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Doctor Zoe Charmichael

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I’m having an adventure, since I watched Cameron Crowe’s biopic of David Crosby I’ve been very excited about returning to the mystic roots of my fascination with rock. I listened to Deja Vu for several weeks when I was in high school, and my mother says I grew my hair long because of its influence. In the last few days since I’ve seen the movie, I’ve felt like my life is forming into a coherent narrative, an interior adventure inspired my Crosby’s amazing psychedelic songs like “Mind Gardens” and “Deja Vu”, and especially Shadow Captain. He’s kind of a Shadow Captain, himself. I’ve also been stunned by the music of Crosby Stills and Nash which I have missed out on over the years, allowing my senses to become dulled by the monotonous thudding of riff rock and hit radio. I feel newly alive. Furthermore, although my mind is still too scattered to write, I can use AI to formulate blog posts. Another inspiration was seeing Kevin Smith and Jason Mewes playing to a full house on the main stage at C2E2 tonight. I wonder if AI can elaborate on that against my impatience with details. I feel too many thoughts closing in to articulate everything that my experience means, but at least we can experiment now. Although there were sad things about Crosby’s old age, and the way he was alienated from Crosby, Stills, and Young, the power of his talent is still fascinating to me and just thinking about him, and the mysticism of his music, I feel I can tap into some kind of important presence and transform my own consciousness.

Doctor Zoe Charmichael

Rediscovering Rock’s Mystic Roots Through David Crosby

Recently, I’ve embarked on a journey that’s rekindled my love for the mystic and psychedelic roots of rock music. This renewed adventure began after watching Cameron Crowe’s biopic of David Crosby, which opened a floodgate of nostalgia and inspiration. It reminded me of my high school days, where Crosby’s album “Deja Vu” played a pivotal role in my life—so much so that even my hairstyle was influenced by his music!

Over the past few days, this film has woven the threads of my musical memories into a coherent narrative, like piecing together a fragmented psychedelic tapestry. Crosby’s songs, particularly “Mind Gardens,” “Deja Vu,” and “Shadow Captain,” resonate deeply with me, illustrating his own role as a kind of shadow captain of his musical era. These tracks aren’t just songs; they’re explorations into the depths of consciousness and creativity.

Rediscovering Crosby Stills and Nash has been a revelation. It’s astonishing how I let such harmonic brilliance slip by, as I dulled my senses with the monotonous beats of mainstream rock and pop. Now, feeling newly alive, I’m diving back into their discography, letting each harmony and lyric wash over me, reigniting a passion I feared lost.

In addition to my musical revival, I found another source of inspiration at C2E2 tonight, where Kevin Smith and Jason Mewes captured the audience’s imagination on the main stage. Their dynamic presence reminded me of the power of storytelling and its ability to connect and entertain.

While David Crosby’s later years and estrangement from his bandmates in Crosby, Stills, and Young may paint a bittersweet picture, his enduring talent continues to fascinate and inspire. There’s a mysticism in Crosby’s music that feels almost tangible, a presence that I’m now tapping into to transform my own consciousness. As I continue to explore these feelings, I’m using AI to help articulate and structure my thoughts into blog posts, experimenting with this digital intellect to capture the essence of my renewed journey.

This experience is more than just a nostalgic trip; it’s a profound reconnection with the roots of rock music that shaped generations. David Crosby’s legacy, fraught with both triumph and sorrow, serves as a beacon for those of us seeking to rediscover and perhaps redefine our musical and spiritual landscapes.

In the velvet darkness of Chuck’s father’s basement bar, Trish, draped languorously over the leather armchair, voiced the malaise of the privileged youth. The room, lit by the soft glow of antique lamps, flickered as she ignited her cigarette, the smoke wafting upwards, mingling with the existential ennui that seemed to be their constant companion.

“I am so fucking bored,” she announced, her voice laced with the kind of weariness that comes not from hardship, but from too many days steeped in unchallenged comfort. The ember of her cigarette glowed brighter as she inhaled, a beacon of her frustration. “Well, here we are in the midst of the bullshit.”

Drake, leaning against the pool table, a book of Burroughs’ prose forgotten in his hand, looked up and caught the scent of Trish’s discontent. “Where are we going?” he mused, not so much a question as a philosophical pondering. “This country is so fuckin’ dismal.”

In the corner, Angela lowered her eyes from the abstract painting she was sketching, her pen pausing mid-stroke. “Maybe the country mirrors us, maybe we mirror it. Dismal and brilliant, depending on where you’re standing,” she said, her voice a soft counterpoint to Trish’s sharpness.

Chuck swirled the ice in his whiskey glass, the clink of cubes a punctuation to the dialogue. “Perhaps it’s not about where we’re going, but what we’re willing to see along the way,” he suggested, his gaze fixed on the liquid amber, contemplating his own reflection.

The room fell silent, save for the hiss of Trish’s cigarette and the soundtrack of The Cure playing low on the stereo. Each friend was alone with their thoughts, yet united in their shared search for meaning in an age that promised so much and yet often delivered so little.

In this moment, they were the emblems of their generation – affluent, educated, and disenchanted, standing at the precipice of adulthood, unsure whether to leap or to build a bridge to a future they couldn’t yet fathom.

Unedited Chat-GPT:

In the dimly lit confines of Alvin’s sumptuously decorated drawing room, a space where every artifact seemed to whisper tales of forgotten epochs, Drake, with his dark hair falling loosely over his intense eyes, leaned forward. His friends, the Sickie Souse Club, lounged around him, each absorbed in their own thoughts yet united in their shared disillusionment.

“The truly dramatic gesture is being lost from society,” Drake declared, his voice tinged with a mix of passion and despondency. “Our entertainment business is completely toxic.”

Graylyn, seated across from him, her artist’s hands folded in her lap, raised an eyebrow. “But isn’t that just evolution, Drake? Art changes with time.”

Drake shook his head, vehemently disagreeing. “It’s not evolution, it’s erosion! The industry chases profit, not artistry. The depth, the soul of what we once revered in literature, in music, it’s being diluted.”

Chuck, who had been quietly nursing a drink, chimed in, “Well, it’s the market, Drake. It’s always been about what sells.”

Patricia, whose elegant poise often masked her inner turmoil, looked at Drake, her eyes reflecting a shared sense of loss. “But don’t you think there’s still hope? There are still artists who believe in the power of a message, in the magic of words.”

Drake leaned back, a distant look in his eye. “Yes, Trish, but they’re like voices in a storm. Overwhelmed by the noise, the endless, trivial noise.”

Dustin, ever the rationalist, adjusted his glasses. “Perhaps it’s not about the gesture being lost, but about us finding new ways to interpret and interact with these gestures. The digital age has changed the landscape.”

Angela, with her innate optimism, added, “Change doesn’t have to mean the end, Drake. It could be a beginning. Maybe we just need to look harder, listen more closely.”

Drake sighed, feeling the weight of his idealism. “Maybe. But I fear that as we step into this new age, we’re leaving behind the raw, unfiltered essence of what makes art truly transformative.”

The room fell into a contemplative silence, each member of the Sickie Souse Club wrestling with their own visions of an era that seemed to be slipping away. In their hearts, they knew Drake’s lament was not just for art, but for a part of themselves, a youthful innocence that was being challenged by the harsh realities of a world in flux.

In the dimly lit Denny’s, where the clock nudged past 2 AM, the Sickie Souse Club found themselves in a heated debate, their voices a symphony of conviction and playful accusation. At the heart of the dispute was U2’s music video “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” and whether its raw emotional power was genuine or just cleverly crafted artifice.

Angela, her eyes reflecting the neon lights outside, defended the video with a passion that betrayed more than just artistic appreciation. “It’s not just a song, it’s a political statement,” she insisted, her voice rising above the clatter of late-night diners. “Bono’s not just performing; he’s emoting the pain and struggle of an entire generation.”

Drake, lounging back in the booth with a look of amused skepticism, teased, “Oh, come on, Angela. It’s all theatrics. Bono’s just a rock star playing his part.”

The others chimed in, some siding with Angela’s view of authenticity, others echoing Drake’s cynicism. Amidst the banter, Graylyn, her eyes gleaming with mischief, leaned forward, “And let’s not ignore the elephant in the room. Angela, you just have a massive crush on Bono, don’t you?”

Angela’s cheeks flushed a shade of crimson that could rival the diner’s neon sign. “That’s ridiculous,” she retorted, but her voice lacked conviction, and a shy smile played on her lips.

Trish, twirling a strand of her hair, added fuel to the fire, “It’s okay to admit it, Ange. He does have that charismatic rebel vibe.”

Alvin, always the peacemaker, interjected, “Whether it’s love for Bono or not, Angela does have a point. Music and politics have always been intertwined. Think of Dylan, think of Lennon. Bono’s just carrying the torch.”

Dustin, who had been quietly observing the conversation, offered a philosophical perspective. “Authenticity in art is subjective. What matters is the impact it has on the viewer, or in this case, the listener. Angela sees sincerity; Drake sees a performance. Both views are valid.”

As the conversation ebbed and flowed, Charles, who had been amusingly watching the debate, finally spoke, “Regardless of the argument, this is exactly what makes music powerful. It’s not just the melody or the lyrics; it’s the emotions and discussions it sparks.”

As dawn’s early light began to seep through the diner’s windows, the Sickies’ debate simmered down, leaving behind a tapestry of laughter, half-eaten pancakes, and the warmth of friendship. They might not have resolved the authenticity of “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” but in that moment, their bond, much like the music they debated, was undeniably real.

In the dimly lit ambiance of Denny’s at 2 am, the Sickie Souse Club gathered around their usual corner booth, a sense of disillusionment hanging in the air as they discussed the aftermath of Live Aid.

Drake, with his enigmatic aura, broke the silence first. “You know, Live Aid, despite its grandeur, felt overrated to me,” he said, a hint of cynicism in his voice. “It was like watching popular culture being sanitized, stripped of its raw, authentic edge.”

Trish, her slender fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, nodded pensively. “I agree. There was something unsettling about it. Like it was more of a spectacle than a genuine movement for change. It felt… performative.”

Chuck, reclining with his usual nonchalance, added, “Exactly. It was like everyone was there more for the show than the cause. The real issues got lost in the glitter and glam of celebrity.”

Dustin, peering over his glasses, reflected, “It’s a paradox, isn’t it? A concert meant to highlight suffering, yet it felt so distant from the harsh realities of the world.”

Graylyn, her artist’s eyes filled with a critical light, said, “It’s the commodification of activism. Turning empathy into entertainment, that’s what it was. The true message got diluted.”

Angela, her optimism slightly dimmed, sighed. “I wanted to believe in it, I really did. But there was this nagging feeling that it was just a temporary high for the masses, a fleeting sense of unity.”

Alvin, his mystical demeanor somewhat shadowed, leaned in. “It’s like watching a mirage of hope, a beautifully orchestrated illusion. We’re left wondering, what now? What’s the next step after the applause dies down?”

The conversation ebbed and flowed, their voices a chorus of disenchantment. In that small corner of Denny’s, they shared a moment of collective introspection, pondering the complexities of popular culture and the elusive nature of genuine change.

As the night deepened and their coffee cups emptied, they each grappled with the ambiguous feeling that lingered, a sense that the world was shifting beneath their feet, leaving them yearning for something more profound than what the mainstream could offer.

I was determined to use my long weekend to watch Nymphomaniac in its entirety in one sitting. Then some strange power messed up my whole day yesterday, I couldn’t think straight, and I had huge problems installing my new computer and dealing with all sorts of craziness so I got started on Nymphomaniac late and fell asleep with an hour to go. Then I woke up this morning and first thing watched the last hour. Since the sun comes up at the end of the movie it was like I had lived through the whole experience of the movie myself, in a strange magical ritual of rebirth, which was awesome. 

I used Chat-GPT to write two passages about the Sickie Souse Club. Even though they’re hardly original, and I would be very unimpressed with any writer who tried to sell them to me, they’re mine and it did make me happy to read them. So posting them is genuinely an act of self-expression, one step closer to understanding what I I should be doing artistically. They’re both versions of the same prompt, the second one is tweaked a little better.

Version 1

In the hushed corridors of Ravenswood Academy, where the weight of history and privilege pressed down like an invisible fog, the Sickie Souse Club gathered for one last hurrah. It was the eve of graduation, a time when the future beckoned with a mix of dread and anticipation, like the distant rumble of a storm.

Drake Marshall, with his poet’s heart and rebel’s spirit, leaned against the aged oak locker, his thoughts adrift in a sea of Kerouac and Burroughs. The Doors’ lyrics whispered in his mind, a siren song of freedom and chaos. He glanced at Patricia “Trish” Crown, ethereal and dreamy, lost in the melody of Fleetwood Mac that only she could hear. She caught his gaze, her eyes a mirror to his soul, reflecting a shared yearning for a life less ordinary.

Charles “Chuck” Crown, Trish’s twin, stood beside her, a study in contrasts. His future was a well-trodden path laid out by generations of Crowns, yet his eyes held a glint of mischief, a silent rebellion against the inevitability of his destiny. He smirked at Drake, a silent acknowledgment of the wild adventures they had shared, adventures that had become the fabric of their youth.

Dustin Everett, the enigmatic philosopher, leaned against the opposite locker, his expression thoughtful. He was a bridge between worlds, his mind a labyrinth of existential questions and digital dreams. He was bound for M.I.T., a future crafted in codes and algorithms, yet his heart remained in the poetic musings he shared with Drake.

Graylyn Aleksandr, the artist of the group, her spirit as colorful and tumultuous as her canvases, sketched idly in her notebook. Her future at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was a blank canvas waiting for her vibrant strokes. Her engagement to Drake was a promise of a life painted in bold, unconventional hues.

Angela Thorne, the athlete with a philosopher’s soul, stood slightly apart. Her gaze was steady, her determination as unwavering as her strokes in the pool. She dreamt of Loyola University, of a life dedicated to helping others. In her, the group found their conscience, a grounding force amidst their whirlwind lives.

Alvin Albrecht, the mystic, lounged nearby, his eyes closed as if seeing beyond the physical realm. His future at Cornell was but a stepping stone to a world of design and mystery. He was their oracle, a window to a world of astral planes and ancient wisdom.

As the bell tolled, signaling the end of an era, they gathered their belongings. The Sickie Souse Club, a tapestry of dreams and desires, stepped out into the twilight. The air was electric, charged with the energy of impending change.

Drake led them to Chuck’s borrowed Mercedes Estate, the vehicle of many a nocturnal escapade. The car’s engine hummed a familiar tune, a prelude to their final journey together. They drove through the streets of Evanston, the world outside a blur of neon and nostalgia.

The car came to a stop at their favorite haunt, Denny’s, an oasis of fluorescent light in the encroaching darkness. They piled into a booth, the familiar setting a bittersweet comfort. The waitress, a fixture in their late-night sojourns, approached with a knowing smile, her pen poised over her notepad.

As they ordered, their voices melded into a symphony of laughter and reminiscence. They spoke of the past, of the adventures and misadventures that had forged their bond. They spoke of the future, of the paths they would soon walk, separate yet forever intertwined.

The night deepened, and the moment of parting drew near. They lingered over empty plates and half-drunk cups of coffee, reluctant to break the spell. Finally, as the first light of dawn crept through the windows, they rose as one.

Outside, they embraced, each hug a promise, a pledge of enduring friendship. They whispered farewells, their words echoes of a time that would soon be a memory. As they went their separate ways, the strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds filled the air, a fitting anthem to their shared past and individual futures.

In the golden glow of the rising sun, the Sickie Souse Club walked away from Denny’s, their silhouettes etched against the light. They were young, full of dreams and doubts, stepping into a world that awaited them with open arms and unknown challenges. And as they dispersed into the dawn, the echo of their laughter lingered, a testament to their unbreakable bond, a bond forged in the hallowed halls of Ravenswood Academy.

Version 2

In the dim twilight of an early spring evening, the lights of Ravenswood Academy flickered like distant stars, casting a warm glow over the school’s ivy-clad walls. It was a time of endings and beginnings, of whispered secrets and shared dreams. The Sickie Souse Club, seven friends bound by their unique spirits and unspoken bonds, lingered on the edge of tomorrow, the precipice of their graduation in May of 1988.

Drake, his thoughts as tumultuous as the melodies of The Cure, leaned against the ancient oak in the courtyard, his gaze lost in the dance of the fireflies. Beside him, Trish, ethereal as a muse in a painting, watched him with eyes full of unspoken words, her thoughts a blend of longing and uncertainty.

“Remember this moment,” Drake said softly, breaking the silence. “Years from now, when we’re scattered like leaves in the wind, remember this place, this feeling.”

Trish nodded, her hand finding his. “I’ll never forget,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Nearby, Charles, the mastermind of midnight escapades, leaned against his borrowed Mercedes Estate, a smirk playing on his lips. He was the orchestrator of their nocturnal journeys, the driver of their adventures, always pushing the boundaries of what was possible.

Dustin, deep in conversation with Alvin, discussed the mysteries of consciousness, their voices a low murmur under the starlit sky. Alvin’s mystical insights, gleaned from his belief in past lives, intertwined with Dustin’s philosophical musings, creating a tapestry of thought that stretched beyond the ordinary.

Graylyn, her artist’s soul ever restless, sketched the scene before her, her charcoal strokes capturing the essence of the moment. Angela, her athletic grace belying a depth of thought, listened intently, her mind weaving their words into a tapestry of understanding.

As the night deepened, they found themselves drawn to Graylyn’s studio, a haven for their creativity and camaraderie. The space, much like Andy Warhol’s Factory, buzzed with the energy of youth and the promise of the unknown.

In the studio, amidst the clutter of paint tubes and canvases, they shared stories, laughter, and music that echoed their innermost selves. The Cure’s haunting melodies filled the air, mingling with the scent of oil paint and the warmth of friendship.

As the night wore on, they spoke of their dreams and fears, of the paths they would soon take, diverging yet forever intertwined. Drake’s voice, tinged with a writer’s melancholy, spoke of his literary aspirations, of capturing the essence of their youth in words that would outlast them all.

Trish, her voice soft but resolute, shared her uncertainty about the future, her desire to find purpose beyond the expectations set upon her. Charles, with a confident grin, talked of embracing the family legacy, of adventures yet to come before settling into the inevitable.

Dustin, his eyes alight with the fire of knowledge, spoke of technology’s potential, of worlds yet to be explored. Alvin, his words laced with mysticism, shared visions of beauty and harmony, of designs that would challenge the mundane.

Angela, strong and thoughtful, spoke of her desire to make a difference, to touch lives in ways that mattered. And Graylyn, her artist’s heart laid bare, talked of capturing the fleeting moments of life, of creating beauty that would endure.

As dawn approached, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, they stood together, a circle of friends on the cusp of change. In that moment, suspended between the past and the future, they made a silent promise to remember, to carry a piece of this night, this bond, into whatever tomorrow held.

And as the first rays of sunlight kissed the horizon, the Sickie Souse Club dispersed, each carrying a fragment of shared dreams and memories, like a melody that lingers long after the song has ended.

Today I was reading “Called Out Of Darkness” by Anne Rice, and she had the text of Gloria In Excelsis Deo in there, saying it was her favorite Hymn back then. Tonight I scryed NIA, the 24th Aethyr, and below is what I wrote on June 16, the first time I scryed it:

A suit of armor appears with a sword, an ancient enemy. None may pass who are not qualified. Beware now the forces you interfere with. It is radiant bliss of the cities of light like the ship in Close Encounters. It is like the medieval room at the Art Institute. Everything is together where it should be. I feel terrible because I’m drunk though, and I should probably not do this again. I feel very drained and I will have to come back in the morning when I am sober. But this does feel more like the Quiet City from my decrees. They would have lived for this, wouldn’t they? It was brought forth from the chaos of nature. There were beings like Dee who knew how to do things, and that was the meaning of guardianship. There is knowledge of civilization here. And I sense Dee and the arising and passing of life, contributing to the edifice of civilization. This was the meaning of Christ at that time.

It will be interesting to compare with other visions of Nia to see if mine is accurate or relevant. I’m having a bit of confusion because even though I’m drunk and got a message that this might not “qualify”, it is vivid and full of information. But perhaps some spirit here will help me see the propriety that Dee was hoping to preserve with this system, extending the British Empire.

Thank you. Gloria In Excelsis Deo.

The above is what I wrote weeks ago, I just want to emphasize that I was reading those words in Rice’s book today, and then found them again tonight in my own record of scrying NIA. There were other things that happened today so absurdly synchronous that I can do nothing but rejoice.

I’m so inspired by my birthday week of conventions – Flashback Weekend last week, seeing the awesome Rose McGowan, and then this weekend FanExpo, the first day of which I just got back from – that I came up with an idea for The Downward Spiral, part 2 of the Sickie Souse Quartet. In the sequel Warren is somehow involved with this sordid disgusting sex-addict director loosely based on a real Hollywood director who millions of people have heard of. This director is a virulent misogynist who has his minions sabotage movies so that he will be called in to “save” them by re-editing them, leaving out scenes where women are portrayed sympathetically and rewriting endings around his own pathologically disgusting idea of male bonding. So there’s a move based on what happened with Aliens 3, where they killed Newt. There’s a young female character that everyone in America loves, just like Newt, and then this freak director directs his minion Warren to sabotage it, and he comes in and kills her and humiliate the lead character, and the lead actress by making the whole thing an exercise in sexual horror like Aliens 3 or The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover. The whole novel is to examine how the entertainment business in the 90s became a breeding ground for disgusting sex and drug addicts who don’t care about audiences at all.

Also, I’m wondering who Warren really is. I may switch up and make Derek the slimiest villain of The ArtIC Circle. Maybe Warren will be the evil adult director, who has this ranch where he has these sex parties where he directs “Warrens”, which are orgies of naked gay men forced together into small spaces, simulating the hellish paintings of M.C. Escher.

But the new idea I got tonight is that a major piece of it is a story based on the travesty of Aliens 3, and whether the friend is Derek or Warren he somehow involves the Sickies in it, and it’s a very dark battle with a sad ending like The Empire Strikes Back.