Amateur weird: or, how it's hard to be a hippie chemist

I feel a little like galileo some times. This is not to say that my friends and fellow doofers are close-minded, but they're certainly differently minded. I am a spiritual person; this much is true; but I find it difficult to nod and smile politely when close friends are asking me whether or not I think it's a placebo effect that they feel stronger energy from meditating with one crystal rather then another. Likewise, when people very close to you are telling you qabout their experiences seeing ghosts, spirits, faeries and demons... Well, I'm not going to say that you're lying. I like to keep an open mind about the potential for mental expansion through the sue of psychedelics and the possibility that you're using a higher part of your brain that allows to to see these otherworldly beings. it's possible. But highly improbable. it's awfully, awfully hard to not tell them to stop taking acid and get a bloody catscan because they're fscking bonkers.

I believe in chemistry. I rely on the scientific method. I feel a strong conenction with the earth and the planet and feel very strongly about the environment and protecting what we have left. I am anti live aniumal exports, anti old-growth logging and anti whaling.

but then again, i'm pro nuclear. I'm pro choice. I'm pro stem-cell research, and pro-CERN.

It's hard being the only guy in the spirit circle who knows what a wolf-kirschnerr reaction is, but even harder when a friend says that 'the mushrooms whisper to him' to say they're psychedelic; when the ehrlich, melzer's and iodide testing says they're toxic...

A scientist's lot is not a happy one. I love all of my friends, but some of them are pretty fucking nuts.

Lucy raped me, Dimitri put me back together.

drum beat
drum beat
drum beat

recognise reality - Distinguish it form dreams. Put your head under the water until your vision goes black - And wait for the fragments of discorporeal dimensions to boil off in your eyesight. There's an inexpicable sense of belonging that comes with death - There's a familiar fear, a deep-seated grinding anxiety that you've known all your life. Then when you hit it, life is warm but the world is cold. It shuts you out. Cuts you down.

Standing on hot coals, the blind man asks for the time. He wants to know how much longer until the ghosts go to sleep.

Senseless from birth, he plots and wonders what vision must be like. Unable to comprehend colour, depth or shadow, he lives in a world of his own imagination. No other soul can possibly decipher his thoughts or memories, what he 'sees' in his minds eye. What happens when some fluke or chance,, some moment of nature, some divine truth reaches down and taps him on the optic nerve and says "Let there be light." ?

In that brief instance his world is deconstructed. Every mental image he ever had, every colelction of thoughts, every tied and related picture/pattern he stores in his memory is torn to pieces and strewn to the stars. His mind was lying to him, you see, and he now spies the universe in its true form.

This has a point, never fear, and a paralell.

For we are all blind from birth. We percieve - But we do not see. Out mind filters these images and sends feedback, lies, interpretations of the signal to make it easier for the concious mind to understand. There are those, however, who step out into the bitter universe and strip away the subjective babble, who burn off the curtains of conciousness and allow their mind to explore space, time and the universe as one.

They are the Psychonauts. And we are awake.

Rextal.

I knew this day was coming. The ever-present anxiety that has been lurking just out of my vision, just out of sight, for the past few months is jsut about to boil to a head. life comes full circle - Last nights coincide with first nights, moments crystallize and crackle in the darkness. Plans form and are ruined in a moment. Friendships are torn forever; but then again, that seems to be for the best.

Once again I am sitting at home on a sunday night, brainfucked, scattered and torn. My wallet is empty, my back hurts and I hate myself vigorously for not having more self control.

This is not the cause I champion. This is hypocrisy. This is madness. The preacher weeps when he realises he's been wiping his arse with the bible for the past six months. LSD is not meant to be used this way.

No more.

No more sunburn and spiders and arguments. No more pity for the ones who love you. No more wads of paper shoved under the tongue.

I need to get abck to work for a few weeks. Earn an honest wage. Clear the books, wipe clean the slate and keep my head down. There are plots afoot, and people will trample you to be a part of them.

New york is not my home.

Ravers are dumb.

I hate ravers. With a passion, mostly. There are a number of notable exceptions, but by and alrge, raving is an elitist fag culture where everyone has synchronised epileptic fits and masturbates for twelve hours straight munching mouthfuls of speed, piperazines and ketamine masquerading as MDMA. They all seem to be about who's the best dancer, who's the best looking, who has the best pills, who can eat the most bikkies, who can be the biggest douchebag... Fuck ravers. This doctor is DOOF POWERED.

aaaaaanyway, back to the original topic. I so painfully often hear people complaining that they had a 'smacky pill'. This is wrong. Nine times out of ten, they just had a good pill. The problem is that everyone is so used to dropping meth bombs that if their bikkies doesn't have them PINGING LIKE MAD ARGH ARGH ARGH GURN GURN BROWNIAN MOTION ON A UNIVERSAL SCALE KAPOWWWWW FWOOOOOSHING then they automatically assume that it's somehow a bad pill.

newsflash, fuckheads: MDMA is only a mild stimulant. A bulk dose of molly should have you glued to your chair, or melting into puddles and rolling around the dancefloor like ice cream in the sun. You should be tranquil, empathic, feeling the world rush up to meet you and the sky splitting over your head as god himself reaches down to give you a pat on the pack.

Nobody puts heroin in pills. If you swallow scag, you tend to PUKE FUCKING BALLS for about an hour or so. And all the synthetic oral opiates, are either a) worth more per mg then MDMA, or not potent enough to get a good dose into one pill. So nobody bothers. Likewise, you don't get 'coke based pills', as cocaine doesn't fair too well under hot acid reflux, like in say, your stomach. I've seen a lot of those EZ-test kits give positive responses for cocaine, but then when you slap it into the GCMS, it turns out to be procaine or some equally inert tropane alkaloid... The only time I've actually seen coke in a pill was just because a guy had gotten his white powders mixed up when filling the press.

The closest you'll get to a 'smacky' pill are k-bombs, which are pretty fucking sick in my opinion, but once again, not cost effective to put a decent recreational dose in the pill.

When someone offers to sell you a 'triple stack' or whatever, slap them in the face. Double, triple and quad stacked pills are just a marketing gimmick - It's all the fucking saaaaaaaaaame...

If you call yourself a raver, you need to grow the fuck up. By all means, go to raves if you enjoy it... But don't define yourself by the crowd you hang out with. And try to LEARN SOMETHING about the pills you're taking.

Thumbprint Dreaming

There is something wrong here. I don't know what it is. I don't know who I am. Molten construct of perverted crystal, I shirk and tower at once - Light strikes my back and the sun warms me, but I cast a tall shadow nontheless. I am meaningless. Impertubable. Ghostlike, wrapped in an engima tied up with lies. WHy? Where is my reality?

I wish that I could take back my life. Turn back the clock. Burn the history books and strike memory from mind until all that remained was a little curl of ash and a gready wisp of smoke drifting out the window.

Then my real work could begin.

No matter what I do, I trip over myself at every turn. I build walls between me and my bed. I taste rainbows on my thumb and my soul burns white-hot. I CANNOT SEE THE LIGHT.

I hate myself. I need to redeem myself. Actions cannot be undone, the best option is to simply burn bridges and fall into ruin. Find a new canvas, tear off the wallpaper, for no amount of scrubbing will clean these stains. Rattle the foundations and pull up my roots.

New York is not my home.

Language of the Future

I have come to recognise not a single 'god' so much as the occaional concious resolution of the universe condescending to speak in a way I can understand; a great alien buddha constructed of light who cried the song of dying swans in my ear.

You see I believe now that God is nothing. Not a single thing that really 'exists' in the sense we think of. There wasn't even a voice of god but rather a direction communication of information.

I'm almost inclined to say that information is indeed an aspect of God.

Data being the subjective interpretation of charmed quarks, without fermions to exert a force we are left with a wholly theoretical medium through which we transmit information - The vibration of air as sound, the flip of a magnetic particle, the pulse of a photon - These are merely mediums for data. The raw meme, the pure information, is utterly intangible everywhere except the human mind - The brain alone can condense these meaningless jabbers of energy into coherent, interpretable signal.

Though it doesn't really explain the presence of the archetypes. We don't really receive that information, it's inherent.

Why? It seems suspicious that the potential for creative thought is just an accident in the universe.

Creative thought, I fear, is an illusion. Everything that can posisbly happen, already has. It is happening right now, in an infinite number of split infinities. Under quantum uncertainty, we cannot know the future until we experience it - Making it the present. And until we experience it, we cannot derive what has happened. So therefore, we must assume everything has happened.

Nothing is your choice, everything is pre-determined. Free your mind by accepting blind chaos as your rudder in life.

What man deserves to die One Hundred Deaths?

It was Tathegata Buddha, the father Buddha, who said to Kannon the Compassionate, that "With our thoughts, we make the world."

With this in mind - I often meditate upon the death of myself or those around me.

Chocolate kills.

When we are alive, life is everything to us. For those who are dead, all they know is death.

In this; we know that people who speak endlessly of death have already left this realm. They are marking time, is all. They are waiting for a bus that will never come, but it doesn't matter, because they don't want to get on it because they don't want to go anywhere anyway.

Even a killer knows when there is a time for life. Hollow madmen whine and circle like vultures over the weak, their thin, reedy voices bragging of people hurt and souls stolen.

True killers, true masters of death, sit idly eating chocolate and wait for the rabble to pick each other off before making one, perhaps two clean strikes and solving the gordian knot.

The sharpest sword is the one never drawn in anger.

jericho burning.

Moments in time crinkle and dance. The karmic wheel turns ever onwards, inorexably, unstoppable. The irresistible force and the irresistable woman. My hands are broken and my lips are dry. My skin is tingling and my eyes are numb. This is beyond intoxication. This is the taste of hot copper in the air, and the blinding light in her eyes. When you can touch the universe but cannot become one - When events conspire to shrivel your heart and drain you of all but bitter miserdom - Remember that the base state of the universe is one of transquility. Despite how chaotic you may feel, despite what the negatives may be, there is an equal proportion of positives. Of matter. Of good to match the evil; and produce... what, exactly? positron and electron annihilate to produce energy. Good and evil couple to form... Enlightenment. When you reach that state of understanding when you can finally grasp that nothing happens by chance, and that everything is predetermined. That is when you realise that nothing's changed - Things were always like this. Nothing was good, nothing was bad, everything simply was. This is the Istigkeit. The orbit of worlds around two people because they are all that exist. Lightning splits the sky and unites ozone, draws current so quickly and traces back upwards, so all we see is the after-effects. That's how these things work. You never know the first strike. You only feel it when it starts to leave you, and you realise - No, wait. I need you. I can't be without you. Then the current surges and every neuron in your body fires and for the first time in so long, you can feel again.

My angel. My serenity. Never falter, never slip. Forget the past, because the present is all you can affect, and even then, anything you can do to change your path, you've already done. Nothing else matters but this white-hot moment when we come together, at long last, and the seas bil around us. When a thousand people stop and stare. When the earthquakes shake the planet to dust and the man in his armchair, blinks a little, and continues eating breakfast. Take my hand and join me in the universe.

SPONTANEOUS MATH LECTURE YAY

a Dirichlet series is a difficul thing to simplify past the equation and integer boundaries, but I'm giving it a shot anyway because it gives me an oppurtunity to revise and remind myself by jotting down everything Ic an recall... So, when given a series {an}n ∈ N of complex numbers we try to consider the value of

{inf|sigma|(n=1)} (an/(n^s))

as a function of the complex variable s. In order for this to make sense, we need to consider the convergence properties of the infitite sequence stated above.

If {an}n ∈ N is a bounded sequence of complex numbers, then the corresponding Dirichlet series f converges absolutely - that is, to a whole-number point - on the open half-plane of s such that Re(s) > 1. Generally speaking if an = O(n^k), the series converges absolutely in the half plane Re(s) > k + 1.

If the set of sums an + an+1 + ... + an+k is bounded for n and k ≥ 0, then the above infinite series converges on the open half-plane of s such that Re(s) > 0.

In both cases f is an analytic function on the corresponding open half plane.

The convergence of a Dirichlet series is the intercept on the real axis, of the vertical line in the complex plane, such that there is convergence to the right of it, and divergence to the left. This is the analogue for Dirichlet series of the radius of convergence for power series. The Dirichlet series case is more complicated, though: absolute convergence and uniform convergence may occur in distinct half-planes.

On the whole, the analytic function associated with a Dirichlet series has an analytic extension to a larger domain, and it'll be rare to see one used in another fashion.

ITT, we change the world.

Understand, now, that we stand on the precipice of a world aflame. Where society is soaked in gasoline, and we, the citizens, are all holding a precariously-balanced source of ignition, that devious spark that most of us call an opinion.

Unfortunately, a lot of very stupid, narrow-minded an ignorant fucks have an opinion which they are forcing onto even more gullible fucks desperate for direction. Case in point?

http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=wX8-Pzq85U4

That fat fuck is brainwashing millions of soccer moms and religious zealots with flat-out lies, half-truths and deceptions - Not even a real doctor.

people like this are destroying the planet.

Now, I'm not saying that kid was in the right. he wasn't. he was a fucking muppet, smoking salvia because "He was bored". When children that young try to get into psychedelics, they need to be very carefulyl and slowly amalgamated into a state of greater understanding through meditation and introspective discussion before they even think about taking the drug... it's a good thing that his mother tried it too, before allowing her son to continue, but she was a weak-minded individual letting her douchebag kid steamroller for cheaps highs and TOTALLY MISSING THE POINT of the divine mint.

End ignorance. Educate thineself.

I WANT ALL YOU TO SMOKE DMT AND JOIN MY CULT MOTHERFUCKERS.

This is what it sounds like when swans die.

But what is death?

Life is the subjective experience of a concious mind recognising change over time. Death, we can assume therefore, is the opposite of this. Or perhaps the absence? Death is the absence of change over time?

Then therefore, what is time? The moment variable in the equation? When we know that the planar heterotic superstring consists of a closed loop with two planes of vibration - Clockwise and counterclockwise - time, perhaps, can be considered the intersect of these two planes, the bidimensional delta plateau from which we integrate to yield the ghost shadows we call 'memory'... The residual data left from every fermion striking the surface of our transdimensional continuum. Time, I think, is the concept we have dreamt up to allow us to function with some degree of sanity - A kind of giant pile we sweep everything into so we don't get caught up experiencing past, present and future simultaneously. We will need to overcome this barrier if we ever wish to transcend reality.

The clockwise vibrations live in a ten-dimensional universe. The counterclockwise live in twenty-six dimensional space, and interact with fermions to produce a net entropic effect. Entropy, of course, being the measure of disorder in a closed system. Though in truth, our 'closed system' should really be considered the universe, we don't [i]really[/i] know just how closed our universe is - I often wonder if some of those images we're picking up, some of those radio signals and cosmic noise, are nothing more then reflected signals from ourselves a billion years ago, which spun out into the aether, struck the 'edge' of time and space and merely warped back upon themselves to come back the way they came... The universe, if it has a shape, will be a torus, or perhaps a kline bottle, being the only 'real' shape we can contemplate a metadimensional depth to... Of those twenty six dimensions we mentioned earlier, sixteen have been compacted to maintain a trans-dimensional equilibrium without inducing a massive resonant effect due to the asynchronous waveform. If you recall, Kaluza's original definition only included five dimensions which did provide a static pattern and a balance, but did not explain the force exerted by weakly interacting massive particles. So, our 'closed system' should be considered the empty spacetime held inside this twenty-six dimensional net, where the moebotic superstring covers every angstrom simultaneously - For until something strikes it - Until something observes it - That string is more like a sphere, in every possible iteration simultaneously.

Where was I going with this? oh, yes... Given that death is the absence of change over time, to integrate that change to get a static '0' answer would require a phenomonally fucked up curve... something on the magnitude of a gyroscope locked in three dimensions, forced to precess into time. Death is not the end of life. Death IS life, merely extrapolated into a dimension we cannot currently percieve in this eminently weak fleshforms.

Let Spirits Dream

I've been doing acid for a while now, but for the first time last night, I really felt what it was all about.

No coincidence that last night was the first oppurtunity to go as hard at it as I've always wanted to, but [i]holy fuck[/i]... This world, and everything in it... Psychedelics are the most important thing we have. The most dangerous weapon in our arsenal. The one tool with the potential to change the world, if only applied in the right way. We spend billions of dollars exploring the farthest reaches of space when we know so little about the glowing universe that hides between our ears. When xenophobia and baseless, abstract religious fear, corrupted from its pure do-unto-others roots into some bizarre form of cryptopsychology, seems solely designed to alienate and standardise, to shape living flesh into cold marble until every thinking, breathing individual stands alone in a room full of people who look and think, exactly the same. To flatten out those peaks in humanity, the spikes on the mass spec, the individual points of reason, truth and logic. Those glorious moments of humanity.

There has to be some reason why [i]that[/i] particular iteration of experiment was spilt on his hand. Maybe they all were and the 25th was the only active variation, I don't know. But... There is poetry hidden in that molecule. The way that the aromatic pi electrons are conjugated all the way up to the carboxyl group of the amide function... This keto-enol tautomerism is more then simple chance. This is, for me, the first evidence of something else. of something intelligent on a much grander scale then anything we have ever before comprehended, contemplated, or theorised. Our receptors are doors with many-faceted locks, where many different keys will open the door in many different ways. it will always swing on the same hinges, but depending on which pins are engaged by which key, an entirely different world will be waiting on the other side. LSD is a nightingale key. With spiderweb teeth, scant angstroms in length to twitch and tick across the warm wet surface of space and reality.

Open your third eye. Stare into the darkness, and wait for it to blink.

Life grows around us like a skin, to shut away the outer desolation.

Life grows around us like a skin, to shut away the outer desolation. For if we clearly mark the furthest deep, and stare with hot, hollow sockets we should be dead long years before the grave. But turning around within the homely shell of worry, discontent, a narrow joy appears. We grow and flourish and rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes. Some break the shell. I think that there are those who push their fingers through the brittle walls and make a hole. Through this cruel slit, they stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes and play themselves against the many-armed envy, the cautiously optimistic lifestyle that persistently waits for one of us to slip up, at which point life opens up beneath us, a grave maw that devours you whole, spitting out your flesh form like an owl, while digesting your soul and free will.

knowing themselves, and too much else beside, these soulless acid-fuelled machines of brain they can derive the truth of time and space. the only thing wrong with the present, is that according to messers heisenberg and and schroedinger, the bastard doesn't exist because the present is the future and the future is the past, and it's all the same bag of bones anyway. We can't observe the future until it becomes the present, and the past we cannot observe at all - We can reflect on recorded observations, but they too, are a single-sided argument in the quantum debate that only represent one possible timstream and situation. So until we do, it's both past and future, and the present is only the monodimensional resolution of this whole tangled mess. The present is just the simplest and crudest way of observing the change in entropy over the span of the reaction - Which is a bit of a shitfight in itself, given our total inability to measure this change. it's a constant process of coming into being, and passing away. The future is now, the past doesn't exist and the rpesent is the lie we wrap ourselves in so we don't have to try to predict what's coming up next.

Life on Mars

So, that was my 18th birthday. Dominated by alien heads, vibrating red ohms, my good friend dimitri and a very cute girl with fishnets and a slinky skirt.

Is this what my parents had in mind for me? There's artline texta on my shoulder, and sunflower seeds in my hair. My upper lip keeps twitching and I should really brush my teeth.

Better turn the bass up for this one.

I've been to the other side of the world for the girl of my dreams, and I've been into the darkest depths of the human psyche and my personal condition. I've been beaten, shot at, set on fire, hugged, sucked, slapped, heart-broken, patronised, praised, spat on, yelled at, whispered to, moaned in the ear of, tortured, dragged out of the house to go get high, placed on a pedastal, questioned, probed, interrogated and loved. I have breathed. I have lived.

I have finished my dress rehearsal. Eighteen years of preperation have gone together to form this bright, crystallising moment. The truth shines like new steel, and it tastes just as bitter.

No more fucking around. No more burning away hours of time for unecessary self-gratification. I've finally got a shot at a decent uni. No more bullshit and deception and mind games and personal gain and pivate interest. There are bigger things at stake here.

There's that impeccable truth I keep coming to. That I keep deluding myself with. That I keep reminding myself of, and testing the constitution of. That whire-hot glowing chunk of confidence that says you-are-the-man-with-the-bulletproof-brain. When I can have had five tabs and some people not even know that I'm tripping. When DMT does nothing any more. When I can feel individual serotonin receptors cracking and puddling like teeny-weeny stars of crystal meth inside my skull. When I can still talk coherently ththrough nang hits. These are golden moments that say to me "You will not have a bad trip. You are not the same as those people. No matter how hard you go, you're not going to break anything inside that tired young skull."

The next time I catch myself thinking that, I'm going to slap myself. Intellectual capcity, mental fortittude and psychological stability. Not to mention raw tolerance of psychoactive substances. These are not a measure of a man's worth. A man'd worth is judged by how he takes these stanchions of logic and drives them home into the scene, how he can figure out not what the doof can do for him, but swhat he can do for the doof.

it doesn't have to even be anything. I'm not saying that you should all go out and start donating to the organisers and bringing bunches of free bannanas for everyone - But you're welcome to if you want. It's not a tangible thing. It's the knowledge and passion of the doof, and the willingness to act and, more importantly, to not act, when the situation calls for it.

Please, whoever's doing that shit, please stop bring your friends who plow through the gate, and who steal the fuel for the jennys. Just don't tell them. Everyone is welcome at the doof, unless your behaviour is making others feel unwelcome.

All that being said, i think I'm done with doofing for a little while. Maybe take a breather for a few weeks and see how I feel. I might just want to get some cash together and skip town for a while - Go on holidays somewhere chilly and Sereana-flavoured. We'll see how the next few weeks pan out, I guess.

So yeah. This is it. Eighteen. Legal and liable, at long last. Culpable for full criminal prosecution and considered responsible for my actions.

bastards.

One day, skyscrapers will kneel to allow the sun's passage. The hands of a few will hold the very reigns of this world. The day will come when the sky spits heroin and the earth grinds its teeth in frustration. The people will rattle and roll like marbles in a copper cup.

Divine Moments of Truth

A thousand years ago, deep in the darkest jungles of the Amazon, the ancient Incas discovered a mystical vine. They brew up a sacred, psychoactive, hallucinogenic drink - the holy Ayahuasca. You enter a special, magical dimension. The dimension of the spirit world. The drink takes you on a journey of inner discovery. You enter a special, magical dimension. The dimension of the spirit world. Depending on how good your contact is, quality can range from stringy brown bark to blood red resin to white needle-like shards. Administration is your choice - Insufflation isn't as bad as some of it's phenethylamine cousins, but it's still pretty rough. Oral activity is slim to nil without a companion to hold back the bouncers while he goes through and causes havoc. And uptake on intravenous is so potent that unless you're dealing with optically pure analytical samples, you're probably going to die... So, for the best compromise between comfort, bioavailability, and safety, we like to pip that shit. Now, personally, I prefer an electric vaporiser with a large plastic collection bag, but more commonly and more portably you'll just crack back that shit in a rose or oil pipe. I still remember the very first time I smoked DMT. The taste is like burning plastic, a little, and like chocolate, a little. It's not entirely unpleasant but it iss completely distinct, and memorable. For days afterwards you'll get flashes of the smell which will bring the rush of fear and glory and a few seconds of racing heartbeat. Lie down in the undergrowth when you take the hit. You want nature around you, lots of intricate detail and things to loop out and warp and fractalise. Take the hit. Hold it. Hooooooooooold it. Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooold it. It's usually not too harsh, but you have got to hold that shit in as long as possible. Fight oxygen. oxygen is your foe and the smoke is jesus christ our saviour. Do not let him go until you keel over backwards. Drugs have changed our lives, man. Drugs and computers are probably the two most important developments of our time. Drugs and computers, they're the language of the future. You'll feel when it comes on, and you'll probably lost control of yourself. Ever tried nitrous? Salvia? The come-up is a similar timing. Now, I don't mean, have you ever smoked a bowl of 5x salvia extract when you didn't want to get caught smoking weed. I mean, have you ever vaporised a few nuggets of 25X extract and taken the biggest lungful you could and held it for a long fucking time. You'll know if you have. They call it 'breaking through', and much like with salvia, breaking through on DMT is a very special day. it's like your re-birthday. The first time you do acid. The first time you break through on DMT. These are important milestones in your mental development. Your arm and legs will feel warm and soft. You'll try to sit up and your head will spin. Your muscles will contract and your toes will cramp up. This is going to happen in about... two seconds. it will feel like minutes. And then you will be high for the next two days. Subjectively, that is. For ten years you will have endless hallucinations... rainbow-bricked paths to and from sanity, deconstructing your mysticism, laying to waste your ego and preconcieved personality and revealing your soul for who you really are. if you really want to test your relationship with someone, go smoke DMT with them and try to remember what you see and say. It is impossible to describe what you will see. DMT strips bare the human mind and produces a mathematical precision in the chaos. It finds form and logic from emotion. And then it takes that logic and shits all over it, and then it skullfucks you with crazy. I have been to worlds entirely populated by strange mechanical elves, I have had my room dissolve into a candyland fantasy and been set upon by great sentient gummi bears. I have seen the universe rush up to greet me, a surging wave of darkness and stars, that forced it' way inside my ears and squeezed my brain until I exploded in a brillitant lancing moment of colour and sound. Five to ten minutes later, depending on how much you smoked, you'll be sober enough to speak. Twenty minutes later you should be able to drive. It will change your life.

and she's buying the stairway to heaven

it makes me wonder, sometimes, about how much is worth it, and how much is unecessary clutter.

the smell of sassafras isn'tparticularly nice but you know it means you're about to make a lot of money. So that acrid, candyshop-burning-down fragrance releases a little endorphins and you feel your heart thump in your chest. Chemistry is riddled with leitmotifs of lost glory, fame and riches - You have to trade them sometimes for your continued freedom. Allow the batch to go to waste, flush the precursors and dust down the house while you wait for the forces of good(tm) to arrive and batter down your door.

if there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't panic. just clean house and have a good excuse for that little jar or ergotamine in your drawer.

remember the thunder child.

indulge thyself..ret/CONN

selfless/selfish, rats whimper in the dark.

tomorrow never comes.

Burn for truth and fiend for reason. Addiction is a mindset.

buzz
buzz
buzz

busy fuckin bees this is me they are in me in my skin under my skin inside my flesh inside my head buzz fuckin buzz

burn with me - i need a smoke; but more then anything i need a new soxhlet

no scratch that

more then anything i need someone to come and trepan open my skull to let these bees out.

i'm grilling and looping and burning and bleeding and all I can do is beg, becasue i don't know what i need. i want to sleep, i want to run a mile, the nicotine makes me want something but i can't fucking PLACE it, i can't put my finger on it because one finger's on the syringe and the other's on the trigger

god fucking damn this is the london underground of drugs. i'm digging for some change from behind the couch at the same time as I jump in my car and drive south, way south, till I hit the cliffs and plunge into the ocean.

fuck. sharpen my knife. ride the snake. this bit will pass soon - but do I want it to? I'm never quite so happy as when i hit the misery. because this bit I know is real. THIS bit is real; the rest is washed in bleach and hot water because i want my cd4 sites unmolested, thankyouverymuch.

glaciers of ice, verbal intercourse. wu-gambinos. heaven and hell. liquid swords and the duel of the iron mike. the sound... it only makes the bees angrier.

The internet is shit. Or: "Fuck you Theodore Sturgeon, fuck you in your piscine ass."

And of this running faecal river, 90% of it is crap, so thank god for my bookmarks which allow me to filter through it. "But Lo!" Says Mister Sturgeon, 90% of your bookmarks are crap! I nod, concede the point that relativistically speaking, ninety percent of my bookmarks are, indeed, crap. I momentarily consider stripping down to the 10& good, but all that does is increase my resolution, because of that remaining 10%, 90% will be crap. It's a circle of crap that never ceases to confound and frustrate. So I keep my bookmarks, and move onto individual sites. hello, gaia. Ninety percent of you is crap. Resolve. Hello, G.D. Ninety percent of you is crap. Resolve. Hello, thread. Ninety percent of your responses are crap.

On and on it continues until I'm down to counting the pixels that make up the letters that make up the words that make up the posts that make up the thread - ad nauseam.

So! We simplify, but at the same time we introduce complexity. We tell sturgeon to get fucked, and introduce a littler creative editing. "Ninety percent of the definable present object is crap." Better. Simpler in terms of practice, more complex in terms of thw law itself.

But that's what science is like, and physics especially. The cat is/is not dead, all that bullshit. In all honesty, the only physics I care about is ballistic trajectories, impact patterns, terminal velocity and shrapnel distribution spreads. f(living) = BOOM HEADSHOT! where headshot is equivalent to the number of tangoes divided by the number of rounds in my magazine, and boom is equal to the number of magazines I'm carrying. If the number is positive, I live. If it's negative, I die. very simple.

The biggest issue facing mankind today is that extreme reluctance of numbers to do what they are told.

Buzz buzz, motherfuckers.

instinct: bees are bad. knowledge: honey is good

instinct vs knowledge decries the basic human struggle. We know it is bad to rape the defenseless young girl while she walks alone at night, but instinct wishes it. We know it is bad to invade that country for it's oil money, but instinct is greedy, and money is money.

Sometimes there is only a modicum of instinct, and we are forces to rely on knowledge. we know there should be a higgs boson, but damned if we can find it.

instinct: being happy is good. knowledge: meth is bad

instinct vs knowledge is the root of all suffering. Animal vs man, feeling vs thought. Heart vs head. the blood that pumps wrapped/rapt by the nerves which pulse. see the pun?

or does the pun see you?

instinct vs knowledge. instinct: I sound like a madman, raving wildy. knowledge: I am a madman, raving wildly.

Of course, it makes sense to me. But isn't that the crux of it? The true madman is the one who understands that he acts in a manner contrary to all reason, and yet continues to do so.

Instinct suggests that cooking illegal drugs is a bad idea. Knowledge argues that If I'm smart enough to cook, I should be smart enough not to get caught. Practice, so far, has suggested the latter to be accurate, but the future holds much and I am only young.

look at every 'evil' man you can - They all have one things in common - they act on human instinct (note; not animal instinct. human instincts are greedy, hedonistic and selfish rather then raw catecholamine flushes of the animal fight-or-flight instincts) - xenophobia, lust, greed and intolerance. They see something strange, they want to kill it. They see a girl they want, and they take her. They want money, and they trample others to get it.

from this, we can derive that knowledge - the application of rational thought, control and empathy - decries a base intelligence uncommon to most people. No self-rationalising 'intelligent' sentient being could condone taking the life of another indiscriminately. Imagine what you have accomplished in your lifespan. What have they done? you have no idea. What will you do for the rest of your life? They have no idea. neither of you can kill the other with any real conviction; [i]unless[/i] the other poses a direct threat to your continued existence - Because, elt's face it. Being selfish isn't evil. Self preservation isn't evil. it might be narrow minded, and an automatic violent response might be reactioanry and not the best course of action - but anyone who says violence doesn't solve anything clearly wasn't trying hard enough.

So bring your spoon and spike. Sit on a park bench beside me. We'll share a cigarette, spit heroin and be mad together.

[i]Bring back the bees! [/i]

please, someone pick me up out of the dust

i am the sharp tip of the world's claw - must look the part. it is a terrible insult to kill someone while poorly dressed. Look like a weapon, look like the law of the land. law of the jungle. Look the part, watch the crowd. Uniforms are a red rag to bombers and dissidents, avoid them. Know that the green will bring 'em on us.Fuck the politicians. The economists. The daily grind commuters, office workers, hard day at the salt mines eh comrade? Fuck you, your nerves aren't as ragged as this soldier.

The weather takes a turn towards winter (in november). It feels like everybody's got a chip on their shoulder. What if today's the day my luck leaves me? Normally... Normally I'm bulletproof. So why should it be different this evening?

These days, I think that every night, as I lay in bed and hide from the storms. It's sunny outside, but I can hear the lightning.

but still they come. still they line up, outstretched palm and clenched teeth that are tightening screws. to control what we see. What we say. this is what the bastards are making us do.

alone except for these tablets that go straight to my head, and jump on, holding the scruff of the neck of the country, so much blood. Police checkpoint is deep in guns, bristles with overpowered underinformed outsourced psychopaths with a scrap of shiny tin and a chunk of black steel. to hear their requests and cries denied, for peace, for bliss... You could almost believe them. Almost. if we had peace they wouldn't have a job. What we call peacekeepers are more accurately called peace modulators. They keep the peace where there are lots of cameras - And make war in the dark corners.

I hate the fucking look in their eye

i don't wanna live like this.

This great southern land - we'll let you in, but not your wife and kids, who may or may not aspire to be martyrs. the state clamps down hard nontheless - No labour potential out of them you see, and the kid will cost tax money to put through school. You, though. You can drive a taxi. We can use you.

pre-emption is self defence, live rounds are deterrence and local residents... collateral.

and even the children throw stones
that's why I can't wait to go home.

skin burnt raw, they still build fences while their families wait somewhere off the coast.

FUCK YOU WORLD, GIVE ME DRUGS.

Fuck all of you. Fuck you with a brick. Give me your drugs and fuck off. I hate you all. You only really realise how much you hate every human being around you once they're bouncing around in your crosshairs. All women are treacherous lying whores.

Give me your drugs and don't ever speak to me again. I hope you all catch ebola.

Actually, fuck that, I'm going to [i]give[/i] you all ebola.

Everyone sleepwalks while awake and wakewalks through sleep.

Sound that resounds, rebounds; sound that abounds in space and underground; sounds of life and sounding rods that drive deep into the bones of society. Sounds pulses, sound drives. Sound crashes and cries. Sound struts and sound swaggers, sound crawls in the gutter and begs for change.

Sound is the energy that can touch you. That can strike you down. That can reach into your ear, push through your eyes and rattle your teeth.

Sound is power. Sound is raw and brutal. Sound is gentle. All at once, sound is loud and soft, harsh and smooth. Sound is schroedinger's nightmare; impossible to tell if there is no sound or just equal sound rotated through 180 degrees until destructive interference creates a mean wave pattern of nil... Psytrance is sound. Hypnotic, colourful. it gets you locked in loops, trapped in beats. You dance, because it's the natural thing to do. right? Wrong. Wright? Babbage, actually.

Zang!

Psytrance is sound for the masses. Sound for parties and doofs and clubs and raves because there you get a cluster of hive minds, malleable minds, minds all thinking the same thing, to greater or lesser extent - let's have fun. Let's get fucked up. Let's [i]dance![/i]

Throw into the mix the knowledge that most of the people there will be from relatively similar backrounds or at least social demographics - They were raised similarly, at least macroscopically. Obviously there will be grave individual variations, but on the whole they have quite close morals and value systems... Most of them, at least.

Then you take all these like-minded people with similar neurochemistry and similar wishes and wants and similar thoughts and desires and you put them all on the same drug - Or at least, most of them. They'll all be on various different things, but it's a safe bet that the majority will all have one thing in common, substance wise - MDMA. Which is cool, because MDMA, as opposed to say, coke (which is what we were all taking back in the disco days) is particularly good for building the hive mind - Love thy neighbour, empath. PLUR up in hurr, and all that.

So we have all these people - They want the same thing. They think the same thing. They take the same thing. They do the same thing.

We need to take advantage of this. Skew the pills, add a little modinafil, piracetam and sodium pentothal to the mixture. And then weave subliminal messages into the music. Generate nega-waves and broadcast subsonic frequencies. We won't have precise instructions, but we can control their emotions. The DJ, lord puppetmaster, keeps the crowd on the strings. Then, once we're sure everyone's pretty much at the peak of their roll, we start pounding fear. Sound the alarms. Shift gears, and turn the vibes nasty.

Then we alert the police to the rave's existence and watch the riot unfold. A thousand able-bodied, amphetamine fuelled soldiers acting as one. The hive versus the great spider of government. They want a war on drugs - We will show them a [i]war[/i].

Grow soldiers and with them, burn the world.

LETS ALL TAKE SOME MESCALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE

The flask has cooled. Sawdust, filtered and boiled, dripped and refluxed in drain cleaner. The good bits - distileld, seperated and purified. Dealt with correctly. Strap on your gas mask, here comes the fun bit. Greeny-yellow haze flows through aquarium tubing into the bottom of the reaction vessel. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling. Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, pouring it into the buchner funnel and starting the vacuum, rinsing the last little residue out with ice-cold anhydrous acetone. Then a few hours in the dessicator to bring it all back to needle-like white shards, long slender crystals that threaten to impale sanity and spear conciousness on a point of white-hot phenethylamine bliss. Good mescaline comes on slow. The first hour iss all waiting. Halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep that burned you. Then... Zang! The kaleidoscope drills into my mind.

Trigonometric precision in chaos. Mescaline is wonderful for the mathematically inclined mind. Patterns emerge from signal noise. Hydraulics drive long, slow equations deep into your brain. A blank white wall becomes an exercise in destructive addition - Topology is poetry, and sledgehammers are fountain pens. Hour four. Now we see the violence inherent in the system. Brilliant lances of truth abuse your occipital lobe as complicated receptor ligands give up their trapped prey, like a spider interrupted in the middle of vorophilic coitus in exchange for a little mental stability. Serotonin floods and dopamine pulses. Blood hammers. Pulse races. Cars crash and sanity flusters. The world warps and betrays its true nature. The clearly defined patterns and equations of the third hour are overwhelmed by the fear created by aztec gods, great swooping reptilian birds with spiralling fire for eyes and great spiked iron dicks. Men and bears rape girls and bats, and a holy trifecta of neurotransmitters swell the brain. Increased intracranial pressure leads to fever. Fever brings a cold sweat. The sensation of liquid wrapping the body evokes memories of childbirth. A grave rolling nausea grips the bowels with pliers and twists and yanks with every fetid-breathed step you take towards the gutter, the bathroom, or the corner of your cell.

Eventually you feel yourself overcome. This ancient south american devil drug, holy flesh of the cactus gods and synthetic residue of a thousand milled trees. First of the chemical love story, and last to be understood. The birds, bane of prometheus and quetzacoatl continue to pluck and hunt. They circle overhead, and when they get brave enough, they drive into your body long talons and wickedly hooked beaks. Acidic tongues lash the wounds, rasp at your exposed skin as the clothes are torn from your body. They loathe the smell of marijuana, so burning cannabis incense or a nice fat blunt will keep them away, for a while at least. But either way the damage has been done, and you will puke maggots for hours while the eggs they laid under your skin fester and boil. They burst and with them comes sobriety - Cold albumin clings to your hair, cerebro-spinal fluid leaks from your pores and your bones tingle and creak while sanity slowly climbs out of the hole it was hiding in as the birds subside, beaten for another day.

Sorry officer, I thought that pigeon was an ancient mexican demon bird. No, I will not stop eating it's insides. Otherwise it will get me. Those businessmen are watching from their cafe ow fuck no piss off

Manifesto

I've always firmly believed that an individual's neurochemistry is entirely their own business. You want to drink till you bleed? Go ahead. Spoke a couple of cones before bed? Be my guest. Huff butane? Go for your life!

The problem stems when you infringe on someone else's life because of this substance abuse. When the drunk driver crashes and kills the family of four. When the chromer goes into a butane-fuelled convulsive rage and stabs some poor kid at the mall. When the stoner... Ah, fuck, who am I kidding? pot's never gonna hurt anyone.

Every single death currently ascribed to drugs - excluding deliberate suicide - can be totally and one hundred percent blamed on the government, and the War on Drugs(tm).

Overdose! it happens because the shit you buy on the streets is impure! One dimebag is nowhere near as hot as the next! You can used to loading one third of a teaspoon into your rig each hit, but you try a new dealer, and one third of a teaspoon suddenly sends you reeling into a total spinefuck of opiate-induced cardiac arrest and respiratory distress.

Psychosis and mental problems! Caused by improper education and nobody reporting the FACTS. If we could STOP the scare-mongering and let people know HOW MUCH is too much, what's REALLY addictive, what ACTUALLY will fuck you up and not just ALL DRUGS ARE BAD MMMKAY. Because when you tell them that ALL drugs are bad, and they then find out "Hey, wait a minute. This one's okay. Maybe the others are all okay too?" they find up sucking dick for speed in a dingy back-alley and picking the meth sores off their face.

Oh yeah, meth sores and meth mouth. It's not caused by the meth. It's caused because tweakers spend their entire time chasing more meth and not, I dunno, eating some vegetables or showering now and then.

MAN SHOT IN DRUG ROBBERY. Speed fiend was gurning for his next fix. That's the DRUG'S fault, right? Fuck no. It's the government's fault for not providing adequate rehabilitation centres, proper welfare systems; insufficient education about the addiction potential and by forcing them to rely on dodgy street-corner hustlers instead of getting a prescription from the doctor for a week's worth of optically-pure speed for a fucking pittance. 

If I were in power, every drug would be legal but restricted. if you wanted it, you had to go to the doctor and pass a written and verbal examination to see whether or not you know what you're getting into and whether it will be safe and right for you.

Alcohol is legal. Cigarettes are legal. Two drugs that do nothing but rape your body in the most creatively vicious of ways. Two drugs responsible for more deaths, more suffering and more pain in history then EVERY other drug combined. And I'm fine with that. I'm happy for them to be legal. but if THEY'RE legal, then so should be everything ELSE. And if everything ELSE is illegal, then so should they!

Could we get some POSITIVE drug stories for once? It's always 'Today a young man on acid thought he was an orange and leapt off a balcony trying to escape the people he thought were trying to peel him". Why can't you just tell the truth? "Today, a young man on acid realised that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration and that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There's no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and you are the imagination of yourself."

I mean, seriously. In all my life, i have imbibed thousands of tabs, kilograms of pills, gallons of PCP, tonnes of peyote, fields of cannabis, trees of datura and an entire GALAXY of multicoloured uppers, downers, poppers whizzers, laughers screamers and EVERY variation on the phenethylamine or tryptamine structure currently known as psychoactive to mankind.

And I am YET to have a bad trip. I long for one. Am I just stronger then the rest of you? Fuck no. I'm fucking gorgeous, made of iron and dick and the smartest man in the world; but deep down I'm still human! For now, at least. People have bad trips because the government tells them they will have bad trips. Because their friends warn them about 'what to do in case of a bad trip'.

LSD is so ridiculously subjective, if you tell someone that they're going to have an AMAZING time, then they WILL. Because they're on LSD. You cannot overdose on LSD without multiple millions of dollars worth and a cast-iron stomach. you cannot get physically addicted to LSD. LSD does not stay in your spinal fluid forever. You cannot drug test for LSD.

Seriously. Take some acid. This is the bare-knuckle face-burning FACT right here. I am kicking open your skull and jacking off my poisoned fruit RIGHT into your brain.

TAKE.

SOME.

FUCKING.

ACID.

It will CHANGE YOUR LIFE forever and for the better.

You might not see it that way at first. you might be one of those one in fifty million people who has some kind of complex dopaminergic reaction and thinks they're a goat. but so what? it won't STAY that way. You come down off acid! You go to bed, have a cup of tea and a berocca, you're fine! Hooray!

but, as I always say.

if you don't regret taking acid afterwards, you're not doing it right.

otherwise you're just some guy looking at pretty colours.

Which is fine, really. If that's what you want? Go right ahead. but you're not getting as much out of it as you could be.

but please, DON'T go out and take forty tabs and get hit by a truck. Don't foam at the mouth and rattle the bars of your cage. 

Government is a dumb beast. A simple animal. if you scare an animal, it will either back down and run, or it will turn around and tear your face off.

Timothy leary scared society. Leary was a fool. Drunk with 'celebrity-hood' and his own ego, he became a media clown-and was arguably the single most damaging actor involved in the destruction of the evanescent social movement of the '60's. Tim, with his very public exhortations to the kids to 'tune in, turn on and drop out,' is the inspiration for all the current draconian US drug laws against psychedelics. He would not listen to any of us when we asked him to please cool it, he loved the lime-light and relished his notoriety.

Leary made bastards, criminals and dogs of us all. All those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit. he took them and he turned them into the ENEMY OF THE STATE. But their loss and failure is ours, too. What Leary took down with him was the central illusion of a whole life-style that he helped to create...a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody-or at least some force-is tending the Light at the end of the tunnel.

Albert Hofmann, discoverer of LSD and one of my all-time heroes, called LSD "medicine for the soul" and was frustrated by the worldwide prohibition that has pushed it underground. "It was used very successfully for 10 years in psychoanalysis," he said, adding that the drug was hijacked by the youth movement of the 1960s and then unfairly demonized by the establishment that the movement opposed. 

In December 2007, Swiss medical authorities permitted a psychotherapist to perform psychotherapeutic experiments with patients who suffer from terminal stage cancer and other deadly diseases. Although not yet started, these experiments will represent the first study of the therapeutic effects of LSD on humans in 35 years, as other studies have focused on the drug's effects on consciousness and body. Hofmann supported the study, and continued to believe in the therapeutic benefits of LSD. 

The same is happening with ecstasy.

A small number of therapists, including Leo Zeff, George Greer, Joseph Downing, and Philip Wolfson, used MDMA in their practices until it was made illegal. George Greer synthesized MDMA in the lab of Alexander Shulgin and administered it to about 80 of his clients over the course of the remaining years preceding MDMA's Schedule I placement in 1985. In a published summary of the effects, the authors reported patients felt improved in various, mild psychiatric disorders and other personal benefits, especially improved intimate communication with their significant others. 

In a subsequent publication on the treatment method, the authors reported that one patient with severe pain from terminal cancer experienced lasting pain relief and improved quality of life. However, few of the results in this early MDMA psychotherapy were measured using methods considered reliable or convincing in scientific practice. For example, the questionnaires used might not have been sensitive to negative changes and it is not known to what extent similar patients might improve from chance or from psychotherapy.

The therapeutic potential of MDMA is currently being tested in several ongoing studies, some sponsored by the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies. Studies in the US and other countries are evaluating the efficacy of MDMA-assisted psychotherapy for treating those diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or anxiety related to cancer. In a newspaper interview, the researchers from the South Carolina PTSD study report tendencies for some participants to have reduced disease severity after MDMA psychotherapy. However, these reports focus on individual participants. Statistical results from the entire study will need to be published and, ultimately, results will need to be confirmed in studies by other scientists to demonstrate the efficacy of MDMA as a psychotherapeutic agent.

But there are kids out there who want to dance and have a good time. Please do! I want you to enjoy yourselves! Because my friends all dance; and if you don't dance, then you're no friend of mine. but if you want to be the hard man, the tough guy. if you want to take twenty three dexies and eight superspun quad-stacked hard rolls and get absolutely fucking munted and scull a bottle of vodka and get in a FIGHT... Go the fuck home.

MDMA is easy to make. Almost as easy as speed. So when organised crime - The bikies, the gangs, the triads - see five hundred people in a warehouse who will pay $50 for a little chunk of pure profit, THEY WANT IN. And they go in. They learn the process of manufacturing MDMA. Then they cut corner. Cheapen it, shortcut. They wind up with MDMA, but it's dirty. it's gakked. it's got little side chains, it's been poorly cleaned. Then they grab whatever else they have on hand, talc, speed, ketamine - And they rock it up in the press and stamp out these little multicoloured bastards. An ecstasy lab is basically a license to print money.

The government is working to stamp out organised crime. Good on them. it's what they should be doing. But Ecstasy is seen as directly stemming FROM organised crime. So every time you kids buy pills, you feed the war machine. You feed the hate gangs and the race crimes. You give the government an excuse to stamp on you, because you're HELPING THE ENEMY.

Finally, we are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally, we are waking. People are listening to sense. People are asking the right questions. People like MAPS, and Tribe Earth, and Global Shamanism Forum.

Learn to make your own. it's not hard. Read a high-school chemistry textbook and get some information from those in the know. use your head, and pretty soon we'll have a revolution on our hands - Something unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. Clean MDMA, a dollar a gram, on every street corner. Peace, love, unity and respect. For everyone. Now and forever.

Play god and fuck robots: The world is changing.

If a guy has a prosthetic leg, is he still human?

Sure. It still does the same job, right? Does what you tell it to, walks fine?

What if he had two prosthetic legs? Artificial arms? A plastic heart? Carbon fibre bones? Silicone neurons?

Where do you stop being human?

I don't think you ever do. You could put a human mind into an entirely artificial body, and that person would still be a person.

You could download a mind out of it's eminently crappy, poorly designed squishy meatsack and into a seriously useful, functionally immortal artificial form.

I'm a dirty bastard and a moral vacuum, but my mind is something unique. So my objective is to slowly but surely, convert myself into a six armed biomechanical man-spider. Those parts I can't recreate in titanium, ceramic and silicon, I will bioengineer better versions out of stem cells - I will, for all intents and purposes, be the pinnacle of intelligent design. This of course will make me effectively the god of transhumanism, and therefore the son as well. All I need now is to nail some way of quantiying the postbiological electric field you humans call a 'soul' and I can amalgamate the holy ghost into my cold iron skeleton.

A pageant of ego, livid on the dead man's face

Descartes had it wrong. Not "I think, therefore, I am." But rather; "I think, therefore, I am."

I - The ego - Arises from thought. But thoughts themselves are mere strings of conciousness, abberant strands of synaptic impulses that somehow manage to coagulate into conclusions; into behavior. As Skinner said - Compared with the fascinating dramas played out in the depths of the mind, behaviour seems superficial! A single physical act requires dozens of independent thoughts, inextricably link but all very, very distinct.

Now, for an act such as murder - To willingly and deliberately take a sentient life - Imagine thr thought process that goes into that? Now, At this point, I must make clear the difference between the murder of a man in a pub brawl, and the careful strangulation of his wife while she showers. The former is an animal act - Brutish, with no regard for tact or circumstance. It is reflex, and it is base, therefore it is excluded from this argument.

No, the careful murder, of deliberate and particular effort - That is the most difficult of acts, mentally, emotionally and physically - And clearly, by extrapolation of Descartes, Jung, Skinner et al - It describes the most cunning man of all, the free killer, the one who despite his crimes walks untouched through society. Whether through manipulation of political sway or though pure forensic caution - The unimprisoned murderer, truly, is the cleverest by far.

Hey, wait. I'm a person.

The world is like a ride at an amusement park.

And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while.

Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they begin to question: Is this real?

Or is this just a ride?

And other people have remembered, and they come back to us. They say, "Hey, don't worry, don't be afraid ever, because – this is just a ride." And we... We kill those people.

"Shut him up!" We cry. "We have a lot invested in this ride! Shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry! Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real!"

It's just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok.

Jesus, murdered;
Martin Luther King, murdered;
Malcolm X, murdered;
Gandhi, murdered;
John Lennon, murdered;
Reagan … wounded.

But it doesn't matter, because – it's just a ride. And we can change it any time we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love.

The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one. Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride.

Take all that money we spend on weapons and defenses each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would pay for many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace.

Special thanks to Bill Hicks.

I have the body of a seventeen year old

I keep it in my freezer.

Shows like CSI serve to convince the jury that every contact leaves a trace, and that you need DNA for a solid conviction. This is a handy thing; if you clean up after dinner, chances are you won't leave enough for them to turn a unilateral response. All you need is one juror unconvinced and you're home free.

Of course, that assumed you were foolish enough to let it get to trial in the first place. Depending on how you like to work, clean or messy, fast or slow, you should never leave them in situ. Work to secondary crime scenes - This unfortunately increases the likelihood of capture and means you have more work to clean up, but it allows to to work at your leisure. nobody likes eating in a rush.

get her on the table, get out the bolt cutters and get those nipples in the frying pan.

"When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals."

Take lunch, you can afford the time off.

Dogs and such, they don't really know their age. They don't have to go to work, or learn to drive a car. They just keep on barking until they eyes get grey and misty, their legs grow weak and the bark ain't got no bite. So now we have the new bastard - A young, fresh top dog settling in at Kirribilli house, the old one finally pushed out.

Throw me some kero and that little pampered puppy's pen is gonna get doused.

Rich, miserable louts. You made my home a target for terrorists. We create the wealth - and then we see you not sharing it. Soon enough, you'll be staring down the barrel of some pissed off youths - If you hypocrites were on fire they wouldn't piss on you.

They saw you and your cronies all rorting the system, so they rort the dole and asked what's the fuckin difference? It's only a couple of million (not counting the super), anything below that and they don't want to hear about it.

Once you get above fifty gees, they start listening, and ususally send a government-funded accountant in to examine your books, like the ones who made a molehill out of Packer's mountains. So for six years counting, I haven't paid a cent. HECS debt alone meant I couldn't pay the rent half the time.

A buddy of mine - He rode the elevator to the seventh floor. Sweaty palms, collar tight as he walked into the board room. He was trying to look convincing in his ill-fitting suit (it was the one his father had worn, so it was starting to look a little shabby). He took his place before the panel for the job interview. The question game begins - "Now how could you contribute?" he can't tell them the truth - That he's only here for the loot - So he plays nontheless, tells them what they want to hear, 'bout how the advertised appointment was his dream job.

This office monkey, he got the job. Grey partition, grey desk, grey suit, grey hair, grey position.
Then came the great hustle - he had the promos in the post. Stayed back after hours photocopying the flyers for gigs. Long distance phone calls, international faxes All organising, networking, and keeping the underground going. But soon enough, his actions caught his manager's eye. Written warning, last chance. He was put on probation.

"Fine. Fire me." He said. "But think about whose piece you're taking, when you lay back and take the pay packet."

Look me in the eye and say you never saw it coming. We stand tall but my minimum wage keeps cutting - You wedge me in and expect me to watch you keep cutting, closer and closer to the poverty line.

You can consider this a tribute to the shit that you pay - You can have your caviar, man, I'll keep my crumbs. So bang your hand drum, take production offshore. You never know when the local populace will get fed up.

You're wanting me to be loyal to this?
This bullshit name paying me this short change?

keep dreaming, fat cat. The longer your eyes are shut the closer we get before the truth hits you.

A dog's day dawns.

He not busy being born, is busy dying.

I turn on the news, I see waterfalls of pity roaring down stepped stones of whining faggot hippies. Don't like the way the world is? Do something about it.

And no, I don't mean stand around the church of scientology with pickets. Real anonymous, fags. bet they'll never figure out who did that one.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark in my ears as the cynical elitists complain about how the world is ultimately futile and what you do has no real bearing on the future, because the pharmaceutical giant will hire a dozen lawyers and counter-sue your crotch off, or the politician will bribe the media into silence.

Advertising signs con you into thinking you're the one. Here's the clue - Life is still going on, and everybody else is reading those same signs.

Alone you stand, with nobody near. Within touching distance a billion others do the same. Alone in the crowd. It is not he or she or them or it that you belong to - It is the Istigkeit.

The masters make the rules for both the wise man and fool alike, crushing hope and giving children nothing to look up to but news reports punctuated by automatic gunfire.

Those who despise their jobs peak jealously of those without such hamperings, whilst the free and transient long for direction. Outsiders are free to criticise, insiders grumble into their wallets as they dig for mastercards.

The solution is unity. One global, raised fist, banded against the largest foe we spy upon the horizon - Whomever they may be, from church to politician to children's television program.

This is not to say we want an uprising. Rather, this is to say we want a mildly-slanted rising. A quiet riot. Money doesn't talk, it swears, so whisper to each other under the cacophany. Plot and plan. One man leaves the lights on when he leaves the office so his comrades can later enter and have an easier job procuring the documents required to prove the guilt of his company. The man can claim it as an honest mistake - Because really, who would consider a desk lamp a security risk?

if my thought dreams could be seen, then I'd be on the next C130 to gitmo. So read them and remember them. Ponder them and think about them.

Raise the fist, but raise it in the dark. Never let your foes see the whites of your eyes.

Two shots, five bodies, no justice.

A good friend of mine was a homicide detective in Florida for a long time. He told me a story, one time when I was staying over there for a few months on business.

It was a case he'd just picked up. Family vacation from ohio, missing for a few days. Mum, dad, two daughters (fifteen and seventeen) The manager of the small hotel they were staying at said they had gone out for the day and not come back. That was it for a week, until dad's body washed up in the swamps and was found by a couple of froggers one evening. GSW to the face - Looked like rifle, probably a .308, based on the entry and exit wounds, and the couple of fragments left in the skull. Two to the brain, maybe from two feet away according to the scene techs and the ME. The case was turfed over to my brother. The body didn't show much - It's time in the marshes had ruined any time of death calcs, lividity and rigor was fucked, liver temps completely out of the question. Prints, likewise. Wrists and ankles showed signs of ligatures or restraints, and there was extensive bruising. Guy'd been tied and beat up real good. No prints, no fibres, no trace. Real clean, cleanest he'd seen for a while.

That was it until the video came. It was dropped off at the station, addressed to him. Nobody saw who brought it in. He played it in his office, first. Puked in the wastepaper basket. Called his partner and his lieutenant into the room and rewound to the start.

It was bad, to say the least. It filled in a lot of the blanks, and gave them somewhere to start - Found out where they were last seen and found out details from a few witnesses.

The family had been out eating lunch at a small restaurant when they saw a man driving one of those airboats on the open areas. He'd left it by the shore, and one of the girls asked their dad if they could try and find one. The owner had been having a BLT nearby and overheard. He was a friendly guy, no more then maybe twenty. White but tanned, according to the waitresses. Tipped well, wore faded jeans and a black t-shirt. Short blonde hair and steel-toed boots. The father was hesitant at first, but after a short conversation he didn't see the harm, and paid the man fifty dollars for a real florida airboat ride.

They were deep in the swamps when he made his move. Nobody knows how he got them where he got them, but nobody saw them after they left the diner. My colleague theorised that maybe he faked engine trouble, or stopped to refuel the boat at the small shack depicted from the inside on the video. it doesn't really matter, what does matter is that the video opens with the family bound with baling wire while the cameraman stands over them, wearing a black balaclava and holding a sawn-off rifle. He gave the father a good hiding with the stock and his boots, then shoved him into another room. The mother was too old for her tastes, she was beaten unconcious and locked in an ice chest.

The girls, though. They were repeatedly raped and mutilated. Forced to eat each other out, suck each other's tits and make out. One would have her throat fucked while the other rimmed her at gunpoint. From the timestamp on the video (which stopped and started now and then), this went on for about a week. End of the week, he took the girls back out onto the airboat and drove out to a deep spot - He'd been there before, we assumed, becuase it was well known to be the deepest spot around. Local's called it the Devil's Keep, must have been a meterorite crater or something from way back. The girls were bound again by this point. Mom and dad were long gone. He tied a cinderblock to each of their ankles and pushed them in. It was light enough so they didn't sink instantly, but heavy enough that they couldn't stay afloat for more then about fifteen minutes. He sat there, masturbating and drinking beer as he watched them drown. Then the video ends.

They never caught him. They sent divers down into the Keep for the bodies, found all four, but never recovered any usable evidence. My mate retired shortly after that. He couldn't handle that guy still being out there. And the look in the girl's eyes never left his mind. it was probably the last thing he thought about when he shot himself, six months later. It was a rage that burned deep within him, charred his soul from the inside out like a mine fire.

personally, I was just pissed that my beer got warm when I was driving the daughters back out to the keep.

If you stand in my way, you shall be slain.

I say this not through some ridiculous sense of braggadocio, or to prove how far-out I am in your 'alternative' world of faux-blood stained stockings and designer-ripped tshirts.

I say this because it is the only choice.

Life, no life.

Breath, no breath.

There are no stock options. No afterlife. No higher power.

There is only this blood, and this minute.

The path to oblivion is thick with men, walking in the shadow of falling leaves. To dawdle by stepping around them is foolish, and a waste. Cut them down like new rice.

The age of the retainer has long since rotted from the bone. This is the Wandering Age.

Bring your steel.

A not-so-modest proposal.

What are the biggest problems facing the world today? Overpopulation, food shortage, and the oil crisis.

Secondary to that, a couple of will-be-problems-soon are unemployment and obesity.

Who's overpopulated? Asia, for the most part. Nothing against them in particular, they're just the biggest source.

So now what? I'll tell you what. We send a few dozen C-17 Globemasters a day to ship asians into africa as feedstock. Simultaneously, anybody over a certain BMI, anywhere in the world (but especially in the west) is butchered for their body fat. This is fed through a catalytic cracker and broken down into biodiesel. Leftover meat is either shipped to africa or lysed by enzymes and used to feed algae banks turning CO2 into breathable oxygen.

All retirement homes are gassed with VX. Being of little nutritional value, the dead elderly will be used as algal feed. Homeless people will then be moved into the decontaminated retirement homes, with preference given to veterans.

So now we've removed overpopulation by converting excess into food for the starving, helped to counteract global warming, produced a new and viable source of green hydrocarbons and cleaned the homeless off the street. This also cuts a shitload of medical funding out, as complex dialysis machines and breathing apparatus are no longer needed my Grandma Daisie. because she's now a protein-rich paste feeding the earth, just like if she'd been buried, but far more efficient.

Ten things I have learnt this week.

1. Insects do not enjoy tobacco smoke as much as I do

2. I should not attempt to clear a hornet's nest from my roof with plastic explosives

3. The fire chief's name is not 'Big Red'

4. He also knows where I live, and am not to be caught within 100 feet of a gas barbecue with liquid oxygen ever again

5. A box full of spiders is not an acceptable birthday present for my mother

6. Attempting to live off tequila and mi goreng for a week will results in me no longer knowing who I am or where I live

7. The above is not an acceptable excuse for informing my arresting officer that I am 'The Man With No Name'

8. K-Mart does not carry depleted uranium

9. Call-in radio competitions are not a soapbox

10. A petrol station is the wrong place to set off fireworks

If you meet Buddha on the road, kill him.

The priest Tannen used to say, ''People come to no understanding because priests teach only the doctrine of 'No Mind.' What is called 'No Mind' is a mind that is pure and lacks complication .' This is interesting." Lord Sanenori said, "In the midst of a single breath, where perversity cannot be held , is the Way. '' If so, then the Way is one. But there is no one who can understand this clarity at first. Purity is something that cannot be attained except by piling effort upon effort.

Likewise, when Lord Mitsushige was a little boy and was supposed to recite from a copybook for the priest Kaion, he called the other children and acolytes and said, "Please come here and listen. It's difficult to read if there are hardly any people listening." The priest was impressed and said to the acolytes, "That's the spirit in which to do everything."

It's a beautiful world.

Faced with everything from concrete and radio antennae to charred flesh still dotted with the white phosphorous pellets thrown from above, it's hard not to laugh.

Laughing at the governments desperately scrabbling for control over nations so far gone over the edge it's a wonder they can even breathe through the sickly layer of meth, vomit and ammunition choking the cities.

Laughing at the kids going to school bright-faced and happy, when the statistics show that if we continue at this rate, one of their class, if they're very lucky, will live a life with a happy family and a steady job. The rest will die of a drug overdose, live on the streets, or in federally-funded housing projects with a dozen other chunks of human detritus crammed into the same, tiny broom-cupboard apartments.

Laughing because this is the first decade where people have openly stated that it's all downhill from here - That the next ten years will be worst then the previous ten.

Laughing at the cigarette that just fell from your fingers, because you know there's another 20 in your pocket and a store on every corner carrying hundreds more.

Laughing at the 17 year old student in beijing who doused his schoolmate in gasoline and burnt him to dust because of a World of Warcarft dispute.

Laughing, because it's the only goddamn thing you can do to keep from crying.

Fuck it. laugh at yourself, America, because you're a nation of fat fucks on a sinking ship, and I'm sitting back on my nearby, economically stable but smaller ship, and watching all the rats fleeing the burning craft for the momentary safety of the waters in-between the systems. The cracks that pennies fall into.

And I'm gonna sit here, smoke a cigarette, and then take a lighter to the fuel spilt across the surface of the water, and watch all you fucking rats burn to scraggly hanks of bone and scorched hair, plague-ridden blood boiling and bursting from your arteries until I can run my fingers through it and use it to wash my hands in.

Fifteen hundred kilos of ammonium nitrate and nitromethane, intimately mixed in a fuel tanker says 'Don't fuck with me, jackasses'.

But it's a pity it's had to come to that point in time, where actions speak volumes, and words speak lies.

So grab a pack of smokes, grab a rifle and grab your balls because you never know when it's all gonna come tumbling the FUCK down.

Supermarket chemical weapons? Why not.

I recently saw these new air freshner devices that use a piezoelectric disc to vaporize a minute amount of aromatic oil to "freshen" the air for up to (according to the package) 60 DAYS! at the minimal setting.

The cost is less than 10 dollars and they run off of a AA battery.

Now, how to apply this...

Since the the oil container is replaceable, and contains over an ounce of fluid, how about substituting chloropicrin?

This isn't intended as a weapon per-se, more like a means of preventing someone from occupying an area that you wish to remain vacant, only without the hassle of explosives or nasty poisons that'll leave a body or attract attention with a swarm of flies. (eewww!)

I had in mind an abandoned house that you might occassionaly use as a lab, but don't want to risk homeless trash finding your stash.

Or perhaps an abandoned industrial site that you'll use for testing devices, but don't want occupied in the meantime?

These tiny devices would be placed around the site, indoors of course, and create an atmosphere that would be untenable for more than a few minutes at most, as the vapor concentration would gradually build up over time if totally enclosed.

When you're ready for using the place for yourself, you won't have to bother with tedious decontamination, as you'd simply go in (with gas-mask or large, clear, plastic bag over your head), disconnect the batteries, and let the place air out for an hour.

Given the minute amount that's been dispersed in a highly volatile vapor form, there'd be nothing to really soak into the wood/concrete that'd make it a persistant irritant.

And given that it was bought from a supermarket in the first place, I've decided to use Chloramine, as I can produce it extremely simply.

As a CW agent it is a powerful irritant from the group of pulmonary agents. It causes lachrymation, vomiting, oedema and bronchitis; the injury can be fatal. Very low concentrations cause burning sensation of the eyes, which may serve as a warning. Because of its relative inertness and the small size of its molecule, chloropicrin penetrates gas mask filters and activated. It then causes vomiting, which makes the victim remove the gas mask. For this reason, it is often mixed with other agents to form a binary yummy device, so you pull off your mask to hurl or choke and get a lungful of Soman. Fun for the whole family.

Chloramine (NH2Cl) is an easy bastard to produce, people do it accidentally all the time.

2NH4OH + Ca(ClO)2 --> 2NH2Cl + 2H2O + Ca(OH)2

And for those of you out of the chemistry loop, that's

Ammonia cleaner + Bleach ---> Nasty corrosive solution + Chloramine gas

Hell, even accidentally mixing bleach with stale urine (like when cleaning a bathroom) will release the stuff.

So a stoichiometric ratio of the two, if we assume 25% ammonia, would mean that we need

.77 ml 25% AmH
3.34 grams CaHypCl

To produce about five litres of gas. Easily enough to kill an entire rom full of people, if they have the doors and windows closed (as we do at my school usually, wink wink).

One of these atomizers is about five bucks, and a bottle and bag of ammonia and bleach will set me back about seven, tops.

More cheap thrills and kills.

Pot Plants for Poison

Pot plants for poison.

A plant dubbed the suicide tree kills many more people in Indian communities than was previously thought. The warning comes from forensic toxicologists in India and France who have conducted a review of deaths caused by plant-derived poisons.

Cerbera odollam, which grows across India and south-east Asia, is used by more people to commit suicide than any other plant, the toxicologists say. But they also warn that doctors, pathologists and coroners are failing to detect how often it is used to murder people.

A team led by Yvan Gaillard of the Laboratory of Analytical Toxicology in La Voulte-sur-Rhône, France, documented more than 500 cases of fatal Cerbera poisoning between 1989 and 1999 in the south-west Indian state of Kerala alone. Half of Kerala's plant poisoning deaths, and 1 in 10 of all fatal poisonings, are put down to Cerbera.

But the true number of deaths due to Cerbera poisoning in Kerala could be twice that, the team estimates, as poisonings are difficult to identify by conventional means. Using high-performance liquid chromatography coupled with mass spectrometry to examine autopsy tissues for traces of the plant, the team uncovered a number of homicides that would otherwise have gone unnoticed (Journal of Ethnopharmacology, vol 95, p 123). This also suggests that some cases put down to suicide may actually have been murders, they say.

Although the kernels of the tree have a bitter taste, this can be disguised if they are crushed and mixed with spicy food. They contain a potent heart toxin called cerberin, similar in structure to digoxin, found in the foxglove. Digoxin kills by blocking calcium ion channels in heart muscles, which disrupts the heartbeat. But while foxglove poisoning is well known to western toxicologists, Gaillard says pathologists would not be able to identify Cerbera poisoning unless there is evidence the victim had eaten the plant. "It is the perfect murder," he says.

Three-quarters of Cerbera victims are women. The team says that this may mean the plant is being used to kill young wives who do not meet the exacting standards of some Indian families. It is also likely that many cases of homicide using the plant go unnoticed in countries where it does not grow naturally. A popular text writes:

"To commit suicide, people remove the green fibrous husk
of the seed, take the white fleshy kernel out and mash it with
jaggery (guhr) and consume it as a sweet. For homicide, a few
kernels are mixed with food containing plenty of chillies to
cover the bitter taste of the poison. Death is likely to occur
36 h after ingestion."

That's fine for india, but here, not that many people eat on a regular basis super spicy foods that can hide the taste.

Hrmmm. I wonder, what sort of substance tastes bitter, is served hot with increased solubility, full of oil solute and opens the blood vessels causing the poison to take effect up to six times faster?

Watch your coffee, motherfuckers.

I would assume, as well, that ordering this plant would raise some eyebrows, however, researching this very plant and it's toxic properties seems that it can be easily ordered over the internet.


***Found in: http://toptropicals.com/catalog/uid/cerbera_odollam.htm


"It can be grown in a small pot to show on office desk or everywhere you want for decoration."

Item Size Availability
2470 Cerbera odollam - nut
Chiute, Sea Mango. You can grow this plant from seed as a "Lucky Bean" in a pot or plant it on top of a ground, it will sprout and you will have a nice bushy tree in no time. White fragrant flowers, similar to Plumeria. See picture of the seed and picture of bonsai-1, picture of bonsai-2.
2-3" nut (seed)
Price ($) BACKORDER

2339 Cerbera odollam - plant
Chiute, Sea Mango. Endemic to the Mariana Islands. This is a small to medium-sized tree with dark foliage and showy, white fragrant flowers, similar to Plumeria, but the leaves are smaller.
These are sprouted seeds - picture of plant for sale-1, picture of plant for sale-2.1 gal pot
Price ($) 29.95

The fact this site describes it as an easy to grow plant (Lucky Bean) and aesthetically appealing plant for decoration for use in an office etc, it seems as if this plant can go overlooked. The "Lucky Bean" reference is, for me, the most interesting. They're almost marketing this plant as fun to grow. Kind of makes me remember a class project in primary school where we would grow a bean sprout. Makes me wonder if this is part of a primary school child's curriculum in India, using this particular plant.