Friday, August 19, 2022

APOCALYPSE… OR EPIPHANY? (revisited & updated)

Lotus flowers blossom in the Khao Sam Roi Yot national park 
in southern Thailand (AFP/Roberto Schmidt)
 
Musings at the edge of eternity

The World of Appearances moves visibly towards a series of possible Apocalypses. Now as never before, I am doing all I can to maintain a clear focus on my innervision of heaven on earth – which does NOT include the triumph of Big Brotherism in some dystopic New World Order Fourth Reich!

With Galactic Alignment come and gone (refer, if you like, to John Major Jenkins’s Maya Cosmogenesis 2012 for the mind-boggling details), massive shifts in consciousness and spiritual maturity have brought about a rapid meltdown of dysfunctional institutions and societal conventions. All that is mechanical and regimented will swiftly and abruptly run out of political charge. The “princes and principalities” (or Archon-infested golems in suits) won’t surrender without a desperate fight, in the vain hope that they can at least drag everyone else down to “hell” with them.

However, Mother Earth (Gaia-Sophia) herself will no longer support their parasitic and piratic misbehavior as she attains to full awakening. Those governed by fear and greed and trapped in egocentric skepticism will be subject to their own Twilight-of-the-Gods scenario – despite all efforts to help them experience a paradigm shift. The rest of us will bear witness as self-governing sovereign entities to the birth of a New Octave of Consciousness wherein beauty and truth will replace money and military might as focal points of endeavor. (All this is unlikely to happen right after 2012, but the preceding years will prove to be pivotal era in which each incarnate soul will consciously cross a threshold, towards true individual freedom or deeper enslavement in the Matrix.)

But what happens to all the encrusted egos hellbent on keeping the Duality Scam going? The Fear Merchants, trading in terror and scarcity conditioning, clinging tenaciously to ancestral privilege or ruthless ambition - are they a nightmarish mass delusion that’s absolutely no concern of mine?

I can see bits of myself embedded in these primitive programs going by descriptions like "Neo-Darwinism." Survival of the Fittest, indeed. How is “fit” defined? The ones gifted at making money, or the ones with universal empathy? Is it possible to accumulate wealth as measured by consensus – and still feel a tender compassion for all life?

The way I see it: since I already feel oceanic ripples of deep affection for All That Is, I need only gain access to unlimited wealth to be in a position to answer that question truthfully. It’s easy to dismiss money as a spurious concoction of the banking fraternity, but so long as it’s in use, I’d love to have a huge pile fall in my lap. I could get the entire contents of my rusty filing cabinet published, release some sonic dreamscapes I recorded some 30 years ago, fund radical social and artistic projects, visit friends all over the planet, lounge around on a Thai island for weeks, help a few fellow humans who happen to require a reboot, and so on.

How about The Vision? Well, it’s all part of it. My definition of heaven: infinite possibilities (where merely knowing that every desire can be fulfilled is enough). Hell, of course, is utter impossibility (where the woman who excites me most begrudges even a smile).

Do I envisage a Vegetarian Future?

It’s not what we do, it’s how we do it that changes the essential equations. Having lived among hunter-gatherers who generally prefer to get their protein by fishing and snaring wild game, and who are content to subsist on tapioca leaves and dried anchovies the rest of the time, I’d be glad to see an end to commercial exploitation of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. It’s not meat-eating, per se, that constitutes a problem – it’s industrial farming methods that treat other lifeforms as mere commodities to be processed and sold which greatly saddens my soul.

Times when my atoms were oscillating at close to light speed, I have been able to sustain myself for days on prana and photons – which is why I’m sympathetic to breatharians, though I lack the ascetic impulse to wilfully embark on such a course. I eat to live as a matter of habit, and I bless and enjoy whatever’s on my plate. Food is NOT the issue. Famine is invariably the unhappy result of ecocidal human activities driven by scarcity conditioning. The fact that “developed” countries have problems with anorexia AND obesity reflects a deep spiritual imbalance.

Speaking of food, I recently received an internet joke with a timely teaching. It’s called “God’s Test”:

God put the angels and the devils to a test. He set up a huge banquet hall with a wonderful feast. First He invited the devils to the feast. They were delighted until they found out that they couldn't bend their arms at the elbows! How were they to eat all the delicious food when their hands wouldn't go to their mouths? They tried eating off the plate, which was messy and undignified. They tried throwing the food in the air and catching it in their mouths. Nothing worked very well. After 15 minutes of this mayhem, God told them that time was up. They trooped out cursing Him.

Next, He invited the angels into the hall. A fresh feast was laid out, and the same thing happened - they couldn't bend their arms at the elbows. The angels all looked at each other and burst out laughing. "What a great game!" they said as they fed each other.


If you happen to be an atheist - don’t worry, so is God. In 2022 I’ve decided to revert to my original name. From now on, don’t call me Antares – “God” will do nicely. Heh heh, just kidding, folks. I've had enough problems trying to get old friends to call me Antares... or cash cheques (back in the analog days) with three E's in my former surname Leee.


© Antares Maitreya, written in January 2003 (updated October 2005, August 2018 & August 2022). First posted 2 December 2006, reposted 30 August 2018.

Sunday, July 24, 2022

Horace Tan’s Horrible Skin Condition (& how Mrs Tan cured it) ~ a bizarre short story by Antares

This story began its life in 1967 as a high school creative writing assignment. It was originally titled Herbert von Schenke’s Rare & Disconcerting Problem – And How Dutiful Delilah Solved It. I dusted it off in 1987 and fleshed it out for a short-story writing competition. It was awarded a consolation prize. I subsequently sold it to Men’s Review, a trendy monthly magazine, in 1995, along with a couple of new illustrations. And now, here it is again in its latest incarnation as a blogpost (first uploaded 26 May 2007), which only goes to show that there's a future in recycling one’s past...


HUMMING WITH above-average self-confidence, Mr Horace H.L. Tan would flounce down the street each day, despite his rare and disconcerting Skin Condition.

And an uncommonly horrible problem his was at that: poor Mr Tan was burdened at birth with the distressing misfortune of Loose Skin.

When Horace was but a day old everyone had tried to dismiss the issue with humor, saying how charmingly like a plump little prune he looked. The doctors had conducted a series of expensive tests and, after serious conference, had diagnosed the child’s condition as “a most unusual case of acutely uncoordinated cuticular cellulation.”

“Probably a passing phase,” the doctors had declared in reassuring unison, fondly tickling the gurgling bundle of joyful wrinkles that glistened in its cot.

“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll grow into it,” Horace’s father had said, with sensible optimism.

“’Tis God’s Will,” Horace’s mother had responded, carefully powdering her infant and arranging his skin in neat folds, with stoic affection.

As to be expected, young Horace encountered traumatic difficulties in trying to gain the acceptance of society. At school the other children mercilessly mocked his pleated skin: “Jellyfish, smellyfish,” they chanted, “just go away, that’s all we wish!”

Before long Horace had acquired an aura of grand isolation arising from his dermatological uniqueness. Some called it freakishness, but never to his face, for his features had by now become very much enshrouded in the spotty skin of adolescence. Nobody could think of anything meaningful to say to him, and he remained enveloped within himself. For Horace Tan it was one of life’s poignant ironies that he should suffer a total deprivation of the sense of kinship, while enjoying a superabundance of skin.

But he comforted himself by recalling his father’s last words: “A great man, Horace my boy, must have the courage to be different. The ugliest insults to one’s dignity are, at their worst, only skin-deep.” At one time Horace Tan’s father had been the owner of a famous reptile farm (featured on all the tourist maps).

After her husband’s death, Horace Tan’s mother had sold the business and established a trust fund for her only son. She somehow knew her own days were numbered.

Solace also came to Horace in the sweet, unselfish person of Philomena P’ng, a quiet girl from the local orphanage who had been engaged as his handmaid and cosmetician. Not having really had a proper upbringing she had been spared the normal quota of prejudices that children inevitably absorb from their parents.


Now, Horace’s extraordinary hide had attained new dimensions in horniness ever since puberty – for his prodigious dermal development was accompanied by no significant loss of tactile sensitivity. Perhaps in defiance of his own physical shortcomings, he had perversely cultivated a keen interest in feminine pulchritude (which would later prove valuable in his professional life).

For the present, Horace had to make do with Philomena P’ng’s services. No doubt she struck Horace as a morsel too bland for his exotic taste, but she did seem to care for him above and beyond the call of her domestic and cosmetic duties. In fact, after the death of his parents, Horace’s only companion was Philomena – and hers the only other human skin he had touched.

At nineteen-and-a-half Horace Tan stopped growing. But not his skin. It was now at least three sizes too large for him. (To get a more graphic idea of how Horace looked at this stage, slip an old condom over your index finger and wiggle it.) However, to a sympathetic eye, Horace did not appear at all repulsive – thanks to Philomena’s conscientious and tender ministrations which kept his overall complexion clear and healthy. A ridiculous proportion of their monthly expenses, however, went towards imported skin care products.

Since his strange affliction precluded active participation in sports and other social games, Horace had naturally turned to books. (He rarely watched television, complaining that he found the “superficiality and false glamor of TV-land “ in poor taste.) During this period he chanced upon Frank Herbert’s Dune stories which profoundly altered his self-image: Horace was drawn irresistibly into a quasi-mystical identification with the Hero - whose horrendous transmogrification into a hideous heap of omniscient protoplasm earns him the status of Emperor God. The silent contempt Horace felt towards the human hordes that pride themselves on Normalcy became even more pronounced.


FOR A FEW best-forgotten years, Horace Tan supplemented his dwindling trust fund income by submitting his Skin Condition to public exhibition. He was billed as “The Incredible Human Fungus.” It was disgusting and demeaning, true, but on weekends the takings were appreciable. Philomena set up a tea stall outside. Soon, a multi-cultural element (consisting of two giggly Thai women wrestling in French salad dressing) was incorporated into Horace’s Human Fungus routine. While Philomena diverted curious policemen with her excellent tea and delicious margarine rolls, Horace livened up his act with a series of other ingeniously flamboyant titillations. “Fun on Fungus” evolved into a fantastic money-spinner, and Horace H.L. Tan was well on his way to true-blue entrepreneurship. “They want skin… I sell them SKIN!” became his private credo.


And with that Horace Tan married Philomena P’ng, bought her a gleaming new chain of fast-food outlets, and installed himself as the Invisible Godfather of a proliferous network of adult video agencies. It was the perfect climate for purveyors of preserved prurience: hot, humid and hypocritical.

Working behind the scenes with transcendental vulgarity, Horace swiftly established a vast and venal empire of ‘musical’ coffeehouses, ‘massage’ salons and ‘sex-clusive’ health clubs. Meanwhile, video vice was doing very well, thank you, with the staunch support of the nation’s puritan aunts and uncles: the more they raved, the more they rented (this was before the advent of the internet made rented videos obsolete). When the Official Outcry Over Obscenity and Hedonism (OOOOH) reached a premature climax of impassioned publicity resulting in Nocturnal Omissions by the Blind Forces of Moral Erectitude (ref. Raids & Seizures Act, Amendment V, 1969), Horace gently pulled out of pornography and plunged into other, more personally gratifying pursuits.

He took up a correspondence course in Amateur Dermatology and soon was acknowledged as the World’s Foremost Authority on the tragic case history of John Merrick (the original Elephant Man). Inspired by one of Alan Sherman’s doggerel ditties (“You gotta have skin/All you ever really need is skin…”), Horace next tried underwriting and producing a musical extravaganza (predictably called Skin). The critics dismissed the whole show as “a flabby and shabby flop” but its lyrical content, though accused of “unrestrained idiosyncrasy and self-vindication,” was occasionally brilliant:

Skin is a most precious commodity
Especially when it stretches to Infinity;
Although a few fools think me an oddity,
My ego-encompassing epidermal packaging
Gives me a great sense of Divinity!

Skin, luxurious skin:
Oo, it’s the nicest stuff to be in!
Come rain or shine it won’t fade with time;
Yes! skin is a substance sublime.

Skin, my glorious skin:
Where do you end, where do I begin?
Who cares! just send up an endless supply
Of skin…


But most of all Horace cherished his regular afternoon jaunts. When the sun warmed him like a chappati and the breeze billowed his cheeks like a Sultan’s birthday banners, he would pause and tuck the freehanging ends of his knobby kneeskin into his superstretched socks (so as not to trip and embarrass himself). And he would think fondly of faithful Philomena: so passionate, so patient, so practical, so resilient and resourceful. And his entire skin would quiver with a peculiar pleasure.

Having thus worked up a voluminous appetite Horace would hurry over (the best he could) to his wife’s nearest outlet, where he would drowse behind the giant microwave ovens and wait for the last patron to leave, before doing hungry justice to the day’s remnants of frankfurters, French fries and fruit pies.

And yet, Horace Tan’s marital, epidermal and gastronomical contentment was clouded by the horrid certainty that the rate of his Gross Dermal Product was obviously and undeniably proportional to his age. In other words, Mr Tan’s horrible Skin Condition was STILL getting worse (notwithstanding his remarkable psychological triumph over the cruel bathos of Fate).

"Each day the dutiful Mrs Tan would scrape off the waxy waste with a scoop and sell it by the tub to an orchid fertilizer factory."



BEFORE HE REACHED 44 the unfortunate Mr Horace Tan had become quite incapable of carrying out the simplest tasks of daily living. His devoted wife soon had to administer liquid food to him through a veterinary hypodermic (it was impossible to locate his mouth); walk him in a heavy-duty motorized wheelbarrow (his feet were hard to find); read, or rather, shout the morning and afternoon papers to him (his eyes had for years been buried beneath pachydermoid lids and he hardly had ears to speak of or into); scratch him whenever he had an itch (and he had more than a few); and hose him down thrice a day (to reduce his profuse transpiration).

Almost all his natural bodily functions had undergone a bizarre mutation. He no longer had to “go to the toilet.” Instead he exuded, at regular intervals, a resinous effluent which, although slightly unpleasant in odor, was wonderfully conducive to plant growth. Each day the dutiful Mrs Tan would scrape off the waxy waste with a scoop and sell it by the tub to an orchid fertilizer factory. Then she would turn on the electric shower system in the ceiling and spray her husband with Dettol, followed by Odorono. At night she had to tape his facial folds to the wall to prevent his suffocating in his sleep as he lay helpless on his foam-rubber floor like a retired Portuguese man-of-war. It was a truly unhappy existence, even for such a positive-thinking pair.

Despite his Herculean struggles with dermal density, heroic Horace never forgot each night to whisper hoarsely, albeit inaudibly, to his wife: “Hey, Sugar-Melon… stick around. I… I’ll show you a good time yet!” (Alas, a rarely fulfilled promise.)

Philomena Tan, with phenomenal determination and without prejudice, divided her time equally between running her fast-food chain and attending to her poor husband’s saprophytic existence. But as each day dragged saggingly by with no miracle in sight, and even the subcutaneous sound of Horace’s voice receded beyond the effective range of the electronic bugs implanted within his remote recesses, Philomena began to admit that things looked grave.


The last time she heard him speak was through a medium. He sounded deeply regretful to have imposed such a massive burden on her, and begged her over and over again to put him out of his monstrous misery. She had replied (through the medium): “But, Horace! After all we’ve been through, how can I get rid of you?” (“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Horace had quipped via the medium. At least he still had his sense of humor.)

What with the bourgeoisie rabidly bourgeoning and its insatiable demand for junk food, Mrs Tan was kept too busy to indulge in self-pity. Not till the weekend did she find time to ponder a possible cure for her husband’s horrible Skin Condition. Every known medical approach had been attempted to no avail: Allopathic, Ayurvedic, Homeopathic, Dianetic, even Acupuncture, Ch’i Qong, Hypnotism, Mind Control, Reiki, Aloe Vera, Aromatherapy, Aurasoma, Past Life Regression, Royal Jelly, Lourdes Water, Mystic Ash, Prayer and Tiger Balm.

Then she remembered having seen, among some ancient books collecting dust in the basement, a frayed edition of Dr J.S. Petit’s quaint classic, 101 Ways To Cure Skin (published in 1903). The book had probably belonged to Horace’s paternal grandfather. In a thrice Philomena was rummaging through the musty accumulations of three generations of Tans until, at last, she retrieved the slim volume. Hands trembling, she began her desperate research, struggling over Dr Petit’s worm-eaten archaisms.

The following week, having secured “a good supply of tannin and gambier,” she mixed the recommended ingredients into a concentrated solution and added this regularly to her spongoid spouse’s nutrient injections. There was no way of knowing if the treatment would work. Now that hope and faith seemed useless, only luck remained.

One evening some weeks later she arrived with her husband’s food syringe to find his discolored and deflated blimp-like bulk even more devoid of human semblance than usual. Missing were the familiar rumbling undulations of inexpressible yearning that preceded every meal. “Horace!” she cried distractedly. “Horace, wake up! Your dinner’s getting cold!”

There was no response. Not a single heave, nor the subtlest quiver. “HORACE??” She began poking all over the unmoving mammoth mound of flaccid cuticle, looking for traces of her erstwhile matrimonial partner, but found absolutely nothing: nothing vaguely suggesting an arm or a leg or a protuberance of any description. Horace H.L. Tan had apparently dissolved into the labyrinthine folds of his own skin.

Perhaps for the first time in her life Philomena P’ng broke down and wept. But not for very long. Within a year, the phenomenal Philomena had gathered her resources and opened a classy boutique in Star Hill Plaza selling a chic selection of designer Belts, Boots, Handbags, Shoes, Wallets, Vests, Cigarette Cases, Pipe Pouches, Money Belts, and so on. The turnover was simply sensational. A massive promotional campaign was launched in Hong Kong, Taipeh, London, Paris, New York and Los Angeles, and exports began in earnest. Soon, the House of Horace could boast the rare distinction of being the “World Leader in Quality Leather.” Well, at least till the supply fizzled out… and, horror of horrors, it eventually did, poor Horace.


© Antares 1967, 1987, 1995, 2001, 2007, 2009, 2013, 2019 [Last reposted 6 November 2013, 20 August 2019 & 23 July 2020]




Thursday, July 21, 2022

The Abrahamic Agenda (revisited & revised yet again)

Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son to appease Yahweh.

I have pondered long on the history of the Abrahamic Agenda on Earth.... how one human being implanted with receptors to receive commands from a different dimension was able to spawn three major belief systems that have had such contradictory consequences (inspiring both great art and miracles as well as endless conflict, ecocide and genocide).

In the 15th Century CE, the Roman Catholic Church was at its most hideous and malignant - actively ferreting out "deviants" and "heretics" and arraigning them before the bloodthirsty Inquisition (actually an ancient cabal of "priests" who were secret practitioners of human sacrifice and energy vampirism). The cruelest tortures were inflicted on those whose property was coveted by these perverse agents of the Roman Church - and after a mock trial, hundreds of thousands (if not millions) were burnt at the stake, drowned as witches, or left to rot in foul dungeons.

Well, ironically, the current era happens to be Islam's 15th Century... and we witness the same bunch of power-hungry fiends preying on humanity by pretending piety. Today, the pervert priesthood is mostly found in decadent regimes like Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, and Malaysia and whether they call themselves ulama, ustaz or ayatollah, they seem addicted to the psychological stranglehold they wield over unquestioning believers.

Like their Roman Catholic predecessors and counterparts, these psychic predators trade mainly in fear (of hell) and guilt (usually sexual). I'm sure the majority of so-called Christians were decent human beings capable of reason and common sense - and yet, why were they afraid to speak out against the diabolical Inquisition? Why did they not revolt against the clergy? Simply because the clergy had convinced the masses that they (the priestly caste) represented God's Will on Earth - that's what is claimed by the Pope, hence the regality and splendor of his professional raiments.

The same applies to the so-called Muslims in Malaysia. I have absolutely no doubt that the vast majority of Malaysian Muslims are completely reasonable and even compassionate human beings - yet why do they keep quiet and allow a few self-appointed "religious" fanatics to inflict the cruelest, most barbaric forms of punishment and mind-control on the ummah?

Ultimately, these issues have little to do with spiritual experience or religious practice - they are essentially political black ops designed to keep the masses constantly in a state of anxiety, self-doubt and moral cowardice. Imagine if a cabal of ulama were to decree that anyone caught masturbating would have his or her genitals surgically removed - would the ordinary mosque-going Muslim burst out in whoops of uncontrollable laughter and tell these crazy ulama to get a life or eff off? Or would they react by keeping a deadly silence and lowering their eyes, hoping nobody would single them out for questioning?

Meanwhile, truly outrageous crimes committed by the ruling elite pass unchallenged, uninvestigated and unprosecuted...

This is precisely the strategy UMNO is using in their desperate attempts to thwart Anwar Ibrahim's political destiny. Little do they realize, in so doing, they are only strengthening Anwar's mythic status as a folk hero - in the tradition of erstwhile messianic figures like Moses, Yeshua (Jesus) and Muhammad. Anwar Ibrahim has his share of detractors (many of them personally known to me) who repeatedly declare that he cannot be trusted - well, name me one politician on earth who can be trusted! 

There are essentially three reasons I continue to regard Anwar Ibrahim as my political proxy: (1) he is the only individual I know who has spent 10 years in prison for his political stance; (2) he publicly proclaimed in April 2008 that he would replace Ketuanan Melayu (Malay supremacy) with Ketuanan Rakyat (supremacy of the people); and (3) the women in his life, notably his long-suffering wife Wan Azizah and their enchanting daughters steadfastly embody decency, intelligence and nobility.

I have no vested interest in any particular belief system - whatever resonates within my cellular consciousness as "true" I will accept as inner guidance, inner teaching (intuition)... and having observed the power of semantics and semiotics on the mass psyche, I can only conclude that all humanity would be far more integrated and harmonious were it not for the divisive effect of religious dogma.

[First posted 15 October 2011. Reposted 13 December 2014, 12 April 2015, 13 October 2016 & 11 July 2017]

Monday, July 18, 2022

Return of the Abominable Jungleman (a blast from the past)


Nchan et Christine ont poursuivi en Malaisie leur collecte de sons et de témoignages auprès de musiciens -- joueurs de gamelan traditionnel ou jeunes percussionnistes rencontrés aux franges de la ville. Dans la jungle toujours proche, ils ont suivi Antares, un musicien chinois sage et fou, arpenteur de tous les sentiers et joueur de flûte. Marié à une aborigène, il défend la forêt, les droits de sa tribu auprès du gouvernement tout en écrivant ses articles d'ethnomusicologie dans la hutte qu'il a tressée, au vert, relié au monde par un esprit transculturel -- et par Internet! ~ Christine Rodès


This is hardly an original statement, but it's worth repeating: the internet is arguably the best thing technology has come up with thus far! Some insist nothing can beat the washing machine - but as I have never owned one, I don't have an opinion on that.

Earlier, I was cursorily checking visitor stats on my blog when I was intrigued by a Google search someone located in Muscat, Oman, had done on "magic river antares"... so I followed the link to the search results and found this YouTube video dating back at least 6 years but only recently uploaded.

Sometime in 2005 a colorful bunch of visitors had appeared at my home, wielding video cameras and recording equipment. Even before I could say hello, they were busy shooting video footage of everything that caught their fancy. They told me they were multimedia artists, collecting raw material from around the world and incorporating it in their trance-inducing son et lumière performances, featuring multiple images projected on huge screens to the accompaniment of live electronic music.

The group was called Sisygambis and they were performing at KLPAC. The music consisted of a mix of sampled sounds and synthesized effects played by Christine Coulange and Nchan Manoyan, who both looked like they might have stepped out of a flying saucer parked just down the road. Anyway, we spent some time cavorting at a nearby waterfall and afterwards they asked me to play some of my wind instruments. I got on so well with them they invited me to visit them in Marseille and perhaps collaborate on some art project with them.

Alas, in 2009, I received word that Nchan had died in a car accident - and that put an abrupt end to my cross-cultural conversation with Sisygambis. I liked Nchan a lot, not just because he had the most amazing bird's nest hairstyle and a wizardly goatee, but he struck me as truly an evolved soul and a very warm human being. Viewing the video above brought back a flood of vivid memories and renewed my soul connection with Sisygambis. I'm glad they are continuing their wonderfully stimulating multimedia projects.




[First posted 2 December 2011, reposted 5 January 2019]

Saturday, July 9, 2022

THOSE MOIST AND SALTY MOMENTS (revisited)


By Lee Bee Doh

MR H.S. LOH stood in line, hands in his pockets, twiddling his thumbs. He had a habit of playing with himself whenever there was nothing else to do. Fondling his privates in public was particularly appealing, because he had to be careful not to get himself too excited, which usually got him even more aroused.

He smiled secretly thinking about the few occasions he had developed a full-blown hard-on while standing in a queue. One time he managed to conceal his bulge behind a copy of Utusan Malaysia (not that he actually read the rabidly racist rag, but he enjoyed walking around with a copy under his arm or over his crotch just to annoy people). It also came in handy whenever he felt the compulsion to idly swat a few rent-seeking flies.

Another time he happened to be standing behind his plump-rumped girlfriend, Lascivia Lum, and was able to good-humoredly goose her till she had to trot off giggling to the ladies and plug her overflow with tissue paper.

H.S. (as he preferred to be called, because his father had perversely named him Hum Sup, weird sense of humor) was a congenital erotomaniac. In Cantonese, Hum Sup literally means “salty and moist.” In plain English, H.S. was addicted to sex. In other words, he chose to attain Oneness through physical conjugation rather than transcendental meditation. In fact, the only constant in his life was to fuck and wank at every opportunity.

Eating and sleeping served only to recharge his batteries between battering ram episodes when he would attempt to break down the fortified gates of feigned prudery. Indeed, H.S. Loh sometimes saw himself as a crusader for the suppressed libido, tilting at windmills of false piety and genuine hypocrisy.

Those who knew H.S. suspected that he enjoyed shocking erotophobes (making their auras shrink in dismay) even more than indulging his congenital erotomania. His current squeeze, Lascivia, was cute and cuddly enough – but the fact that her father was a Baptist preacher added spice to their love affair.


AS A KID at Sunday school, H.S. had been intrigued by the story of humanity’s “Fall from Grace.” The watered-down official version made it seem like Adam and Eve were tossed out of Heaven for disobeying God and eating the Forbidden Fruit. Why God would plant a “forbidden” fruit in the Garden of Eden was beyond human comprehension. And to then tell these innocent babes in the wood they could do whatever they liked except taste that particular fruit made it clear that God was setting them up big time.

He probably had a stopwatch in hand, waiting to see how long it would take Adam and Eve to discover the exquisite pleasures of fornication and commit their Original Sin. (I bet God had at least four CCTV cameras installed to record the event, just in case He needed to resort to blackmail somewhere down the line. Or maybe He just liked to watch.)

Preachers call it “illicit sex” because Adam had yet to propose to Eve, and she hadn’t even considered signing a contract agreeing to be physically and emotionally bound to him for life. Anyway, if Adam and Eve were the First Couple and there were no other humans around, then neither could contemplate carnal intimacy with anybody else, could they? Being promiscuous would be a complete waste of time in the Garden of Eden.

Unless Eve was kinky enough to be turned on by the Serpent’s slinky muscularity and allowed it to perform cunnilingus on her with its forked tongue and Barry White voice. You may not know this, but male snakes do have penises – not one, but two. Okay, some biologists say the snake’s hemipenes are in fact a bifurcated penis, rather than two separate organs. So it’s quite possible that the Serpent may have ventured beyond foreplay and penetrated Eve with one, or both, of its reptilian penises.

It’s also entirely possible that when Eve says she was tempted by the Serpent, she was merely waxing lyrical about Adam’s morning erection. I mean, if you’re a newly minted woman and have never seen a fully erect male organ, your first close encounter with one in all its glory might well cause you to spontaneously lubricate and cream yourself.

Whatever actually happened in the Garden of Eden, you can be sure of one thing: it had to do with sex.

And that’s why H.S. Loh was obsessed with the subject. Any activity that can get one evicted from paradise must be well worth investigating. Yet, how could it possibly be “paradise” if sex is forbidden? Are there different categories of paradise, some XXX-rated and others approved for General Audiences?

However, sex wasn’t the only thing on his mind – though one might argue that everything would look sexy to a man named Hum Sup Loh.

As a student of philosophy, H.S. had always preferred Socrates (right) to Plato; Laotzu to Confucius. People often speak of “platonic” love but how come they never boast about their passion being “socratic”? Socrates was officially married to Xanthippe, who gave him three sons. But he was, like most Athenian nobles, also known to enjoy the company of young and handsome male athletes. Umno would most certainly disapprove and attempt to fitnah him left, right and center.

Laotzu was a legendary sage who lived in forested hills far from civilization and successfully avoided being awarded titles and positions by the palace. It is recorded that Confucius, hearing of Laotzu’s great wisdom, found Laotzu after many months of searching, and asked if he would accept Confucius as his humble student. Laotzu simply said: “Why waste your time and mine? Go back to your job as an academic!” To his credit, Confucius never spoke ill of Laotzu; indeed, he described him as a cosmic phenomenon, awesome and unreachable as a dragon flying through the clouds.

But to H.S. Loh the most admirable contemporary philosopher was a fellow named Hugh Marston Hefner (left), better known as the chief editor and publisher of Playboy magazine. Launching the first issue in December 1953 on $8,000 of borrowed capital, Hefner not only became a multi-millionaire entrepreneur – but he also planted the seeds of the sexual revolution that swept across the world in the 1960s (bypassing Malaysia and the Middle East, some will be relieved to know).

Many of Hefner’s monumental accomplishments were unknown to the hordes of salivating appreciators of Playboy’s monthly centerfolds. Hefner was a vigorous crusader for free speech and civil liberties; he stood by stand-up comedian Lenny Bruce when the government was harassing him and later produced recordings and a feature-length film documenting Lenny Bruce’s turbulent career (Lenny, starring Dustin Hoffman, 1974).

Hugh M. Hefner preached what he practiced. He loved beautiful bodies, fast cars, good food, fine clothes, freedom and lofty ideas – and that’s exactly what he promoted in Playboy. At the ripe old age of 86, Hefner married a buxom 26-year-old hottie named Crystal Harris. That’s not half-bad by anybody’s reckoning, especially H.S. Loh’s… so what if the whole affair was doomed to failure from the start? [Harris later revealed, in a candid interview with Howard Stern, that she and Hefner had only had sex once: "He’s had so much sex, he’s kind of over it. It lasted two seconds. It was an out-of-body experience."]

And so what if Hugh M. Hefner was exposed, after his death at 91 in September 2017, as having been part of a CIA honeypot operation aimed at video-recording prominent figures in compromising positions for blackmail purposes? Most famous people have secret lives we know nothing about until after they're dead.


These were some of the random thoughts drifting lazily through H.S. Loh's mind as he waited in line at the KTM Komuter ticket counter. By the time he got to his turn, his willy was more than half-erect. “Kuala Kubu Bharu,” he said, giving his throbbing dickhead a friendly rub while fishing around for some loose change in his left trouser pocket.

H.S. was thrilled to finally be meeting his childhood hero, a man who had made a career out of priapic prose, and who fancied himself a latter-day incarnation of the nature god Pan. As the train pulled out of the station, H.S. sent a text message ahead, alerting the recipient to his estimated time of arrival. Hope he likes the present I got for him, H.S. smiled, fingering the beautifully gift-wrapped box of super-strength tongkat ali capsules in his shoulder bag.

_______
Lee Bee Doh is just another alias of that elusive entity, erstwhile known as Kit Leee (actor, author, cartoonist, arts reviewer and producer), who vanished into the woods, only to reappear in cyberspace as Antares (blogger, musician and jungle chef). [Originally published on LoyarBurok. First posted here 19 May 2011, reposted 4 June 2014, 28 July 2016 & 30 May 2018].






Thursday, June 23, 2022

Official Version vs Conspiracy Theory (reprise)

Stumbled on this earlier and found it amusing. I have a feeling it was posted by a cop, as cops these days just wanna be bloggers (and bloggers just wanna be cops). All "official versions" have one thing in common: they are targeted at some fictitious man-in-the-street whose IQ does not exceed 55. Consider the Official Version of the sensational Altantuya murder which says she was probably killed by two off-duty cops at the instigation of a well-connected defence consultant and businessman. Nobody else was involved. If you buy this story, congratulations - you have an IQ that doesn't exceed 55! Well, I don't know who wrote this piece as the author chooses to remain anonymous, but you can read the entire entry here.

9/11: THE MOST RIDICULOUS CONSPIRACY THEORY OF ALL TIME!

According to the ever truth-telling government of the US and the ever accurate US media, the 9/11 attacks were planned by a sickly man hiding in a cave who just so happened to be a "former" CIA employee. The attacks were then carried out by 19 Arab hijackers who, just by chance, lived next door to the Israeli Mossad and magically somehow at least 7 of them remained alive after crashing planes into buildings. This is, of course, because each of the living hijackers had eaten those little green 1-up mushrooms from the Super Mario brothers and upon their death they just came back to life on earth as extra men. Claiming that these men could not possibly have carried out the attacks just because a few of them are alive is absurd. The magical 1-up mushrooms explain everything perfectly.

Next, two concrete and steel buildings which had been hit by airplanes burned near the top for about an hour and then suddenly fell straight down in a matter of seconds. Now we all know that Bin Laden was using a powerful genie to pull this off. You know all those bearded guys in caves in Arabia land have magic lamps and genies. Even though normally fire only burns and cannot break the laws of physics by causing steel beams to be cut at 45-degree angles thereby totally obliterating skyscrapers that were hundreds of stories high in a matter of seconds. Most fires also do not burn hot enough to leave molten steel in the basements weeks after the event... but with a magic genie it can be done IF it happened to be one of the three wishes every genie grants anyone who rubs his lamp. For more information on how this works watch the animated movie "Aladdin." They have the same funny hats and everything, so it's quite obvious.

Now I know what you're thinking: the Genie says he cannot carry out a wish to kill anyone. BUT you see... Bin Laden found a loop-hole. He did not say, "Kill those people in WTC!" He said, "Explode the buildings and make them fall into their own footprints as if they were blown up by controlled demolitions." That way the genie did not actually kill anyone he just made some buildings disintegrate and it just so happened that the COLLAPSING BUILDINGS killed a few thousand people. It was from this loop-hole in the 'wish formula' that Bin Laden could achieve his diabolical plan using his self-reincarnating hijackers with magic mushrooms and super-fire that acts like bombs - including in a building that was not even hit by a plane!

One thing nutty conspiracy theorists always bring up is the fact that the BBC said Building 7 had fallen when it was still standing. So what? Everybody knows that London, England, is 5 hours ahead of New York! As the BBC studio is in London, it had already happened THERE. Sheesh! Do we have to explain EVERYTHING to these conspiracy nuts?


Now in the Pentagon attack they did not need super-fire because the building was already low to the ground so remote control software was not used. No, it was the mushroom-munching, self-regenerating pilots that went out of their way to create a trail of evidence pointing to themselves - including a bag with a list of their names written in a neat hand, a driver's license and even a fire-resistant passport.

Later, anthrax letters linking the attacks to Israel's genocidal attacks against an indigenous Palestinian population in an apartheid state practising legalized torture and open ethnic cleansing, appeared in the press from addresses only 7 miles from Urban Moving Systems - a fake moving company that had been in and out of the WTC towers three weeks prior to September 11th. Were they a front for the Mossad whose agents posed as art students? No way!

This in no way implicates Israel in the attacks. After all, we know the anthrax was stolen by a Zionist Jew former worker (fired for being racist) from a fort in Maryland who was caught on tape entering the lab where the anthrax was scientifically proven to have come from. The fabricated tape of dancing Palestinians and the content of the anthrax letters was pure coincidence. As were the drills of the exact same event as 911 being done the morning of 911 which in no way could act as a cover should things go sour. And the MSM running the unscreened bogus tapes about Palestine on the evening of 9/11 was nothing like their stupid reports on people wearing yellow stars in Iran or the Straits of Hormuz event. Oh wait. Yes it was. (P.S. RFK was also killed by a Palestinian and not the CIA; likewise his brother JFK was shot by a lone gunman with a magic bullet that could change direction in mid-air and even cause the president's brain to go "missing" the way Dov S. Zakheim "disappeared" 2.3 trillion dollars from the Pentagon's bank account. But it's not like Dov S. Zakheim was the investigator for the 1993 WTC attacks... ha ha ha... oh wait a miniute, yes he was!

Dov S. Zakheim, Bush-appointed Pentagon financial comptroller from 2001-2004 under whose watch USD2.3 trillion disappeared. Zakheim also heads a research corporation called SPC International which holds the patent for Raytheon's Global Hawk remote controlled flight system. In 1993 Zakheim's firm Tridata took over management of the WTC security system. Zakheim is also a member of the Council on Foreign Relations and worked on the Project for the New American Century which advocates the necessity for a Pearl Harbor-type "incident" to mobilize the country into war with its enemies, mostly Middle Eastern Muslim nations. Intriguing, eh?

The Israelis caught dancing on the scene who had 5k stuffed in a sock and drove a van that got a hit from bomb-sniffing dogs, who just so happened to work for the Mossad (and were filming the entire event because their ESP powers had informed them something spectacular was about to happen) were then released by the FBI run by a dual citizen Zionist named Michael Chertoff whose cousin works for Popular Mechanics and was part of the 911 cover-up. But that is all just a big co-winky-dink. Happens all the time you know.

I often drive around downtown New York with a few grand stuffed in a sock in a vehicle with explosive residue and set up my camera to film terrorist attacks I have a hunch are about to happen; and then I dance like it's the greatest moment of my life. This is typical behavior, especially for people in covert intelligence agencies. Nothing fishy about that.

They are innocent. It was not the guys in New York filming the event and celebrating, who just happened to work for an intelligence agency known for false flags. It was the dancing children in Palestine who did the attack. I mean, which is more plausible? Come on. Israel can't do anything wrong plus "it was on Fox News." Plus all the evidence linking the Israelis to the attack is "classified." "Classified" is another powerful magic word. It means do whatever the hell you want and obstruct any attempt to investigate properly.

Later a pre-written 300-plus page bill was introduced by another Israeli dual citizen and got passed without even being read and then a new department called Homeland Security was created and the head honcho turned out to be the same guy who released the busted Mossad agents. Ha ha... pure synchronicity, you know.


Cheney, who ordered NORAD to stand down, was NOT rewarded by a 3000% increase in the value of Halliburton stock. His wife, the president of Lockheed, did not notice that Lockheed won the largest war contracts in the history of the world. Cheney was not paid off or rewarded in any way, because that would cause unnecessary suspicion. Oh, and there were also no 'put' options on that day or the week prior. And President Bush's brother, Marvin, was not the CEO of the insurance firm that sold a multi-billion-dollar policy to Larry Silverstein, who leased WTC a few months before September 11th. I mean, how would all that look?! Oh wait. If it is not on ABCNNBCBSFOX then it can't possibly exist. In the immortal words of New Age Guru Karl Rove: "We create our own reality."

[First posted 24 June 2008]

Saturday, June 18, 2022

NO IMAGE EVER GOES TO WASTE... (expanded)


Nik Aziz loyalists watch in horror as Nasharudin Mat Isa 
returns after a night out with Najib.

Two who never found their way home from the PAS-UMNO unity talks.

The Erdogan Pussycat snug in the bosom of Sisters in Islam...

WARNING TO OWNERS OF CLAMSHELL CELLPHONES...
UNSUPERVISED USE CAN CAUSE IMPOTENCE!

Bottom-sniffers of the world, unite!

Another Kodiak moment.

Age-old question: is there humor in music?
In Michael Leunig We Trust...

Post begins with a pee.

How Vincent lost an ear.

Inspired Godzilla tat







Saturday, June 4, 2022

UNDERSTANDING ASCENSION (revisited yet again)

HARDWARE/SOFTWARE = BODY/MIND-SOUL
by Antares

"They are among us now. In the streets of our cities there are already citizens from other worlds. They are here as messengers of the Light to fulfill their mission on the planet Earth." - Willaru Huayta, Chasqui Sun Messenger of the Incas, in the Mayan Solar Year 7 Eb of the Itza Age (1996)

CAUGHT UP in the daily grind, hacking away for pay in some partitioned cubicle in a centrally airconditioned highrise office block... it's so easy to forget that we're all already seasoned travelers in Outer Space.

Zoom out from wherever you are right now and picture yourself as a glowing whirl of vibrant atomic particles, a pinpoint of awareness on a dazzlingly beautiful watery planet, spinning a bit wobblingly around our sun Ra, on the remote fringes of the Magdalenian Galaxy (commonly known as the Milky Way) - which is herself pirouetting majestically round a Supergalactic Central Hub somewhere deep, deep in Boundless Space.

But there's a lot more to "space travel" than meets the eye. Too often we forget that Inner Space is just as vast and mysterious as Outer Space. A would-be Interdimensional Traveler must intuitively understand the subtle process of "inside outing." He or she or it must boldly defy conventional definitions of Body, Mind and Soul!

Where does the physical end and the metaphysical begin? How can we separate one dimension from another? Reality comprises multi-layered webs of interwoven energy and consciousness vibrating at different frequencies, so how can we expect to comprehend the workings of the Whole System simply by analyzing its myriad minute parts? Without our physical brains and the billions of neural interconnections in our nervous system, can we possibly experience Mind? Without this phenomenon called Mind, would we require all the sophisticated hardware that so many of us have fallen into the habit of identifying as "ourselves"?

And what about this mysterious essence we call Soul or Spirit? In an age that doubts and questions the soul's very existence, can we trust our materialistic sciences to uncover transcendental truths? Yet we can complain that the food or music we're being served is "utterly soulless" and be perfectly well understood.

The age of computers has given us access to powerful new metaphors that effectively wed the world of dense matter with the realms of spirit. Today we can think of the physical body and brain as a computer server system: the hardware which can be taken apart, repaired, modified, reconditioned, or junked. The Mind would thus be the vast array of software programs the system can operate - anything from simple calculations to multimedia transactions using superfast chips that function at near lightspeed. Soul would then be the original inspiration (the indwelling Spirit) behind and within and beyond all this - the ultimate arbiter of the cosmic shelf life of both hardware and software.

Take your personal computer. With the power off it's just a hunk of hardware, mere furniture. Turn it on, install a word processing or graphics program. Now... you're ready to produce an exciting piece of electronic art, write a 50,000 word thesis or best-selling novel, produce some funky techno-trance music, or insult a few fellow nerds on the Net. But where do you, as the Operator, feature? It is your intention, your will, your aspirations and desires that the computer serves (though cynics might aver that the only person whose will is genuinely served by computers is Bill Gates).

Extending the Mind-as-Software metaphor a little further, we can understand how our Thought Patterns are determined by our Mindsets - which obey the genetic, social, cultural and religious formatting (or preconditioning) we're all subject to. However, once we're aware of our programming, it's possible to break through to the level of the Metaprogram whereat we may radically alter the operational pathways of our Biocomputers. A good example of this is when a yogi learns to control his metabolism through pranayama (the discipline of fully conscious breathing): he can then keep his body in suspended animation indefinitely, while his Mind-Soul moves freely in any chosen direction or dimension.

This is the approach to space travel - or, more accurately, interdimensional travel - taught in ancient Mystery Schools, whether in Egypt or the Andes or the Himalayas.



Peruvian chasqui (spiritual messenger) Willaru Huayta (pictured above) says: "Many noble people in South America have conquered infinite space, visited other worlds, and have brought knowledge back to benefit humanity. They travel without the necessity of space ships. Some Indians in the Andes travel to distant planets and learn much about the universe, while official science still investigates the superficial level of the material plane. Investigations in three-dimensional reality are always incomplete."

Note that Willaru describes these spaceshipless travelers as "noble people" - NOT "technologically advanced" or "militarily powerful" or "economically privileged."

Does he mean that a prerequisite of interdimensional travel is Moral Quality? Perhaps the capacity to feel openhearted compassion and freedom from finicky ego trips? The implications are, if one seeks to travel Beyond, one needs to travel Light!

Now, in Drunvalo Melchizedek's Flower of Life teachings, the same emphasis is placed on "nobility" - though in this instance, the necessary state of being is described as "Christ consciousness." Drunvalo, like Willaru, states that spaceshipless interdimensional travel (known as Ascension in the Bible, as well as in New Age circles) doesn't negate the existence of UFOs or Flying Hardware. But we are gently reminded that just as Troy fell for the old Wooden Horse ploy, modern humanity is susceptible to being bamboozled by extraplanetary "Greeks" bearing gifts.

INDEED, THE WORST HAS ALREADY HAPPENED!


Apparently - or, rather, not-so-apparently - a bunch of fetus-like aliens popularly (or unpopularly) known as the Zeta Reticulan Greys made contact with high-level military officers and politicians many decades ago (in the 1930s, some say, but the truth is, such contacts with extraterrestrial Trojan Horses have been occurring on Earth for hundreds of thousands of years). After the expected exchange of pleasantries, the aliens ordered a top-secret closed-door conference with a handful of extremely influential Earthians whereby a Memorandum of Understanding was signed. The Greys offered their services as "technical consultants," giving elite members of the human race access to hitherto undreamed-of scientific secrets that would enable certain humans to conquer space and time. In return they only wanted the right to conduct genetic research on this biologically diverse planet. Of course, this Special Project required absolute confidentiality.

The public must never hear of this. If any word leaked out, it had to be quickly smothered by massive disinformation campaigns. It sounded fair enough at the time. After all, vivisection and animal research are commonly practiced in our own research laboratories. So are secret experiments with viral warfare, genetic cloning, social engineering, ideological imprinting and so on. What the kids don't know won't alarm them.

All very Faustian, don't you agree? Where did Christopher Marlowe and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe get their inspiration for Mephistopheles from? An archetype, you say? But of course. Seems like it's the same everywhere in the universe, archetypical behavior! Anyway, the Greys began to feed the Inner Core members of the Pentagon-sponsored scientific cabal with very interesting information - but they kept the flow gradual.

"You need time to absorb all this high-tech stuff," the Greys intoned. Meanwhile, they went on a rampage with their genetic research. Cattle mutilations, human abductions, crossbreeding experiments.

Crossbreeding? That's right. The Greys knew they were doomed as a species. Their destructive technologies had laid waste to their home planet and made every man jack of them incapable of fertilizing even a toad's egg.

They needed hospitable human ovaries to produce a viable hybrid Grey-Earthian, a veritable Neo-Tech Man, that would quietly and efficiently take control of the planet and turn our future Bleak and Grey.

Only a few weeks ago at the local night market - and later aboard the Tanjong Malim bus - I saw people wearing black and grey T-shirts that gave me quite a start and prompted a sardonic smile. They featured an embossed depiction of fetus-like creatures, with the legend: "Alien Workshop Mind Control Laboratory." Ha! I see they're ready to advertise their presence. However, please don't panic. The Movie isn't over yet and some of us are betting on a Happy Ending.

I realize this is beginning to sound like an allegory of our times.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS IS NOT AN ALLEGORY OF OUR TIMES!

This is bona fide information which has been effectively kept out of your school curricula for decades, if not eons. Due to certain mitigating circumstances and mysterious factors in the cosmic scheme of events and schedules, the information is now DECLASSIFIED. But it may do little good, considering how resistant human egos have grown to any news that threatens the Status Quo or, worse still, jeopardizes Economic Growth.

However, I am encouraged by my optimistic Higher Dimensional Aspect to discuss it openly with you without fear of rejection or reproof.


Remember, I started out explaining how the boundaries are blurring between the operational parameters of Body, Mind and Soul. How the lines between Hardware and Software need to be redrawn, so that we shall be less willing to sacrifice the Spirit for the Form - and vice versa, since it's never either/or but always both/and.


Messengers like Drunvalo Melchizedek and Willaru Huayta are only here to remind us that we have a divine birthright to reclaim, which entitles us to craft our own 'lightships" from pure intention married to fully conscious imagination - rather than depend on a sneaky, secretive mafia of rocket scientists.

Freedom from hunger, envy, fear, jealousy, poverty, discomfort and suffering does not entail a multibillion-dollar budget. It requires the cultivation of "a noble spirit" in all humanity. "Noble" does not mean "snootily aristocratic." It means something far humbler. The readiness to lay down arms and surrender to the inspiration and guidance of our own "higher nature" - to heal our wounded hearts so that we can FEEL again. To redirect our attention and energies towards the Whole, towards the Total Unity of Life - rather than remain paranoically fragmented behind security alarms and barbed wire and steel-plated doors.

To address our highest integrity towards maximum honesty and openness, and our greatest ingenuity towards restructuring our lifestyles and values so that we shall once more tread gently, lightly, lovingly - creatively rather than destructively - upon our gracious Mother Earth, our living goddess, our once-and-future Garden of Eden. In the course of moving in this general direction, we shall find ourselves ascending as a collectivity - as well as individually. We shall be moving not so much from "here" to "there" but from a coarser to a finer vibration, from the gross to the subtle frequency bands.

Yes, call it a major Change of Octaves that's impending. Happy travels!


[First published in JOURNAL ONE, February 1997. Reposted here 12 September 2008, 1 January 2014, 19 March 2016, 12 June 2017 & 9 March 2020]