Thursday, June 24, 2021


Right after the June Solstice 2021, I awoke from a vivid, exciting dream in which I saw three shiny discs (like tiny CDs or chakras) spontaneously begin to realign in every human being I encountered. They appeared to be supercharged electromagnetic fields compressed into toroidal discs and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction when I saw all three discs slide magically into position along the spines of each human being.

As this occurred their emotional bodies began to reactivate and resensitize and they found themselves feeling reconnected with everything around them - plants, animals, other humans, even inanimate objects like buildings.  

Now they could see through their hearts again - not only through their minds (where their nonsensical beliefs, prejudices and ideologies are collected and stored). 


It was truly wonderful - indeed, ecstatic - to witness the Great Awakening and Quantum Transformation of an entire species, suddenly liberated from a deep robotic trance that had been gradually imposed on them over countless generations! 

Antares Maitreya
22 June 2021

Monday, June 21, 2021

Slow drivers most likely cause of road accidents!

Sir Percival, my trusty 20-year-old Satria, is no boxy car!

Just before Chinese New Year (2015) I had to pick up my laptop from a shop in Tanjong Malim. Not knowing the traffic cops had set a trap for motorists between Kerling & Kalumpang, I was shocked to find a speeding ticket waiting for me in the post months after the festive season. There was a B&W image of my car (so no argument) & I was accused of traveling at 70kmh in a 60kmh zone. Long story short, I got hit for RM150 but at least the lady cop who issued the receipt passed me her mobile number (which remains unused).

This got me a little annoyed, you can imagine. I'm used to thinking in mph, not kph, so a speed limit of 60kph translates as 36mph - that's slower than your average Kancil or Kelisa driven by an 80-year-old granny. I know the cops aren't really concerned about my safety - they only want the money. It's legalized extortion, no less. But it got me pondering once again the abysmal lack of insight of those who purport to administer departments, states, even entire countries & who take it upon themselves to constantly enact new laws (oblivious of the truism that more laws equal less justice).

To my mind the primary cause of highway accidents is slow drivers. The secondary cause is often tow-truck operators working in cahoots with workshop owners who deliberately spill oil on the roads & then await their prey.

But let's focus on the slow coaches for now. I've been driving since I was 15 (first two years without a licence, couldn't wait) & I had the best driving instructor in the world - my dad. He told me how you can tell a confident driver from a timid one by observing how often they use their foot brake, especially around corners. He taught me how to apply the accelerator for better traction on wet roads while taking a bend, instead of jamming on the brakes, which could cause a tailspin. Over the decades, I have found his advice entirely sound & when I see a driver ahead of me overusing his or her brakes I can tell at once we have a timid, incompetent driver (well, I guess not everyone has a dad like mine who taught me so many practical things as a kid).

Anyway, these timid drivers are often also nervous & overcautious & they seem to favor boxy cars that resemble horse-driven coaches, which reveals their conservative taste. Apart from that, their fearfulness tends to make them more insular - with the unfortunate result that they become insensitive to other drivers. Often they seem so preoccupied with keeping their eyes on the road ahead they become unaware of the long line of vehicles behind them, unable to overtake on narrow or busy roads. Now don't get me wrong. There's a place for everyone under the sun - including nervous, fear-driven types. In almost every case, these neuroses are acquired through family dynamics (overprotective mum, overbearing dad) & can be quite easily transmuted - so long as the sufferer is open to jettisoning unnecessary emotional baggage & getting on with life.

What I'm driving at is simply this: why punish confident, competent drivers by imposing absurd speed limits on us? I'm willing to bet that if a statistical study was conducted, at least 80% of road accidents result from drivers getting impatient & taking unnecessary risks after being stuck for some time behind slow-moving vehicles, especially on narrow single-lane roads. 

I'm not suggesting that slow, timid drivers be banned or penalized. Indeed, nobody needs to be punished for being what they are - but those inclined to be fearful, overcautious, nervous would do well (for themselves & for others) to be open to healing their childhood traumas & replacing fear-based outlooks with more dynamic, more self-confident tendencies. Then they might discover that driving can be joyful & pleasurable - not a terrifying ordeal - & that becoming a better, more alert driver is self-rewarding. Fear & anxiety fuels incompetence, no doubt about that.

Those who insist on clinging to their anxious, timid dispositions can always opt for public transport & help ease traffic congestion.

21 June 2015

Cross Dressing, Anyone? (worth another reprise)

In 1998 my friend Ray Langenbach initiated a "religious exchange" program wherein he undertook to embrace the belief system, no matter how weird, of anyone willing to embark on the experiment. He sent me a questionnaire and requested that I fill it out. At an appointed time and date we sent each other our questionnaires. When I read Ray's I burst out laughing, because we shared almost identical beliefs - except he's an academic and writes kinda funny. Below is the email I sent Ray...

Subject: Cross Dressing, Anyone?
Date: Wed, 29 Jul 1998 00:20:45 -0700
From: Antares
Organization: Magick River
To: Ray Langenbach

1. Your religious beliefs.


OPTION A: "Scientific Pantheism" as a belief system. Very briefly, Scientific Pantheism postulates that a Universal Force or Spirit underlies and overlights all phenomena, and our "religious duty" mainly consists in gaining an ever clearer and deeper understanding of the Mystery, the Unknown, by using the tools of our intellect - language, mathematics, art, music, dance, and reason - for to know (and understand) is to appreciate and love, and to love and appreciate is the only service required of all conscious entities.

2. Describe any rituals to be performed, and when they must be performed, what must be said, what must be in the mind at the time, any prayers, how often, any taboo foods, words, actions, sexual practices, thoughts etc.

In Scientific Pantheism, rituals are optional. However, a few personal rituals I favor are those performed in acknowledgment of our vital relationship to the Earth, the Moon, the Sun, and the Stars.

EARTH RITUAL essentially consists of resensitizing oneself to the magnetic field of our planet; recognizing that human industrial and military activities have a deleterious effect on the integrity of the geomagnetic field; and that as conscious individuals we can help reharmonize the field by aligning our own bio-energetic fields with that of the Earth, which may be perceived as the Great Mother of Life. This ritual can be performed by remembering to breathe deeply and slowly while visualizing a continuous flow of prana or ch'i through our biomagnetic field (which may be visualized as a doughnut-shaped "tube torus" energized by prana and rooted within the earth's central core, with the opposite pole extending outwards all the way to the nearest source of light, the Sun). As we perform this ritual, it is necessary to focus on our heart chakra (our compassion centre), letting it open to the max and infusing the pranic flow with ecstatic, unconditional, non-judgmental love.

MOON RITUAL: Taking note of life rhythms as they are affected by the phases of the Moon. Basking in the glow of the full moon in celebration of Beauty, Truth, and the Eternal Mystery of Life; tuning inward at each new moon, reassessing our life path, and refocusing on our personal goals/missions.

SUN RITUAL: Observing equinoctial and solstitial dates, opening our hearts and minds to the life-sustaining power of the Solar/Stellar Light, which permeates our bio-energetic fields as photons.

No specific food or sexual taboos... but in accordance with the Law of the Universal Food Chain, "Everything Eats and All Is Edible!" ... a practising Scientific Pantheist will regard each meal, each sexual encounter, as a fusion of energy fields - and therefore a true act of worship. Each experience of lifeforce exchange or transfusion is thus perceived as a holy (or whole-making) act, consecrated to what Einstein called "the Grand Unified Field."

3. Describe your cosmology, that is how reality or the world as we know it came into being.

This is a tough one! But the Hologram Model of Reality serves us best... 

Hermeticists quote the formula, "As above, so below." Our current understanding of Fractal Geometry and Hologram Theory prompts us to say: "As within the Micro, so throughout the Macro!" OR: "As within, so without!" In effect, inner and outer space are as concave and convex surfaces of a sphere, which is the prime geometric form of existence in this waveform universe. 

All forms are understood as permutations of the Sphere within which the five "Platonic solids" - the tetrahedron, octahedron, hexahedron, icosahedron, and dodecahedron - interact in a bi-polar dance of line and curve, yin and yang, male and female, electricity and magnetism. In effect, the World we see around us, the Cosmos surrounding us, has its correlation with an esoteric or inner reality accessed not via the outer senses but through establishing and sustaining a state of contemplative receptivity. 

There is a paradox which needs to be accepted: just as an electron can be a wave or a particle (physicists are now calling this paradox a "wavicle") - Universe is created and NOT created, depending on the specific frequency zone from which one is "viewing" it. This paradox applies to the perception of time - which can be linear (where Past, Present, Future exist) or spherical (where only Eternity reigns). In effect, both these statements may be accepted as "true":


(However, Scientific Pantheism tends to avoid using hackneyed terms such as "God" unless absolutely necessary.)

OPTION B: No beliefs. Only complete trust in the absolute perfection and wisdom of All That Is and Isn't. No rituals except the comfortable habits that get us through each day, e.g., brushing teeth, having breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner; the occasional indulgence, be it tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, or sexual gratification. No taboos. An easy option.

OPTION C: I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Lowest and the Highest, the One and the All. Sometimes I forget - hence the apparent mess we call Life. No specific beliefs - except that Life is a great deal neater when I remember who and what I truly am. No rituals - except conscious remembrance of my original and ultimate state of being and non-being. No taboos - except lying to myself (which of course includes everyone else).

4. Any other beliefs or actions that are important for someone who is to take on your beliefs.

Hmmm... can't think of any right now - but I'll let you know if something comes to mind. Or if I feel like making a few more up.

[First posted 1 March 2007, reposted 20 September 2014 & 2 November 2016]

Horace Tan’s Horrible Skin Condition (and how Mrs Tan cured it)

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 is 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. 

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 the serious study of Amateur Dermatology by post, 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 [First posted 26 May 2007]