Stellafane
Village Idiot.
- Joined
- Apr 14, 2006
- Messages
- 8,368
Hi all. I’m from Vermont, a state that, if you think about it at all, usually conjures up images of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, maple syrup, and skiing. So it’s probably natural to conclude we’re all a bunch of dairy farmers, syrup boilers, and resort workers. But there’s also a strong undercurrent of woo up here, residue from the time back in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s when Vermont was overrun with thousands of hippies and fellow-travelers, looking to escape the pollution and corruption of the big city. Most of them went back home when Dad got fed up and cut off their allowance, but enough stayed to fuel a vibrant New Age community that still flourishes to this day.
A member of that community came calling yesterday. (It was perhaps appropriate that it was Easter, a holiday so full of pleasant superstitions that the Christians finally gave up and co-opted it as their own.) A hitherto unknown neighbor named Dennis knocked on my door. He was a pleasant-looking middle aged man, smelling somewhat of chicken feces but in these parts you can’t really hold that against a person. He reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it at first. Dennis had noticed the tractor in my backyard, and was hoping I could help him with some site prep, for a teepee he plans to erect on his property. We figured it was for hosting cookouts with his grandkids or something, but he informed us it was for “shamanic voyaging.” Before I could stop her, my wife Lisa asked “What’s that?”
What followed could serve as a microcosm for the evolution of a mind’s decent into woo-ism. Dennis started out reasonably enough, talking about things such as meditative states, brain waves, and cycles per second – quasi-pseudoscience probably, but at least semi-coherent. Then he spoke about his imagination, which was still somewhat comforting, because I figured at least it gave some indication that he recognized a distinction between imagination and reality. No such luck -- he stated “imagination is underrated,” a reasonable statement until he followed it with “because it helps us see the real spirit world that’s right in front of us.” Ding ding ding! Off goes the nutball alarm, that thick, awful moment when you realize the seemingly nice individual you’re talking to has suddenly revealed themselves a total loon and now you’re about to become an unwilling passenger on this person’s personal Magical Mystery Tour. Dennis talked of “power animals” and spirit guides and fire spirits, and how the universe is divided into Upper, Middle, and Lower Earths, with the one I’m currently typing in being the Middle. It was around this time I realized whom Dennis reminded me of: he bore a striking resemblance to that Heaven’s Gate leader, the guy who voluntarily had himself castrated, Nucular’s avatar. The similarity was especially strong around the eyes -- that surprised, crazy expression that says “I just had something long and hard rammed up an opening in my body, and although I wasn’t expecting it, I can’t say it’s all that unpleasant.” That kind of look. Believe me, it helped raise the bizzaro level of the moment to even greater heights.
Then with lip-licking enthusiasm, Dennis proceeded to tell us about his “massage spirit,” a beautiful strawberry blonde who comes to visit him in his hole in Lower Earth. I burst out laughing at this, thinking hey, why stop at one, while you’re at it, why don’t you imagine yourself a couple more blondes and have yourself a real party? He said the massage spirit entered his body through the top of his head. I didn’t ask what happens next, but it did strike me as rather inconvenient when the person giving the massage and the one receiving it both inhabit the same body. Isn’t that kind of like…um, massaging yourself? If my wife hadn’t been present, I might have informed Dennis that I too indulge in a similar ceremony, performed on my own bed, that involves my imagination and a strawberry blonde. It even entails one body entering the other, only the person doing the entering, and the entry point itself, are different in my version. And at the culmination of the ceremony (the “cumulative effect” so to speak), the Holy Hand Towel makes its appearance. Then again, I wouldn’t want Dennis to think I’m, you know, weird or anything.
Anyway, in the end I agreed to help Dennis clear the site for his teepee, a project that I never would have guessed I’d involved in. And when it’s done, I get to go over and evaluate it for property tax purposes -- I’m one of the listers for my town (it’s a very small town). Which raises the question: Does such a structure enhance or detract from the value of a home? I don’t think that one is covered in my handbook.
The point of this little story is so the next time you find yourself in Vermont, fishing some trout stream or hiking along some beautiful trail, bear in mind that out there frolicking among the trees may be more than deer and moose and woodpeckers. Just possibly, you may also run into a Heaven’s-Gate-looking, chicken-poop-scented shamanic voyager, possessed by his strawberry blonde spirit, blissfully giving himself a cosmic “self-massage.” Consider yourself warned!
A member of that community came calling yesterday. (It was perhaps appropriate that it was Easter, a holiday so full of pleasant superstitions that the Christians finally gave up and co-opted it as their own.) A hitherto unknown neighbor named Dennis knocked on my door. He was a pleasant-looking middle aged man, smelling somewhat of chicken feces but in these parts you can’t really hold that against a person. He reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it at first. Dennis had noticed the tractor in my backyard, and was hoping I could help him with some site prep, for a teepee he plans to erect on his property. We figured it was for hosting cookouts with his grandkids or something, but he informed us it was for “shamanic voyaging.” Before I could stop her, my wife Lisa asked “What’s that?”
What followed could serve as a microcosm for the evolution of a mind’s decent into woo-ism. Dennis started out reasonably enough, talking about things such as meditative states, brain waves, and cycles per second – quasi-pseudoscience probably, but at least semi-coherent. Then he spoke about his imagination, which was still somewhat comforting, because I figured at least it gave some indication that he recognized a distinction between imagination and reality. No such luck -- he stated “imagination is underrated,” a reasonable statement until he followed it with “because it helps us see the real spirit world that’s right in front of us.” Ding ding ding! Off goes the nutball alarm, that thick, awful moment when you realize the seemingly nice individual you’re talking to has suddenly revealed themselves a total loon and now you’re about to become an unwilling passenger on this person’s personal Magical Mystery Tour. Dennis talked of “power animals” and spirit guides and fire spirits, and how the universe is divided into Upper, Middle, and Lower Earths, with the one I’m currently typing in being the Middle. It was around this time I realized whom Dennis reminded me of: he bore a striking resemblance to that Heaven’s Gate leader, the guy who voluntarily had himself castrated, Nucular’s avatar. The similarity was especially strong around the eyes -- that surprised, crazy expression that says “I just had something long and hard rammed up an opening in my body, and although I wasn’t expecting it, I can’t say it’s all that unpleasant.” That kind of look. Believe me, it helped raise the bizzaro level of the moment to even greater heights.
Then with lip-licking enthusiasm, Dennis proceeded to tell us about his “massage spirit,” a beautiful strawberry blonde who comes to visit him in his hole in Lower Earth. I burst out laughing at this, thinking hey, why stop at one, while you’re at it, why don’t you imagine yourself a couple more blondes and have yourself a real party? He said the massage spirit entered his body through the top of his head. I didn’t ask what happens next, but it did strike me as rather inconvenient when the person giving the massage and the one receiving it both inhabit the same body. Isn’t that kind of like…um, massaging yourself? If my wife hadn’t been present, I might have informed Dennis that I too indulge in a similar ceremony, performed on my own bed, that involves my imagination and a strawberry blonde. It even entails one body entering the other, only the person doing the entering, and the entry point itself, are different in my version. And at the culmination of the ceremony (the “cumulative effect” so to speak), the Holy Hand Towel makes its appearance. Then again, I wouldn’t want Dennis to think I’m, you know, weird or anything.
Anyway, in the end I agreed to help Dennis clear the site for his teepee, a project that I never would have guessed I’d involved in. And when it’s done, I get to go over and evaluate it for property tax purposes -- I’m one of the listers for my town (it’s a very small town). Which raises the question: Does such a structure enhance or detract from the value of a home? I don’t think that one is covered in my handbook.
The point of this little story is so the next time you find yourself in Vermont, fishing some trout stream or hiking along some beautiful trail, bear in mind that out there frolicking among the trees may be more than deer and moose and woodpeckers. Just possibly, you may also run into a Heaven’s-Gate-looking, chicken-poop-scented shamanic voyager, possessed by his strawberry blonde spirit, blissfully giving himself a cosmic “self-massage.” Consider yourself warned!
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