The shamans manipulate neural symbols

• +.. deconstructed


• +..post punk


• +.. Idles

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They tell us to stand in a circle and set an intention for the ceremony. I focus on the darkness behind my eyelids and concentrate on health, strength and bounty for the people closest to me. Maris and my wife are close to me, and I can feel everyone’s presence echo on my skin. The ritual begins when the shamans start to walk in a circle around our small group while playing what seem like improvised instruments. Since I can’t see them, my imagination paints the stage. One shakes a branch of dried leaves in my ear so that it sounds like the patter of a gentle rain. The other starts a steady rhythm on a hand drum. Someone whistles. And the cacophony of sound only grows weirder over time, as I imagine the shamans are dancing around us. The rain morphs into the high-pitched plink of someone running their fingers over the hard tines of a pinecone. I hear the whistle of wind through trees and the scent of pine fills my nose. Just as I start to feel like I am weathering a storm in a forest, the unmistakable notes of Beethoven’s Für Elise come through what must be the plinking mental prongs of a child’s music box.
Carney, Scott.