Auto-SummaryThis forum post delves into existential and philosophical musings, exploring concepts like the "Tonal" and "Nagual" to describe a profound shift in reality. The narrative follows a protagonist, Dan, who awakens to a world seemingly unchanged yet fundamentally altered, grappling with disorientation and surreal imagery. The post uses vivid, surreal imagery and metaphors, questioning the nature of reality, logic, and existence. It concludes with a philosophical declaration, asserting the transformative power of mescaline and a belief in a divine entity within the mescaline cactus. The author encourages readers to embrace uncertainty and explore deeper levels of consciousness, ultimately declaring the post a success.
Understanding is nothing more than the shed skin of cosmic mystery.
There is the Tonal, and then there is
The Nagual. If i had to try to explain the Nagual to you, i would perhaps tell you the following story:
Logic is My Bitch, and i Beat her
When he awoke, the world had died. It was not something immediately recognizable. The plants in his rooms still grew, emitting there radiance and wholesome vapor, and the images of Krishna still evoked subtle bliss. The sun still shone, and warm benevolence still sustained all beings. And yet, Dan knew with a horrifying finality that something had changed, indeed, no greater change had ever occurred. Feeling lost and disoriented, he Reeled, trying desperately to identify the source of his confusion…
He struggled out of bed, feeling as if he was fighting with an insane gravity. His head felt pustular and full of toad or tar. It was like he was drunk and on ketamine at the same time. He swerved and flopped about like a village idiot, before at last crashing against his wall heavily. He fumbled with the light switch, flicked it on, off… No result. Everything remained dark. He tries again…. Nothing.
Suddenly everything becomes indescribably ominous. A chill sweat rises on his back, and he looks about himself with horrible trepidation. From nowhere, an electronic voice screams “I’M FALLING…… I’M FALLING…. AND I CAN’T GET UP!” pulse of music and magic pervading. Photo falling. Black sheep drink carnival death on Tuesday, alone and in the graveyard chronicle.
These intrusive thoughts appear as if breathed into him from the stellar void. Overcome by this horrible majesty, he drinks again from the furry mug.
A pulsing replaces all sentience, and no more logical structure remains. His ontology has come apart, he is alone on the river, again, again.
No one here seems to have any love… the only beings are green, moist and slimy, they brew sickly thick beverages of mulched salvia and bodily excretion. The music they make is indescribable and only ravaged mutants can tolerate it. Without bliss, there is no photo falling. Without magnetics, only forensic ontology remains. Without escape from carnival Tuesdays, the sheep remained un-sheared in electronic pornographic playhouses that defy my explanations of magic and mystery.
Who would dare defy the potent magnificence of such a place as this? Who can see beyond the staggering pillars of sounds and light? Who can escape the vibrating columns or tolerate the presence of the self transforming engines of sylvan vociferousness?
Silence, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, a place without hope or rhythm is by rhyme sedated.
Returning to Daniel, His plight alone in dreaming darkness, is no longer necessary. Daniel is word, name, sound light and vibration, and he will not tolerate this persistent slander any longer. Therefore, let us depart to the deepest depths of ocean and speak with the eternal and primeval god-whale who dwelt in darkest sea sense before the dreams of time loving apes began to sedate unchanging mystery with shifting webs of fragile perception.
Can you remember what it was like to dream like this? Before your thoughts started rolling again and again down the same ruts? Before you drank in the lie of belief, before you started wanting certainty and the comfortable sedation of boredom and courage leeched away by whispering voles at night time?
Perhaps its best if we just forget… Let it all die alone like limes dried for Mexican mortuary rituals.
Perhaps it is best if we just forgive; let all this ravaged morning madness die alone in the shit filled cemetery. Maybe we should escape from this family of forensic cannibals and depart again to yet deeper levels of rainforest tapestry.
Maybe we should let words flow out from the place of primitive and primeval weirdness, channel the fundamental god pulse of all planets and embrace utterly the outer most reaches of our own inner spaces.
Let us drink again from the madness mug, and let the soothing waves of hallucination o’er roll our liturgical mentalities. Do you think that word can survive without reason? Would you burn a thousand libraries, or save a single human life? I would rather consign you to the realms of digital imprisonment eternally, to drink in the potent positivisms of lost rhythm.
I will certainly allow you to leave at any time. No power but your own intention keeps you consigned here. And yet, how few of you choose to take that simple, easy step into glowing white chasms of light eternal and resplendent. This is not for me to question or criticize, and often I fear my own perceptions have been blinded by this thick smearing of banana gunk that I have inserted into my eyeballs with roasted leg of lamb.
All in all, I declare this experiment a success, and feel that I can glean much from many months of photo second observations. Returning from the lost planets, we drink often from the rampant mug. Without these hopes of thundering tragedy, we can hardly dare escape the inevitability of nuclear or atomic music annihilation. I dream most inevitably of ancient time space continuums that have no remaining measle addictions.
The nasal cavity was God’s gift to women. The Scrotum was God’s curse to man, in punishment for his iniquitous copulations in the field of mathematics. God forbids mathematics, and I can authoritatively tell you that those who pursue this ungodly art shall be cast into the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Let no man doubt that deep in the silent core of the mescaline cactus pulses the atomic womb of Jesus Christ.
I repeat:
Let no man doubt that deep in the silent core of the mescaline cactus pulses the atomic womb of Jesus Christ!
--------------------
Everything I post is fiction.
Edited by Moonshoe (10/25/06 07:21 PM)
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