excommunicate.net

Interview with Artist Aunia Kahn

2009-07-01T20:38:02Z

It is my distinguished honor and pleasure to introduce to you an interview with a very talented and creative minded artist Aunia Kahn. Aunia has received mention and honors from a number of very reputable art sources such as REFUSED Magazine, Celebrity Artist Michael Bell Radio Show, Juxtapoz On-line, and many more. Aunia also has the pleasure and honor of being Excommunicate’s first photographer. So without further delay I present you the work of Aunia Kahn.

JackDirt: Can you give us a little background information about yourself?

Aunia Kahn: I truly never really know what to say in this section of interviews. It feels like one of those times in childhood classrooms where the teachers made kids stand up and announce their name to the class and have them say something about themselves. “I am Aunia Kahn, and I play with crayons”. Seriously, I grew up in a very unstable home and art, music and writing were always a refuge for me. I never thought about using my art seriously in a choice, but when a time came in my life that art was pretty much all I had keeping me from going over the edge I found a deeper love, and appreciation for the power of art in the healing aspect, and then made it my career choice after my first exhibition. The work I had done was well received; it helped me to share and helped others too.

JD: Do you have any formal art training? If so did you find it beneficial?

AK: I am a self-taught artist with no real formal training. I have always just enjoyed creating what I wanted when I wanted, and having people tell me how I should do it, and dictate projects has always been a turn-off to me. I have enough of my own ideas and projects to keep me busy, some I constantly work on to fill deadlines and some that no one may ever see. I don’t think there is anything wrong with formal training, some people need it or enjoy the process, for me, I really never have. I would prefer to converse with other artists, and creative types and discuss ideas and learn that way.

JD: Can you describe your artistic process?

AK: Sometimes I just go with an idea in my head, other times I will sketch ideas on paper and work from there. I have a random sketchbook I keep with me, so when I get ideas I can jot them down. I don’t have a consistent process each time I work, although a constant in my studio is food and music. I am always eating something.

JD: What media exactly are in your mixed media? 

AK: My mixed mediums are photography, digital painting and collage all wrapped into one little tiny package. The art is kind of a hybrid form of art, which takes a bunch of disciplines adds them together, and finalizing them into one finished piece on the computer.

JD: Many of your portraits are reflective of yourself, what are your influences to use yourself as part of the artistic message?

AK: I have never been able to work effectively with models on my own personal projects. Right now my works are still very personal, raw and just me. It’s the way I feel most comfortable exploring the depths of emotions, environment, and myself due to staying tight knit and working with myself on all levels. I do commission works, collaborative works, and artwork for causes, which takes me outside that box to keep things from getting stale.

JD: You have quite an array of symbolism in your portraits, can you explain a bit about what the symbolism of some of these elements are; such as the hummingbirds, needles etc.?

AK: Some of my recent works have medical aspects to them due to a personal situation that was health related which tuned out very favorable, and so much sickness with the people I love and cherish. Also, feeling a bit out of control and powerless beyond just being supportive to those I feel I should be able to do more for results in some disheartening emotions. I think therapeutically working those emotions out gives me the ability to be open, supportive and be there for them to the best of my ability.

I see the humming birds as little perfect life givers, or takers if you will, but that depends on my mood. I tend to always have living symbols in my work it seems to come as a balance. There is a Mojave legend which tells of a primordial time when people lived in an underground world of darkness. They send a hummingbird up to look for light. I have always found we need that balance, and sometimes we need a little help.

JD: Many of your pieces seem to be a juxtapose of the holy and the distressed. Can you explain the context of this duality in a piece like Context of the World, or Salutary Absorption?

AK: I am fascinated by religion/spirituality (organized and not), death, how people enjoy or dislike distress and peace. In some way they are all polar opposites, but still somehow melding perfectly. Some people don’t enjoy peace, and others loathe distress. You can either be at peace during death, dying from personal distress, or be sickened with peace. Your religion/spirituality could be the greatest cause of peace or personal distress. They all seem very absolute, juxtaposed and/or supportive to one another.

JD: Some of your other pieces are political in context and herald back to an age of the World Wars propaganda. With Eliminate the Remedy and American Political what kind of message are you trying to convey?

Eliminate the Remedy is a very interesting piece to explain. I wasn’t trying to convey anything in particular; I was just trying to find a way to express how I was feeling at the time and share a bit of empathy. Not many people know that a very dear person to me has MS, and the syringe in my hand is one that was used to push a 1 ¼ needle into the thigh to administer the medicine to help prevent an attack. One of our other friends, and best friend is a pilot, so hence the planes. The style comes from one not of today, but a different time and the old Red Cross uniform comes from my personal love of history and my tribute to both of them. American Political was my answer to all the ways we feel stuck in a society where people feel that they can’t change and are blindfolded to what is really going on when it comes to politics, and gender roles.

JD: Is there a particular piece you find yourself drawn to?

AK: That depends on the day. Sometimes I am really fond of a piece and other days it doesn’t faze me. The personal connections with each of my works changes like the weather.

JD: One of the things I am quite intrigued by is that you will be releasing your own tarot card set the Silver Era Tarot. I can safely say this must have been a bit of a daunting project. What inspired you to create your own tarot set?

*AK:*I was introduced to tarot in 2004 and wanted to learn to read the cards for personal use. When looking into reading tarot cards there was so much symbolism and ancient history that I was unaware of, I was immediately drawn to them. In this I thought creating my own deck would be a perfect way to learn each card since there is 78 of them to learn with pretty intense meanings and imagery to learn like knowing the reverse laying of a card has a different meaning when pulled out of he deck upright for example. I figured I would only do the major arcana (22 cards), but once I started I fell in love with the project, and getting to know the ancient art of tarot. Don’t get me wrong after about 50, I was asking myself “why” over and over again, but once I start something I am one to finish and not give up. It was years of work, but it has paid off, it’s being published by Schiffer

JD: What are your beliefs and influences with the tarot or other esoteric medium? Are there any experiences you would like to share with us? 

AK: I was unsure of tarot cards as a whole since I have not been one to want to mess with the way the world’s energy works. I was misguided in the fact of how tarot works and looked at them as very taboo and bad, which they are quite the opposite. To break it down here would be a bit hard, but if people (like I was) are turned off by the taboo nature of such things they should research them, and find that they really are absolutely amazing. Moreover since I read them for myself and not typically for others I find that I am able to get answer and help to really simple questions or with making large decisions when I feel confused. I have always been one to see things, and be a bit more perceptive then others. Am I clairvoyant? Not at all, I just think I am more sensitive and aware. In this the cards work for me well, because I’m open. I think when we are open, we can learn so much. Also now there are a lot of other cards, oracle cards, angel cards, Christian cards, and much more so there is something that might be just right to use for anyone. They each share a bit of guidance within the description; each card has so much meaning that for one person it could mean something and for another something completely opposite. Even just reading the meanings of cards when they don’t even apply to you is educational, there is a bit of knowledge and bits of good advice with them. For example the “Temperance” is about balance in your life, it does go much deeper but this gives you an idea. I think overall I just hope that some of these ancient ways that we have used to connect with the divine (whatever your personal divine, or divineness is) that people will start to reconnect with and not find so taboo. To crash on a myth, the “Death” card is unlike the popular belief that it will tell you when you are going to die, or if you will die since there is not correlation usually with physical death and the “Death” card. Publishing and available in Spring 2010.

JD: Have you received any feedback as to your interpretation of the tarot?

AK: I have found that the feedback has been very delightful and supportive of the take I have on the cards. I have been told they are very true to the roots of traditional symbolism and have a very calming feel to them. They are black and white with a hint of a single color per card, which has never been done before, and people seem to enjoy the antique and classic feel of the deck design. I am excited to see once Schiffer Publishing gets the deck out to the masses what people will have to say once they are in hands and in use.

JD: Do you have any upcoming shows, products, or books you’d like to promote? 

*AK:*Some of my shows, and I have more right now that are being booked:  

2009.07.25, Arf Nouveau [Stray Rescue Fundraiser], St. Louis, MO
2009.07.07, 504 Style Rock Art Circus, Big Top 3 ring Circus Art Gallery, New Orleans, LA
2009.07.08, Southern Illinois Artist Competition, Mitchell Museum, Mt. Vernon, IL
Sep 2009, Solo Exhibit “Our Immaculate Fall”, Red Ear, Alto Pass, IL
2009.11.06 Solo Exhibit “Our Intimate Perception”, Concrete Ocean Gallery, St. Louis, MO Nov 2009, All-Female Live Art/Music Event, Los Angeles, CA
Dec 2009, Politi-Pop, Altered Esthetics, Minneapolis, MN
Feb 2010, I Hate Lucy, Chicago, IL

+ I have a bunch of reasonably priced goodies in my store: auniakahn.bigcartel.com
+ Tarot Card Deck “Silver Era Tarot” will be out Spring 2010, preorders start in Dec 2009
+ Book “Obvious Remote Chaos” should be published right after the deck in 2010
 

I just want to thank Aunia Kahn for taking the time out for the interview, for more information and work from Aunia check her out at the below sites.

www.auniakahn.com
www.auniakahndesign.com
www.silvereratarot.com
www.lowbrowtarot.com

The Mortal Immortal

2009-05-26T01:41:31Z

By Mary Shelley
Published 1910

July 16, 1833. — This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three hundred and twenty-third year!

The Wandering Jew? — certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over his head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.

Am I, then, immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself, by day and night, for now three hundred and three years, and yet cannot answer it. I detected a grey hair amidst my brown locks this very day — that surely signifies decay. Yet it may have remained concealed there for three hundred years — for some persons have become entirely white-headed before twenty years of age.

I will tell my story, and my reader shall judge for me. I will tell my story, and so contrive to pass some few hours of a long eternity, become so wearisome to me. For ever! Can it be? to live for ever! I have heard of enchantments, in which the victims were plunged into a deep sleep, to wake, after a hundred years, as fresh as ever: I have heard of the Seven Sleepers — thus to be immortal would not be so burthensome: but, oh! the weight of never-ending time — the tedious passage of the still-succeeding hours! How happy was the fabled Nourjahad! — But to my task.

All the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts have made me. All the world has also heard of his scholar, who, unawares, raised the foul fiend during his master’s absence, and was destroyed by him. The report, true or false, of this accident, was attended with many inconveniences to the renowned philosopher. All his scholars at once deserted him — his servants disappeared. He had no one near him to put coals on his ever-burning fires while he slept, or to attend to the changeful colours of his medicines while he studied. Experiment after experiment failed, because one pair of hands was insufficient to complete them: the dark spirits laughed at him for not being able to retain a single mortal in his service.

I was then very young — very poor — and very much in love. I had been for about a year the pupil of Cornelius, though I was absent when this accident took place. On my return, my friends implored me not to return to the alchymist’s abode. I trembled as I listened to the dire tale they told; I required no second warning; and when Cornelius came and offered me a purse of gold if I would remain under his roof, I felt as if Satan himself tempted me. My teeth chattered — my hair stood on end; — I ran off as fast as my trembling knees would permit.

My failing steps were directed whither for two years they had every evening been attracted, — a gently bubbling spring of pure living water, beside which lingered a dark-haired girl, whose beaming eyes were fixed on the path I was accustomed each night to tread. I cannot remember the hour when I did not love Bertha; we had been neighbours and playmates from infancy, — her parents, like mine were of humble life, yet respectable, — our attachment had been a source of pleasure to them. In an evil hour, a malignant fever carried off both her father and mother, and Bertha became an orphan. She would have found a home beneath my paternal roof, but, unfortunately, the old lady of the near castle, rich, childless, and solitary, declared her intention to adopt her. Henceforth Bertha was clad in silk — inhabited a marble palace — and was looked on as being highly favoured by fortune. But in her new situation among her new associates, Bertha remained true to the friend of her humbler days; she often visited the cottage of my father, and when forbidden to go thither, she would stray towards the neighbouring wood, and meet me beside its shady fountain.

She often declared that she owed no duty to her new protectress equal in sanctity to that which bound us. Yet still I was too poor to marry, and she grew weary of being tormented on my account. She had a haughty but an impatient spirit, and grew angry at the obstacle that prevented our union. We met now after an absence, and she had been sorely beset while I was away; she complained bitterly, and almost reproached me for being poor. I replied hastily, —

“I am honest, if I am poor! — were I not, I might soon become rich!”

This exclamation produced a thousand questions. I feared to shock her by owning the truth, but she drew it from me; and then, casting a look of disdain on me, she said, —

“You pretend to love, and you fear to face the Devil for my sake!”

I protested that I had only dreaded to offend her; — while she dwelt on the magnitude of the reward that I should receive. Thus encouraged — shamed by her — led on by love and hope, laughing at my later fears, with quick steps and a light heart, I returned to accept the offers of the alchymist, and was instantly installed in my office.

A year passed away. I became possessed of no insignificant sum of money. Custom had banished my fears. In spite of the most painful vigilance, I had never detected the trace of a cloven foot; nor was the studious silence of our abode ever disturbed by demoniac howls. I still continued my stolen interviews with Bertha, and Hope dawned on me — Hope — but not perfect joy: for Bertha fancied that love and security were enemies, and her pleasure was to divide them in my bosom. Though true of heart, she was something of a coquette in manner; I was jealous as a Turk. She slighted me in a thousand ways, yet would never acknowledge herself to be in the wrong. She would drive me mad with anger, and then force me to beg her pardon. Sometimes she fancied that I was not sufficiently submissive, and then she had some story of a rival, favoured by her protectress. She was surrounded by silk-clad youths — the rich and gay. What chance had the sad-robed scholar of Cornelius compared with these?

On one occasion, the philosopher made such large demands upon my time, that I was unable to meet her as I was wont. He was engaged in some mighty work, and I was forced to remain, day and night, feeding his furnaces and watching his chemical preparations. Bertha waited for me in vain at the fountain. Her haughty spirit fired at this neglect; and when at last I stole out during a few short minutes allotted to me for slumber, and hoped to be consoled by her, she received me with disdain, dismissed me in scorn, and vowed that any man should possess her hand rather than he who could not be in two places at once for her sake. She would be revenged! And truly she was. In my dingy retreat I heard that she had been hunting, attended by Albert Hoffer. Albert Hoffer was favoured by her protectress, and the three passed in cavalcade before my smoky window. Methought that they mentioned my name; it was followed by a laugh of derision, as her dark eyes glanced contemptuously towards my abode.

Jealousy, with all its venom and all its misery, entered my breast. Now I shed a torrent of tears, to think that I should never call her mine; and, anon, I imprecated a thousand curses on her inconstancy. Yet, still I must stir the fires of the alchymist, still attend on the changes of his unintelligible medicines.

Cornelius had watched for three days and nights, nor closed his eyes. The progress of his alembics was slower than he expected: in spite of his anxiety, sleep weighted upon his eyelids. Again and again he threw off drowsiness with more than human energy; again and again it stole away his senses. He eyed his crucibles wistfully. “Not ready yet,” he murmured; “will another night pass before the work is accomplished? Winzy, you are vigilant — you are faithful — you have slept, my boy — you slept last night. Look at that glass vessel. The liquid it contains is of a soft rose-colour: the moment it begins to change hue, awaken me — till then I may close my eyes. First, it will turn white, and then emit golden flashes; but wait not till then; when the rose-colour fades, rouse me.” I scarcely heard the last words, muttered, as they were, in sleep. Even then he did not quite yield to nature. “Winzy, my boy,” he again said, “do not touch the vessel — do not put it to your lips; it is a philtre — a philtre to cure love; you would not cease to love your Bertha — beware to drink!”

And he slept. His venerable head sunk on his breast, and I scarce heard his regular breathing. For a few minutes I watched the vessel — the rosy hue of the liquid remained unchanged. Then my thoughts wandered — they visited the fountain, and dwelt on a thousand charming scenes never to be renewed — never! Serpents and adders were in my heart as the word “Never!” half formed itself on my lips. False girl! — false and cruel! Never more would she smile on me as that evening she smiled on Albert. Worthless, detested woman! I would not remain unrevenged — she should see Albert expire at her feet — she should die beneath my vengeance. She had smiled in disdain and triumph — she knew my wretchedness and her power. Yet what power had she? — the power of exciting my hate — my utter scorn — my — oh, all but indifference! Could I attain that — could I regard her with careless eyes, transferring my rejected love to one fairer and more true, that were indeed a victory!

A bright flash darted before my eyes. I had forgotten the medicine of the adept; I gazed on it with wonder: flashes of admirable beauty, more bright than those which the diamond emits when the sun’s rays are on it, glanced from the surface of the liquid; and odour the most fragrant and grateful stole over my sense; the vessel seemed one globe of living radiance, lovely to the eye, and most inviting to the taste. The first thought, instinctively inspired by the grosser sense, was, I will — I must drink. I raised the vessel to my lips. “It will cure me of love — of torture!” Already I had quaffed half of the most delicious liquor ever tasted by the palate of man, when the philosopher stirred. I started — I dropped the glass — the fluid flamed and glanced along the floor, while I felt Cornelius’s gripe at my throat, as he shrieked aloud, “Wretch! you have destroyed the labour of my life!”

The philosopher was totally unaware that I had drunk any portion of his drug. His idea was, and I gave a tacit assent to it, that I had raised the vessel from curiosity, and that, frightened at its brightness, and the flashes of intense light it gave forth, I had let it fall. I never undeceived him. The fire of the medicine was quenched — the fragrance died away — he grew calm, as a philosopher should under the heaviest trials, and dismissed me to rest.

I will not attempt to describe the sleep of glory and bliss which bathed my soul in paradise during the remaining hours of that memorable night. Words would be faint and shallow types of my enjoyment, or of the gladness that possessed my bosom when I woke. I trod air — my thoughts were in heaven. Earth appeared heaven, and my inheritance upon it was to be one trance of delight. “This it is to be cured of love,” I thought; “I will see Bertha this day, and she will find her lover cold and regardless; too happy to be disdainful, yet how utterly indifferent to her!”

The hours danced away. The philosopher, secure that he had once succeeded, and believing that he might again, began to concoct the same medicine once more. He was shut up with his books and drugs, and I had a holiday. I dressed myself with care; I looked in an old but polished shield which served me for a mirror; methoughts my good looks had wonderfully improved. I hurried beyond the precincts of the town, joy in my soul, the beauty of heaven and earth around me. I turned my steps toward the castle — I could look on its lofty turrets with lightness of heart, for I was cured of love. My Bertha saw me afar off, as I came up the avenue. I know not what sudden impulse animated her bosom, but at the sight, she sprung with a light fawn-like bound down the marble steps, and was hastening towards me. But I had been perceived by another person. The old high-born hag, who called herself her protectress, and was her tyrant, had seen me also; she hobbled, panting, up the terrace; a page, as ugly as herself, held up her train, and fanned her as she hurried along, and stopped my fair girl with a “How, now, my bold mistress? whither so fast? Back to your cage — hawks are abroad!”

Bertha clasped her hands — her eyes were still bent on my approaching figure. I saw the contest. How I abhorred the old crone who checked the kind impulses of my Bertha’s softening heart. Hitherto, respect for her rank had caused me to avoid the lady of the castle; now I disdained such trivial considerations. I was cured of love, and lifted above all human fears; I hastened forwards, and soon reached the terrace. How lovely Bertha looked! her eyes flashing fire, her cheeks glowing with impatience and anger, she was a thousand times more graceful and charming than ever. I no longer loved — oh no! I adored — worshipped — idolized her!

She had that morning been persecuted, with more than usual vehemence, to consent to an immediate marriage with my rival. She was reproached with the encouragement that she had shown him — she was threatened with being turned out of doors with disgrace and shame. Her proud spirit rose in arms at the threat; but when she remembered the scorn that she had heaped upon me, and how, perhaps, she had thus lost one whom she now regarded as her only friend, she wept with remorse and rage. At that moment I appeared. “Oh, Winzy!” she exclaimed, “take me to your mother’s cot; swiftly let me leave the detested luxuries and wretchedness of this noble dwelling — take me to poverty and happiness.”

I clasped her in my arms with transport. The old dame was speechless with fury, and broke forth into invective only when we were far on the road to my natal cottage. My mother received the fair fugitive, escaped from a gilt cage to nature and liberty, with tenderness and joy; my father, who loved her, welcomed her heartily; it was a day of rejoicing, which did not need the addition of the celestial potion of the alchymist to steep me in delight.

Soon after this eventful day, I became the husband of Bertha. I ceased to be the scholar of Cornelius, but I continued his friend. I always felt grateful to him for having, unaware, procured me that delicious draught of a divine elixir, which, instead of curing me of love (sad cure! solitary and joyless remedy for evils which seem blessings to the memory), had inspired me with courage and resolution, thus winning for me an inestimable treasure in my Bertha.

I often called to mind that period of trance-like inebriation with wonder. The drink of Cornelius had not fulfilled the task for which he affirmed that it had been prepared, but its effects were more potent and blissful than words can express. They had faded by degrees, yet they lingered long — and painted life in hues of splendour. Bertha often wondered at my lightness of heart and unaccustomed gaiety; for, before, I had been rather serious, or even sad, in my disposition. She loved me the better for my cheerful temper, and our days were winged by joy.

Five years afterwards I was suddenly summoned to the bedside of the dying Cornelius. He had sent for me in haste, conjuring my instant presence. I found him stretched on his pallet, enfeebled even to death; all of life that yet remained animated his piercing eyes, and they were fixed on a glass vessel, full of roseate liquid.

“Behold,” he said, in a broken and inward voice, “the vanity of human wishes! a second time my hopes are about to be crowned, a second time they are destroyed. Look at that liquor — you may remember five years ago I had prepared the same, with the same success; — then, as now, my thirsting lips expected to taste the immortal elixir — you dashed it from me! and at present it is too late.”

He spoke with difficulty, and fell back on his pillow. I could not help saying, —

“How, revered master, can a cure for love restore you to life?”

A faint smile gleamed across his face as I listened earnestly to his scarcely intelligible answer.

“A cure for love and for all things — the Elixir of Immortality. Ah! if now I might drink, I should live for ever!”

As he spoke, a golden flash gleamed from the fluid; a well-remembered fragrance stole over the air; he raised himself, all weak as he was — strength seemed miraculously to re-enter his frame — he stretched forth his hand — a loud explosion startled me — a ray of fire shot up from the elixir, and the glass vessel which contained it was shivered to atoms! I turned my eyes towards the philosopher; he had fallen back — his eyes were glassy — his features rigid — he was dead!

But I lived, and was to live for ever! So said the unfortunate alchymist, and for a few days I believed his words. I remembered the glorious intoxication that had followed my stolen draught. I reflected on the change I had felt in my frame — in my soul. The bounding elasticity of the one — the buoyant lightness of the other. I surveyed myself in a mirror, and could perceive no change in my features during the space of the five years which had elapsed. I remembered the radiant hues and grateful scent of that delicious beverage — worthy the gift it was capable of bestowing — I was, then, IMMORTAL!

A few days after I laughed at my credulity. The old proverb, that “a prophet is least regarded in his own country,” was true with respect to me and my defunct master. I loved him as a man — I respected him as a sage — but I derided the notion that he could command the powers of darkness, and laughed at the superstitious fears with which he was regarded by the vulgar. He was a wise philosopher, but had no acquaintance with any spirits but those clad in flesh and blood. His science was simply human; and human science, I soon persuaded myself, could never conquer nature’s laws so far as to imprison the soul for ever within its carnal habitation. Cornelius had brewed a soul-refreshing drink — more inebriating than wine — sweeter and more fragrant than any fruit: it possessed probably strong medicinal powers, imparting gladness to the heart and vigour to the limbs; but its effects would wear out; already they were diminished in my frame. I was a lucky fellow to have quaffed health and joyous spirits, and perhaps a long life, at my master’s hands; but my good fortune ended there: longevity was far different from immortality.

I continued to entertain this belief for many years. Sometimes a thought stole across me — Was the alchymist indeed deceived? But my habitual credence was, that I should meet the fate of all the children of Adam at my appointed time — a little late, but still at a natural age. Yet it was certain that I retained a wonderfully youthful look. I was laughed at for my vanity in consulting the mirror so often, but I consulted it in vain — my brow was untrenched — my cheeks — my eyes — my whole person continued as untarnished as in my twentieth year.

I was troubled. I looked at the faded beauty of Bertha — I seemed more like her son. By degrees our neighbors began to make similar observations, and I found at last that I went by the name of the Scholar bewitched. Bertha herself grew uneasy. She became jealous and peevish, and at length she began to question me. We had no children; we were all in all to each other; and though, as she grew older, her vivacious spirit became a little allied to ill-temper, and her beauty sadly diminished, I cherished her in my heart as the mistress I idolized, the wife I had sought and won with such perfect love.

At last our situation became intolerable: Bertha was fifty — I twenty years of age. I had, in very shame, in some measure adopted the habits of advanced age; I no longer mingled in the dance among the young and gay, but my heart bounded along with them while I restrained my feet; and a sorry figure I cut among the Nestors of our village. But before the time I mention, things were altered — we were universally shunned; we were — at least, I was — reported to have kept up an iniquitous acquaintance with some of my former master’s supposed friends. Poor Bertha was pitied, but deserted. I was regarded with horror and detestation.

What was to be done? we sat by our winter fire — poverty had made itself felt, for none would buy the produce of my farm; and often I had been forced to journey twenty miles to some place where I was not known, to dispose of our property. It is true, we had saved something for an evil day — that day was come.

We sat by our lone fireside — the old-hearted youth and his antiquated wife. Again Bertha insisted on knowing the truth; she recapitulated all she had ever heard said about me, and added her own observations. She conjured me to cast off the spell; she described how much more comely grey hairs were than my chestnut locks; she descanted on the reverence and respect due to age — how preferable to the slight regard paid to mere children: could I imagine that the despicable gifts of youth and good looks outweighed disgrace, hatred and scorn? Nay, in the end I should be burnt as a dealer in the black art, while she, to whom I had not deigned to communicate any portion of my good fortune, might be stoned as my accomplice. At length she insinuated that I must share my secret with her, and bestow on her like benefits to those I myself enjoyed, or she would denounce me — and then she burst into tears.

Thus beset, methought it was the best way to tell the truth. I reveled it as tenderly as I could, and spoke only of a very long life, not of immortality — which representation, indeed, coincided best with my own ideas. When I ended I rose and said,—

“And now, my Bertha, will you denounce the lover of your youth? — You will not, I know. But it is too hard, my poor wife, that you should suffer for my ill-luck and the accursed arts of Cornelius. I will leave you — you have wealth enough, and friends will return in my absence. I will go; young as I seem and strong as I am, I can work and gain my bread among strangers, unsuspected and unknown. I loved you in youth; God is my witness that I would not desert you in age, but that your safety and happiness require it.”

I took my cap and moved toward the door; in a moment Bertha’s arms were round my neck, and her lips were pressed to mine. “No, my husband, my Winzy,” she said, “you shall not go alone — take me with you; we will remove from this place, and, as you say, among strangers we shall be unsuspected and safe. I am not so old as quite to shame you, my Winzy; and I daresay the charm will soon wear off, and, with the blessing of God, you will become more elderly-looking, as is fitting; you shall not leave me.”

I returned the good soul’s embrace heartily. “I will not, my Bertha; but for your sake I had not thought of such a thing. I will be your true, faithful husband while you are spared to me, and do my duty by you to the last.”

The next day we prepared secretly for our emigration. We were obliged to make great pecuniary sacrifices — it could not be helped. We realized a sum sufficient, at least, to maintain us while Bertha lived; and, without saying adieu to any one, quitted our native country to take refuge in a remote part of western France.

It was a cruel thing to transport poor Bertha from her native village, and the friends of her youth, to a new country, new language, new customs. The strange secret of my destiny rendered this removal immaterial to me; but I compassionated her deeply, and was glad to perceive that she found compensation for her misfortunes in a variety of little ridiculous circumstances. Away from all tell-tale chroniclers, she sought to decrease the apparent disparity of our ages by a thousand feminine arts — rouge, youthful dress, and assumed juvenility of manner. I could not be angry. Did I not myself wear a mask? Why quarrel with hers, because it was less successful? I grieved deeply when I remembered that this was my Bertha, whom I had loved so fondly and won with such transport — the dark-eyed, dark-haired girl, with smiles of enchanting archness and a step like a fawn — this mincing, simpering, jealous old woman. I should have revered her grey locks and withered cheeks; but thus! — It was my work, I knew; but I did not the less deplore this type of human weakness.

Her jealously never slept. Her chief occupation was to discover that, in spite of outward appearances, I was myself growing old. I verily believe that the poor soul loved me truly in her heart, but never had woman so tormenting a mode of displaying fondness. She would discern wrinkles in my face and decrepitude in my walk, while I bounded along in youthful vigour, the youngest looking of twenty youths. I never dared address another woman. On one occasion, fancying that the belle of the village regarded me with favouring eyes, she brought me a grey wig. Her constant discourse among her acquaintances was, that though I looked so young, there was ruin at work within my frame; and she affirmed that the worst symptom about me was my apparent health. My youth was a disease, she said, and I ought at all times to prepare, if not for a sudden and awful death, at least to awake some morning white-headed and bowed down with all the marks of advanced years. I let her talk — I often joined in her conjectures. Her warnings chimed in with my never-ceasing speculations concerning my state, and I took an earnest, though painful, interest in listening to all that her quick wit and excited imagination could say on the subject.

Why dwell on these minute circumstances? We lived on for many long years. Bertha became bedrid and paralytic; I nursed her as a mother might a child. She grew peevish, and still harped upon one string — of how long I should survive her. It has ever been a source of consolation to me, that I performed my duty scrupulously towards her. She had been mine in youth, she was mine in age; and at last, when I heaped the sod over her corpse, I wept to feel that I had lost all that really bound me to humanity.

Since then how many have been my cares and woes, how few and empty my enjoyments! I pause here in my history — I will pursue it no further. A sailor without rudder or compass, tossed on a stormy sea — a traveller lost on a widespread heath, without landmark or stone to guide him — such I have been: more lost, more hopeless than either. A nearing ship, a gleam from some far cot, may save them; but I have no beacon except the hope of death.

Death! mysterious, ill-visaged friend of weak humanity! Why alone of all mortals have you cast me from your sheltering fold? Oh, for the peace of the grave! the deep silence of the iron-bound tomb! that thought would cease to work in my brain, and my heart beat no more with emotions varied only by new forms of sadness!

Am I immortal? I return to my first question. In the first place, is it not more probably that the beverage of the alchymist was fraught rather with longevity than eternal life? Such is my hope. And then be it remembered, that I only drank half of the potion prepared by him. Was not the whole necessary to complete the charm? To have drained half the Elixir of Immortality is but to be half-immortal — my For-ever is thus truncated and null.

But again, who shall number the years of the half of eternity? I often try to imagine by what rule the infinite may be divided. Sometimes I fancy age advancing upon me. One grey hair I have found. Fool! do I lament? Yes, the fear of age and death often creeps coldly into my heart; and the more I live, the more I dread death, even while I abhor life. Such an enigma is man — born to perish — when he wars, as I do, against the established laws of his nature.

But for this anomaly of feeling surely I might die: the medicine of the alchymist would not be proof against fire — sword — and the strangling waters. I have gazed upon the blue depths of many a placid lake, and the tumultuous rushing of many a mighty river, and have said, peace inhabits those waters; yet I have turned my steps away, to live yet another day. I have asked myself, whether suicide would be a crime in one to whom thus only the portals of the other world could be opened. I have done all, except presenting myself as a soldier or duelist, an objection of destruction to my — no, not my fellow mortals, and therefore I have shrunk away. They are not my fellows. The inextinguishable power of life in my frame, and their ephemeral existence, places us wide as the poles asunder. I could not raise a hand against the meanest or the most powerful among them.

Thus have I lived on for many a year — alone, and weary of myself — desirous of death, yet never dying — a mortal immortal. Neither ambition nor avarice can enter my mind, and the ardent love that gnaws at my heart, never to be returned — never to find an equal on which to expend itself — lives there only to torment me.

This very day I conceived a design by which I may end all — without self-slaughter, without making another man a Cain — an expedition, which mortal frame can never survive, even endued with the youth and strength that inhabits mine. Thus I shall put my immortality to the test, and rest for ever — or return, the wonder and benefactor of the human species.

Before I go, a miserable vanity has caused me to pen these pages. I would not die, and leave no name behind. Three centuries have passed since I quaffed the fatal beverage; another year shall not elapse before, encountering gigantic dangers — warring with the powers of frost in their home — beset by famine, toil, and tempest — I yield this body, too tenacious a cage for a soul which thirsts for freedom, to the destructive elements of air and water; or, if I survive, my name shall be recorded as one of the most famous among the sons of men; and, my task achieved, I shall adopt more resolute means, and, by scattering and annihilating the atoms that compose my frame, set at liberty the life imprisoned within, and so cruelly prevented from soaring from this dim earth to a sphere more congenial to its immortal essence.

Auguste Rodin - Gates of Hell

2009-05-17T12:29:10Z

Gates of hell by sculpture artist Auguste Rodin.

Hidden Wisdom the History of Hermeticism

2009-04-12T23:44:07Z

Video 6 minutes

Antonin Artaud

2009-03-31T21:18:59Z

Video 9 minutes

Native American Code of Ethics

2009-03-24T18:27:31Z

I’d be interested to know what tribe this originated with but regardless they are some truly inspiring rules, to live by. For all 20 rules visit the source.

1. Rise with the sun to pray. Pray alone. Pray often. The Great Spirit will listen, if you only speak.

2. Be tolerant of those who are lost on their path. Ignorance, conceit, anger, jealousy – and greed stem from a lost soul. Pray that they will find guidance.

3. Search for yourself, by yourself. Do not allow others to make your path for you. It is your road, and yours alone. Others may walk it with you, but no one can walk it for you.

4. Treat the guests in your home with much consideration. Serve them the best food, give them the best bed and treat them with respect and honor.

5. Do not take what is not yours whether from a person, a community, the wilderness or from a culture. It was not earned nor given. It is not yours.

6. Respect all things that are placed upon this earth – whether it be people or plant.

7. Honor other people’s thoughts, wishes and words. Never interrupt another or mock or rudely mimic them. Allow each person the right to personal expression.

8. Never speak of others in a bad way. The negative energy that you put out into the universe will multiply when it returns to you.

The status of things

2009-03-09T23:54:58Z

As many of you may have noticed Excommunicate has not been as active as it used to be. There are a few reasons for this, however, know that this won’t always be the case. Excommunicate has a few things planned in addition to the recent acquisition of Excommunicate.Org we are in development of a new site design and will be switching to a new platform.

In addition to that we are working hard on editing and reformatting some of our content to be released as a possible book / e-book. A larger undertaking than I had initially suspected. That said I want to thank all of you for your continued patronage and for not giving up on us. With out you we would not be where we are today in the world of the Internet.

Sincerely, JackDirt

Share this with a friend | Day 365

2009-03-09T15:13:36Z

This is the end. You have successfully made it an entire year to day 365. Since you are here I want you to give yourself a big congratulations. Some of the tasks were easy and some were hard. But, you picked and chose and those decisions have helped to make you who you are today!

Share with a friend | Day 365

Your last day however is an easy one. Simply past this life changing series to a friend and watch them go through many of the same things you have. If you want pick through the list and do it again, each day is still unique and presents different circumstances. Whatever, you do now, I just want to thank you for taking the time to read and act upon these.

Get Waxed | Day 364

2009-03-04T15:05:25Z

Day 364 of 365 new ways to a new you. Congratulations, you have made it this far. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready for tomorrow? This is part of a series that is going to span 365 days. Some things will be subtle other activities will be more involved. At the end of the 365 days even if you do only 20 of these things you will be a new person, for better or for worse.

Before I begin with day 364, I must defer you to our Terms and Conditions.

“Wax on, Wax off.”

Day 364: Get Waxed
You can do it yourself or go to a spa. Heat up some Paraffin wax apply a swathe and rip that hair out. Where you wax is up to you. But remove that hair in one of the more painful ways by pulling it out. Waxing isn’t as quick as it may seem, you have to remove hair in sections not large clumps. Good luck!

Shout it from the roof tops | Day 363

2009-02-22T17:21:39Z

Day 363 of 365 new ways to a new you. Congratulations, you have made it this far. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready for tomorrow? This is part of a series that is going to span 365 days. Some things will be subtle other activities will be more involved. At the end of the 365 days even if you do only 20 of these things you will be a new person, for better or for worse.

Before I begin with day 363, I must defer you to our Terms and Conditions.

It’s higher than a soapbox and will definitely get you noticed.

Day 363: Shout it from the roof tops
Literally get on a roof and start shouting from it. You could shout the contents of a book, a poem, a political agenda. Shout anything. Shout something. Just get on that roof and make a ruckus. Just be careful while on the roof. After all most roofs aren’t flat.

Alter Ego | Day 362

2009-02-21T18:18:10Z

Day 362 of 365 new ways to a new you. Congratulations, you have made it this far. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready for tomorrow? This is part of a series that is going to span 365 days. Some things will be subtle other activities will be more involved. At the end of the 365 days even if you do only 20 of these things you will be a new person, for better or for worse.

Before I begin with day 362, I must defer you to our Terms and Conditions.

A change in personality, changes our perception.

Day 362: Alter Ego
Come up with an elaborate alter ego. Maybe your alter ego is extra sweet or perhaps a romantic, does your alter ego have an anger problem? Whatever you decide come up with an elaborate alter ego. Go as far when developing your alter ego to even come up with a favorite food, color, etc., The more detail the better. When you finally have developed your alter ego give it a test run in public.

The Chant of Time

2009-02-15T19:37:09Z

Time was when worlds were not swung in space;
Time is, when this year’s New Year’s masque ye see;
And Time goes on when worlds have stopped their race;

Past.
Before the moon disclosed her face;
Before the earth began her race;
Before the Sun took up his place-
Ere than I was eternally!

Present.
In throb of brain; in beat of heart;
In thrill of sense, by nature’s art;
In meeting moments ere they part-
Therein am I eternally!

Future.
Beyond man’s certain day of doom
When earth and sun have found one tomb;
When stars for other stars make room-
I shall be there eternally!

Time was, Time is and time shall be
Eternally! Eternally!

Exercise Toll | Day 361

2009-02-13T20:56:39Z

Day 361 of 365 new ways to a new you. Congratulations, you have made it this far. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready for tomorrow? This is part of a series that is going to span 365 days. Some things will be subtle other activities will be more involved. At the end of the 365 days even if you do only 20 of these things you will be a new person, for better or for worse.

Before I begin with day 361, I must defer you to our Terms and Conditions.

Highways and bridges often have tolls. Today your rooms have a toll, only you pay with sweat equity not money.

Day 361: Exercise Toll
Pick a room in your home that you enter and leave frequently. It can be a bedroom, living room, kitchen etc., Now every time you enter that room perform either 5 push ups or 10 sit ups. It may not seem like much but over the course of the day those simple little push ups or sit ups can add up. You may even find yourself not wanting to leave the room by the end of the day. If you want a challenge pick a different exercise to do for different rooms or do both sit ups and push ups.

Pick a lock with a Bobby Pin | Day 360

2009-02-11T15:17:08Z

Day 360 of 365 new ways to a new you. Congratulations, you have made it this far. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready for tomorrow? This is part of a series that is going to span 365 days. Some things will be subtle other activities will be more involved. At the end of the 365 days even if you do only 20 of these things you will be a new person, for better or for worse.

Before I begin with day 360, I must defer you to our Terms and Conditions.

Who needs keys?

Day 360: Pick a lock with a Bobby Pin
You can get yourself some hair pins at almost any store and no one will think anything of it. Only cheap locks can be picked with a hair pin; pad locks, cheap doors etc., Sometimes you can even open an office door lock. Watch the video to learn how to do it.

Huxley on Spiritualism

2009-02-06T18:03:59Z

Below is an interesting article I found on http://www.thatsoldnews.net/huxley-on-spiritualism.

His Experiences With Different Mediums, Especially With Madam X.

The oldest in date of my spiritualistic experience goes back about five-and-thirty years. It took place at the house of a relative of mine, and the “medium” was a pleasant, intelligent and well-mannered woman, a native of the United States, whom I call Mrs. X. The chief performance was the usual pencil and alphabet business, and operations began with me as scientific witness and doubter general. The ease and rapidity with which that quiet transatlantic lady fooled me was as she herself might have said, a caution. The name of the dead friend of whom I was thinking was spelled out in no time, and I was left morally agape, while Mrs. X. followed up her victory, and made one after another of the company a still easier prey. However, as soon as I could pull myself together. I watched the proceedings somewhat narrowly, I noted that the medium’s success was by no means uniform; and in the case of one of my friends who enjoyed a well-deserved reputation for outward impassibility, she failed altogether. So when Mrs. X. had made the round of the table I asked for another trial, and this time the failure was total and complete. The only difference in the conditions, however, was that on the second occasion I had my nerves and muscles under strict control, and took care that my pencil should pass along the letters of the alphabet as impartially as the hand of a watch over the figure son the dial. I have no doubt that on the first trial I had quite unwittingly rested longer on the letters which interested me, from part of the name which I had in my mind. Whatever the nature of the distinction and however slight it may have been it was quite enough for the keen eyes of Mrs. X., sharpened as they were by incessant training.

But the interpretation of the signs unconsciously given by the investigator, is only one-half of the medium’s work. The other is to notify that interpretation by the “raps,” Mrs. X.’s “spirits” did their work admirably. The raps were loud and abundant, and the company declared that they came form all parts of the room: indeed, there were some who maintained the persistence in the house for days afterward. At any rate, the suggestion that the particularly quiet woman who sat easily talking at the head of the table could be all the while making these wonderful noises seemed at first sight outrageous. Drive it away as I would, however the suspicion, the offspring, no doubt, of a basely materialistic philosophy, kept coming back-took shape as a theory, and finally, by dint of patience and perseverance, embodied itself into practice. From that time forth I became master of two spirits quite as efficient as those of Mrs. X., and, I verily believe, of the same nature, My “delicate Ariels” reside in the second toe of each foot. The method of evocation is simplicity itself. I have merely to bend the toe and then suddenly to straighten it; the result is a sharp rap on the sole of my shoe, which by practice may be repeated very rapidly, and rendered forte or piano at pleasure. To produce the best effect it is advisable to have thin socks and a roomy, hard soled boot; moreover, it is well to pick out a thin place in the carpet, so as to profit by the resonance of the floor. THe upper leather of the boot should be kid, rather than patent,a s a bright surface may betray a slight movement. By skillful modification of the force of the blows and conversational misdirection of people’s attention (by the methods familiar to conjurers and ventriloquists) the ordinary intelligent and well-educated member of society- who is about as competent to deal with these matters as a London street-boy with a dairy farm- may be made to believe anything as to the direction of the sounds. So long as no one is allowed to touch the foot of the operator, detection, is impossible. When I was in good practice I could stand talking on a well-lighted floor, while the bystanders, who knew that I caused the raps, could not divine how they were produced. And, at one time I got so in the habit of rapping that I used to catch myself doing it involuntarily, as a man in brown study may rap with his fingers.

But my particular black art is by no means the only effectual method of raising spirits. Some years after Mrs. X.’s performance I happened to dine at the Castle in Dublin. After dinner, Lord Carlisle, who held he Viceregal office at that time, turned the conversation on spiritualism; and I showed off the prowess of my familiars. But a young aide-de-camp who was present completely outshone me. His “raps” as he stood on the hearthrug, were like the cracks of a small whip. He told me they were produced by “slipping a tendon” behind the outer ankle but, as I could not examine the operation closely I confess I was not much wiser for the explanation. the important point is that his method would have been still more difficult of detection-especially in a feminine medium- than mine.

I learned something else that interested me that evening. One of the guests confided to me that some time before he had met Mrs. X. at a country house. In the course of a seance, my informant was told that the spirit of his deceased sister Mary desired to communicate with him, and with gravity befitting the circumstances, he took his share in the interesting and indeed touching, conversation which followed. At the end of the seance, the company broke into groups. Mrs. X. and my friend happened to stroll away from the rest toward a bay window, whereupon this brief but pregnant dialogue took place: She- Did you ever have a sister Mary? He-No. She- I thought not.

Any one could discern, on very short acquaintance, that my friend was a very kind hearted, chivalrous gentleman: but it is not everybody who would have perceived so shrewdly that Irish wit had, for once, been too much for Yankee ‘cuteness’, and that the only chance for the culprit was to throw herself on teh mercy of the court. Fraud is often genius out of place, and I confess that I have never been able to get over a certain sneaking admiration for Mrs. X. But as to the other two media whom I have tried and found wanting, they were merely male and female specimens of the Sludge family- wholly contemptible, clumsy creatures, with no faculty save boundless impudence.

....When I am told that certain of my contemporaries, justly esteemed in science or in literature, believe in spiritualism. I can but reflect that certain other persons of that day, most unquestionably not in any respect less worthy of consideration, believed in witchcraft and demoniacal possession. Kepler had faith in astrology; Descartes made a pilgrimage to Loretto, all the learning and acuteness of Henry More did not prevent him from enthusiastically backing another very acute and accomplished person. Glanvil, in his battle for the truth of the silly story about the “Deamon of Tedworth” as silly a story as any to be found in the records of “spiritualism.” If I decline not only to believe in astrology on the authority of Kepler; in the genuineness of the Palestinian house which flew to Loretto on that of Descartes; in the Deamon of tedworth on that of Glanvil and More; but even to allow that the favorable opinion of these eminent men makes out a prima facie case for these beliefs- it does not seem to me that I am wanting in due respect to Messrs. A, B and C, who are surely not the superiors of Kepler, Descartes and More, if, for the same reasons, I attach no greater weight on their authority, in purimateria.

No one deserves much blame for being deceived in these matters. We are all intellectually handicapped in youth by the incessant repetition of the stories about possession and witchcraft in both the Old and the New Testaments. The majority of us are taught nothing which will help us to observe accurately and to interpret observations with due caution. Very few of us have the least conception how much more difficult it is to make such observations with due caution. Very few of us have the least conception how much more difficult it is to make such observations and interpretations in a room full of people, stirred by the expectations of the marvelous, than in the calm seclusion of a laboratory or the solitude of a tropical forest. And one who has not tried it cannot imagine the strain of the mind involved in sitting for an hour or two in a dark room, on the watch for the dodges of a wary “medium.” A man may be excellent naturalist or chemist, and yet make a very poor detective. But, in these investigations those who know are aware that the qualities of the detective are far more useful than those of the philosopher.

I had no intention when I sat down to write so long a letter. But I have for many years watched, not without anxiety, the recrudescence in our times, and under respectable sanction, of that belief in man’s power of evoking spirits from which the basest and cruelest superstitions of bygone ages logically enough took their origin; and perhaps the expression of my views may be of use, at least to those who have not yet toppled over the edge of common sense into the spiritualistic puddle. Those who have seemed to be past praying.
-Prof. Huxley in Pall Mall Gazette

source: The Salt Lake Daily Tribune.
location: Salt Lake City, Utah