Archive for shamanism

A Sacred Steampunk Computer for A Lipstick Shamaness

Posted in Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 10, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Cream Scene Carnival would be nowhere without the magical mindful influences of The Lipstick Shamaness. How else to explain the little bits of spirit that end up in posts about celebrity haircuts, rowdy rock music, politics as usual, Ouija boards or butt plugs??  

So pass the peace pipe, peeps, as we honor the Lipstick Shamaness with our day-of-birth offerings.  

  

Surely she’d love to experiment with the pigment-dense shades of lipstick from Poppy King’s latest line Lipstick Queen.  King divides her hues into a Saint & Sinner story line which is right up LS’s alley. But saint or sinner? What the hell, why not put two tubes on my Im-Ex card (Imaginary Express — you gotta love pretend funds!)        

  

While we’re spending pastel dollars that we swiped from the Monopoly box, then we must spring for the most magical computer ever imagined by man. That man is Jake Von Slatt, a merciless tease with far too much talent. Von Slatt is a god among steampunks! One look at this cross between computer and church should explain his standing in the steampunk community.  

Von Slatt’s  machines poke at something mythic that still crouches inside technology, like the reptilian brain within the big brain.    

  

“Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology! Don’t give a fuck about a fuckin’ apology!” (Sing it, Iggy!)  

This poet-prophette steampunk computer is a prime example of Von Slatt’s encompassing vision. Have you ever seen anything so amazing in your life? Surely the Lipstick Shamaness has never seen a machine so sacred in all 109 of her lives! Can you imagine the holy rants she might write on such a talismanic keyboard? What potent spells could come of this?            

    

If you are the tech-savvy DIY type, you may be able to have such a magical contraption for yourself. Jake Von Slatt describes this project in detail over on Datamancer, the personal art site of Richard “Doc” Nagy, Mad Scientist of steampunkery and self-described “Jackass of All Trades.”( datamancer.net)   

The Lipstick Shamaness is not exactly tech-saavy so she won’t be returning computers to their typewriterly roots any time soon. She has, however, been known to fashion some seriously witchy head-dresses. Can a woman ever have too many headdresses? Well, that depends… your average woman with a job at the bank and a boyfriend in real-estate? Yes. A kicky kook with a taste for fox fur & dream states? No, never.  

After all, a modern age shamaness must use her clothing to communicate her “otherness” in this world of McDonalds drive-thrus and reality TV. What is a modern-age shamaness? So so so so NOT a new age anything! She’s not about healing crystals, Native American dream catchers or goddess cultures. She doesn’t dwell in the dogma of the past but propels us forward into a new kind tune-in turn-on. Ontological anarchy! Punk rock spiritualism!           

  

The “Starla” headdress by magentafabulous is just the thing for a Shamaness with sparkly glossy lips.  

These converse tennies, inspired by Blondie’s punk debutante Deborah Harry, will come in handy for feverish trance-dance or for running from the cops after erecting a magpie altar on the steps of a of deep-south anti-gay church. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb!  

         

Sometimes you just gotta break out in song! And these tennies make me wanna sing some Stooges. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm! Now let’s rock some more as Iggy Pop takes us to our final gift idea.   

I’m a street walking cheetah
with a heart full of napalm
I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world’s forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology!
Ain’t got time to make no apology.
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight
Honey gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby penetrates my mind
                  

The Oracle

  

Wasn’t that the perfect segue into this penetrating piece by J.L. Schnable?    

Schnable aka “babyfangs” says she paints “ladies of magic & doom.” Those ladies have fox faces, pointy crowns and shipwrecks in their hair.  I’ve got my third-eye on this babyfangs cause she’s speaking my language. Know a lady like Cream Scene’s Lipstick Shamaness? Got  someone ESP-ecially lovely in your life? Treat them to a print of “The Oracle.” (available on etsy, along with six other gorgeous prints.)   

And now, for your patience, I have a little reward: back-in-the-day Iggy Pop singing Search & Destroy live at the Phoenix fest in ’94. The footage is intercut with scenes from a surrounding carnival which makes it extra ESPecial perfect for us here at Cream-Scene. Peaches covered Search & Destroy sometime back so if you like this, then check out her version.            

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When The Trickster Starts A Pokin’ (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Music & Life & Sundays, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2010 by alphabetfiend

For this very special Happy Birthday –to me! — edition of  The Punk Rock Gospel, I’ve chosen a song about the trickster by actual tricksters.

As I walked into the bar
A man came up to me and said:
you know the older you will get
the more perverted you will get

Back before barely anyone had heard of Gogol Bordello, I had that between the shoulder-blades twitch. The itch that tells me to expect something important. I got word — via emails from friends or omens from the universe — that this was a band I needed to see. Me, in particular.

“Why?” I asked, “Why me in particular?’

And they said, Well, y’know, they’re like crazy carnies, they’re anarchist gypsies, they’re circus & costumes & pageantry.

Then the Robot Boy delivered the final seal-the-deal detail: their first single was a song called “When the Trickster Starts a Pokin’ .”

The perfection! 

Is the trickster poking into our life, making a mess, causing creative chaos?

Or is it our own trickster-self, poking out or sticking up or suggesting something inappropriate?

 

“When the trickster starts a pokin'” by the band Gogol Bordello is the PERFECT punk rock gospel choice: thanks to the trickster-laden meaning and Gogol Bordello’s gypsy punk style.

They are noisy and kinetic on stage, many things happen at once. There’s costumes and gorgeous goof-blessed dancing. There are lights and drums and uninhibited giddy fun that is lovely and contagious. This is something more than music, more than performance. There is something otherworldly here. It’s a trickster’s fortune cookie. It’s a gypsy curse.

There’s a shamanistic showmanship to Gogol Bordello’s Eugene Hutz. He moves with the trance-rock spirit of Morrison or Iggy. Hutz performs with that same  limit-pushing boundary-crossing urgency. Exhaustive and unfurling, Hutz has a loose-limbed physicality that challenges the inertia and ennui of the audience. 

It’s almost as if Eugene Hutz is endowed with the same kind of magic-making movement as the Trickster:

Ah ha hey!

When the Trickster starts a-walking
He sends the whole world askew
just when you think that it’s all through
It’s just a birth of something new
And when the Trickster starts a-pokin
who does he need to ask permission
before he goes in third position
I guess he’s just a Bordello kind of guy!…

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I invited trickster energy to unfold in my life, so why am I so surprised to see that the trickster has fucked my shit up?  As tricksters are wont to do. Never invite Coyote to dinner and act all disgusted when he pisses in your crock pot. Don’t jump on Fox’s back unless you can flee quicker than he jumps over the lazy dog. But whatever troubles Trickster causes? New life will grow from those soot-filled fields. Just when you think that it’s all through, it’s just a birth of something new.

As I write this, I am wearing my Gogol Bordello tee. I look almost obscene, being sans bra. Luckily, the tee is so tight and has such a cool screen — “This mustache kills fascism” — that I can justify my bare-breasted look as a radical pro-curves statement. Shall I be a classic self-crasher? Or be a good flasher?!  Tonight, in my too-tight tee, I’m gonna be a good flasher cause I’ve been a classic self crasher way too many times.

So I walked out of a bar
and drove like crazy for half mile
I was thirteen beers drunk
on Houston I jumped in some trunk…
We ventured on New York Throughway
where I heard myself say:
Shall I be classic self crasher?
Or be a good flasher?!

I chose the above version because it is such an unusual performance for them and so few people have seen it. It’s from an in-store performance at Criminal Records in Paris. I have provided another clip at the bottom should you care to see a more typical performance full of the usual noise and chaos.

*****************************

When the Trickster Starts A Pokin’

As I walked into the bar
A man came up to me and said:
you know the older you will get
the more perverted you will get

Hey, I’d like to see you try it
Oh what you gonna do about it?
Optzay, be a bad priest?
Ili primernij ononist?!
Be bad transvestattn? (Da yuta nigh!)
Or be a good zoldatten?! (Ozay Optzay!)
Yeah, give it a try, (By by by by)
But me I’m jasto Bordello kind of guy!..

Mama, of course all hopes are so fragile…
Papa, i can’t believe what it costs?..
Sily, Sily oni menja pokidajut
So i did what I did and its worth what its worth what it’s worth

Ah ha hey!

When the Trickster starts a-walking
he sends the whole world askew.
Just when you think that it’s all through
It’s just a birth of something new!
And when the Trickster starts a-pokin
who does he need to ask permission
before he goes in third position?
I guess he’s justo Bordello kind of guy!…

Mama, of course all hopes are so fragile…
Papa, I can’t believe what it costs?..
Sily oni menja pokidajut
So I did what I did and its worth what its worth what it’s worth

Ah ha hey!

So I walked out of a bar
and drove like crazy for half mile
I was thirteen beers drunk
on Houston I jumped in some trunk…
We ventured on New York Throughway
where myself I heard I say:
Shall i be classic self crasher?
Or be a good flasher?!

Hey, I’d like to see you try it
Oh what you gonna do about it?
Heeeeeeey, be a bad priest?
Ili primernij ononist?!
Da yuta nigh!
Ozay Optzay!
By by by by!
I guess I’m justo Bordello kind of guy!

Bordello kind of guy!
Bordello kind of guy!
Bordello kind of guy!

Click on this if you wanna see this band in motion. Pay attention to all the crazy on-stage antics!

Wish I Had One-na Dem Willy Braids

Posted in country music, Dork Alert, Fame & Celebrity, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, The wisdom of the universe, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend

D’you hear the news about Willie and the missing piggies? Yep. He snipped ’em. Willie without braids? What is the world coming to?

 I had a dream around the turn of the millenium, amid all the doomsday mumbo jumbo, that the world was coming to and end… except that it was more of a Michio-Kaku-style metamorphoses or Fred-Allan-Wolf-type transformation. Like Wolf’s idea that the universe has been expanding ever since the Big Bang but will start shrinking eventually and… yea, anyway, back to Willie. In the dream, my friend Rita (a talented psychic) had a pub, where she’d called a special meeting for people who were supposed to help “save the world” (more like guide the world through its rebirth.) Rita was a fine hostess/bar-maid, taking drink orders & zipping around the pub in a pedal surrey with a fringe awning. (Real life Rita, in true shamaness style, was a childhood victim of polio. So my un-consc’ gave her a more fittingly glamorous wheel chair.) The pub had a frenetic bustling energy as people summoned their muster and opened their third eyes. Willie called the meeting to order. I wasn’t surprised to see him with the conch.

Whether savior or city-icon, this is BIG news here in Austin. In our neck of the woods we consider Willie’s smooth nape to be our business.

There was some initial speculation that Willie took to the say-lon so that he might save the gulf with a crimped contribution to the hair boom project. Thank Goof that wasn’t true! Don’t get me wrong, I used the hair booms as an excuse to take my baby wookie to the groomer and I felt righteous doin’ it. Hey, wookie’s  are fur-bombs.

I even have an appointment to see my own stylist next week cause well, we all gotta do our part.

I wanna believe in the whole hair boom thing and I kinda do. But it hasn’t been implemented on the gulf although I hear they’ve had luck in the past. I didn’t want Willie to have cut his braids for some bullshit thing we’re doing just to make ourselves feel better and justify wookie grooming.

The best reason for Willie to cut his trademark tresses is because that’s what Willie wants. Which was the case. I suspected as much. Long hair is a pain in the arse. I saw that infomercial guy on 60 minutes a couple Sundays back and he said he’d love to cut his stupid ponytail but can’t ’cause,  like sex, ponytails sell.

No matter. Willie’s the Big Kahuna whether he’s got braids or not. I’m supportive. Chopping off one’s locks can be an act of freedom.

I only wish that I could have just one of the famous plaits. I’d attach it to the end of a whittled birch limb, joined by a cluster of cardinal feathers and ribbons like kite-tails. I’d bathe the whole gris gris in silver glitter & Eshu spit. It’d be one hell of a talisman — capable of big and small majicks.

Willy! Gimmee gimmee!

If not to further my power as high priestess of tom-foolery, if not in sacrifice to the Saint of Red-Headed Step-Children, then it should go to The Country Music Hall of Fame. Or even the Smithsonian. Can I hear an AMEN?

Willie looks like he joined the cast of Gilligan’s Island but he’ll be much more comfortable in the heat of the Texas summer.

I wonder if Willie’s piggies tried to cry wee wee wee all the way home….

I Swoon for You, Mr. Balloon Man!

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Mythos, Technicolor Pop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend
The lo-fi cult band Dead Moon has a song/line which I consider to be the ultimate profession of love. Fronted by a real life couple with a long-last love story, Dead Moon knew a little something about affection.

 “I wanna live these times with you,” they sang, all throaty and jubilant and UP for whatever these times are up to.

Is there anything more loving than that, to want to live these times with someone worthy of the times and to say it just that simple? I wanna live these times with you. Cause these are exciting times and you, well, you make ’em even better. I strive to be a perfect(ish) playmate for these times and part of that is simply wanting to live them out. (It should be obvious, I know.)

There’s more to it. For me, these times have unique and interesting challenges…

    searching out shamanism in the modern (not new) age

           coaxing out the reluctant beauty in technology

                 running away to join a secret circus amid the ennui

                     finding diamonds in the dirt and heroes in the everyday. 

And today’s hero cum steampunk cum cloud shaman cum soaring circus clown is an American named Jonathan Trappe. Yes, America, Goof Bless.

Awaiting the scissors...

Jonathon Trappe wanted to fly. Oh, he flew! Jonathon Trappe wanted to be the child with a rainbow of hues tied to his wrist, taken along on an adventure by a bobbing bouquet of balloons. To be carried up up away like the old man in the movie. To drift along dream-like, a one-man Cloud Seed Carnival. Oh there were rainbow hues and bobbing balloons aplenty. Close to sixty, in a range of birthday party shades. Up? Check. Away? Check. Over the English Channel? Check.

That’s right, Mr. Trappe fulfilled his dream of flying 22 miles across the English Channel in a contraption that looks like it was parked by the half-eaten cake in Uncle Trappe’s back yard before it began to rise up over the smoky bar-b-q.

Hoisted by 57 helium balloons, Jonathan, 37, was comfortably aloft in a custom-chair as he floated across the world’s busiest shipping lane from England to France. Wow. Brings to mind those old steampunkish illustrations of hot air balloons set against the hustle & bustle of the modern age.

The American dare-devil reached over 7000 ft during the cluster-balloon flight, which was called “a goofy, yet mesmerizing stunt,” by The Hindu

Some folks say he stole the idea from the movie “UP” but this fantasy goes way deeper than than. Although the movie certainly adds to our culture’s interest in balloon-cluster flight.

As if my heart weren’t already aching with little kid wonder, the knife-wielding Trappe (after precise and perfectly timed popping) landed in a freaking cabbage patch. I little-kid you not!

OK… I kid a little…

Watch out for Mr. McGregor! He didn’t like Peter Rabbit playing in his cabbages so I doubt he’ll smile on you. Besides, last I checked the French weren’t too keen on Americans. Freaking “Freedom Fries.” That’s just all kinda wrong. Speaking of wrong, did you hear about Willie Nelson’s run in with the scissors? snip snip. Now listen,y’all, don’t try this shit at home. If you’re gonna cut off your trademark tresses, call a barber. If you wanna sail away in a helium-fuel lawn chair then do like Trappe did and get FAA certified to fly both Hot Air balloons as well as helium-filled “cluster-balloons.” Are you certified to fly giant bubble gum balls like a real-life victim of Willy Wonka? I didn’t think so.

In the mood to hear the 80’s song 99 luft baloons? Me too.

For more info and some gorgeous photos, peek in on Trappe’s site. To watch this suckah move, you should check out some video.

Adventures in Antiquity: 2700 Year Old Weed Stash

Posted in 13254546, Strange Science with tags , , , , , , on December 3, 2008 by alphabetfiend

An old long-haired white guy was found in a tomb with nearly 4lbs of weed — 2700 year old weed. Both are proof that stoners have been around forever! Since the stone(d) age!

carebear

The buried bud was found in China and despite being the oldest high-minded cannabis ever discovered, it was still in pretty good shape. It had lost its potent odor but was still plenty green. I’m sure we all know someone who would gladly pack a bowl & smoke it. Those who believe in Morphic Field Theory (freaks like myself) would probably take a puff just to see if it provided any insight into the past.

And what’s with the old long haired white guy? Some things never change!

According to an article titled “The Oldest Dime Bag in the World,” the dude was some kinda shaman, man.

Strangely, though, the bag was buried with a long-haired, blue-eyed white guy, whom researchers believe was likely a shaman of Gushi culture, hailing from Turpan in northwestern China.

I phoned my mom as soon as I heard that archaeologists had found the world’s oldest marijuana stash. She got her degree in Ethno-Botany. When I got to the part about the old hippy-haired white guy she howled with laughter. They coulda smoked those 4lbs and had a hell of a funeral party but nooooo. The Dude was too worried that the after life was gonna be dry — no bounty of skunky green — and was stingy with his stash. I swear I met this guy in Taos. Haven’t you?

Monsters Worth Saving: Joe Coleman’s Odditorium

Posted in Art & Culture, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2008 by alphabetfiend

If SPOOKY KABUKI were a travel agent, you’d be well on your way to a brownstone in Brooklyn known as The Odditorium. With instructions to pass a wax-sealed envelope to the bearded giant who guards the door.  Part engineer of Zombie Rail, part carnie barker, Joe Coleman is the saint-fondled artist who lives in the Odditorium. He is also the curator of the ever-shifting exhibit of grotesque ephemera.

SPOOKY KABUKI crys blue neon tears at the mere mention of Joe Coleman’s mini museum of strange. Overcome with sentimentality, SPOOKY KABUKI recalls a torrid affair with the pickled punk that involved sixteen switchblades and a tub of fuchsia hair dye. Manic Panic — of course! Those were the days. Making out with the pickled punk in the bathroom at CBGBs. Swallowing a handful of black beauties before a manic menage a trois with Jayne County. Unless it’s about the pickled punk, SPOOKY KABUKI doesn’t have much to say about The Odditorium except to say that it’s the place where dreams go to die. And meet their god — Joe Coleman — demon-genius with ODDitude.

In a beautifully written piece in Thirsty Sarah L. Myers recounts her journey to the Odditorium.

Taxidermy and mummified relics adorn the tops of bureaus. Medical specimens and oddities are displayed in glass casings. A lack of windows, along with the single bulb pointing up from the floor, perfectly showcases the room’s lush density. There’s a presence in the Odditorium. It feels intangibly alive. The figures, large and small, from the mannequins to the pickled punks, are being swaddled by the room. When you walk in, that’s how you feel – swaddled, almost as if the figures are radiating some kind of energy that covers you like a blanket.

SPOOKY KABUKI remembers that blanket. SPOOKY KABUKI used to disappear under that blanket and give the pickled punk fucking fantastic head which he did not deserve. Yes, yes, SK, we’ve heard enough about your sexual exploits with the pickled punk. TMI! TMI!

Obviously SPOOKY KABUKI, while a hell of a travel agent, isn’t gonna be much of a tour guide today. Take a virtual tour of the Odditorium  on Joe Coleman’s website. While you’re there check out Coleman’s meticulous collagistic paintings. They have always reminded me of this artwork that filled my childhood home — made by a certain Indian tribe (I’m blanking) with wound yarn and beeswax. There’s a similar shamanistic arrangement of imagery. As if Joe Coleman were a modern cavemen etching the history of our time in the flickering shadows of his odd cave.

If you are curious to learn more about Joe Coleman, check out the DVD R.I.P. Rest in Pieces: A Portrait of Joe Coleman. You will catch glimpses of the Odditoruim throughout the film.

“Be yer own fur, yer own gold” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog)

Posted in Art & Culture, Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Music & Life & Sundays, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark’
— Seal Jubilee (Bats for Lashes; Fur and Gold)

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Bats for Lashes… no, it’s not a magic spell scrolled inside a vial of fox blood, nor the tipsy title of a haiku scrawled on a cocktail napkin, nor the “magic words” should you encounter the Wizard of Odd in a dusky maze of roses.  Well, best to keep it in mind.  Natasha Khan is more than songstress, she’s shamaness.  At first sight of Khan in feathers & rainbow glitter, my forehead prickled and my chakras tickled. I ogled her with my third eye.  I’d drink her purple kool-aid!  In big thirsty gulps. We need more DIY spirituality these days. Like Leary’s idea about creating you own religion & then re-creating it before the spark becomes dogma. Glamour has its place in that. Front and center! Chiffon & feathers, jeweled top hat, gold lame slippers with up-turned gypsy toes. I know! I’ll get ordained by an oily seal and then I’ll do weddings.  Anyone getting hitched?  We can all bury our noses in bone china teacups overflowing with sugar — to remind us of life’s delicous absurdity. Then we’ll do the Robot while I read aloud the lyrics from “Seal Jubillee.”

Seal Jubilee :
The seals, they cried in jubilee
The sharks, they howled along with me
And birds, they flew into the wind
The whale, he roamed the lonely sea

And I dived into you
I dived into you
On this ocean hue
‘Cause I dived into you

The lighthouse dog lifted his brow
The crippled trees bent low to growl
And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark
And so the ocean lost its depths
And boredom rained as the ocean wept

Birds they raised their young for dead
And ladies used feathery pillows for bed
And black snow came and black snow stayed
And froze the ocean out of love
Out of love

I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew
No longer diving into
But lying quiet next
To you

As if Natasha Khan’s haunting voice and priestly sleight of hand weren’t enough on this September Sunday,  the song’s set to scenes from the VISION QUEST of a film “The Secret of Roan Inish” which just slays me with its mythic beauty. The story of the selkie, a slick Ink of a mer-lass. Watch as she slithers from her seal skin! Now make like selkie and explore the boundries of your skin (skins.)  Push past, walk with wiggly legs unaccustomed to earth; then dive back in like a Selkie who missed her whiskers & sheen. 

Get outta yer skins, then get back in.  Mind your rind.  Be your own fur, your own gold.  Goof bless. 

“I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew”


Join me next week for another Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog…

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna-be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

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