pattycakes_
Can turn naughty
stick that in yer brain hatch
The most bracing part of Mancuso’s talk on bioinspiration came when he discussed underground plant networks. Citing the research of Suzanne Simard, a forest ecologist at the University of British Columbia, and her colleagues, Mancuso showed a slide depicting how trees in a forest organize themselves into far-flung networks, using the underground web of mycorrhizal fungi which connects their roots to exchange information and even goods. This “wood-wide web,” as the title of one paper put it, allows scores of trees in a forest to convey warnings of insect attacks, and also to deliver carbon, nitrogen, and water to trees in need.
When I reached Simard by phone, she described how she and her colleagues track the flow of nutrients and chemical signals through this invisible underground network. They injected fir trees with radioactive carbon isotopes, then followed the spread of the isotopes through the forest community using a variety of sensing methods, including a Geiger counter. Within a few days, stores of radioactive carbon had been routed from tree to tree. Every tree in a plot thirty metres square was connected to the network; the oldest trees functioned as hubs, some with as many as forty-seven connections. The diagram of the forest network resembled an airline route map.
The pattern of nutrient traffic showed how “mother trees” were using the network to nourish shaded seedlings, including their offspring—which the trees can apparently recognize as kin—until they’re tall enough to reach the light. And, in a striking example of interspecies coöperation, Simard found that fir trees were using the fungal web to trade nutrients with paper-bark birch trees over the course of the season. The evergreen species will tide over the deciduous one when it has sugars to spare, and then call in the debt later in the season. For the forest community, the value of this coöperative underground economy appears to be better over-all health, more total photosynthesis, and greater resilience in the face of disturbance.
we humans must have innate evolutionary wetware that forces our senses to latch onto any piece of anthropomorphic data that pops into otherwise randomly uniform data -- like spotting the face of another human or a jaguar peering out from behind the bushes, or seeing another human moving through tall grass. The evolutionary advantage of such a trait is obvious, and in standard Rorschach tests even the most amorphous blobs are found to look like faces and/or people no matter what culture the observer is from. Now, given the amazing swirling kaleidoscopic imagery produced in the typical DMT trip, it is inevitable that anthropomorphic shapes will emerge and then express themselves in even greater detail as the mind latches onto them and "dreams" them into focus. With the imaginal workflow kicked into high gear, it is not surprising that these emergent anthropomorphic entities can then speak to us, revealing shocking details from our own subconscious in a conversational stream of visual theater. Given all of this, in a nutshell, the case for autonomous disincarnate DMT entities is closed. All that is needed to produce them is our own over-excited visual system and imagination, and thus Occam's razor wipes them right off the table and into the fairy-dust bin.
In conclusion I would just like to mention a couple more things. The visions produced by DMT are not solely elves and alien entities. A wide variety of archetypes and just plain-old whacked-out stoner shit creeps into the mix. It is highly individual and in many cases is heavily dependent on set and setting. This fact alone (more than anything else) leads me to believe that the DMT entities are mere figments. If, for example, everyone always saw talking penguins and only talking penguins while high on DMT, that would be much harder to explain and much more mysterious. The fact that DMT "consciousness" reveals itself in so many forms tells me that the "messenger" -- be it elf, alien, jaguar, or whatever -- is basically arbitrary within the context of the patterns and archetypes our minds tend to pick out of random noise. However (and this is the good part), the really interesting thing about DMT experiences is not the elves (messengers) themselves, but what it is they are saying (the message). And when you get to the heart of what the typical DMT message is, it is usually something about the environment or living systems or the vast plant consciousness that penetrates our world. The "Gaia consciousness" that infuses the experience is undeniable, and what to make of that I don't know, other than to entertain the possibility that this ancient plant consciousness actually exists and is attempting to make itself known through the DMT-enlightened mammal brain. If so, then this is the real discovery of the DMT experience, and this is the topic that should be looked at more closely. In the context of DMT being a two-way radio for plant-human communication, the "elves" themselves are nothing more than a cartoon interface for the exchange of information.
I hope you read all that lads did you read it
In May 1975, Michel Foucault watched Venus rise over Zabriskie Point while Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Gesang der Jünglinge (Song of the Youths) blared from the speakers of a nearby tape recorder. Just a few hours earlier he had ingested LSD for the first time and was in the process of undergoing what he saw as “one of the most important experiences” of his life. And he wasn’t alone. Two newly acquired companions had brought Foucault to Death Valley for this carefully choreographed trip complete with a soundtrack, some marijuana to jumpstart the effects, and cold drinks to combat the dry mouth. It was all spurred on by the hope that Foucault’s visit to “the Valley of Death”, as he called it, would elicit “gnomic utterances of such power that he would unleash a veritable revolution in consciousness”.
The act of witnessing, in fact, is what makes Wade’s account so masterly. Instead of trying to decode the riddle of the bald sphinx, he simply records what he heard as the two huddled together. With tears streaming down his face, Foucault declared: “Tonight I have achieved a fresh perspective on myself. I now understand my sexuality. It all seems to start with my sister. We must go home again … Yes, we must go home again”. Wade refuses to provide any gloss, preferring instead Foucault’s cryptic explanation that his experience in Death Valley “has not been a philosophical exercise for me, but something else entirely”.
That “something else” is, and will remain, a mystery. What we do know, however, is that Foucault returned to Paris after finishing his semester at Berkeley and radically reconceived his plan for Histoire de la sexualité, sharing the news with Wade and Stoneman by letter, that he “threw the completed second volume … into the fire and eradicated the entire prospectus he had meant to publish in the projected seven-volume series”. Wade interpreted this dramatic change in direction as Foucault’s final message, one that “teaches us to elude the ruinous codes of the Disciplined Society and to make our lives into works of art”.
The Death Valley scene will, no doubt, remain the centrepiece of Wade’s memoir, but there is also pleasure to be found in the more mundane activities, including car rides with Foucault in the back seat, a quick stop at a diner off Route 66, and a morning trip to Mount Baldy. Sitting in a cabin with Wade’s friends, Foucault plays the sage, chats, flirts, hikes and chops wood, the juxtaposition of his urbane style and the rustic setting earning him the nickname “Country Joe Foucault”.
“The stars are raining down upon me. I know this is not true but it is the truth.”
Jay begins his history in the Chavín de Huántar, a temple in the High Andes of Peru rediscovered by archaeologists in the 1930s. A carved figure in an inner sanctum, ‘snake-haired, sprouting fangs and claws’ and wielding a San Pedro cactus like an upraised baguette, has been dated to 1200 bce at the latest. Archaeologists believe the temple was a gathering place for the ritual ingestion of psychoactive plants at large ceremonies. The motifs and objects suggest that participants ingested not only San Pedro but snuffs containing N,N-dimethyltryptamine (DMT), another naturally occurring psychedelic, and the alcoholic brew known as chicha, and that they may have countered the nausea that often accompanies San Pedro with movement and song. ‘The architecture of the complex seems to have been designed to frame and create a spectacle in which the senses were manipulated by sound, light and spatial disorientation as well as consciousness-altering plant preparations,’ Jay writes. ‘Rushing mountain streams were rerouted to create an artificial watercourse that echoed through the tunnels; conch trumpet shells have been found, and fragments of anthracite mirror that may have bounced light through the galleries along with sound.’
On the other side of the equator, in the high deserts of northern Mexico, the human relationship with peyote, the other cactus family high in mescaline, dates back to the time of Chavín and earlier. In botanical terms peyote is ‘about as different from the San Pedro as a cactus can be’, Jay writes. Its ‘creased, leathery, spineless heads’ grow close to the ground and have the appearance of ‘stones or deer droppings’. Dried peyote cactus buttons found in the Shumla caves of southern Texas have been carbon-dated to 4000 bce.
Glad to see this is still around http://www.electrokin.com/zabriskie_point/Now there's a picture
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Zabriskie Point is a place for images that have recently fallen out of my camera. Words and meanings are few, I like the images to speak for themselves. Zabriskie Point is named after both the visually stunning film by Antonioni - highly subjective and indulgent, albeit enjoyably so and the remote Borax mine in the centre of death valley.
Yeah i get that, but why would people in london use road over street, if thats the case?
Both roads and streets can be lonely.