Father moo and the black sheep is, of course, Kawabata Makoto and co. An endless vibrating continuum comes in as if it had always been there and takes over the space between your eyes, only to be perturbed by the most ethereal non-intruding female voices intoning something which escapes me. These goddesses are none other than the same vocal mystics that occupy the Acid Mothers universe. As I wait for the moon to rise east over the opposite roof, the house vibrates gently and the beauty yet mystical eroticness of a female once more rises high over the sound continuum; at first, I thought it was real, that it came from a house nearby, immersed as I was in the cosmic movements of the nightsky. But my neighbours are not that cool and the only sounds you can catch (and only in the summer when they open their windows) are the sounds coming from their TV sets. 12 minutes of meditational Awareness go by rather too fast, and the vacuum left after the vibrational drone ceases threatens to leave a vacuum in my third eye, too, for it has obviously become very addictive. But what follows is Tangerine Dream’s truly odinist spirit, circa Zeit-1973, with an extremely cosmic melody that sounds as if Klaus Schulze had created it himself. As the grey turns into dark blue and then into pitch black, I realize, standing outside my house, that the sky is an inevitable limit. By leaving aside my educational preconceptions of the universe, the constraints that occupy my mind tell me that the sphere above me is the cosmic canopy of both Earth and Mind. As the Moon begins to cast its oblique light-shade on the house’s bleached walls and forms an arrow that goes straight down to the top of my head, it dawns on me that the ancients must have felt such an affinity with the movements of the stars that their worlds/lives were totally dependent on them. The sky is nothing but a roof, and the inside of any four-wall, barrow or cave-like construction only a dark temporary refuge, a soft warm uterus. As I think these words, another 15 minutes of an obscure meditational event continues to come out of the windows and doors. This time, the beautiful voices are but an adulteration of what went on before, rather more disturbing, and sound as if they were echoes from outside the void where I find myself, or, equally, only the gross malformations from a world where I no longer find myself but where I used to be only half an hour ago. I know this sublime feeling is temporary so I cling on to the odinist drone that reverberates and explains the Whole. To the ancients, the sky must have been as utterly familiar as the wallpaper in your bedroom. But with a difference, the patterns on your wall do NOT shift position, because they do not move, whereas the sky is constantly moving therefore it ROCKS. For centuries, shamans and mystics have tried to remedy this by creating mandalas; these are, then, the equivalent of the universe, as you watch them you watch the universe and, with extreme practice or with the help of plants and rags, they can sometimes also rock. But the constellations, lights and figures must have been the uppermost roof for the ancients, visible 365 nights a year. They lived IN a living cosmic temple. Just step outside and you are there, no frills. As the record finishes, the Moon is about to step out and blind my eyes, but, instead, a gorgeous blinking Star salutes me in Rock fashion. As I check its position later, the name stays with me for a while – Arcturus. 

PS In due course, the Moon pops its bright face over the tiles and I let Michel Publicity Window to roll over the stereo. Thighpaulsandra sounds like a cleanser or an antiseptic, as you would expect after such shamanic conspiration. I extinguish the tiny candles and notice the night is damp and fresh, like a new-born baby. It knows that you either BE, or you waste.