Saturday, 24 July 2010

At the Sonic Henge

Take off your shoes. Enter the blue gloom of the yurt, under its intricate spokes.  Lie down, carefully. Bodies sprawl everywhere across the rugs,  silver speaker cones around the periphery. Thirteen cones of power.

It's already beginning, in shamanic drones, slow overlay of pulses and chimes, interweaving sines, steady increment of the theta waves. Sink into the deepening mix, the sliding aeonics.

Listen in/out for  vocodings in the earthmind,  your under-beings bubbling in/out the earth, the spirit-tunnels, ancestral wah-wah rhythm codings.  Revolve as a psi-spiral, drill down and out...

Out there, in the light years,   some  belly dancers release their  spinal chakras, with faint whoops.  I'm as faint as smoke, drifting through the skull cave...

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