jackshoegazer

There is an idea that wants to be born, it has wanted to be born for a very long time. And sometimes that longing to be born seffles on a person. For no damn good reason. Then you’re "it," you become the cheese, and the cheese stands alone. You are illuminated and maddened and lifted up by something great beyond all telling. It wants to be told. It’s just that this idea is so damn big that it can’t be told, or rather the whole of history is the telling of this idea, the stuttering rambling effort of the sons and daughters of poor old Noah to tell this blinding, reality-shattering, bowel-loosening truth.

It all has to do with Time. "Time can be overcome," Mircea Eliade wrote. The Great Mystery of Eleusis, the Orphics, of the early Christians, of Serapis, of the Greco-Roman mystery religions, of Hermes Trismegistus, of the Hermetic Alchemists, of the Rose Cross Brotherhood, of Apollonius of Tyana, of Simon Magus, of Asklepios, of Paracelsus, of Bruno, consist of the abolition of Time. The techiniques are there. It has to do with the loss of amnesia, when forgetfulness is lost, true memory speads out backwards and forewards, into the past and into the future, and also oddly, into alternate universes, as if it is orthogonal as well as linear.

Terrence McKenna and Philip K. Dick