Akāśadāka writes to evolve his thinking
Other
Mapping the Second Force The aim of the Campfire is to get warm. When we gather, the "logs" we throw into the center are our struggles, our friction, and our raw data. The density of the wood you choose to share dictates the heat of the fire. Sparks
Other
A Somatic Guide for the Campfire When we talk about Worlds 48, 24, and 12 around the campfire, we aren't discussing abstract esoteric geography. We are talking about the exact physical frequency our bodies are vibrating at in any given moment. To do regenerative work—whether that’s
Writing
I wrote this parable to explore an archetype that I was beginning to see play out in my behaviour and then realised he had been there for a very long time, occasionally driving the bus. Listen to the audio as you read, if that is helpful. The Choir Boy Parable
Songs
A sea shanty crafted to help me remember the Mandala of the Five Wisdom Dakinis and transmute poisons as they arise in my mind throughout the day. The Haul of the Five Lights0:00/204.9599791× crafted January 2026
Songs
Crafted at the Turua Boat Ramp as I contemplated my new offering and considered those who were cold. By the Campfire0:00/257.3999791× crafted February 2026
Songs
I wrote this to process the grief I was experiencing when Gracie passed. I have cried many times to this song remembering her gentle presence. An Ode to Gracie my dog pal0:00/329.9599791× crafted February 2026
hungry ghost realm
My addictions live only for the high and paper over the cracks in my life, like the silence of being alone. A raw dispatch on breaking the night time habit of digital sedation, by putting the iPad down and touching the Real to find true satiety. There is nothing like a good dream.
hell realm
I am cold. I need to get warm. But how? A raw dispatch from the Turua boat ramp out on the Hauraki Plains where surviving purely in mechanical momentum is not a life, it is waiting. What does it take to truly come to life?
Writing
I have often mistaken the fist unclenching for true rest. But what happens when my whole arm drops? A dispatch from the old bus on the heavy shock of gravity, the quiet rebellion of deep rest, and why the soil never explains itself to the gardener. What will you stop carrying?