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Incense is burned in a Buddhist temple. Photograph: Anuruddha Lokuhapuarachchi/ Reuters

Whilst shop-bought incense is a lovely way to scent your house, there is something much more personal and enjoyable about making your own. Making a basic incense is much easier than you would think.

First, you need to decide what you want to use. You can make a range of fragrant herbs, flowers, dried peels, spices and barks into incense depending on what is available to you; you could even harvest herbs from your own garden and make your incense from seed to smoke all by yourself.

Experiment with different combinations depending on which smells you enjoy; you might, for example, make a cinnamon, clove and dried orange peel blend for the festive season or use a mixture of cinnamon and vanilla for a warm, homely scent. You could even add some citronella to your mix to make a home-made insect repellent.

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A gaggle of good ole' nasturtiums.

My lover brings me pretty blooms
To brighten up my dreary rooms,
But when my darling love is gone
I’ll eat the petals one by one.
—R. L. Brown, 2010

Whilst eating petals from florist-bought flowers might not be a great idea, a surprising number of beautiful flowers are indeed edible and make fantastic additions to a romantic salad; after all, why waste flowers when you can eat them?

Edible flowers which you can probably find in and around your garden include nasturtiums, marigolds, and rose petals. Nasturtiums have a delicious peppery flavour which can really add interest to a leafy salad whilst rose petals are almost sweet and are ideal for sugaring and using to decorate baking. Even so-called weeds can be delicious; lawn squatters such as dandelion (petals), daisy (petals) and clover flowers are all edible.

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I normally pooh-pooh bike trails. Springfield’s trails are set up on the edges of our city, and designed to be driven to, as biking is viewed as a purely recreational activity. My bike is my main mode of transportation, and I admit, after risking my life biking to the chain store to get milk for my kid, I feel a bit galled seeing bike trial maintenance workers with their industrial-size vacuum, cleaning up the little sticks and such.

The trail itself is built on an old railroad grade. It’s five miles long, and is wooded for nearly the length of the trail. For an urbanite without access to much in the way of nature, it’s a pleasant change. I decided to ride a trail rather than ride around town for a couple of reasons. One is the basic necessity of being able to enjoy a ride without risking my life. That’s nice. Another is that, due to my compulsive anal retentiveness, I can’t merely ride in psychological comfort without a destination. I love doing bike errands, because it gives me a purpose in riding. Unfortunately, bike errands also seem to induce spending money, which I try to avoid as well. And so it was with reservation that I hopped on my bike and headed for the Lost Bridge Trail.

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It seems a shame that, of all the ‘well-known’ herbs, lavender is probably the most neglected in terms of the kitchen. This year, instead of making sachets to scent your drawers, why not explore the culinary side of lavender?

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It’s been a challenging year, watching a friend transition from being a fun drunk to being immersed in a psychotic episode. It’s been difficult for our community of friends, for his family, and for anyone who happens to be in his presence. My friend Jay (not his real name) has had “episodes” for most of his twenties. During that time, he’s attracted the presence of police and mental health professionals, but has always managed to get his shit together enough to pass as “normal” and stay out of the confines of a box.

I had fun last summer, hanging out with Jay, drinking wine on the porch of an evening while staring at the moon and listening to the deafening roar of crickets, and going on night bike rides with vitalizing conversation, exploring hidden places. Somewhere in the dark of winter, Jay slipped into depression and began complementing his beer obsession with whiskey. Summer returned, and Jay, tagged with an official diagnosis of bipolar schizophrenia, became manic.  He began taking mass quantities of psychedelic drugs, which when used in their traditional shamanic role, are incredible helpers to insight and transformation. In the grip of a whiskey mania though, LSD and magic mushrooms became for Jay a gateway to psychosis.

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An earthship near the Earthship Biotecture World Headquarters (1 Earthship Way, Taos, NM 87571)

I have this dream, where I wake up in the morning to no other sound than leaves rustling in the breeze. I step onto the recycled barn wood floorboards that I laid down with my own two hands (with the help of friends), put on a robe and walk to the kitchen. On my way, I pass by the window that overlooks the garden and I think I’ll go out in an hour to see if any beans are ready. I don’t turn on the lights because I’m conserving the solar energy I’ve stored up over the past few days and besides, sunlight is already streaming in through the skylight. I cut myself a slice of homemade bread and spread it with blueberry preserves (made by my neighbor who swapped it for two bottles of milk from my goat) and think about what I’ll do today. There’s a lot: I’ve got gardening and laundry, and I have to pickle some of those veggies before they go bad. But I’m also going down to the county hospital to see some clients this afternoon (because in this fantasy I’ve already graduated from school and am a practicing occupational therapist). And I have to check the mail because I forgot to do that yesterday.

I don’t get that much junk mail any more because I don’t buy that much. My name and address has slipped off catalog companies’ lists. I don’t get utility bills any more because I harvest my energy. But there is one letter that arrives every month, without fail– it’s the bill from my educational loan company and it’s $1,200 a month.

And then *POP* just like that, my back-the-land bubble bursts. I rub the sleep from my eyes and blink: Ah yes, here I am. Back in Brooklyn, in school full time, pursuing a masters degree, racking up the loans.

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NEW OLD TRADITIONS IN THE CLASSROOM
3rd Ward, Brooklyn, NY

DIY Publishing: ‘Zine Making, Saturdays July 17, 24, 31, 2:30pm – 5:30pm
By the end of the course students will have collected material for, laid out, printed, bound, and photocopied a completed ‘zine to either keep for themselves, or distribute guerilla style to the masses. To that end we will learn about the history of ‘zine publishing, the varying ideological currents that use them, and why a person might choose to make a ‘zine over a high-gloss journal or online blog. We will look at a wide variety of examples of DIY printing including poetry chapbooks, political tracts, punk fanzines, and religious propaganda. Students will learn the art of cut-and-paste, as well as ways to generate text and imagery. We will also look at different folding and binding techniques, including a simple Japanese stitch, as well as how to make a press for drilling holes into chapbooks for sewn bindings.

More info here


What does it mean to be a patriotic American in this day and age?  If we shop at Wal-Mart, we may be under the impression it means buying red, white, and blue plastic crap—extruded petroleum from China, of course.  Newspapers suggest that being patriotic means supporting the wars du jour, rooting for the home team and providing support for “our boys over there” by forking over streams of taxed money while our infrastructure at home crumbles beneath our feet.  For many of us, the Decline of the American Empire has removed any meaning of these words.

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upwardly mobile!

Pharmaceutical companies are working to create a pill that will work like a female viagra, boosting the sex drive and function for women. Right now what’s being tested not being found effective enough to be worth the side effects (ugh) but the FDA is excited about the project and encouraging further research.

My easy reaction to this is “oy vey.” As with the birth control pill, it can be easy to root for projects that help women take control of their bodies, but – as with the pill- I wish we would learn to do this by working with our partners and our natural animal selves to get in touch with the cycles of our bodies, instead of popping pills.

Camilla Paglia thinks so too, and she explains further in a short op-ed piece in the NYT that acknowledges a lot of the same cultural problems addressed by radical homemaking. Read the full article here, and then go get off the computer and remember your body and all its complicated functions.

Heidi Klum as Kali

Warm sunny days and new moons make for wonderful outdoor revelry, but are disastrous to websites and blogs. This gives me hope that no matter how enticing binary code is, a cloudless sky will ultimately win the day. And, such has been the case around here. Creativity for many of our writers has been found in other changing-of-the-seasons events, so we were a little quiet the last two weeks. Fear not. We’re here and will be slowly returning to the punch.

In the meantime, check out The Wild Hunt‘s latest piece on Hindu cultural appropriation. It’s a great read that tries to unpack some of that sticky morass we call “identity” and is directly related to anything a white identified person (WIP) tries to get into, especially regarding things spiritual and occult. The article is particularly interesting in that it looks at appropriation of Hindu deities from a neo-pagan lens, by someone who is now Hindu “proper,” but was born outside the tradition. We’ve touched on this in the past, and, rightfully so, it has proven to be a polarizing debate. Enjoy!

All Hail!

And thus begins the Swelter. More to come…

Go outside…

Sofia Runciter duly went through the transaction process as dictated by an email accidentally directed to her spam folder.  Soon thereafter, 40% of unfortunate death money, unclaimed by next of kin, was deposited into her account.  Since she was a spirit of energy, there wasn’t a whole lot of use for money in her society, but Sofia mentally clutched the outdated tourism brochure she had found wedged behind a drawer in her desk shortly before she became fabulously wealthy and resigned.

THE EXCITEMENT!

Discover for yourself…

THE NEW, THE RAW… PLANET EARTH!
BODY TOURISM: THE TACTILE SENSATION!

Yes, spirits of energy, take the galactic trip of a lifetime TODAY!

Experience what it means to:
Eat food!
Sleep and dream!
Make love!
Dance!
And more!

Book your trip today!
100% satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back!

***

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Name: Melinda
Spotted: Subway, NYC

NOT: What’s your influence for what you’re wearing?

Melinda: The sixties girl groups and the Ronettes, also Sophia Loren. Part belly dancer maybe. My boyfriend, he likes Lady Gaga, and he wants me to dye my hair blond. I did that once, and I got a lot of attention, but I always get a lot of attention. I guess I do have an unusual look, but I’m just so used to it.

Sophia as depicted in Robert M. Place's "The World" tarot card

5.

Pistis is the reciprocal trust with the universe, from part to whole to part. We trust the universe to act according to its nature, its Will. The universe trusts us to act according to our natural way, our Will. This is our flow. This is creation. This is synergy beyond imagination. There is what is. This is obvious, but hidden.

To live one’s life in the hands of the gods takes untold courage, and yet, it is a feeling of incomparable security and comfort once we become experienced in the fluidity of this reciprocal trust.  As Jesus remarked (in Matthew 6:25, right after saying one cannot love both god and money), the divine cares for the sparrows and the lilies of the fields—how could the divine care less for humanity? This is the basis of pistis—of living in the hands of the gods.

I live my life free of toil.  I rely on the universe to provide for my needs, and it does—time and time again!  Do I possess the world’s greatest karma? Or have I merely figured out how to set myself adrift in the natural flow of the universe? Whatever I need finds its way into my path. And I uphold my part of this reciprocal trust. I give, I comfort, I care, I trust—without reservation. Time after time, I am reminded of the abundance of the economy of the community—the natural flow of the universe. I am a valued and important participant.

I look around and see untold blessings and the abundance of beauty. You would never guess I live in a ghetto in utter poverty. This is the reality of my existence in the money economy, which necessarily thrives on scarcity. But this is not the reality in which I place my trust. I am well-provided for, comfortable beyond compare. I am further from slavery than most.  I am well aware of the abundance of blessings I receive. I know I am wealthy beyond compare in the things that matter.

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3.

PKD realized this world is deranged, to the point it destroys any attempts to heal it. But the physician (the plasmate) is moved by love, and risks all to plant the seeds of knowledge: that this psychosomatic illness is easily treated, once one becomes aware of what it is that is really wrong. The homoplasmate enables healing, at least among those who seek it, desire it, allow it. It is the anti-virus, the meta-virus. It is the outstretched hand of the universe, eternally waiting for a response to its invitation. It is beauty. It is love. It is the physician. It is what enables us to put the pieces (of the Deranged Mind) back together. From the disparate pieces emerges the One, the All, the Light. The heavenly chorus sings Hallelujah; the golden cords illuminated stretch from each of us, to each of us. We become connected—online, mechanomorphically speaking.

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1.

We must trust ourselves. We’ve been filled with a lot of bullshit (time, money, religion, government, morals, etc.) while at the same time denied acknowledgment of vitally important and real phenomena (our experiences, for example). It drives us crazy, being born into and raised by the “Deranged Mind” (a term coined by Philip K. Dick). We must be honest with ourselves about what we experience—all manners of experience. We must communicate and share these experiences, so we can collectively remember what is “real.” We need to experience rather than be told. It’s human nature, our Will. Right and wrong merely contain all possibilities. It is among the possibilities we find the key ring to the gates of the Black Iron Prison.

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"Still-Life with a Skull," Philippe de Champaigne (1602–1674)

My grandmother grew up in Brooklyn in the early 1900′s. She told me a story about how she had a mischievous friend who dared her to go into a house if it had a wreath on the front door, indicating that there had been a death in the family. My grandmother said she was too scared to go herself, but her friend would enter the house in order to go look at the dead person displayed in the parlor.

Just before she died last fall, I went to see this same grandmother on her deathbed at the hospital where she spent her last few days. There had been talk of moving her home but it became apparent that she was too weak to transport. The room was clean and bright and my grandmother seemed to disappear into the white sheets, her face obscured by an oxygen mask. Those of us who saw her in those last days and hours kept waiting for the last breath. We knew it was close but we kept asking questions. What will it sound like? What will it look like? What will she feel? Will we watch her struggle? Touching her hand, two days before the last breath did finally come (I heard it was big and steady, like a sigh), was the closest I have been to another’s death—that is, until last Thursday.

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