Apocrypha Jones

Signs of the Old Ones.

2009-10-20T12:34:00.007-05:00

Tree roots? Or harbinger of Cthulhu? You decide.

Science versus performance art.

2009-10-08T21:03:00.002-05:00

Behold: The Blood Lamp.

Honestly, if your goal is to make people think about energy usage, wouldn't razor wire light switches work as well? And be less wasteful?

Doom-o-meter: 30 September 2009.

2009-09-30T16:36:00.002-05:00

Well, there's a new level of Doom in town: Beware of Bears and Perverts. And sadly, that is the level we are currently experiencing.

First of all, the makers of Snuggie (shudder) have released a new product: Snuggie for Dogs. I cannot express my full horror at this development; it is truly unholy. The original Snuggie was terrifying enough, but this is surely from the marketing department of R'lyeh, Incorporated.

In other news, nearby waters have recently acquired a new sheen of terror, as a giant squid was found in the Gulf of Mexico -- the first of its kind since 1954. I can only conclude that these krakens of the deep are stalking my associate, Evn (the Lover of Strife) -- just as he has long suspected. Perhaps this squid is a harbinger of water-based doom to come? We must hope otherwise, and remain vigilant of unseen tentacles.

Finally, a bit of good news. It seems that Pagans and Goths are trying to reclaim Morris dancing in the UK. I always suspected that Morris dancing would be fun, but could never quite get beyond the synchronized hankie waving. I hope to see one of these "grittier" performances one day.

Times may be dark, but no one said we couldn't have a bit of fun. Right?

Doom-o-meter: 23 September 2009.

2009-09-23T18:46:00.001-05:00

It seems almost laughable to check the gauge on the Doom-o-meter these days, since I've been praying to be eaten first for a long time now, but I've seen a few interesting things lately, and I'd say that we're really only at level "Slightly Unsettling, But Not Too Alarming" -- despite my protestations.

Let's start with a little sunshine amongst the usual grey detritus. Kate Harding recently presented a beautiful dissection of celebrity-death apophenia in her Jezebel piece criticizing the "Summer of Celebrity Death." We can be assured that common knowledge is often wrong, of course -- though I am still somewhat relieved to be non-famous at this time...just in case.

In the other news, devout Christians can now make sure their pets are taken care of after "the rapture" by atheists -- who at least love animals, even if they are godless heathens, and whatnot.

And finally, a red panda escaped from a zoo in the UK, proving that the pandas are in fact coming -- though not the kind that can hide in an Oreo cookie factory, sadly.

See, we're practically safe as houses these days. Except for all the doom, of course.

The lost year.

2009-09-16T20:02:00.007-05:00

So, I sort of disappeared there for a while.

You may be wondering what the hell happened, because I may have posted rarely on WordPress -- but I did post. Don't worry, I wasn't in prison -- or rather, not in a traditional prison of bricks and bars. I was ill last year -- for months, to the point that I've started to refer to the period as "My Lengthy Victorian Convalescence." I never understood what people meant in the old novels by "lengthy illness," the sort where a slow walk around the garden was progress indeed. But I learned that. I even learned that sitting up on the sofa to watch TV could be a struggle.

I was actively sick for about five months -- and not with anything normally fatal, just sick. I missed (cumulatively, not consecutively) about seven weeks of work from December 2008 through April 2009. I did manage to keep my day job, barely -- and mostly just because I'm a hassle to replace during tax season.

I'm used to losing long periods of time to the haze of depression, but not physical illness. It was such a strange sensation to watch the days march by from my sick bed. The whole thing started with something like a bad flu, but progressed into an endless bronchitis. I just couldn't seem to get well, and the antibiotics they originally gave me caused me to lose over 20 pounds in three weeks. I couldn't eat, and I was too weak to sit up a lot of the time. It was a combination of things, as far as I can tell -- severe asthma that had gone undiagnosed (possibly for years), along with hypersensitivity to a couple of medications, all worsened by stress -- but it was amazing how a fever and a cough snowballed into this Other that became my entire life for a time.

I guess I had the impression that people are supposed to develop great wisdom when faced with severe illness. Isn't that what we're supposed to believe? The narratives found in popular ladies' magazines seem to imply this -- everyone from cheerful, bald cancer survivors to those that have heart attack scares all see "the light." We're supposed to slow down, appreciate what we have, and be thankful -- always thankful -- for the little things.

Well, I wasn't thankful. I just got frustrated, and bored, and kind of bitter. Even when I reached a point where I realized that I might not get well, that this horrible Other may not be temporary, I didn't have a single deep thought. I just stopped making plans for the future.

I watched the shadows track along my bedroom wall as the sun moved across the winter sky, waiting.

I never figured out what I was waiting for, exactly. Recovery? Death? For my partner to come home from work? Life became a giant waiting room in an office building where nothing was as expected, and the chairs weren't very comfortable. Everything stopped: My writing, my hobbies. I even stopped making lists, which would have been unthinkable in the "before time."

The concept of limbo became very real to me.

After the worst of it, when I was able to go to work almost every day, there was nothing left over in the evening. I couldn't cook dinner, or go to a movie. I could only rest, and be restless.

Even now, many months later, the truth is that I never got well -- not completely. Maybe I never will. I had to hire a cleaner, and I have to be very careful how I expend my energy. I make fewer plans for "fun" these days, because I can never gauge whether or not I'll be well enough to leave the house. My Victorian Convalescence continues in a fashion. I have trouble breathing. I must be very gentle when I exercise. I feel old, and worn, and very, very tired.

But I can sit up now, even after a full day. And that means I can write again.

Maybe that's all the cure I'll need in the end.

"An undersea, unexplained mass sponge migration."

2009-09-15T22:41:00.003-05:00

The migration from our previous home on the web is now complete -- or as complete as it's going to get, since I did leave some housekeeping detriment over there.

Suffice to say, I only brought the good stuff over the new threshold. Sure, that means the essays came over, along with some bread, salt, and honey because I'm superstitious. Anything dated before 08/2009 is from the previous location.

Welcome to Postmodern Occult (again).

Trapped like a kitten in a tuna can.

2009-08-29T16:56:00.002-05:00

I intend to move the old journal entries over here, but I haven't done it yet. I am, however, being plagued by dreams of kittens trapped in oversized tuna cans. I have no idea what that means, but I feel sure that it means...something.

It probably means that I have neglected my writing duties for far too long. That's my guess.

Anyway, I'll move the older posts over here as soon as I catch some extra time, but I will just start posting here in the mean time. I think I got a little too serious, a little too caught up in my own thinky-ness at the old page, and although I still want to have a serious thought now and again, I feel it is probably best to keep it a little lighter. So, you know, dark grey -- not blackest black.

That sort of thing.

And now I leave you with an inspiring thought from John Keel:
"Some people just want to believe that there are nude space people out there somewhere."

I would add that some people are hoping for clothed ones, also. But sure, nude ones are on the agenda of many...

Robots.

2008-10-08T00:00:00.001-05:00

Robots: Killing humans since 1979!

Just wait ’til we have Skynet. Am I right?

"Real Simple," Real Sad.

2008-06-23T00:00:00.001-05:00

I have subscribed to “Real Simple” magazine twice, and both times I let the subscription lapse rather than renewing it. The first time I wasn’t really sure why I let it lapse — it just seemed the thing to do. I figured out why the second time. And I won’t be subscribing again.

“Real Simple” makes me sad.

“Real Simple” is a journal of depravity presented as a reasonable, helpful aid to daily living. If you don’t examine it closely it seems to consist of innocuous, even “inspiring” material: Stories of women who have overcome great odds (or, more frequently, given up “stressful” careers to be stay at home mothers), organizing tips, and simple recipes. Sure, it sounds good (in a way), and it damn sure looks fabulous (in an understated, muted sort of way). But it’s horrible, and empty, and most of all, sad.

The last issue I read had an article called “Organize Me.” It outlined the clutter in one woman’s minivan, and then the solutions used to corral it. It seemed normal enough, but it made me cry — and organizing articles rarely provoke such emotional response. The woman in the article wrote “permission slips and thank-you notes while in the car pool lane.” Her whole purpose in the organizational process was to “get more done while [she was] in the car.”

This woman practically lived in her car. She spent so much time shuttling from place to place all day long that the objects needed at each place could not leave the vehicle, since there was no down time between trips. Her kids did homework in the car. She charged her laptop, phone, and PDA in the car — and one could assume that she used them all in the car, too. And sure, they did a great job of putting all of the clutter into a more manageable system, and a system that seemed easy enough to maintain.

But did anyone ever stop the woman and ask her if all of these activities were necessary?

How far away from work or her children’s activities does this woman live that makes her car a second home? How many activities do her children participate in? Was this really a good time to go back to school for a master’s degree while still working and shuttling everyone around all the time? Couldn’t her husband take over some of the child-schlepping if his wife’s education was really a priority?

As I read through the article, I was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. This woman’s life is considered completely normal. Her children’s hamster-wheel existence is normal. Her husband’s absence is normal. All of these things are expected and normal. Many people reading that article took away helpful tips for their own two hour commutes, I’m sure.

I took away a sense of despair so palpable I wept.

Another article in the same issue, called “The Happiest 15 Minutes of My Day,” had single page profiles of five “real” women who explained what daily activity they enjoyed most. They ranged in age from 26 to 42, but all save one (whose favorite time was picking up her children from school) stated that her happiest time was the only brief part of the day that she spent alone: Pre-dawn dog walking, a solo morning jog around Manhattan, drinking tea after both husband and children were asleep, commuting home. Actually, the commuter apparently spent most of her time alone, as in her profile she said, “When I get home, I’ll pass by my husband on his way out to work the graveyard shift…but the dog and cat will keep me company.”

It just made me sad.

There were articles on “[pulling] yourself out of a bad mood,” getting a workout in 15 minutes, and an article that showed how to arrange bland furniture in bland rooms — articles for frenzied beige people, pretending to simplify their lives by buying more, doing more, feeling less, and pretending that everything is perfectly okay.

I don’t want any part of that.

I actually live a simple life. I take the bus to work, so I don’t have a minivan to organize. The happiest part of my day is when my partner and I cook dinner together, then sit at the table to eat together. I have time — for myself and others, plus time to develop new skills and polish old ones. My life is not usually hectic. And despite struggling with depression most of my life, I’m mostly happy these days.

I’ve made different choices than most people — deliberately — and I understand that. I don’t have children (and I don’t want to have them), and I have no desire to live in the suburbs. I don’t have a high-powered career, and I’m not likely to be “successful” by mainstream standards. But I have something the people in “Real Simple” magazine don’t have: Ease.

I don’t have to struggle every day to do a million things expected of me by others.

And I don’t have to read “Real Simple” magazine to simplify my life. Their version of simplicity is far too sad to be authentic.

Doom-o-meter: 31 March 2008.

2008-03-31T00:00:00.001-05:00

Super Special Bonus Threat Level: If the Zombies Have Creutzfeld-Jacob Disease, What Does That Say about Us?

Okay, there are circumstances, and then there are circumstances. And then there’s dumb, and then there’s crazy. Batshit crazy.

You know.

I heard a story the other day, sort of third or fourth hand, via my Mom, via my crazy Grandma, via her goat-farming significant other (I am so not making that up), via some random Missouri local paper the goat farmer read. You would think I would trust a pedigree like that, but I’ve met my Grandma and she’s not only loopy on a good day, but she can’t hear a thing.

I figured that the story was some sort of tangled telephone game of the hearing impaired.

Sadly, no. It turns out that a man in Deepwater, Missouri (former home of the Jones clan) did in fact shoot his wife through a wall [link broken] while trying to install a satellite system. He had tried “other means” to drill a hole in the wall, but turned to his pistol when those other methods failed.

None of the accounts I found online mentioned whether or not the gentleman in question was under the influence of anything other than poor judgment — but knowing the area, I wouldn’t be surprised. (There should be a billboard at the city limits of Deepwater, MO proclaiming proudly in an old-timey script font: “Meth — we had it first!”)

So…that’s Exhibit A. Now for Exhibit B.

Recently, a very disturbed man — a child molester, in fact — blamed his predilections on (wait for it, wait for it…) Sasquatch.

Sigh.

Bigfoot gets a bad rap. I mean, lots of people have reported that Bigfoot is frequently accompanied by Big Odor, and some have claimed that he behaved in a rather threatening manner. Still, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Bigfoot harboring illicit thoughts of man-boy love — and I used to read The Weekly World News regularly. So stop hating on Bigfoot, stupid-ass criminals!

Other than that, a general aura of doom pervades everything — too many horrors to report. So, until next time, hoard some grain/gold/guns/leftover Easter candy, and be sure your alien abduction insurance is up to date.

"Nightmares...become reality."

2008-03-19T00:00:00.001-05:00

“In this world, there is real evil: in the darkest shadows, and in the most ordinary places. These are the true stories of the innocent and the unimaginable. Between the world we see and the things we fear there are doors. When they are opened…nightmares become reality.”

I started watching “A Haunting” on Discovery last summer. I like old school reenactments (the badder the better, as my long-lived affair with “Unsolved Mysteries” proves) and I love stories of the paranormal — so the show seemed a natural fit. I tuned in, thinking I would get a couple of “boo” scares and a few belly laughs.

It turned out that I got something else altogether.

At first I was put off by a Christian bias in the stories. It seemed that most of them involved possession or “demonic” type entities. In fact, I started writing a piece about that, but I saw several more episodes and came to conclusion that I just saw a few similar shows in a row — the Christian/demon thing wasn’t the predominant theme. Oh, it’s there — don’t get me wrong. But it seems to me that the religion aspect is actually part of the show’s blue collar bias.

You see, “A Haunting” isn’t really about religion — it’s about social class.

People who purchase haunted homes are usually in a difficult financial position. They ignore the fact that even their realtor won’t enter the house, or the creepy feelings they have initially. They focus on the fact that the house is a bargain, or the perfect size — and they move right in.

It’s only later that they realize what a terrible mistake they’ve made.

I would estimate that a good 80% of the families featured on “A Haunting” are lower middle class, or working class. They’ve had stories with single mothers who scrimped for years to make a down payment, people juggling school and multiple jobs, and even the occasional haunted renter. These people had few options when it became clear that their homes were haunted.

More than one person on the show has admitted that they were so financially strapped that they couldn’t even come up with a deposit for a place to rent. They were trapped.

And it’s just that feeling that pervades many of the stories on the show. Dream homes become nightmare homes, and any existing problems become vastly magnified. As the haunting situation spirals out of control, other (sometimes preexisting) problems follow the spiral in tandem. In fact, some of the hauntings could be seen as metaphors for existing domestic strife — abusive spouses, out of control teenagers, poor money management.

They don’t show stories about haunted penthouse apartments or demon-infested McMansions in gated communities, though. Oh, I’m sure that sort of thing happens, but having access to money makes a big difference in how these things are handled. If you’re wealthy and you buy a new home that happens to be haunted, you move on as soon as trouble rears its ugly head. You rent it, or flip it — whatever it takes — but you have the means to leave at the first sign of the unexplained. And you certainly wouldn’t chat about it on national television — even on basic cable. That would be unseemly.

Plus, dismissing the paranormal as superstition and moving at the first sign of trouble doesn’t make for a good campfire tale, anyway.

Working class homeowners, with their stereotypical tendency to superstition, have just the right blend of intense pressure, financial woe, and access to older fixer-uppers that will keep “A Haunting” churning out low-rent demonic docudramas for the foreseeable future.

Doom-o-meter: 16 October 2007.

2007-10-16T00:00:00.001-05:00

Threat Level: Human Flesh Tastes Like Spam

As I procrastinate further on the previously mention post about hauntings, I bring you a further installment of the Doom-o-meter.

Well, things are getting pretty weird out there. Although I fear it may become a tradition, I will lead with a weather-related story: Chicago had to shut down its famous marathon…because of the heat. In October. To quote: “At least 49 runners were taken to hospitals because of heat-related ailments; hundreds more were treated on site.”

Also, dogs and cats aren’t just living together. They are supposedly giving birth to one another, according to several reports in China.

El chupacabras has been hanging out near San Antonio [link broken], which is cool enough, except that the supposed body looks more like a mongrel chihuahua than a terrifying, blood-sucking fiend. (Most reports claim these goat-suckers are blue, which is a fun detail.)

Finally, here is a sad story from the world of toys: Even sock monkeys are not immune to the scourge of the zombie plague.

Until next time (if there is a next time), please be cautious around zombified toys, and stay hydrated. Or something.

Doom-o-meter: 14 August 2007.

2007-08-14T00:00:00.001-05:00

Threat Level: Zombie Attack Imminent.

I think it’s high time we examine our current level of doom. To aid in analysis, I have invented a doom scale, which ranges from “Rainbows and Unicorns” (no doom in sight) to “The Elder Gods Return” (better hope Cthulhu eats you first, because All Hope Is Lost).

Don’t worry, I’ll post a full list of all threat levels before the next installment…if there is one. And hopefully there will be, although we are at threat level “Zombie Attack Imminent.” Trust me, that’s pretty bad.

Here’s how I calculated our current Doomocity…

New York City flooded last week — and there were tornadoes in Brooklyn. Sure, both of those things are pretty doomtastic without further examination, but since freak flooding of NYC was a major plot point in the disaster movie “The Day After Tomorrow,” it gets bonus points. (I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest that any news item involving flash frozen helicopter pilots — or, god help us, mammoths — moves the Doom-o-meter directly to “Elder God” level.)

While we’re on the subject of weather, I should point out that Houston (and most of Texas) is currently under a heat advisory. I mean, it’s hot here all the time, just not usually hot enough to kill. (I never knew, but it’s actually the ubiquitous humidity that makes the heat so dangerous here. Humidity slows the evaporation of sweat, so your natural cooling ability is is hampered.) Anyway, it’s 107 degrees outside, and more like Death Valley in my un-air-conditioned car, and I’m starting to suspect that we may have slipped into the fiery depths of hell.

I’ll issue an emergency post if I start to smell brimstone. And move the Doom-o-meter up a notch, too…

On a much more somber note, our local Pacifica station, KPFT 90.1 FM, had a shooting very early Monday morning [link broken]. (Who knew zydeco music could push someone that far?) Thankfully no one was hurt, but as a long time volunteer, this completely freaked me out. This is actually the event that pushed out threat level to such a high reading. I recently was on the receiving end of some truly frightening road rage just a couple of blocks from my house, and I have come to conclusion that Houston is in a very dark place right now. There is a lot of aggression floating around — more than usual — so I’m not joking when I say you should be extra cautious out there.

However, not all is darkness and gloom in the world. Sure, the end is nigh (it always is), but I have some very happy news to post. Apparently, Darth Vader was contacted by some kids messing around with a ouija board. (Scroll down to the second post on the linked page to see the exact entry.)

Sure, someone was probably pushing the planchette, but that someone had a sense of humor — which may be the only effective defense against doom.

Until next time, keep on the lookout for zombies and tentacles…

Resisting the Allure of Webbed Feet.

2007-08-07T00:00:00.002-05:00

I’ve recently gotten an earful of Atlantean nonsense, and I’d like to make a little statement here.

I’m weird, sure. Crazy, maybe. But I am not irrational.

Atlantis doesn’t make sense — at least not the way it’s portrayed in classic “In Search of” episodes. It’s not the lack of evidence — there’s plenty of ignored evidence of advanced stone building cultures long before the standard archaeological time line fits them in. And yes, we can say with some authority that the continents have drifted around. But that’s not usually what people are talking about when they bring up Atlantis.

I reject Atlantis (and Mu, and all of those other “lost” continents) because they are just the goofier side of our regular cultural programming.

The myth of Atlantis originated with a few lines in a fragmented manuscript written thousands of years ago by Plato. He placed Altantis’s time around 9400 BCE, which puts it into the pre-history of pre-history. Any idea Plato had about about places or events 9000 years before his own time would probably be about the same as ideas we have about things that took place in 7000 BCE. Think about it — we are closer to Plato’s time than Plato was to supposed Atlantean time.

I think it’s fairly safe to say that Plato was not talking about a well-remembered historical time, but something fanciful and possibly allegorical — something going on in Plato’s current time that needed to be spoken about in veiled terms.

Keep that in mind. Atlantis began as an allegory, and the modern interpretation of Atlantis is something in the same vein.

Most people who talk about Atlantis (or Mu or Lemuria) mean an island populated with “star people” or alien/human hybrids — the civilization which “fell” due to technological misuse. These are completely modern interpretations — mostly inspired by Madame Blavatsky’s writings in the 1880s. The Atlantis tale gives a warning, true — and possibly a good warning in light of our current planetary predicament — but this Atlantis narrative places humanity as something apart from and above nature.

And I think that’s the point. Culturally we are supposed to believe that humans aren’t part of nature — that we’re super special, and not just the smartest monkeys. Saying that Atlantis was populated by star people is just another way of saying that we’re made in god’s image — but nobody else is. Being descended from Atlanteans seems just a new age way of perpetuating that old cultural message: humans aren’t like the other animals, and we’re clearly bad or evil because of it.

This Atlantis is the new age’s version of Original Sin.

At least it’s not Eve’s fault this time. It’s those pesky aliens (or those pesky fallen angels who bred with human women, depending on your take of the mythos). But still…

I’m so tired of the Atlantis thing. I mean, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, you’re probably still dealing with a duck — even if the duck in question is some sort of allegorical tool. It’s tempting to mistake your duck/allegory for something else — particularly if it serves your needs — but let’s give it a rest and talk about something with teeth.

Like this, for example.

Just call the nice Spaceman “Daddy.”

2007-03-29T00:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been reading a fascinating book by Nick Redfern called On the Trail of the Saucer Spies, which is about covert government surveillance on UFO researchers and “contactees.” (If you’re not familiar with Redfern’s work, I suggest you start with the cheeky travelogue Three Men Seeking Monsters, which is a road story more in the vein of John Keel than Jack Kerouac.)

Anyway, as I read through the various descriptions of surveillance on classic 1950’s contactees like George Adamski, I started to realize something about the spacemen — and about their messages. Most human-type aliens encountered in the dawn of the modern UFO era (1947 – 1960) preached a message of peace and of the need to discontinue all nuclear programs. I’m pretty sure that this radical message had to be cloaked in an “alien” mind-frame, because the mainstream believed strongly that the bomb ended the war and kept us safe, and nuclear energy was our great hope for a future of ease.

Also, babbling about worldwide peace as the cold war began was probably about as smart a career move as walking into a movie mogul’s office and announcing that you were a dirty, dirty commie — and proud of it.

So all of that is culturally understandable, but I think there was another layer there.

One of the main tenets of our culture is that humanity is above nature. We’re not just King of the Jungle, you know — we’re not even part of the jungle. Obviously, I disagree, but culturally this is an underlying message to nearly everything you see, read, hear, or experience. As our modern age dawned in all of its pollution-spewing and community-destroying glory, a few sensitive people began to get a gnawing feeling deep inside, a little whisper in the back of their minds they could barely hear saying “This is not right.” But this message couldn’t come from us. We were the top of the hierarchy, so we had to subconsciously invent a new layer above us: The Goodly Spaceman, who travelled many light years (or possibly just from Venus) to tell us that we were being naughty, and we needed to cut it out.

Humanity was like an exhausted, spoiled child running ceaselessly from room to room howling, who needed terribly to be told to go to bed — and secretly wanted the discipline.

This message could be palatable only if it came from an authority figure — a stern parent — and someone from an “advanced” space culture could be seen as just that.

Of course, like many wild children, we didn’t listen. And sooner or later, we’re going to collapse from exertion. Maybe then those nice Nordic spacemen will come back and pick us off the floor, and tuck us safely into bed.

Maybe. But I doubt it.

Bouncing Your Reality Check.

2007-03-22T00:00:00.001-05:00

Despite my occult tendencies, I have to admit that I’m more new wave than new age. In fact, I think most “new age” thought is a load of crap — but before you pounce on me, I did not come to this opinion in a vacuum.

I’m an alt-dabbler from way back. I spent my late teen years reading the classics — as in Deepak Chopra and Shakti Gawain, not Dickens and Bronte — and visualizing success. I was always the youngest at any crystal or pyramid workshop, and finished my lovely alternative experience by getting kicked out of a (I am not making this up) new age entrepreneurial cult when they figured out that the 20 year old was not going to raise the requisite $20,000 for the next “stage of training.”

See, I’ve been there. I’ve been there, done that, gotten the organic cotton t-shirt complete with “om” symbol, and even had some very limited success with what I learned.

BUT…

It seems to me that most “new age” thought is a strange Frankenstein creation of eastern philosophy and western mysticism, although neither side is examined in its entirety — or in context. The new age is a total mash-up of disparate pieces of many different systems placed within a false framework of psychobabble. It lacks cohesion, and for the most part, meaning.

Furthermore, the way a lot of new agers use these fractured belief systems is more akin to a modern Protestant circle jerk than a way to empowerment and self-knowledge. The most disturbing aspect of this is the “blame the victim” mentality firmly embedded in most new age work.

Just lost your job? That was your fault, you were too negative. Got hit by a car? Also your bad — you drew that experience to you. Molested as a child? Oh, well, you picked that experience before you were born, so that was all you, too. Any negative experience you have is completely and totally because you drew it to you.

And I…I don’t buy it.

Bad things happen, frequently to good people, and those good people don’t need a nice, new age, nose-rubbing Pollyanna to point out that they should think more positively so it won’t happen again.

Magick — even folk magick — is a little more honest. No practitioner worth his or her salt would dare tell you to do a spell and then just “think good thoughts.” You have to do work on the real physical plane, too. You want a date? Do a love spell and then mingle. If you don’t get a date, that may not be your fault (unless you just ate a big plate of garlic before you mingled) — the timing just isn’t right. Try it again later, preferably when Venus is favorable.

And the worst trick of the new age? If you try all of their bullshit and fail…it’s still your fault. It’s a closed loop. It’s always, always YOU. It’s such a big, crazy extension of our basic cultural fallacy that humanity is something “above or apart from nature.” We’re just big dumb animals, folks — and there’s no shame in admitting that.

Also, no one ever seems to point out that if you are using the “law of attraction” to draw things to you, are there others working at cross-purposes to you? If so, what happens then? If you’re busy trying to “manifest” a BMW in your driveway, and your neighbor is busy trying to “manifest” your early demise due to a property line dispute, what does that mean? Okay, that’s a terrible (though amusing) example. What if you and your cube mate are both trying to “manifest” the same promotion? If your company decides to hire someone outside your firm, does that mean that you cancelled each other out? Does it mean that you’re both a couple of negative thinking self-defeaters? Or is it just another signal that we don’t control the quantum particles around us at all times, but in fact live in a dimension of consensus reality?

There’s some food for thought. We could stop the mental masturbation and start actually examining the world around us, but we would rather wish for new cars and lots of money. Anything else is just…too hard.

Did I ever mention I was a cynic? I probably shouldn’t have left that out.

Spam: The New Oracle.

2006-12-08T00:00:00.000-06:00

So, I launched this site on Halloween and promptly got overwhelmed in the real world, which led me to a nice six week break from internet posting, a small nervous breakdown, and some interesting ideas for oracles — although not necessarily in that order.

I recently read a fun little book called The Book Of Ordinary Oracles by Lon Milo Duquette. It has several great ideas for new-fangled oracles (including using your television and remote control to answer all of your questions), but the main message is that you are the oracle — or rather, you are the channel for the oracular force you’ve contacted — so it doesn’t matter what method you use. You just have to ask the right question…and interpret the answer correctly.

I have found through experience that phrasing your question properly is the most effective way of receiving a good answer. I came into fortune-telling all dewy eyed and filled with wonder as a young teenager, and of course I burned with questions like “Does so-and-so like me?” Let me tell you, that is NOT a good question. First of all, it doesn’t settle anything or even answer anything. I’ve personally “liked” lots of people I never went out with, and I’m sure lots of people have “liked” me without me ever knowing it. Okay, maybe that’s just the arrogance I employ to get through day to day living, but still — bear with me here. I got lots of wildly inaccurate readings from all sort of different oracles during that time of my life, but when I met the I Ching, all of that changed.

The I Ching demanded different questions, as it gave entirely different sorts of answers. I learned to ask about cause and effect, or what direction energy was flowing. Questions requiring a strict yes or no were out — questions with a purpose were in. In fact, it was my experience with the I Ching that allowed me to loosen up and really start to read for other people (mainly tarot). Once I got past the question problem, I could start to really focus on interpreting what was there — not what I wanted to be there, but what was really there.

Anyway, this brings me to my new oracle. I recently experienced a deluge of spam on my main e-mail account — a triple fold increase in volume. It has let up somewhat, but the funny thing was this this spam-a-thon occurred right around the same time that I was mulling over an older post on Tim Boucher’s excellent journal about how the internet may be attempting to communicate with us.

Since synchronicity tends to be a hallmark of my path (that is, when startling coincidences show up, I know I’m on the right track), I thought — okay, if the internet is trying to communicate, is it an oracle? Could it be an oracle? Since most spam is concerned with our primal needs, it seems to me a perfect match for the sorts of everyday matters most people ask oracles about. Number one oracle concern: Love and or sex life. Well, look in your spam box, and you’re likely to be overwhelmed with offers for discount erectile dysfunction drugs, penis expansion programs, and Russian mail order brides. Number two would be money or work, and spam has that covered, too: Replica Rolexes to impress your clients, H000t stock tips, and offers for low interest mortgages. Then there are the spam mail that makes no sense at all, and those can be the most powerful oracle of all: Like classic bibliomancy or casting lots into the sand, you can simply open your spam mail box and scan the titles for your answer.

Like any oracle, the trick is to ask the right question — and interpret it correctly.

Doom! (Explained.)

2006-10-31T03:00:00.004-06:00

Here are the current threat levels represented in the Doom-o-meter, from least to most threatening, with explanations.

Rainbows and Unicorns
All is well in the world. In fact, everything is so peachy that the world is starting to resemble a Lisa Frank notebook cover…which is sort of chilling in its own way, when you think about it.

Puppies and Kittens Living Together
Mild chaos, but still too cute to be considered threatening.

Slightly Unsettling, But Not Too Alarming
The whole situation is just “fair to middling,” as my father would say. Hope and Doom are pretty much at balance.

Human Flesh Tastes Like Spam
Like a random comment that raises suspicion in an otherwise unremarkable conversation, small events indicate that the greater situation is starting to go bad.

Rumors and Rumors of Rumors
Nothing worse than a few minor disasters of Biblical proportion, and they all seem sort of distant and unconnected to you.

Beware of Bears and Perverts
Inspired by a Japanese sign, this is a sure sign of escalating Doom. Everything seems to have a shiny veneer of menace, and we must be on guard.

I Told You So
You can no longer deny that doom is getting close and personal.

Zombie Attack Imminent
Barricade the windows and doors, and be sure to kill the bitten before they turn.

A Hindenburg on Every Corner
Large scale doom is ubiquitous.

The Elder Gods Return
There is nothing left to do but pray that you will be eaten first.

This scale is subject to change and clarification as needed. Updates will be posted here. (Last updated 30 September 2009.)

Who the hell is Apocrypha Jones?

2006-10-31T02:00:00.003-06:00

Born into obscurity in the southernmost (and the most hick) part of the Midwestern United States, Apocrypha Jones aspired to be the new pin-up girl of poetry. Once it was established that she had no talent for verse or titillation, she turned her considerable, almost Scrabble-worthy vocabulary to the important task of elucidating just how fucked the world was, and in what ways.

After feverish study of anti-civ writings, conspiracy theory, bizarre metaphysics, and oddly enough, opera, she arrived at her own perspective — and a need to share this perspective with others.

Apocrypha lives in Houston, which is possibly the worst city in the world for a person who thinks deeply or is even semi-aware of his or her surroundings. She shares a modest (though well-appointed) flat with her man Woodward, who has no discernible online presence to Google, and a wild cat-beast named Winona, who was absolutely not named after the pill-popping/shop-lifting actress.

Also, just for the record, her name ain’t “baby.” It’s Apocrypha — Miss Jones if you’re nasty.

What the hell does “postmodern occult” mean?

2006-10-31T01:00:00.000-06:00

To define "postmodern occult" I need to paraphrase Terence McKenna: What I'm trying to do here is to look at the “wiring under the board.” This journal is my attempt to explore the seamy underbelly of our culture, as expressed in popular entertainment, the paranormal, and various other things.

Also, it’s fun to hang out somewhere pretending to be a hipster talking about PoMoOcCu. Right?

Procrastination and you. (You meaning me.)

2006-10-31T00:00:00.001-06:00

I have been procrastinating. I meant to launch this new journal on Friday the 13th, but certain forces (the terrible inertia of working, eating, and sleeping) conspired to push the date back.

However, it is Halloween today — and the New Year’s Eve of the Olde World Calendar — and I think it would be remiss to wait any longer.

So, hello. I’m Apocrypha. You may remember me from such films as “The Deepest Darkest Recesses of Your Imagination” and “That Strange Girl You Saw on the Bus.” I’m here to point out things that you may have missed along the way — mostly weird things, dark things, hidden things. We’ll chat about astrology, conspiracies, the paranormal, and maybe, just maybe…naked pictures of Bea Arthur.

But that’s only if you behave.

Welcome to Postmodern Occult.