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DeepDotWeb’s in-house shaman would like to share with you some of his thoughts:


*        *        *

We may call him “Custer.”

The angry little fellow on the hill, making his last stand against the raging whirling walls of colour, closing in on every side.

He puts up resistance, does what damage he can, and then he, too, is swallowed and swept away – or else remains, and poisons all that follows.

*        *        *

When under its spell, the mind overwhelms the self by drowning it in gifts.

*        *        *

Like a kitten in spring. “So much to do! So many birds and scents and mice and winds to sniff and chase and follow!”

*        *        *

Pearlhunting in a thunderstorm.

*        *        *

… And the song became a sleigh-ride through a frosty winter landscape.

The bass drum became the smattering of the wolf-dogs’ feet; the cymbal the crack of my whip as I urged them on; and the snare the beckoning drum of the god ahead.

*        *        *

Two hands, grotesquely disproportioned – the left hand a weak little stump of withered meat, the right a monstrous claw of steel, tearing the bark as he storms along its trunk.

*        *        *

A tattoo of the tree in one’s chest.

Its roots below all earths, its crown above all heavens.

From each green and golden leaf, “dew drips down into the dale below,” where the people have gathered together, to drink and to bathe in its waters.

*        *        *

The god happened.

*        *        *

… That the gods yet sleep and hunt in hiding, woven into the knotwork of the mind…

*        *        *

… A feast with green, green grapes – “and crispy strips of bacon!”

*        *        *

“Lost no more to time and place, / for I have seen the land / I have heard the Valkyrie sing / and I’ve touched Odin’s hand.”

*        *        *

The cymbal is the whip and the slap and the thunderbolt of the god.

It warns us, too, against the madness of the seven colours, and reminds us of our final duty – to return home, at the end of every hunt.

For “to return empty-handed is a sin – but not to return at all is an abomination.”

*        *        *

Coming home, at long last, with four rabbits and a deer, slung over a bloody shoulder.

*        *        *

Oh these things which will not melt.

*        *        *

“Let us make new masks, then, if these old ones no longer fit us.”

*        *        *



  1. jimmineycricket

    Wow man I think I read that in a Bob Dylan poetry book. What are your shaman credentials ? Your white ass has a GF with under arm hair and you read Leary or Hoffmann ?

    True Shamans are quite rare. They are a dying breed beacause their progeny tend to lack interest in the old ways. New age mysticism is just a blind guess at what the ancestors did. Go join the neo-pagan druids at stonehenge for the next solstice.

  2. So after being stubborn, you’re going home to see mom n’ dad with your 3 kids & wife after trying to make some scratch & learning to be a man?

    • Life is the great hunt. The 7 colors are all the pleasures and temptation of this existence. Home is where we all came from and return to after this life.

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