Never been there. Why am I talking about it? It was and still is a book title, written by Carlos Casteneda. I read it, and was reprimanded by a peer for mispronouncing 'Ixtlan.' It's 'east-lahn,' in case you need to tell people about this. The work of philosophy/fiction, Journey to Ixtlan,' was discussed vigorously when I was in high school.
It was about western man's failure to come to terms with the supernatural, and was a handbook and an indictment. I took it, to a small degree, to heart many years ago. In hindsight, the whole world cultures movement is like paying a plastic surgeon to make wrinkles on your face, But only dimwitted creeps neglect to gather rosebuds of contention. Alternative opinions have to be thought about and argued over.
The main character in the book Journey To Ixtlan is a sorcerer who mentors the narator through some sort of voluntary life change. This is how I got the idea that people may be making themselves worse for their need for improvement. Yet one should never negate the entertainment value in people who are in need of change.
There is so much more to it all, but the sorcerer refers to 'power spots.' A sorcerer, or 'brujo,' has to find physical locations, highly specific ones, that refresh supernatural power. You have to find your spot, and sit on it till your batteries recharge. A diode on your ass lights up. I'm on my power spot right now, and, Jesus tits, I feel grand. But it isn't power spots that matter all that much any more. Times have changed a lot since the first printing of Journey to Ixtlan.
This time out of the cracker box,it's food. Power foods. You have to divine the comestibles that give you the most supernatural umph. I found mine, and any at all can get theirs at the West View Dollar Tree Store, where I shop once a fucking week. Their canned chicken tamales contain rare earth elements from Christ knows where, also there is this canned fish preparation that glows in the dark. I've been doting over fifteen ounce columns of meatball stew that ramps me up. I'd force feed it to Lazarus, just make sure the poor prick can resume his normal activities. It's that fucking wholesome. And there's no denying that canned Chef Boyardee ravioli gets you into the spirit world quicker than snot in February. Cans. Canned foods. In the can. The connections telescope from the dildo that is West View, Pennsylvania to the party doll that is the stars. There are pink hearts and kisses. Food power. Canned foods.
Best, it doesn't matter where you eat it. We don't have 'power spots' in my part of town. Anyplace you aren't getting mugged or shot in will do just fine. And the food is never off base. Each can is exactly like the last one, all those ingredients radiant with the essence people need to be grand. Eat the power!
It was about western man's failure to come to terms with the supernatural, and was a handbook and an indictment. I took it, to a small degree, to heart many years ago. In hindsight, the whole world cultures movement is like paying a plastic surgeon to make wrinkles on your face, But only dimwitted creeps neglect to gather rosebuds of contention. Alternative opinions have to be thought about and argued over.
The main character in the book Journey To Ixtlan is a sorcerer who mentors the narator through some sort of voluntary life change. This is how I got the idea that people may be making themselves worse for their need for improvement. Yet one should never negate the entertainment value in people who are in need of change.
There is so much more to it all, but the sorcerer refers to 'power spots.' A sorcerer, or 'brujo,' has to find physical locations, highly specific ones, that refresh supernatural power. You have to find your spot, and sit on it till your batteries recharge. A diode on your ass lights up. I'm on my power spot right now, and, Jesus tits, I feel grand. But it isn't power spots that matter all that much any more. Times have changed a lot since the first printing of Journey to Ixtlan.
This time out of the cracker box,it's food. Power foods. You have to divine the comestibles that give you the most supernatural umph. I found mine, and any at all can get theirs at the West View Dollar Tree Store, where I shop once a fucking week. Their canned chicken tamales contain rare earth elements from Christ knows where, also there is this canned fish preparation that glows in the dark. I've been doting over fifteen ounce columns of meatball stew that ramps me up. I'd force feed it to Lazarus, just make sure the poor prick can resume his normal activities. It's that fucking wholesome. And there's no denying that canned Chef Boyardee ravioli gets you into the spirit world quicker than snot in February. Cans. Canned foods. In the can. The connections telescope from the dildo that is West View, Pennsylvania to the party doll that is the stars. There are pink hearts and kisses. Food power. Canned foods.
Best, it doesn't matter where you eat it. We don't have 'power spots' in my part of town. Anyplace you aren't getting mugged or shot in will do just fine. And the food is never off base. Each can is exactly like the last one, all those ingredients radiant with the essence people need to be grand. Eat the power!
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