Marathoners on their last leg, or anyone pushing through walls of self-imposed limitation experience an euphoria, the "runner's high". We live for those ecstatic thrills induced by extreme pleasure, while being absorbed by one or by an orchestral interplay of all five senses, the spirit-mind-body troika intensified.

ENDORPHINATION is so much more
than an organic, neurotransmitter cocktail of stimulated peptide hormones.

Friday, December 28, 2012



Blue Oculus Luna: JostFoto

If you've been following my posts over the last few years, you've read about what I see as the stimulation of the telluric/devic realm. The nature spirits, the Devas and the Djiin are communicating telesensory messages through the medium of flora and fauna. If one tunes out the media blitz-krieg, sights and sounds observed and heard of a new meta-lexicon of BIOENERGETIC INTEGRATION is being transmitted---a song without words.

Today's full moon, 28 December 2012, culminating @ 5:21 AM/EST occurred @ 7 degrees Cancer. The Sabian symbol for that degree: "TWO NATURE SPIRITS DANCING UNDER THE MOONLIGHT: The play of invisible forces in all manifestations of life."

Luna is the astral sorceress who charms and enchants with her etheric potency. The vital processes are cast under a spell. The two celestial-body sisters, Gaia and Luna, are singing a duet that conjures up the manifestation of the dream, the ideal, the invisible made visible in the dawn of a nascent everyday reality.

"Thousands of years ago, wo/man lived in harmony with the rest of the natural world. Through what we would today call Telepathy, s/he communicated with animals, plants, and other forms of life-none of which s/he considered 'beneath' her/himself, only different, with different jobs to perform. S/He worked side by side with earth angels and nature spirits, with whom s/he shared responsibility for taking care of the world."
― Benjamin Hoff, The Te Of Piglet

Following a week later on the heels of the Mayan 13th Baktun's ending, this moon is the 13th full moon closing the year 2012.  Shouldn't that tell us something about natural rhythms in synch with lunar phases through the seasonal cycle.  What is it about this fear of the number 13, triskaidekaphobia? 

Whatever happened to the 13 moon calendar?  For that matter, who displaced a disgraced Ophiucus from the zodiacal pie chart.  How come Mary Magdalene is not readily recognized as the 13th disciple of Jesus?  Look no further than timelines scheduled on the unnatural, engineered Gregorian Calendar, storybooks plotted and schemed by those with humanity's disempowerment at stake.

Yet, far be it for one to question the way things have always been done.  If one comes to the conclusion that---"HEY!  Do you suppose we should entertain doing things radically different from now on?   'Cause this schemata sure ain't cutting it."  You're profiled a wingnut lunatic! 

I ask, just look around you.   Is it a pretty picture!? 

Ergo, the song, WOMAN IN THE MOON (clocking in @ 4:44), sung by the incomparable Streisand, is an apropos, relevant paean, an ASTROMANTRA, for the creative imagination busily setting intentions for a brighter future: A STAR IS BORN.

"I was warned as a child of thirteen
Not to act too strong
Try to look like you belong but don't push girl
Save your time and trouble
Don't misbehave
I was raised in a 'No You Don't World'
Overrun with rules
Memorize your lines and move as directed
That's an age old story
Everybody knows that's a worn out song
But you and I are changing that tune
We're learning new rhythms from the woman
I said the woman in the moon
Little sister, little brother
Keep on pushin'
Don't believe a word about
Things you heard about
Askin' too much too soon
'Cause they can hold back the tide
But they can never hold the woman in the moon
I believe there's a best of both worlds
Mixing old and new
Recognizing change is seldom expected
As I long suspected
They believed that strange was a word for wrong
Well not in my song
'Cause you, you and I are changing that tune
We're learning new rhythms from that woman in the moon
Little sister, little brother
Keep on pushin'
Don't believe a word about
Things you heard about
Askin' too much too soon
'Cause they can hold back the tide
But they can never hold the woman
I said the woman in the moon..." ~ Ascher/Williams

Here's the spell-binding performance by La Streisand from the film, A STAR IS BORN:


Thursday, December 20, 2012





Days before Hurricane Sandy's fury was unleashed, I wrote about an ensuing Yod aspect. On December 21st, Pluto @ 8 Capricorn, Saturn @ 8 Scorpio forms a yod with Jupiter @ 8 Gemini. 888: The Gnostic number vibration for Christ. One migh...t say the finger of Tetragrammaton is definitely in the equation.

Concurrently, Mercury the winged emmissary holding the serpent-entwined caduceus is positioned at the Great Attractor @ 14 Sagittarius. Winter Solstice then gets underway while Vesta @ 14 Gemini opposes Mercury. Vesta is the asteroid Goddess of the Sacred Flame, kundalini, the coiled serpent.

The plot thickens---what makes this especially provocative is that Luna will be @ 14 degrees Aries, sextiling Vesta, trining Mercury. Sabian symbology connotes 14 Aries as the kundalini fire igniting during the anima/animus embrace in dissolved tantric essence. Isn't that romantic!?

Did I forget to mention that Venus is seductively recumbent @ 7 Sagittarius, getting up close and personal with Mercury? As it so happens, the Sabian archetypal signature for that degree is "Cupid knocks at the door of a human heart." She'll be blowing kisses from an aphrodisiacal oyster half shell, ceremoniously presiding over an empyreal espousal.

If one thinks in terms of another 26,000 year cycle beginning at the Solstice, then Luna, Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Jupiter, Pluto and Vesta are strategically postioned as planetary placeholders underpinning the new matrix. Mercury at the Great Attractor opposing Vesta is like a parabolic receptor heralding an epochal shift of archetypal energy. It's as if Mercury stands stage left disseminating, translating the new meta-lexicon being transmitted from the Galactic Center: a new language of light coded logos that better describes, not defines, our evolving liquid crystalline 5D constructs.

We've been witnessing the deconstruction of the rigid male dominated paradigm artifice. Look around as the culminating repercussions of Mad Men Gone Wild are hanging out on the line, dirty laundry for all to see. If there was any lingering doubt before, the subjugated power of demonized ancestral women will be resurrected, arising, emblazoned in a kundalini firework display awakening the Divine Feminine. It's HER time in the limelight.

Fear-mongers, soothsayers of the Mayan Apocalypse---I ask you---with this much going on---why in the world would it all crash and burn just when the story is getting so good???

Saturday, December 15, 2012

HADO: JostFoto 

The Ascension is a demanding process both physically and spiritually. Our bodies are transforming from carbon-base to crystalline structures. A lump of coal is being turned into a diamond under tremendous pressure. Expect the *ascension symptoms* to intensify then eventually abate.

As we continue to graduate to the next level of our individual/collective soul's journey, trigger events may punctuate a *charge* that holds an inherent message in its current. Perhaps, in lieu of mindlessly defending one's "territory" when the knee-jerk surge to do so is activated, we might look upon the button pushed as a mindful opportunity to release out-moded encodements.

There's no escaping the boomerang of cause and effect, even in the most horrific of circumstances. We are faced with the consequences of our own thoughts acting out on the proto-sensitive 3D field. What goes around, comes around occurring under the no fault policy. We are all to blame. I am that there. Ergo, in order to cut the cord that tethers one to karmic contracts served and completed, we look at the nano level where we as individuals contributed to collective events unfolding, good and bad, happy and sad.

For example, and this is just one example among countless, did anyone stop to consider the repercussions of the recent mass vitriolic geyser erupting over the Presidential election? It was disturbing, to say the least. Is that the legacy we want to leave our children? Consequently, is it any wonder we are left grieving over the tragedy of Newtown, CT today? What a wo/man thinketh in the heart, so shall s/he do. One may not hold the gun in hand. Nevertheless, the minutest of mean intent pulls the trigger.



Friday, December 14, 2012

MORTALS and PORTALS: A Morphic Resonance Montage

PORTAL: JostFoto


The term [morphic fields] is more general in its meaning than morphogenetic fields, and includes other kinds of organizing fields in addition to those of morphogenesis; the organizing fields of animal and human behavior, of social and cultural systems, and of mental activity can all be regarded as morphic fields which contain an inherent memory.—Rupert Sheldrake, The Presence of the Past (Chapter 6, page 112)

Manhattan, 1988, dressed to the nines while negotiating eight plates spinning mid-air, dreams about the skyline of the city falling like dominoes recurred with alarming frequency…

It’s not unusual for me to have OBEs, angelic, even ET visitations.  (Don’t you!?)  As far back as I can remember, I commune with the departed in dreams---they often offer the most pithy, remarkable tidbits accelerating my spiritual evolution.   Then there’s the repetitive leit-motif, flapping my arms, becoming air-borne, sometimes soaring out into the vast reaches of outer space, past Alpha Centauri at light speed.  On occasion, I venture through a worm hole, a kaleidoscopic spiral of 3D Platonic Solids.  (Don’t ask.)  More than this, the numinous, prophetic dreams take me by surprise without fail.   Friends, family members, public figures, and world events each have made cameo appearances foretelling prescient narratives in the Orphic Realm.  (Do tell…)

We mortals like to believe choice—free will at the wheel, steering the course of favorable events—determine our destiny.  Yet, a spontaneous, impersonal shock wave can ripple out setting an avalanche in motion, toppling our best-laid plans, making a mockery of our precariously situated constructs… 
Friday, February 26, 1993, 18 minutes after 12 noon, a truck bomb was detonated below the North Tower of The World Trade Center.  I was at work in the box office of the Joseph Papp Public Theatre on Lafayette Street, East Village.  My colleagues and I were noshing, more than likely engrossed in dissing the upper administrative echelon, happily ignorant of the terrorist plot unfolding.  Without any courteous preparation, the floor gyrated, the windows
rattled, our nerves frayed.  Mind you, the blast reverberated up the streets and avenues from two miles away, downtown! 

The ensuing moments, amidst the wailing, hysterical fire trucks careening by, I knew: In an explosive flash, New York had changed.  Granted, the city can dole out its fair share of lurid tabloid fodder.  But, a terrorist attack!?   Perhaps, I over-reacted a la Chicken Little mode; nevertheless, heeding an intuitive flight instinct, “Get me the hell out of here!” was foremost in my frontal lobe. 

Within a year, I would come full circle escaping with two bags in tow similar to my arrival thirteen years before.  I dearly departed, in the wake of a debris trail strewn with discarded possessions and splintered identity fragments.

Suppose, for example, an idea, or a suggestion has the quality of an evolutionary undertow, pulling us forward into the future…

Even though, I swore up and down, I would not set foot in Manhattan again, New York will always be home to me.  I forgave and forgot the lofty aspirations that crashed and burned.  Time did heal the heartbreak of betrayal, the all too familiar dynamic of unrequited love affairs.  And, as for the devastation suffered by too many close friends lost to AIDS---with or without you, the Hudson River of life will poignantly roll along gathering no moss.  Inevitably, a return to the city that provided refuge from the Bible Belt constricting the burgeoning artistic verve of my youth, was indeed, predestined.  (Never say never…)
Underlying the seemingly randomness of multidimensional existence, the Universe provides portals which awaken us to the unity of interactive probabilities…
 For those of us there at its messy, yet inspirited emasculate conception, we will attest and aver, WIGSTOCK has an unabashed, overt, in your face impelling allure.  The power of drag compels you.  WIGSTOCK is an apotheosis of biggest hair, highest heels and grandiosest [sic] camp.  The annual Labor Day event helmed by The Lady Bunny and a pre-Gaga gaggle of outrageous, innovative drag queens (including RuPaul), began in the early 80s as a fierce and fabulous fete eulogizing the end of summer.  I had been a devotee from the beginning.  Ergo, there was no hesitation: when my friend Gary called to tell me the cityscape was festooned with posters announcing, 2 September 2001, WIGSTOCK 2001: THE FINAL EXPLOSION would be the end of a chapter in New York City Gay Culture---“Oh, my Diva Goddess!  I’m there!”  Besides, I had been musing about a provocative subject for the next photography exhibition.  Come on---the thought of New York drag queens garnishing the Deep South walls of a Tallahassee gallery was titillating, to be sure. 
"Once you decide to titillate instead of illuminate . . . you create a climate of expectation that requires a higher and higher level of intensity" (Bill Moyers).
[NOTA BENE:  Similar to the indefatigable farewell tours of Barbra and Cher, WIGSTOCK has subsequently been revived and resurrected like Lazarus rising up (quite appropriately) lip-synching the irrepressible anthem, I WILL SURVIVE.]
On that grand and gloriously gay of all days, it was at least 110 degrees in the only available shade provided by towering bouffants, bee-hives, rococo parasols and other such feats of architectural artifice.  Wading neck deep in an undulating, uber-accessorized current of sub-woofer beats, gold lame’ and mascara, pectorals and biceps strategically sculpted into chiseled precision, glistened and flexed to distraction.  Abreast a wide assortment of liberated bosoms ranging in sizes from tea cup to the silicon and/or helium enhanced, the excessively buxom served as floatation devices keeping the sweat-soaked unified mass of humanity suspended on waves, upon pulsating waves moving together in rhythmic ebb and flow.  The ecstatic ocean of male, female, Lesbian, Gay, Bi-, Trans-, yes, even hetero- couples with offspring, all randomly tossed adrift, were buoyant on a burlesque high tide rolling in hysterical pretendence and gender ambiguity.  Yet, somehow, without an act of God scourging the accusatory acts of abomination animated, quite naturally, we bonded together in an authentic, unconditional solidarity.  (If only everyday were like this.) 
MissThangInAction: JostFoto
Like the pull of the moon on tides… Could it be, thought forms, intuitive hunches, and prophetic dreams possess an endemic gravitational property that defines the energy parameters in matter manifesting?  What if there exists an energy field linking all probable realities, an energy matrix behind physical form on the 3D time-space continuum tapestry of possibilities?
Emerging from the undertow pulling at our lower three chakras, Gary and I pried ourselves free from the incessant beat of the disco.  Surfacing out of the seductive amalgam, we sauntered downtown, along the banks of the Hudson River toward Battery Park and The World Trade Center.  In no hurry, without a particular place to go, it was if we were propelled toward an undetermined destination.  Wherever, whatever it was that beckoned, the still, small voice of a siren’s song spun, turning and turning us into the center of a concentric gyre. 
Unwittingly, my companion and I were swept up in the centripetal force around the perimeter of old Pier 26.  We approached the south side of the boat hangar.  An appointment with destiny directed us to a precise intersection of latitude and longitude.  There, prepared before us, in the presence of an undisclosed enemy, laid a blemished, yet white, round, plastic picnic table.  Atop, placed dead center, was an 8 oz. clear plastic cup approximately ¾ empty.  Two straws were leaning against the northeast rim. 
Much to my horror, albeit mystified just the same, it would soon be exposed nine days hence.  Pier 26 positioned as a premonitory promontory, had become a portal for a portentous photograph projecting a metaphorical morphic resonance field onto the unsuspecting Twin Towers.
Seemingly unrelated events are all pixels comprising an orchestrated larger picture…
On a sunny, beautiful, pre-autumn morning, September 11, 2001, 9-11, at 9:59 AM, the South Tower of the Twin Towers collapsed and disintegrated.  Approximately 29 minutes later, exhibiting a dystopia demolition in similar manner, the North Tower collapsed and disintegrated at 10:28 AM.  A day out of step, time stood still and the shocked world congregated, unbeknownst of the insidious grand illusion.  Millions, billions, glued to TV screens lost all rationale to the obvious, hypnotized, falling under the spell of persuasive, recurring, surreal newsreel loops, sound bytes depicting a surreptitious, covert diabolical sleight of hand.
“Number 9, Number 9, Number 9”…
The two stalwart sentries that had once emblematically protected Battery Park, the historical arsenal of artillery batteries positioned there during the city’s early settlements, were leveled to Ground Zero by weapons of destruction they symbolically guarded. 
1-1 resonated in a dream memory databank: an image distilled nine days earlier, left me with painful lingering, a relentless sensation, bereft of both legs upon which I stood in a former world.

WTC 2 Sept. 2001: JostFoto