Roll up for the Mystery Tour

Winter and spring were gray and somber. The sun only peaked out in short gaps, but was soon again consumed by the gray blanket and a soft drizzle of rain. In the springtime, we all complained (a national pasttime) about the weather, got upset, but then it broke. The sun shone and for 10 days were wearing shorts! It was great and we were feeling so high. But then, the clouds returned and for most of May and most of June we were plagued with gray skies, slight drizzle, and temperatures near freezing. What the hell was happening?

It’s passed now. On the 21st of June, the weather stabilized and the winter was really over. Now, the sun is shining and the birds are singing and life is blooming. It’s great to be alive, great to be in the sun!

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Throughout most of France it’s only 2, but in Aveyron, the department in which I live, we like to do 3. Hellos, as you can imagine, can be quite long. Upon arriving at a family gathering, there can be as many as 40 people there, and the ‘kisses’ add up quick. Even the men kiss each other on the cheek if it’s been a long time since they’ve seen each other. The Christmas Dinner was especially awkward, kissing 30 people that I had met some years before. That was the beginning of my life with the Guegan/Pradels.

In the States, we shake hands or we hug, in Korea they bow, and in India, they ‘namaste.’ In France, we kiss each other on the cheek. Right, left, right. It was easy for me at first. I mean how hard is it to kiss someone on the cheek, even if they haven’t shaved in a week? As long as I didn’t lay any sloppy ones on them, I reckoned that I was doing fine.

But as I stayed longer in France–first seeing all roses, then all thorns–I came to realize that the kiss wasn’t really a kiss. For the previous 4 months, I happily gave all the ladies respectful pecks on the cheek. Then one day it dawned on me, that nobody was kissing me back.  To the outside observer, it must surely look like a kiss, but in fact it was something less intimate. It was a fake kiss, a touching of cheeks with sound effects. I was horrified. What strange salutation this was. The kiss devolved to a cheek-touching made to look like the smooch it was not. Then, as I settled and observed more, it became even more ridiculous. Many times, there weren’t any sound-effects. It was just a ritualized dance with no feeling in it at all.  I have found this ‘deception’ to be common in France.  For example, when we say  san doubtes (no doubts) in French, we actually mean ‘maybe,’ which implies a significant level of doubt!

A shiver ran up my spine and I finally admitted to myself that it was cold in that part of France. I came here believing that France was going to be nothing but sunshine and bunny rabbits. Much to my surprise, I have found more storm clouds and snapping turtles.  There are many great things about the area in which I live, but there is this cold facade that is difficult to pierce.  There are layers and layers of formalities and now that I think of it, there aren’t very many conversations of substance.  Politics is the one subject where people are willing to open up and state their opinions, which of course aren’t opinions at all, but hard facts.  There are so many words flying around that meaning is lost, but that’s not important.  As long as the facade is maintained, life goes on as normal.

I’ve felt the missing warmth in my heart since I arrived.  The hellos are cold kisses and there is no hugging, except, in intimate couples.  There is a polite distance that exists between all people, a chilly formality that is a fundamental structure in the French Way.  Mrs. International doesn’t hug her family members regularly and it’s not because she doesn’t want to, it’s because she can’t.  There is something preventing her from doing it, a lifetime of conditioning.  Hugging is for long absences and emotional turmoils, but not for day-to-day interaction.  We have each other, and the warmth between us melts the ice of cordial behavior readily.  We’ve both been thinking of Texas recently, and the warmth there, the openness with which my family welcomed my wife, the hugs and the excitement, something we’ve both noticed a lack of here in France.

Back when I only saw thorns, France became this dying old man before my eyes.  He was still strong and capable, still sharp of mind, but everything he did, every thought that passed through his head was accompanied by this isolation, this purposeful shutting off of the world.  He was a treasure trove of culture and knowledge, a museum of beautiful ideas and passionate freedoms, but something stagnated inside of him, some unwillingness to change constipated him and sent him on his path towards death.  Slowly, he is becoming ever more weak, ever more ineffective.

It’s not perfect anywhere.  I know that, but I’m still surprised when I arrive in a country, assimilate, and see how silly people can be.  It’s not a French problem–it’s the nurtured human condition, and one we must overcome if we are to survive our imminent accidental suicide.  France is a beautiful place, filled with beautiful people.  There are roses and there are thorns; it’s not only one or only the other.  Like in most places, it’s a garden that needs constant tending.

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According to the Official Story, Darwinian evolution, human beings descended from apes into our current form over millions of years.  The modern homo-sapien entered the world roughly 200,000 years ago.  The date is not exact, but as we shall see, nothing in the world of archeology is exact.  It’s a ’science’ of stories and sometimes shoddy detective work.  Basically, it superimposes our current reality, our current paradigm of what is possible, onto bone fragments and pottery shards.  Nonetheless, we base the belief in our origins on the Official Story.

200,000 years ago, homo-sapiens arrived on Spaceship Earth.  They were just like us physically–the same body shapes, the same brain, the same biology.  There was no distinguishable difference between them and us.  But for the following 160,000 years, 75% of our time on the planet, human beings had no culture, no language, no artistic drive.  Nothing.  We were animals in every sense of the word.  We were driven by instinct and living in the present moment with no concern for yesterday and no hope for tomorrow.  (Funny, how esoteric practices strive to devolve us into this primordial state of eternal awareness of the now.)

Between 50-40K years ago something happened.  A switch flipped and human kind began their journey.  In a phrase, we woke up.  This is the beginning of history and they began in caves here in the South of France.  (Also seemingly simultaneously in the outbacks of Australia.)  Incredible drawings, paintings on cave walls are the first movements of man to mark his world, to scratch a lasting tag on the world around him.  All of a sudden, a spark ignited in the mind of man and history began.  Mankind started to keep a record of himself.  He began talking, constructing language, the most magical of all tools, the ability to create pictures, images, sounds, realities in another’s head.

Science has no idea why this happened.  They have no good explanation for why, suddenly, after 150K years of normalcy, the species would suddenly rocket into a world of limitless possibilities.  There are ways to reconcile this major shift into a conscious living, but ’science’ will have none of them.

The least shocking is the introduction of psychoactive plants into the human diet.  According to Terrence McKenna, as the food supply changed, humans descended from trees onto the African plains in search of new sustenance.  As they followed herds of wild cattle, they noticed, then ate, small mushrooms that grew from the dung of these docile creatures.  These mushrooms contained a substance very similar to a nuero-chemical in the human brain called DMT, which despite its presence in every single human being on this planet, is a Schedule 1 drug.  This mushroom, as some of us know, stimulate amazing perceptions and incredible experience, which could does, theoretically, resolve this mystery of where our abrupt shift began.  Although perhaps uncomfortable, this outlandish theory accounts for the sudden eruption of human consciousness.

The most shocking of all theories for the origin of mankind, which may actually be the most plausible, is presented by a man named Zacharia Sitchin, who is one of only a handful of people who can read ancient Sumerian cuneiform, the oldest written language on the planet.  According to this educated researcher, who most regard as a quack because of his outlandish theories, the human story has extra-terrestrial roots.  There are many who believe, often backed by staggering evidence, that the ancient world was visited by aliens.  Sitchin translates the Sumerian texts to read as such–that an alien race, called the Annunaki.  The Annunaki came to the planet Earth in search of gold, which they needed in order to save their atmosphere.  (Funny enough, modern science tells us that gold is an excellent element to block cosmic rays, hence the presence of gold foil on many of our own space missions.)  As they mined gold in South Africa, the Annunaki began to experiment with local animals, and to cut to the chase modern human beings emerged on the scene as a hybrid between some lost ape and an alien race.

I know, I know, totally unbelievable.  Kinda like the Big Bang Theory–that all the matter in the Universe existed in a tiny particle the size of a pinhead.

Don’t worry, I don’t believe any of these theories, not even the Official Story.  But what these competing versions of our origins teach us is that anyone with an open mind and a bit of reading can see is that we don’t know.  And if we don’t know, it’s not logical to throw out any possibility simply because it’s uncomfortable.  Isn’t it refreshing to bathe in infinite possibilities?

Ancient Astronauts

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The title of this blog started as an ongoing joke/wake-up call between myself and a good friend who was supporting me in a mis-adventure in California.   “It’s a magical mystery tour, brov,” he would say to me again and again as the synchronicities and the bizarre piled ontop of each other.  At first it was a joke, but as these meetings, situations arose repeatedly, it became more obvious that this was the truth.   I was on a Magical Mystery Tour in that everything was laden with meaning, it was all relevant to me on some level and it all seemed to originate somewhere outside of myself.   It was magical.

That was almost a year ago now, and I’ve accepted that I’m still on that mystery tour, that it’s a never-ending ride, although there are times when I wish it would just end and life would be normal.  Some days, I curse that mystery, but for the most part, I live off of it.  It’s my lifeblood.  And what’s become obvious to me is that it’s not just me, and it’s not just the other crazy travelers I’ve met, it’s everybody.  We’re all on this magical mystery tour; it’s synonymous with life.

It’s easy to forget that the world is steeped in mystery, that there is so much that we don’t know, but claim to have figured out.  There is so much that we take for granted and so much that we just forget about.  I think this is why children are so attractive to people; we’re drawn to that innocent soul, that piece of God still untainted by the world of Man.  And I think it’s equally tragic to watch a perfect soul slowly corrupted by the materialistic worldview we have all inherited.  Are you a human being who has spiritual experiences or a spiritual being having a human experience?

I love mystery.  I always have since I could remember.  I’ve been attracted to the unknown, the paranormal, those places that don’t quite fit inside of our narrow slices of possible experience.  So now I intend to dedicate this blog to the investigation of the mysteries, not to solve them, but to resurface them in the attention of the public consciousness.  I will continue to report on my ongoing mystery tour, but the main objective of this blog will be to explore the Unknown.  If you have any topics you would like to see covered, please contact me and we’ll make it happen.

I shall begin, next time, at the beginning, with the origin of man.  And, damn, is it weird!

Love and Light

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The days are the same, it’s only the filler that changes. Every morning, we go around shaking each other’s hands. “Salut,” “Ca va”, “Bonjour.” When the later shifts come on, they do the same, coming to each of our workstations as we rivet aluminum tubes to thick blue or green tarps. I may be a factory worker, but I’m in the business of saving lives. Some forms of capitalism may be ‘evil’ or ‘psychotic,’ but not us. We work all day, we transform ourselves into human machines so we can make the world a safer place. We might as well be a factory for artificial hearts.

The morning goes by slowly or quickly. Usually, Monday morning is a lot longer than Friday morning, but sometimes Friday is really tricky and likes to take a long time getting finished. Regardless if it’s Monday, or Friday, the days are the same. It’s only the filler that changes.

Pierre, le chef, is usually the center of attention and he likes it. He’s worked hard to get to be the boss so that people will listen to him, and he will talk and talk, but rarely listen. He’s a nice man, if juvenile. And the topics will either be poker or sex or food or poker or violence or food or ass or sex. I’m not sure if it’s French culture or only this slice that I’m experiencing, but ass comes up a lot.

“I can’t find the computer I want here,” I said.
“Wait, wait, have you looked everywhere?”
“Well, I haven’t looked everywhere. But I don’t think I’ll be able to get it with what I want, you know.”
Pierre’s eyes get big and he encroaches on my personal space again. In the world of Seinfeld, Pierre is a close-talker. He’s also a toucher, as if he’s constantly leaning on you, always taking some energy, but he’s sleeping and doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or why he’s doing it. He puts his heavy hand on my shoulder and leans into it until I’m tilted and sagging.

“It’s not going to make another hole if you ask.” He’s smiling and I know that he’s waiting to explain. “You know, you already have one hole,” he turns and points to his ass, “if you ask at the shop to upgrade, they’re not going to make another one.” He laughs.  I try not to, but I can only see an adolescent boy whose body has grown, but whose mind has stayed young and immature. This, I have found, is more common than not, all across the world, princes running amok.  Where are our kings?

He’s very French in that he’s not very tall, has dark hair, brown eyes.  As bosses go, Pierre is a good one.  He’s upbeat and smiling except for Monday and Tuesday morning, but even then, he’s just quiet and reserved.  He smiles and laughs, and will often come and chat about aforementioned topics, giving us a break from the difficult job of making security swimming pool covers.  Yeah, he has a predeliction to focus his attention, and then my attention, on ass, but he’s a good man.  He talks loud and scratches his balls, both very obvious signs of Alpha male in the world of the 2nd circuit.

There are no handshakes at the end of the day.  Like at lunch, when our 8 hours are finished, the work just stops.  Even in the middle of riveting a tube onto the tarp, when our 8 hours are finished, it’s finished.  We simply gather our things, and leave, shouting “Until tomorrow,” to everyone still working.

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The first shift starts at 5am and I have trouble getting up for that.  I had trouble getting up for the 7am start, and just when I was getting used to it, P–, the factory boss, announces that we will be starting the 2 8s the next day.  Of course, my first reaction is resistance.  I agreed to work a normal day and now I have to work from 5-1 or from 12-8?  Nobody ever asked my permission, if I was in agreement, and this bothered me for the first days until I realized the obvious truth–it doesn’t matter if I agree.  I am just a human machine and if this human machine doesn’t operate well enough there are many other human machines who will gladly do it.

My keen eyes have seen other seemingly obvious injustices.  And yes, they are injustices–when a company’s profit comes before human volition and basic decency the whole human race loses.  Multiply that by the billion times that happens a day, and voila…you get the world today!  France is moving forward, or I thought they were.  They’ve nationalized the 35 hour work week, which is a great thing.  It’s a movement towards a more human view of the world.  The Industrial Revolution has turned us into beings of production–work, work, work and to what end?  To have more things that only give us an illusory, fleeting sense of fulfillment?  I’ve traveled a great many places in the world, and I can say very easily that the happiest people I’ve ever met were the poorest.  Why is that?

When I first got my job in the factory, making security covers for swimming pools, I was stoked to work 35 hours a week and be paid full time.  I imagined that I could finagle Friday afternoons off and really enjoy my time in France.  I could get the things done I wanted to get done, like that book.  But as soon as I started, we worked 40 hours a week, and if we don’t get enough covers out, we’ll start working 45 hours a week.  OK, if I have to, but at least, I’ll get overtime, right?  Wrong, since becoming a reality, the 35 hour week has been annualized, meaning that no matter how many hours over full time I work in a week, I only get paid for 35 and the remaining will be paid to me at the normal rate once my contract is over.   I’m happy to be working, but just not so happy with this feeling of powerlessness.  Why do corporations have so much power and influence over our lives?  I never agreed to it, outside of my participation in the system.  Did you?

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It’s easy to forget that we are steeped in mystery.  Walking through our lives, driving through our worlds, it always seems like we’ve got it all figured out.  That’s the slippery slope of the ego, to constantly think that we know it all.  But there are fundamental questions that we have no answers to.  The meaning of life?  The missing link?  The existence of God?  These are still mysterys that may never be proven to the satisfaction of the rational-material mind.

But what else is there?

I am a seeker of mystery, I gravitate towards the edge, where the unexplained happens.  I’ve only seen one UFO, but are sure that more are coming.  I know, I know, it’s so easy to blow these things off, to put them into boxes where you don’t have to take them seriously.  How can anyone take UFOs seriously?  Well, I guess it starts with an open mind.  A mind is like a parachute, it won’t work unless it’s open.

A good place to start with this onion is a book called, The Fingerprints of the Gods, by Graham Hancock.  In this massive work, the author provides an alternative version to the offical story of the Great Pyramids at Giza.  According to Egyptologists, the pyramids are 2500 and were built by hoards and hoards of slaves.  But according to Graham, the official story holds no water.  To begin with, there have been two modern attempts at building a pyramid a third of the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza.  Both attempts failed miserably. 

Well-researched and well-documented, this work is a great first step into breaking the rigid walls of believing-mistaken-for-knowing to which we are chronically subject.  It’s important to remember that not everything we hear is actually true, and that goes for such a ’science’ as Egyptology as well.  In movies, stories, and history books holefull theories explain the origins of the monuments on the Giza plateau.  Such theories are pushed as truth and for decades any contrary evidence that arises is rejected.  Graham Hancock does an amazing job of investigating the loose ends and revealing the obvious inadequacies of the official story.

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The sweet assertive voice tromps through our spacious salle (living room).  I can’t see her with my eyes, but in my mind Reba Macintire’s bouncing red hair is dancing along as she pours her heart out into a microphone somewhere in Texas. Why haven’t I heard from you? The radio, a magical little box streaming voices from all over the world, is our primary connection with local media.   Radio Sanite Affrique, the birthplace of Mrs. International, 23kms away, is our favorite, mostly because of it’s variety and cohesive programming.  A set by the Têtes Raides, with their lively accordians, opened for Reba, une artiste in the Saturday afternoon heure de cowboy.

Springtime is upon us.  The flowers are blooming, the trees steadily turning the brown city into one of verdant greens. Birds—black, blue, white—sing their song to the world.  It’s in the transition that I find it easiest to connect to nature, to remember that I’m moving, that I have been moving, and that I’m still on my path.  It seems ever since the vernal equinox, I’ve forgotten it, forgotten the changes of priorities I had promised myself.   What exactly am I doing here on this planet?  Is living enough?  Is loving enough?  Is it enough for me?

Although small, Millau and the surrounding region, is home to a cultural hodge-podge.   Along with the lively french culture—clowns, theater, food, wine—there’s african djembe, yoga courses, moroccan knick-knacks.   Paragliding is a popular summer sport and the parachutes launch from many of the surrounding peaks.  The blue sky is dotted with tiny flying humans.  Living right across the municipal stadium, ‘football’, rugby, kayaking, and frisbee is only a short stroll away.  The Parc Cervennes is just a côte (next to) and we can be walking in plein (full) nature in half an hour.  Rural France, stone houses and sheep, is all around. It’s easy to find people living the way they do, simply.

It’s different, but it’s the same. It’s always the same: people being people. They have a different way of doing things, lunch is long and nearly everything is closed until 2.  The work week is 35 hours and the schools are closed on Wed afternoons, but it’s the same.  The worlds we live in aren’t very different—Korean, Japanese, Croatian, French, American.  People being people.  They are all built on the same fundamental ideas, all grown out of the same needs for survival, the same fallacies of importance.  Somewhere along the way, mankind began to believe that he was the King of the Castle and not its humble steward.

This weekend it’s sunny and the temperature is rising, almost 20°C.  Our mission is to get the bikes up and rolling.  It’s bright and light, time to get moving, get exploring.

Radio Sainte Affrique has podcasts if you’re keen.  Find and click ‘Ecouter Podcast’ on the left-hand bar, then you’ll see a chart.  These are different podcasts available.  Click one and  you’ll arrive at a page summarizing the podcast.  Find the podcasts, then right click the red word ‘ecouter’ and choose ’save link as’ and you’ll be able to download an mp3.

Love and Light!!

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I took a quiz last week with some friends.  It was from a book, seemingly competent and researched.  It was believable.  But for the gullible, it’s finding things that aren’t believable that’s the problem.  Anyway, this book was about optimism and the movement towards optimism.  The quiz assured me that I’m a pessimist, and, well…it was right.  I was loathe to admit it, but I spend most of my time worrying about something that will never happen, being anxious about my safety and comfort when all is secure, always looking for something to fear.  According to this book, my brand of pessimism (and maybe all brands) is based on two key factors: When something ‘bad’ happens, I tend to internalize too much of that responsibility and when something ‘good’ happens, I tend to displace too much of that responsibility.  The dishwasher breaking is my fault, but me fixing it was luck.  See?

Now, I hate to admit this, that I was a pessimist, but I guess that’s the first step in getting over it, right?  Hollywood has taught me that there are many steps to recovery and the first of which is acceptance.  I get most of my day-to-day information from Hollywood, but I reckon that’s more common these days than before.  And maybe that’s where my pessimism comes from too–movies, sitcoms, the news are rarely based on beautiful things, and although they are usually resolved in the end (except for the news) I didn’t internalize that part and have lived in a state of low-level crisis for…well, for a long time.

Before acceptance, I would rationalize my pessimism as realism.  I mean, the world really is going to shit, right?  I guess that question is too big to be able to answer from our simple little human bodies and our limited personal perspectives.   I could rationalize my pessimisms, my bad moods, my gloomy future and say, that according to all known calculations, life sucks and it’s going to keep on sucking right up to the end.  In my family, it was common to say and to hear, ‘life’s a bitch and then you die.”  I was ready to go on believing this, ready to follow this phrase to the grave, but damnit!  THAT sucks.

In all my travels, and in my tribulations, in the trials and in the trees, I’ve learned that most of the time, reality is flexible, that it’s never as solid as we usually think it to be.  We have much more influence on the way things turn out, the way things are than we let ourselves know.  And how we interpret life around us, what we project out onto the future goes a long way to defining.  In my experience it’s been hard.  I’m so attached to my pessimism, to my worry and anxiety that I don’t want to let them go.  A voice in my head argues incessantly for the continuation of this really stupid way of going about life.  Wouldn’t it be great to wake up in the morning and just know that some beautiful things were going to happen?

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and complete my 32 rotation around the sun aboard Starship Earth and I’m going to have a wonderful day.  30 didn’t feel old, neither did 31, but that nag inside is trying to tell me that I should’ve done something by now, that I should’ve, I don’t know won the lottery?  Written the greatest American novel of all time?  Bought a house?  Had a kid?  Friends and family are settling and multiplying so I guess it’s normal to feel like I should be somewhere else than where I am.   Or is that just the pessimism?  Don’t get me wrong, I am making progress.  I am moving forward in lots of ways, just not nearly fast enough for this long-time adrenalin junky.

So for my birthday, I’m giving myself sunshine, bright hopes, and strong determined healthy action.  I am moving forward.  I am looking on the bright side.  I am smiling and laughing–I am going to be fucking ecstatic!

Who’s coming with me?

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Although it wasn’t a normal dinner, it wasn’t far off, only stretched out a bit by the presence of the port and wine. We sat down just before 8pm, which can be early for dinner in France. There were six of us there and the conversation was quick and light-hearted. I didn’t understand everything, but most of it. My father-in-law offered the port and we started the meal with this thick apertif.

Since being with Mrs. International, I have learned patience at the table, and that learning has only increased since I arrived in France. A normal lunch will see us at the table for at least an hour and a half and I’ve built up a tolerance for sitting in a rigid wooden chair for so long. During the 4 hour Christmas ordeal, I had cabin fever before the main dish was served.

The sweet liqour wet our lips and the words came out faster, to my dismay. Although I’ve learned loads since being here, my French is still not fluent. Along with the apertif, we munched on crackers and chips. When are glasses were empty and the plate along with it, there was a brief pause as the salad was brought out—beautiful greens with chunks of smoked salmon and a side of guacamole. Delicious.

As customary at the table, we sat with the full plates in front of us, nobody daring to attack theirs until someone moved first.  Mrs. International looked at the others, picked up a piece of bread in an effort to signal the others that it was time to eat.  When no one answered her call, she began to eat and the rest of us followed, happy that someone had broken the spell.  I usually finish my plate first, not only because I’m a fast eater, but also because I have the least to say.

When everyone was done, we let the food settle before the main course came out—Guinea fowl with succulent potatoes and salsifi. The plates went out around a couple of times, the hostess trying to convince us to finish it. Empty plates are much preferred to leftovers in France, more so for the compliments than the nutrition. The willing filled their glasses with wine, we took a few deep breaths and then the cheese came out. In France, cheese is a separate course—that night we had a sheep cheese, a goat cheese, and a camembere—with homemade bread. After another ‘coup de vin,’ the desert came out a berry tiramisu–crumble, chocolate, rasperrys, and cream.  Beautiful and delicious.

I think we were all relieved when we finished the desert, happy to have survived another stuffing.  For the last round some of us had coffee and some of us had tea…served, of course, with orange cake!!

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