The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Rob Brezsny writes the widely syndicated column Free Will Astrology and is the author of three books. He is also the creator of “Sacred Uproar,” a pagan revival show featuring prayers, meditations, rituals, and music. He lives north of San Francisco.
Pronoia is the antidote for paranoia. It’s the understanding that the universe is fundamentally friendly. It’s a means of training your senses and intellect so that you’re able to perceive the fact that life always gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.
I feel much closer to all of you when we pretend we’re all fighting real dangers together in order to stay alive. The telepathic links among us heat up when our bodies register the information that we may really die horribly together all at once.
I don’t think I’ve ever lived in a place that hasn’t been identified as a psychic window, and that includes 16 different cities and towns. Which means either that my very presence bestows some sort of divine grace, or else that some of these places are faking.
I want money. I need money. I will have all the money I desire. I am a money magnet. Money is my servant. This is a meditation, folks, don’t mind me, just keep reading.
I’ve wanted to live in California since 1964 when I read a feature article on LSD in Life magazine. From Cherry Hill, New Jersey: CALIFORNIA = LSD
What to do next, we wondered. If our eyes met theirs across the dinner table, we might burn holes in their retinas. We might muscle a plug of ghastly recognition into their brains and sear their genetic codes with the breath of the big white god who breathed through us.
I am of the Circus. I introduce you to Eggplant, Elastic, and Menstrual Smell so that I may introduce you to Me, of the Thousand Female Poses, once a man and now the True Imitation.
We are living in the exaggerations of our memories of the future. These are HISTORICAL TIMES.
Lamellicorn the Clone once said that the only thing better than a good fuck is an orgasmic death. His writings, which almost obsessively juxtaposed quasi-biological sensations with abstract speculation, often graced the pages of THE SUN.
I have been asked to submit my dreams to Bardic tests. For years I have allowed innuendoes from my dreams to slip into my daily affairs. Now my friends and acquaintances have grown weary of dividing these dream outcroppings from my intentional deceptions and mystifications.
Jealous of the female art of creation, man conjured up the art of the mummified reflection, and so was born the Work of Art: a solid hunk of inanimate matter scratched and battered into a shape codifying his unique understandings.