It is different from my “social” gender identity, or what I present to the world of people, to culture. In the woods I can connect with something that represents the blending of the sacred masculine and the sacred feminine. Mother Earth is also a father, and this parent-of-all is the stage on which all masculine and feminine energy collides and interacts. But the dualism of ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’, while very fundamental, is still more superficial than the most primary coupling of all. This is the energy of “predator” and “prey”; the eater and that that is eaten. This relationship is fractal, scale-invariant— it exists on all levels where there is life. And it even exists beneath biotic life — in chemical interaction, where some atoms have electrical control over others, and beyond life — in the birth and death of stars.
My seeking to look this binary-star of BIRTH/DEATH in the eye is not new. I have sought this, in many forms, since almost the beginning of puberty. For it was when I started to evolve sexually, that I began to want to connect — not just with HUMANS, but with ALL OF LIFE, in the tantric sense. Although of course, I haven’t always been able to articulate it like that.
**Some notes to keep in mind on this voyage of mine**
Becoming animal doesn’t mean putting on a new set of clothes, it means letting the earth put you on as her clothes.
Every once in a while, accepting your duty as part of the living body of the earth and relinquishing ‘the game’ of civilized life is, ironically, the only way to feel completely free. Completely “independent”. I put that word in quotations because, as the Zapatistas say, the only way to truly find one’s identity is through the collective, NOT through the individual alone, wandering aimlessly through a jungle of free markets.
The collective where you find your sacred mirror—a sustainable and empowering way to see yourself—doesn’t have to be a collective of humans either… it can be a collective of plants and animals… an ecosystem. Because you are a human, but you are also an animal, and so you can find community anywhere on this earth where there is life. It can be any collective of things that live and breathe, and exist in synergistic interdependence. Find a place that has that, and hang there for a while. Go hunting — not to kill things, but just to see how deep your awareness can go into the natural world. Go hunting for things that can absorb your entire being within them.
The promise of ‘independence’ made to us by neoliberalism… that is an illusion.
There are big and little ways to do this—to “let the earth put you on as her clothes”… to let her pick you up, like a hunter picks up a bow and arrow, and draw you, make you ready. You don’t have to run away to Alaska with no experience like that kid in “Into the Wild”… although, props to him — that kid had heart.
It’s like permaculture. You can do it on any scale. On 200 acres, or in a few square feet in your kitchen. I’ve done it by volunteering on a farm or with a trail crew. Apprenticing on farms for a summer. Learning to work with animals, herd sheep and drive draft horses. Enduring all the pain of not being able to control mother nature. Finally accepting it. Hiking - for a day or for twelve days. Hiding in the woods. Sitting in the woods for an hour without moving. Blindfolding myself and finding my way back somewhere. Running or rock climbing until I feel like I have a new body, running on spiritual energy. And I want more — I want so much more. I have hardly done anything. Sometimes it feels like that.
I’m still trying to figure out how to do this, in little ways, each day.
Because I don’t want the lies and bullshit in this culture to build up so much that one day I just run away to the Tundra. I’ve got to be more emotionally responsible than that. We all do.
***
A mere two weeks after I come out of the backcountry, I’ll be driving across the country to Claremont, CA (Eastern LA) to tackle the next adventure: graduate school.
Let the Games Begin, and let the Dark Mother guide me... Peace.

Fight globalization with dandelion coffee

So, if you are into permaculture/sustainable living like me, you probably have wondered many a time… in the midst of dreaming of your post-oil, decentralized homestead… what the hell will you do without coffee? Thus, coffee remains one of the biggest international commodities ever… the politics of which are sometimes questionable and at best even when fair-trade/organic… it still comes from half way around the world for us here in Vermont. But there is an answer!

This is some dandelion coffee I made a couple days ago. My girlfriend and I have been going dandelion-crazy (it’s been a long winter here in Vermont…) The “coffee” is made from the root, dried and ground, and is an amazing coffee substitute, and much more nutritious (also caffeine-free). It’s really something that has to be tried to be believed. Mostly because everyone thinks trying it is going to be something they have to “endure” rather than enjoy and savor (the latter is what happens). The roots can be dug from any dandelion plant, and it’s actually preferable if they are older because the root will be nice and big (you’ll have to use a shovel or a really badass digging stick to get at them). Contrast this with when you are digging the roots to roast and eat like potatoes — then you want the younger plants, and you want to dig the root in the spring or fall, before or after the plant flowers. For the coffee it doesn’t matter - you can dig the root anytime you see a dandelion plant — unless it’s not on your property, in which case you’d be engaging in some questionable guerrilla wildcrafting… but maybe your neighbors want their “weeds” removed from their lawn?

I dig the roots (a quart or so will make a couple of cups of coffee… if you’re fast you can dig that in under an hour) and roast them in the oven for two hours at 250 with the oven door cracked open (to let the moisture out). This is like dehydrating them but obviously a little more inefficient. This is one of the best reasons I’ve come upon to invest in a dehydrator! Then, I actually have been doing such small batches that I just take the dried roots and grind them in our little coffee bean grinder — those cylindrical ones with a plastic top. Then, since the grinder gets the root to such a find powder, I can basically decoct them using a coffee filter and a melitta (with boiling water — just like how you make coffee with a melitta). If you can’t get the dried root to a powder, you might want/need to infuse it in a tea bag or just loose if you want to get the best flavor.

The flavor is roasty, nutty, earthy, and a bit bitter, but honestly not as bitter as black coffee! Also, if the root is fresh, which it pretty much always will be if you dig it, it always has a fresh, live taste… can’t say as much for coffee.

Not many people realize that every part of this plant can be eaten or used in some way. The leaves are best when young, and it’s good to sautee them for a minute or two or blanche them and eat them with olive oil and lemon juice. You can also just eat them fresh, mixed in with some sweeter greens. You can pluck the buds and pickle them right before they flower, and after they flower you can pick the flowers and make amazing fritters with them. We did this last week by dipping them in batter and frying them. The texture was amazing, it’s like tempura, but has that nutty dandelion flavor. Not bitter at all — the high heat really transforms the flavor.

Pretty much the whole plant when eaten is a diuretic and liver tonic, and in the spring time (in four-season climates) the body needs bitters to help stimulate bile production and clean out the system after the long winter, where people often eat more animal-based fat and saturated fat. The diuretic properties will remove extra water from your system, and so will aid in flushing/cleansing (be sure to drink a lot of water when you’re eating wild foods — they need it to aid their powers!). By the grace of Mama Nature, the dandelion is one of the first wild edibles to come up in the spring… it contains high levels of vitamin A, calcium, and potassium. It doesn’t cost anything, yet it can yield so much — salad, pesto, fritters, roots, coffee, tea (from the leaves). My respect for this plant has skyrocketed in the past couple of years. Also wildcraft with care, don’t sweep one place clean, even an aggressive pioneer plant like dandelion must be protected.

[Why I love] Yeats and the Enigmatic Science of Gnosis

If you have some free minutes, and don't mind being enchanted by Yeats proto-mythpunk style, read Rosa Alchemica, one of his best (that I've read) short stories.

Ahh, this is such classic Yeats! Rosa Alchemica is a fictionalized narrative of one man's initiation (such as it is) into an occult alchemical order. The plot is very simple, merely providing a frame for a string of detailed descriptions of deep dreamlike and visionary states--the meat of the story. A wealthy and educated man who lives a life of solitude is visited by an old friend. The old comrade, somewhat of a trickster/mage figure, triggers the protagonist to experience a mystical revelation and subsequently coaxes him to come to the headquarters of a certain Order where he shall participate in initiatory rites. The pinnacle of the story describes an ecstatic group dance, which takes place in a round room with a domed ceiling, all surfaces covered with elaborate mosaics depicting a syncretistic amalgam of deities. There are many aesthetic parallels to Greco-Roman art, myth and architecture, and also literary allusions to ancient mystery cults (Eleusis in particular). Yeats masterfully conveys a full-throttle psychedelic experience that arcs through the entire story, and is neither good nor bad, but depicts forces both demonic and divine in unrelenting, psycho-somatic interplay.

"When we came in the grey light to the great half-empty terminus, it seemed to me I was so changed that I was no more, as man is, a moment shuddering at eternity,
but eternity weeping and laughing over a moment"

***

"A couple of hours after Sunset Michael Robartes returned and told me
that I would have to learn the steps of an exceedingly antique dance,
because before my initiation could be perfected I had to join three
times in a magical dance, for rhythm was the wheel of Eternity, on
which alone the transient and accidental could be broken, and the spirit set free."

***

Yeats is one of my most beloved mystics, and possessed that transgressive identity that straddled both artist and scholar (to paraphrase Herman Hesse's definition). You cannot quite call him contemporary, beause he lived at such an amazing junction in history - the Gilded age through to right before World War Two. A pregnant era, but also a time when the mythic realities of the past still lapped at one's feet -- or as Yeats puts it "the Sidhe still pass in every wind".

The ultimate concern of the mystic consists of the myriad and multiform paths to human gnosis. That is, esoteric knowledge that flows, like a river, through the ages, its form changed by the lenses and vessels of culture, but its true content always the same. Moreover, they are concerned with the phenomenology of gnosis, such that you could call them "scientists of God". Many are known to history books as poets, because poems are the field-notes of such a study, and so naturally the dedicated mystic produces volumes. Such people are either cursed or blessed to never leave alone the symbol of "God" on the proverbial shelf of the mind; the condensation of divinity into one word both excites and agitates them to no end. So they continually return to it and unpack it, I dare say even disembowel it in the frenzied search so characteristic of the "insane" or "hysterical" or "ascetic" mystic. (The ascetic is frenzied too, at times, but the wildness occurs deep within the boundaries of skin, and so others do not see it) Indeed, sometimes I think that hysteria and ascesis are one in the same when the object of worship is The Divine. The cults who engage in the trance-dance--both ancient and modern--know this riddle well. The trance dance somehow contains all forms of worship and mysticism folded within itself, and the actual ritual, trapped in time, is some sort of alchemical machine that transforms all moods, emotions and desires into motion, thus into kinetic energy that is absorbed by the earth. Dancing furiously for hours on end, like Yeats describes or Hesse in Steppenwolf, is a kind of ascesis (=discipline, not deprivation), and it is not fundamentally, and in a magical sense (regarding the affective yields, or what is produced), that different from fasting and sitting completely still. They are both spiritual heuristics and they both trigger the body to procure energy from long-untapped sources, deep deep within. In mining for this energy, this light...jewels and gemstones are unearthed. These are the divine entities that people call by many names. And they are thus set free to roam for a liminal time among us.

Deconstructing Gender Politics in Dance Music (NPR)

Heard this interview with Terre Thaemlitz (a.k.a DJ Sprinkles) last night on All Things Considered on my slow, snowy drive home.

“Most of my music is made in a kind of anti-climactic way, and very much involves boredom, and a kind of non-performativity… and if there are improvisational elements, it’s kind of parodying the idea of gesture as a kind of rock format, and critiquing that from a transgender and…feminist side.”

- Terre Thaemlitz

“…in the original house tracks, when they talk about “escape”, it’s not escaping the work-a-day grind of your work scene… it’s about escaping very serious political structures that are pressing you, and very serious gender strictures that are opressing you… and doing it with a sense of humor, a sense of glamor…”

- Jesse Doris, producer

A lot of the cultural criticism stuff is also relevant to the underground psy-trance scene, I think, although not so much from a queer perspective, but from a transhuman one. That is to say, for me a queer perspective has always been implicit in the politics of psytrance, since the movement definitely supports a refusal to “essentialize” one’s identity —a la queer theory—and seems to accept postmodern/post-binary notions of gender and sexuality. I think a big difference is that the messages and aesthetics in house music are nods to a collective memory and experience of social/political oppression, whereas the similar messages in the psytrance scene come from a Spiritual or Religious experience of paradigm-shifting away from Western materialism/scientific imperialism, which also yields messages of peace/acceptance and unity of the human family.