“Keep your eyes on the bloody road,” Kali chastises in a husky, bong-thick Greek contralto as the car swerves back and forth n’ tonka toy tuff across the snaking metal groove move of the tramlines.

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As they begin their magick rite, the sky clouds over and darkens. A cold wind sweeps the top of Glastonbury Tor, the legendary British power spot where ley lines converge and primal dragon energy is concentrated. Four altars are set up with wooden poles forming triangular spaces, littered with talismans.

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When we think of, what is social change? It brings up, for me, questions of what is a society, what is our culture? And, even if you look at the language of a culture, it’s an organism. It is an organism which grows, and is made up in this case of individuals who— Western culture, at least 20th century, 21st century culture, has been very dominated by the idea of the individual.

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A curious thing, this hostel full of “Heads”, to use the 60s vernacular. Drug-taking explorers of the innerspaces, well-versed psychonauts who have broken open their heads and had a good look around the infinite spaces found there.

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Forget the war on terror: global military has been engaged in a decades-long campaign to find chemicals that can control the mind, and 50 years after their first experiments it seems the battlefield of the brain is once again front and centre.

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The day before Easter. It’s near midday and the noon day sun is beating down through clouds as I stand, feet spread-eagled, hands reaching up to embrace the sky, my body a bridge between heaven and earth.

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