September 27th, 2008 by Gnat
This world has lost yet another great talent! What a man: achingly handsome, amazing wife, brilliant actor, entrepreneur, philanthropist extraordinaire. Here is a killer YouTube clip (along with Johnny Cash score and Roger Ebert quotes) describing Newman’s ascension as the anti-hero is his films:
August 8th, 2008 by Gnat
My great uncle Charlie died on Tuesday of this week and is being buried in Texas today. He was 92. I just wanted to say bye, Charlie, and that I’ll miss you. If I find a pic of us together I’ll post it.
July 16th, 2008 by Gnat
I read about this the other day, how a parole board has denied compassionate release for former Manson girl, Susan Atkins. “Sadie,” as she was known by Charles Manson and the Family, was not a nice gal back in the day. She participated in both the Gary Hinman and Sharon Tate murders, and apparently also really enjoyed the Family’s “Creepy Crawler” escapades. Creepy crawling involved breaking into homes while the occupants were either away or fast asleep, and rearranging as well as stealing objects within the house. Pretty creepy, right? Susan also was the one responsible for writing “Pig” on Sharon Tate’s front door, with Tate’s own blood.
Susan Atkins has been in prison for 37 years, more time served than any other woman in the California prison system. She is ill with brain cancer and has only months to live. One of her legs is amputated and the other is paralyzed. Yes, I think Susan Atkins committed some unforgivable crimes. But what good does it do to show her the same lack of mercy she once showed? Does this really prove anything? I say let her out to smell the roses and experience free life in her final months. Then, before she does cross over, she may actually understand what a precious thing she snatched away from her unlucky, undeserving victims.
June 25th, 2008 by Gnat
A couple of years ago an internet friend reacquainted me with the writings of Carlos Castaneda. I hadn’t thought much about the new age guru Castaneda since lifting one of his books from the public library in about 9th or 10th grade. I didn’t mean to steal it, I think I just checked it out and forgot to return it. Anyways, the little I read of The Power of Silence in high school didn’t leave much of an impression on me at the time. I think I checked it out mainly because I’d heard there were drug references within. Around this time I also read On the Road and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the first books that made me want to squeal with joy: “Drugs, drugs! They’re writing about drugs!”
I’ve since had my fill of drug-related literature (ok, maybe not), anyways that’s not why I took to reading Castaneda again a couple of years ago. Basically I read a few book excerpts sent to me by aforementioned internet friend and the shit blew my mind. Concepts like using the first and second attention and stopping the internal dialogue as a means to experience separate realities fascinated me. CC’s books were originally published as anthropological works, but are now generally agreed upon as fiction. I say if a “Weird Psychology” section existed at the bookstore, Castaneda’s works would help fill the shelves. Click here for a little example of Castaneda’s language and ideas, made manifest through the literary device of his Don Juan character.
Carlos Castaneda was a weird guy: ambitious, short, and bubbling over with charisma. That seems to describe so many of history’s fascinating men, now doesn’t it?! I’ve read varying personal accounts of him — some say he glowed with good vibes and oozed charm while others describe him as morally ambiguous and emotionally sadistic. I think he was a complicated man. He liked to fuck with people’s heads, and was apparently very good at it. So good in fact that he may have inspired several women of his inner circle (the “Witches,” as they were called) to commit suicide upon his death from cancer in 1998.
It’s hard to dig up much solid info on Castaneda because in 1973 he withdrew from public view to shack up with his Witches in a large home in West Los Angeles. Nary a picture exists of him, as he was all about “erasing personal history” and refused to let photos be taken of him after a certain point in his life. The following Salon.com article is the best I’ve found thus far on Castaneda, his shady life and the Witches who may have joined him upon his departure from this earthly plane. Enjoy:
The Dark Legacy of Carlos Castaneda
(one of the few pics that exist of Castaneda)
PS: It’s kind of weird the first time you access the Salon site. Bypass any opening Flash sequences, then click this link again if necessary. It’s a great, juicy article and worth the trouble!
June 19th, 2008 by Gnat
I saw the most amazing program on the National Geographic channel last night. It was part of their Taboo series (which is often a bit too gory for even me to stomach), and this particular episode was on taboo jobs. Half the show focused on a company, simply called Crime Scene Cleaners, who do just that. These are the people you call if you are a landlord and some poor soul tops him/herself on your property and isn’t discovered for days, or if one of your loved ones shuffles off his/her mortal coil in an unsightly, unexpected way and you are left to pick up the pieces. Don’t snicker, because each and every one of us could be faced with a situation like this at some point in our lives. Obviously cleaning up after the messy death of a loved one is far too much to bear for most folks. That’s why these professionals exist — they possess the inner strength, tenacity, healthy spiritual foundation and necessary level of detachment to complete some damn horrific tasks. For example, part of last night’s episode showed the attention to detail required by one professional when cleaning and decontaminating the wheels of a subway car, under which someone had hurled himself.
The owner of Crime Scene Cleaners, based out of San Antonio, was interviewed several times during the course of the episode. I was blown away by this man’s almost militant “just do it” attitude. Some might consider his outlook insensitive, but I was impressed by his no-nonsense stance. He commented that humor was one coping mechanism which proved absolutely necessary when working in his field. He also poignantly posed that his company isn’t in the business of cleaning up entities, but just what is left behind of them when they go. See? There’s that healthy spiritual foundation and necessary detachment at work.
I was especially taken by this man’s comment that “cleaning fat Joe up off the couch is a whole different story than cleaning Bambi up off the side of the road.” See, we humans put lots of crap in our bodies that can render us little more than a steaming heap of toxic waste after we die. Yuck. This notion got me to thinking about eating better and living healthier — not only will doing so benefit me while I’m alive, but it may even reduce my carbon footprint upon the planet after I’m gone. Hows about that for living (and dying) “green”?
May 13th, 2008 by Gnat
This morning I was thinking of how to seamlessly write about two very unrelated things, yesterday’s earthquake in China and today’s announcement of the death of artist Robert Rauschenberg. For whatever reason I didn’t want to write about one thing without mentioning the other. While mining the internets for information and imagery relating to these two events, I came across the following photos:
Rauschenberg’s Bed (1955)
Chinese woman clears earthquake debris
What can I possibly say to connect the catastrophic deaths of over 10,000 Chinese people with the passing of a famous, elderly Abstract Expressionist turned Pop artist? I guess I can comment on the random nature of beds — how they aren’t really supposed to be art but sometimes are just that, or how they are supposed to be safe but sometimes aren’t that at all.
May 8th, 2008 by Gnat
A few days ago I received the very sad news that an old friend, whom I hadn’t seen since high school, passed away. She was inexplicably stricken with colon cancer two years ago, and succumbed this last December. While Elisabeth (or simply “Liz” when I knew her) and I drifted apart after our freshman year of high school, we were quite close from about the ages of fourteen to fifteen. I met her just after moving from west Texas to a suburb of Houston, Spring. In Spring Liz lived right around the corner from me. We shared some great times, getting into trouble more than once together.
These were exciting times for me, times of experimentation with hair, make-up, clothes, boys, identity and personal freedom. Liz was all a part of that. She was the first person who showed me how to use eyeliner and eyeshadow. Always a fan of the giant can of aerosol Aquanet, Liz used to say her hairdo consisted of “99% hairspray, 1% hair.” She had the most original style, fitting somewhere between Ducky from Pretty in Pink and an extra from a late-’80s hair metal rock video. Whimsical might be the word to best describe Liz’s personality and style. Make that whimsical squared.
Liz’s mum was British and her father Asian, Chinese I think. She could pull off a killer British accent, which I think we employed in several prank calls. She often donned hats of various styles and was as animated as a cartoon character. I remember Liz loved carrying and playing with my baby cousin Brittany, and Britt loved her back. Liz seemed to have boundless energy and a passion for being as unique as possible.
During our senior year of high school Liz was in a terrible car accident which resulted in her having emergency brain surgery. I never learned many details of the accident, or don’t remember them now. I know she was with her boyfriend and alcohol may have been a factor. I remember seeing Liz at our prom afterparty, a glittery sort of top hat strategically covering the huge, headband-like scar across the top of her skull. She didn’t seem to miss a beat.
Why do things like this happen, a woman in her early thirties being taken down by colon cancer? My friend Amy, the gal who broke the news about Liz to me, says this experience has wiped away any smear of religion/spirituality (in her case, Judaism) that she may have had left in her. Maybe someday I’ll tell her about what I’ve read regarding Chaos and Chaos Magic. Though not really comforting, Chaos Magic theories of creation/destruction resonate strongly with me. It’s the closest explanation of how and why the universe works the way it does that I can embrace at this point in my life. Here are a few excerpts from Peter Carroll’s Liber Null and Psychonaut regarding Chaos:
So this is what I have to go on right now. Like I said, it’s not too comforting. But truth is often the opposite of all that is shiny and comfortable. Or like my grandmother sometimes says, “the truth don’t hurt unless it ought to.” Indeed.
Liz, you were an important part of my life during some damned formative teenage years. You left this world much too soon, but your unique spirit won’t soon be forgotten.
April 25th, 2008 by Gnat
(Lately I have been carrying a small charm of the four-armed Hindu Goddess Kali in my pocket. You know — she’s the one who looks especially menacing and wears the necklace of severed heads. Even though her looks are scary, Kali is a benevolent entity. Kali is both Protectress and Destructress. Along with hubby Shiva, she is the creator and destroyer of worlds.)
Long before it touched me personally, I felt inspired to write about Death after reading a post on the brilliant Rigorous Intuition blog site. The February 23, 2007, post “The Shock of Awe (Part 2)” hypothesizes that “no force in the world today - and arguably any day - is a more efficient instrument of Will to Death than the
It’s because Death keeps coming up, and I’ve recently shifted my awareness to include the realm of Deathy thinking on both a personal and grand scale. On February 28, 2008, my uncle Bob passed away very suddenly. Death came quick and merciful for him, but left his living loved ones confused, shocked, and wet with tears. I now can’t help but imagine Death as a metaphysical entity with quick and sharp fingers, yet at the same time stagnant enough to shroud the globe like a thick, damp blanket.
Last year when I first wrote this, my dreams had become apocalyptic. It was all serial killers and nuclear wars in my brain when the lights went out. In dreams I could unflinchingly feel what it was like to know you are going to die. This feeling was so real I tasted it when I woke up. Now this feeling has left me, like so many fleeting dreams.
I want to be okay with Death. I want to be able to happily anticipate the dissolution of my own ego. I want to be fearless, and know that the divine spark that begat my existence (and all conscious existence) will not disappear (energy can neither be created nor destroyed), but will simply return to the void from which it came.
But this is one bitter pill to swallow, people. I’m having trouble with it, so I’ve taken to keeping a keen eye on the Death going on all around me. I’m hoping that by diving into the darkness, I’ll understand it more.
For my dose of Death on a local celebrity level, I fastidiously kept up with the Phil Spector murder trial in LA. In 2007 Spector sported a less appalling hairdo than previous years: a peroxide shag replaced the surreal, enormous, sprayed coiffure he donned at his 2006 court appearances. But it didn’t really matter what kind of hairdo he had. This is a guy who allegedly put a gun inside a woman’s mouth, pulled the trigger and still walked away free. I heard Lana Clarkson’s teeth were found scattered all over Spector’s foyer. Now this is the image I’ll hold forever in my mind when I hear that great drum kick off into “Be My Baby.”
Upon my first conception of this written meditation on Death, the war in
In turn, I think we should follow the suggestion of the inimitable Terrence McKenna and take action by putting the “art pedal to the metal.” Art should become our weapon – it should become something any of us can use as a means of fighting the establishment and all the Death it symbolizes and fosters. Let’s get out there and create as many poems, paintings and rock and roll songs as we can. It’s time to look at all the big ‘n’ Deathy stuff going on in the world as a metaphysical malady — one that we each have, within ourselves, the means to transform.
Terrence McKenna: “Culture is NOT Your Friend”
April 24th, 2008 by Gnat
I’ve been thinking about bluesy, deathy things lately. I torture myself with these morbid, mortal thoughts. Here’s something I’ve done a lot of thinking on lately: when you die, is there a moment when you realize your body is broken beyond repair? If so, what does it feel like? This would be a moment suspended in pain, obviously, because there is pain present when the body breaks. But in spite of overwhelming physical pain (or maybe because of it), at the moment of our death does our consciousness become aware that it must sever from and bid farewell to its fleshy home? Do we simply stop identifying with our fingers, legs, arms, torsos? It makes me so sad to think about that I almost can’t stand it.
I read that dying feels like going home. This is a nice thought. I also quite like what Woody Allen has to say about death:
“I’m not afraid of dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
Thanks Woody, your words are more comforting to me than most sacred scriptures.
