Monday, January 28, 2013

All About 2012

** Taken from my other blog,, posted right around the THE END TIMES ;)

Since December 21st was the most long awaited day in all human history, and since we are all still here (as predicted), for those of you who don’t know anything about the actual predictions for that fabled day, I’ll begin with my FB status from December 20th:
Today is the second most anticipated day in all recorded history. Think about that. It is a new year’s eve that comes only once every 26,000 years. Tomorrow is not the end of the world, the Mayans didn’t predict the end of the world. They predicted cataclysms – and in case you hadn’t noticed, we have those. That’s all. Their calendar, like ours, is cyclic. It is the end of a cycle, an important astronomical cycle, as our solar system crosses the galactic plane’s zero point. The peak point of some 400 billion stars combined gravitational interaction. We have been crossing it for some time now, but by this time tomorrow our star, Sol, will be more on the other side of the galaxy than on this one. The sun is literally rising after a 26,000 year night. What better time to make a positive change in your life? In the world? If you can make a new year’s resolution to acknowledge the passing of 365 days, why not make one to acknowledge the passing of almost ten million days? Direct your energy towards positivity, nobody on Earth will ever have a better opportunity.
Their calendar just “ended”.. but notice that it is a CIRCLE:

Just like the calendar on your wall stops at December, January will come regardless of if you’ve made it to your insurance agent to get your free 2013 calendar. It is a CYCLICAL calendar.

As a matter of fact, the Mayan long count calendar, despite the funny words used to describe the components, makes far more sense than our own current calendar, which is based on arbitrary dates.

The Y2K was a bust – no kidding, the only crisis that was presented to us was of our own creation, of outdated computer chips shitting the bed when the arbitrary date rolled over from 99 to 00. The fact is, the metrics of our years are entirely arbitrary – they have no basis in events external to our culture.

Whereas, the Mayan calendar is based entirely on events which are independent to our human events – the cycles of the sun across the galactic plane and other incredibly big in contrast to our animal struggles.

You don’t have to believe in Astrology to find significance in this. In fact, the Mayans were uncanny astronomers and inexplicably scientific, especially given that they were effectively jungle savages without the benefit of the longview which our current state of technology affords us.

For example, how the actual fuck were they able to figure out these events which take thousands of years to pass a single cycle? Science is generally run via observation, hypothesis, further observation, refinement of hypothesis, experiment, observation… and so on (cyclically, if you will). So for a bunch of tribesmen living in the jungles of modern day Mexico, how did they see the cycles? We can see the cycles of the seasons by living through them, but these cycles are longer than any single established human culture.

So forget about the Astrological component. We know that the moon – our tiny moon, which is a fraction of the size of our Earth, which is a fraction of the size of our sun, which is but one of HUNDREDS OF BILLIONS in the galaxy, has the capacity to move the seas daily and on closer passes somehow manages to interfere with our collective psyches so predictably that police forces and emergency rooms staff extra people do deal with full moon chaos.

Surely, if something so small can have such an effect on us, then why is it such a leap to believe that passing the galactic plane, with its combined force of hundreds of BILLIONS of stars could have an effect as well?

Our galaxy is kind of flat. We look at it edgewise, and it appears thus:

We know from looking at other galaxies that in a full three dimensions it probably looks something like this:

A neighboring galaxy, “Andromeda” (M31) which is incidentally about 20% bigger than our own “Milky Way” galaxy, itself some 100,000 light years across.
The stars are grouped along what is called the “galactic plane” such that the galaxy appears in a generally flattened disc because at the galactic core (the center) there is a super massive black hole spinning with a high rate of angular momentum, and it has flattened out (like if you spin a slab of clay very fast). That means that the combined gravitational force of the core is holding the galaxy together at enormous distance. Again, I can’t stress enough how fantastically huge these distances and therefor the force holding it together is: a radius of 50,000 light years means that it takes light, moving at almost 300,000KM/SECOND takes 50,000 human years to travel from the core to us.

Honestly, our puny human brains can barely abstract it.

Oh but NOTHING HAPPENED right? Again, these scales are not on the levels humans generally comprehend. That single day of December 21st isn’t some magical day when everything happens. It is a bell curve – a very large bell curve – and we have been under the influence of its effects for many years.

Just as you age slowly but celebrate your birthday, our solar system has been “aging” across the galactic plane. The day you turn 30 is just another day, you’re not suddenly mysteriously older and more mature, yet somehow when you compare yourself with being 20, or 10, you see how much you have grown.

And, our civilization has without a doubt grown.

The past few hundred years have been the most fantastically advancing time in all our billions of years of evolution.

Even just a couple thousand years ago – hardly a blink of an eye in biologically evolutionary standards – we were savages scraping out an existence in the dirt. And today, we are communicating at this moment via esoteric methods which would have seemed like utter magic to our ancestors.

There is absolutely no debate on the fact that this moment in human history is absurdly advanced. Not just technologically, but in the realms of understanding the meaning behind the universe and how it functions. Sure, we are still at times cruel and disgusting creatures, but the fact is that there is a far higher level of awakened consciousness today than at any other point in known history.

December 21st was just another slightly overcast winter day here on Planet Earth. And yes, it was the most annoying day in Facebook history – in fact, I didn’t even go on it, save to say I was heading to the Center of the Universe (a story which I will post later).

It was annoying because, again, people who don’t know anything about something felt compelled to espouse how stupid people were for thinking something.

Here’s one of my friends’ status from that day:
So, all you believers in the Mayan End-of-the-World prediction feeling like idiots yet?
Or do you have some explanation of why it could still happen in the next 50 years and nobody ever said the 21st was THE day that you’re desperately clinging to so you don’t have to feel like a dumbass for being tricked by yet another end of the world prediction?
People who spout off about things without knowing anything about it, whatever the “it” may be, are idiots.
They saw the movie “2012″ and figured that’s what the Mayans predicted and therefor anything associated with December 21 2012 was garbage.

In formal logic, this is known as the Fallacy of the Straw Man. Basically, you say something about something that has nothing to do with that something then disprove it therefor that something is retarded. Unfortunately, it just makes you look retarded.

Science – REAL science – is the pursuit of truth, wherever it may lead you. It is the hunt for actual truth, without a disposition towards one outcome or the other. It means investigating all possibilities and applying the scientific process to it.

Many great scientists have been laughed at because their ideas did not conform with societal “norms” but which in time have proven to be correct. One can not dismiss possibilities out of hand without first investigating them.

The simple facts are that there is a LOT of REALLY UNUSUAL SHIT happening in the world. In our cultures, in our technology, to the planet itself. A very plausible explanation is that the power of 400 billion combined suns gravitational force and radiation is triggering as yet unknown processes in our earth, in our individual psyches and in our collective human consciousness.

At least, take it as a possibility, and seek your OWN truth. Keep an open mind and investigate. Learn. Don’t just sit there espouse an opinion which has absolutely no basis in fact. The world as your television reports it is not the sum totality of existence. If you are still reading, you probably already know that, so go and wake the others.
There will never be a better time to make a positive change.

Now, here’s a good primer to help you get a bit of a deeper understanding.

And if you wanna get a little more esoteric, here’s an interesting message from Headquarters?

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Matter Does Not Matter

Some years ago, I became involved with Pearlicka Records who included me in a remix effort of the talks given by James J. Traitz. Being ever the philosopher, I was excited to work with some good metaphysical material, and I produced this song, "Matter Does Not Matter" by slicing up his talk and making it say what I wanted it to.

Interestingly (and why it's come to my awareness again recently) my girlfriend came across a video and posted it on my facebook wall which included the original talk I remixed here. It was because of this inclusion that I already knew the creator of the video.... small world.

Here is the script I hacked it into:

Quantum physics has revealed what ancient masters knew: matter does not exist
The concept of substance arose from the philosophy of Aristotle, and from that concept came science's conception of matter.
The fact of the matter is that the substance of the universe is consciousness.
Belief that the substance of the universe is matter leads to what I call a fear/greed dichotomy,
as people in quiet desperation attempt to accumulate as many material possessions and riches as possible.
In fact, the substance is consciousness, therefor it is behaviour that is important,
as we evolve to becoming consciousness.
Matter does not exist.
Matter does not exist.
Consciousness has revealed quantum physics.
Matter has revealed consciousness.
Quantum physics does not exist.
Matter does not exist.
Matter does not matter.

Ancient masters knew: the substance of the universe is consciousness.
The concept of substance does not matter.
The concept of substance science arose as we evolved, and from that concept came:
Conscious Matter.

Ancient masters knew: the substance of the universe is consciousness.
The concept of substance does not matter; people matter.
In quiet desperation.. people matter.

Also, here is the promotional video put together by Pearlicka:

Consciousness - The Chill Out Mixes from Whodany on Vimeo.

... and here's the video that had been posted to my wall - a great watch:

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Why This White Man Supports Idle No More (And Why You Should Too)

This was originally posted on Facebook 15 January 2013 and was shared so widely (873 times at the time of this posting) that it got me to consolidate my blogs to here so that my readers can find my other writing and subscribe without adding them to my Facebook.

Namaste from Kamloops.. I mean, Tk'emlups


*** If you are going to read this, please read it to the end, and hit the SHARE button if you agree ***

I'm white - don't know what kind of white, some kind of Anglo Saxon, but certainly not native (although I tan really well), and  in University I learned a lot about the Indian Act and the history of First Nations people in Canada, and I naturally felt sorry for their plight. The theft of their children, the erradication of their languages, and the systematic assimilation of their way of life is a disgrace to the Canadian self image which continues to this day, and is arguably accelerating.

The Act, the way it was configured from the start, is designed to slowly annex all the land and erase their traditional way of life. Even the pittance offered in exchange for EVERYTHING hasn't been appropriately regarded and this "breaking point" we are seeing now is the inevitable outcome of a people pushed to the brink.

But that's "them" right? Sucks to be them, but I'm white so why should I care?

Canada used to be a different place. Being a country of unkempt beauty was our national identity.

We valued our lakes and rivers and seemingly endless wilderness as the prize itself, not a natural resource to be harvested into a wasteland. I am not against industry categorically, but the recklessness with which this government has dismantled the protective measures installed by our wiser forefathers is alarming.

The Stephen Harper government has, over the years, proven itself to be a government of industry and not of the land or the people who inhabit it.

Did you know that if, for example, a Chinese company wants to come into Canada and mine our land and something like an Environmental or Labor law prevents them from maximizing THEIR profit by requiring them to abide by our laws, THEY CAN SUE CANADA. The Canada-China Foreign Investment Promotion and Protection Act (FIPPA), which came into effect in October, actually legislates that foreign companies can legally sue US for THEM breaking OUR laws!

A law that makes it legal for them to break our laws! 

This is just one example, if this is news to you then you need to wake up.

So what's this got to do with Idle No More? Because, there are about 1.17 million First Nations people in Canada. Stephen Harper doesn't give a flying fuckeroo what any of us white folks think, he has an agenda and is running the country like a dictator, which is great if you stand to benefit from the exploitation of our natural resources and ultimately the destruction of our beautiful land but which sucks if you are anybody else and no amount of protest or debate will alter his course.

And he doesn't give a fuck what First Nations think either. BUT -- and this is a massive, 1.17 million strong BUT -- there are an awful lot of people who have a long standing (if not always honoured) power in Canadian government, who have always loved and honored their land, whatever it may be called, and who are not afraid to go toe to toe with these monsters in $3000 suits. In fact, they've done it many times in the past and almost always win, because beating them down would only result in what would effectively be civil war.

I used to feel sorry for First Nations, but now I see the big picture. I see these centuries of degredation and hardship as the necessary prelude to a powerful, passionate and determined saviour of what is good about Canada. As an abused child can see his youth as training for a life as a strong and compassionate adult, the First Nations in Canada now possess the right configuration of history, political power and resolve to do what needs to be done.

They have the best chance of saving this country from itself.

Stephen Harper has awoken a sleeping giant. An army of passionate warriors more than a million strong, already embedded within our borders. The bully has shoved the kid for the last time, because the kid realizes that he is STRONG and he can push back.

Like the Occupy movement, this is a many faceted movement still lacking clear leadership and with an agenda that is entirely murky to those in power. Unlike the Occupy movement, the First Nations possess the tools for a direct action which, if impeded, promises to explode in the face of the authorities hoping that it will pass. They are organized and adept, there is not a doubt in my mind that it will develop in time.

To anyone who can hear the hoof beats across the valley, it is clear that there is a massive stampede on its way, and you can either run with the buffalo or get the hell out of the way.

I know where I'll be - I want to be at the front of the pack when we trample the bastards that are ruining this place for my children.

This is our chance - ALL of our chance - to restore Canada's values of environmental stewardship and compassion. If you love your country but hate what is becoming of it, you need to stand up and join the ranks. It's really not that "radical" - wanting to save your country is hardly an "out there" concept.

So, as a white man - no, as a natural born Canadian citizen and member of the human race, I salute you brothers and sisters, brave men and women, children and elders, and am so very grateful you are still here to fight this battle. I will don the traditional warrior paint and proudly stand shoulder to shoulder with you.

This is not your battle to fight alone. We are one.

Please share.

Joanne, Ever Near

This is a spoken word performance prose piece I wrote in the pit of despair, December 2012. I had been reading a lot of Pablo Neruda at the time, and was attempting a reconciliation with my one true love and soul mate, which I am happy to say succeeded. 

It's a little over the top. A little bombastic. But such is the nature of the beast.

The video was recorded moments after the poem was finished and done in a single take, so there's a couple of glitches. It's art.

Read along as this old fool wears his heart on his sleeve.


"Joanne, Ever Near"

One can not share
the penultimate love
without grappling with
the paralyzing fear
of its loss,
ever near.

its greatness alone
defines the outline of my singular terror..
dark shadows endarkened
 by the prospects
of the light's
fleeting nature
its spectre
filling the deepest caverns of my soul
in an vacuous instant with despair.
boundless, animal cries of confusion,
ever near.
ever present
crippling my rational thought
dismantling my walls after all these years
undoing psyche 
and choking out of hope's air 
with a suffocating burdeon
that seems unfair.

I collapse, broken.
utter destruction..   
from our bliss... grateful to have ever known it.

like two motes of dust drifting lazily in sun's caress,
cascading through cracks in blinds
monday afternoon 
eachothers familiar kiss.

 we drift together...
and, we drift apart..
apart, we drift together.
floating, cicling,
to the hidden currents
unseen patterns.
apart yet so together,
each of us a part of the other.
intrinsic things
necessary unto eachother
lacking meaning out of context 
like arteries and veins are to the blood
which, pumping restlessly
trembling at the touch
quivering at the promise
rich with lust and a terror and a hope and a wish...
a boundlessless 
which arose from within 
and then
a touroidal fountain of joy and triumph
brighter and with more gravity 
than a thousand million suns 
at the precise moment 
of super nova.

our time approaches again,
my love.
my dear, sweet love.
ever near.

as i lay drifing last night,
sleep eluding me
thoughts ruminate
i reached out,
through the ether
the part of my being which is pure light
i reached out through the ether..
that part of you that fears
a second glance
 i glimpsed you in my peripheral 
a pattern i could not simply pass.

There I found you,
as a child
huddled, fearful
blind. in denial.
angry. wounded,
You snap at the darkness,
fearful that the thorne be plucked from your paw
wishing to be discarded and replaced instead,
but I could not leave you
there for dead.

I would not go.
I would not leave.
I found you there, beneith the leaves, 
and though wilting,
tender new growth then appeared ..
When I held your hand, 
and instead, 
you discarded your fears.

Our higher selfs, 
our astral forms 
met in the nameless faceless void,
despite the darkness
that quiet darkness
in spite of that drowning, raging darkness
threatening to swallow us whole
I held your hand 
and even though 
I knew not which way to go..
and we struggled as we always have
struggled under the weight of such enormous greatness
from that damp, furious darkness
together alone.

As we emerged from this nightmare,
your blossomed self
found my eyes and could not see passed doubts.
Just as I always saw you.
Just as we always knew.
The sparkle of realized dreams
come true
a glorious hope's dawn 
Held together by more force
than all of our combined galactic cores.

And again,
as past,
we drifted there, 
as the last two motes of dust in all of creation's night,
drifting in the final beam of a thousand million nova's light.
triumphantly swaying to the hidden currents,
as if the universe had purposed such burdeons,
as if it had planned this all along,
as if the sun done it all - -
existence, history, cavemen and mozart and civilizations rise and fall..
For this.

Our time has come again,
my dear,
my love,
my dear sweet love..
It is here.

Control Backspace

From some time in 2010.

Writing is a different prospect since computers became the norm. I used to write with pen and paper - and still write almost all my poetry and song lyrics using in and notebook, because using a word processor affords us the opportunity to irrevocably strike certain parts from the record. I detest the red squiggly lines under each of my intended broken spelling and grammatical rules. Sometimes the error is beautiful.

As always, spelling errors and reckless modification to the language used with artistic license.


torn as i am between between gluttony and constriction
subliminal forces conspiringed to overcome
enchanted forests of my youth
fevered glimpses of how it could be
should be
would be
except fore's and wouldn't-if's.
a part that wants to hate it all
and a part that wants to wallow..
somewhere inbetween them
these gluttonous and constructive patterns and laces,
as tides, or the moon
waxing, and waning upon my consciousness..
wait, what was i talking about?
sardonic even in mine prose.
is this all that remains?
these fragmented thoughts.
these fragmented thoughts.
severed arrows, angles of past thinkings.
deliberately obtuse, delivering the muse.
if it rhymes i can get away
with it 
if i am being sardonic.
ctrl-t, ctrl-l, "definition: sardonic"
maybe i can get away with it.
if i can resist the urge to edit thee inline.

strokes of the pen were written in stone,
existing even whence scratched out.
unlike these lines, these disgustingly rhymes
which echo from the past, known to no one.
amongst my'ne
who among them can handle
my fragmented thoughts
or even myself
who in these ruins, and lies:
broken, alive, yet somewhat shattered..

torn as i am between gluttony and reason.
i am what i be, and what i be is displaced.

The Beach

This is a creative non-fiction piece I wrote in May 2012 following a visit to the place of my youth. It received some high praise, and so has been submitted to Canada Writes for consideration in the Creative Non-Fiction category.


We spent the early afternoon there, exploring the low tide, myself being tour-master to my spouse and three children. Until a few days ago, when an illness in my family had prompted an unplanned visit to Victoria, my children had never even seen the ocean outside the context of media. My sons were born in the mountains, and my daughter in the prairies.

Now here we were, turning over rocks and catching crabs, explaining how barnacles feed and having profound conversations regarding the cycles of life as only a beach can truly illustrate.

I realize with wry sadness how much I still remember, how much I really knew and understood even at the tender age when I left this place, and how little my own children understand for lack of having the daily lessons of life’s struggles that I had witnessed on these distant shores.

The beach – this beach… the place of my youth.

Did I realize in the fleeting moments of those idyllic days of yore what the beach really represented, or would come to represent to me? To a child, the days stretch out like honey from a dipping spoon, seemingly connected yet in truth flowing, dwindling.

Perhaps I’m getting old, I tell myself as I watch my own boys’ curiosity and apprehension at the strangeness of what the tide had uncovered, their faces contorted in moues of distaste at the stench of drying seaweed and the various discarded organic matter to have washed up on the shore.

On the beach nothing stays the same. Sands and driftwood come and go, creatures are born, live and die in a flash only for their remains to be gobbled up by the next vie du jour.

Circle of life, and all that.

We walked down farther than I had ever dared as a child, my younger son scrambling up the rocks and leaping with joy to the next. They are each different aspects of my younger self. My oldest son hangs back, complaining quietly but insistently of his boredom and of his wishes to return to playing video games, while my daughter follows awkwardly in the wake of her brothers, crying “look what I found daddy!” every time she finds a broken clamshell, crab, or dead thing.

Dead things are everywhere here; it is the way of the beach. My own father was deposited here at this very beach some ten years prior.

His ashes had gotten caught in the bag as my mother and sister tried to pour them carefully over the gunwale of the boat and a sudden breeze had blown some of his remains into our mouths while the rest plopped into the dark bay waters unceremoniously.

Though the dead are plenty, it is life which abounds upon the shoreline. Everywhere you find another stinking carcass, you find another colony thriving in its abundance. There is no time to hum a dirge for the passed… the rhythm of my breath, the beating of my heart, the lapping of waves upon these changed sands. Next breath. Next beat. Next wave... new life arises.


There is an involuntary pause at the top of the property while I gathered my nerve. Each step down the hill towards my old home is surreal, the ancient walkway my father had treaded in his own youth, and his father before him, familiar again under my feet.

I find myself at the front door, through which I can see a stained glass window my mother had made in the door of what had been my bedroom. Memories of laying awake, staring at the strange light as it shifted and danced through shadows and across the ripples of the colored glass.

I ring the doorbell of the house where I grew up, clutching two framed pictures under my left arm. Presently a man appears across the lawn, having emerged from the door at the other end. “Hi?” he asks.

These lines I had rehearsed ceaselessly over the past few days – I had been planning on doing this for years. For the past twenty years since leaving this place I had imagined what it would be like returning here as a man, my children down the road playing in the park where I had played and me… a stranger on my own doorstep.

“Hi, sorry to disturb you… um, this is going to seem out of the blue to you but I have been planning this for years. So.. Ahem.” I clear my throat. “My name is James Bethell, I grew up here. I brought you a gift,” I motion to the pictures under my arm.

There was only a slight pause before his eyes brightened. “Oh! I have been expecting you. Just a minute!” he says and disappears back into the house.

He had been expecting me?

Dumbfounded, I stand there. I had prepared myself for “that’s nice, now get lost” but not for “I’ve been expecting you.”

The man appears at the door with his wife. They invite me in with an unexpected warmth.

I had imagined it like this, but never expected it.

They regard the paintings, watercolors some ancestor had contracted when this house had been a beachside cottage and the neighborhood property values hadn’t amounted to the millions they do today.

Doug, his name is, explains that he had been waiting for this day for twenty years. He beams, “I knew you’d come!” I wonder if that’s why I was compelled.

They convince me to remove my shoes and have a tour. I look at what had been the kitchen – it is now a hallway room – and see where my grandfather died, but I don’t tell them.
His ghost is only visible through my eyes.

Doug tells me of some dark secrets he’d uncovered - empty liquor bottles hidden in the walls discovered during renovation. “Your father had a drinking problem, didn’t he?” he asks. I nod. “Ron Bacardi white rum.” I whisper, and he nods too.

Everything has changed. As the tour continues I come to realize that this is not my home anymore. His teenage daughter appears, and we are introduced.

“This is the only home she has ever known,” he tells me.

I smile, fighting back emotion. “It’s a great place to grow up, isn’t it?”

The teenager disappears back downstairs, grimacing at the stranger in her midst, and I am led in her wake.
What had been a dark and terrifying place as a child has been finished. My grandfather had been a butcher and there had been power saws and meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. The menacing glint of bare incandescent bulbs off rusting saw blades sent a child’s imagination asunder.

The door to the basement was still sliding and weighted to close unless hooked. Standing in this spot I am eight years old again, grabbing a box of macaroni off the shelf of the pantry with a forced calm, timing my steps to catch the door before it slams shut behind me.

By the third step back up to the kitchen I am flailing as if all the demons in hell are grasping at my ankles. Today it is a nice place, drywall and tiles conceal the holy terror which had gripped this child’s mind.

Doug shows me a life-sized cardboard cutout of the tin man, a relic of my youth still pinned to pantry door. “I’ve been saving it for you,” he tells me. It is like the face of a distant relative in a photograph, smiling as the last day I saw him, frozen in time.

My gut says to leave him, so I decline. He isn’t mine anymore. The little girl in the next room has as much claim to him as I do.

I am the ghost here.

As we stand at the top of the driveway, I shake Doug’s hand. “Thank you for this,” I say, and I feel like he understands.

We share a moment, the kind that linger forever in memory and are backlit by sunsets over the waves on the beach.

The beach is a place of life and death, and of life’s new arisings. We share a branch on our genealogical tree now, this home is interwoven into our families and in some small way it makes us family too. But it is their branch now, not mine – mine waits for me down the road, oblivious to what has just happened to my psyche, and their inherited family tree.

As I gather my family and climb into the minivan I can’t help but reflect on their daughter, perturbed at her parents openness with what amounts to a complete stranger.

I smile as I wonder if she will raise her children here, as my father had, or if she too will one day find herself on the step at that house on Cordova Bay Road, a stranger at her own front door.

Everyone is aboard now, and we cast off – chattering children, ghosts and all. 

^ The house I grew up in