Gwyllm.com

Here’s Looking At You:

On The Menu:

The Links

New Blotter Art

Poesy – Rabia al Basri

Gwyllm – Once Upon A Time In The West

Lusine – Just A Cloud (feat. Vilja Larjosto)

Whit Griffin Poesy

Gwyllm – Dreams

Terence McKenna – The Alchemical Dream

Gwyllm – Work in Progress: Seraphim/Eye Mandala

Martin Nonstatic – Granite Remixes

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The Links: A Kichwa Activist on Aya / Hubris In Action / Not in Egypt… / Not to be Fooled Again / Octopuses prefer…

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Nothing says happiness like: New Blotter Art!

So, I have been busy of late. New art, publishing of older pieces, and now a new blotter piece. I am extremely fond of this image. 2013 was a good year for my art, and the world surviving the end of time (2012, remember?). I think this piece shows some of my newfound enthusiasm for entering another age, unscathed.

This piece is reflective of my involvement (at one time with Peyote/Mescaline) I credit my interaction with this wondrous plant with my first realizations as a young person of the interconnectedness of life and spirit here on Gaia. I perceived roads, paths of energy and life emanating across the world. It was an awakening that helped me grow in my life.

Much thanks to Marty for printing this for me, and for our partnership on all things Blotter. So, appreciated.

G

Peyote Visions

45.00USD Inclusive of US mailing Cost.

Peyote Visions (Overseas)

65.00USD Inclusive of Overseas mailing cost.

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Poesy – Rabia al Basri:
I have loved Thee with two loves –
a selfish love and a love that is worthy of Thee.
As for the love which is selfish,
Therein I occupy myself with Thee,
to the exclusion of all others.
But in the love which is worthy of Thee,
Thou dost raise the veil that I may see Thee.
Yet is the praise not mine in this or that,
But the praise is to Thee in both that and this.
—
If I adore You out of fear of Hell, burn me in Hell!
If I adore you out of desire for Paradise,
Lock me out of Paradise.
But if I adore you for Yourself alone,
Do not deny to me Your eternal beauty.
—
Your hope in my heart is the rarest treasure
Your Name on my tongue is the sweetest word
My choicest hours
Are the hours I spend with You —
O Allah, I can’t live in this world
Without remembering You–
How can I endure the next world
Without seeing Your face?
I am a stranger in Your country
And lonely among Your worshippers:
This is the substance of my complaint.
—
With my Beloved I alone have been,
When secrets tenderer than evening airs
Passed, and the Vision blest
Was granted to my prayers,
That crowned me, else obscure, with endless fame;
The while amazed between
His Beauty and His Majesty
I stood in silent ecstasy
Revealing that which o’er my spirit went and came.
Lo, in His face commingled
Is every charm and grace;
The whole of Beauty singled
Into a perfect face
Beholding Him would cry,
‘There is no God but He, and He is the most High.’

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A piece of writing from about 8 years ago. Just found it, thought it might work in this entry…

Once Upon A Time In The West:

Hey, it was Semi Legal!

So, in 1967, I went from someone exploring psychedelics to someone who sought to help others find what they wanted. I met some characters up from Austin Texas in Denver who arrived in a beater 1950 Chevrolet, with a boot/trunk full of gelatine capsules containing Peyote extract/Mescaline. 2 of these double 00 capsules and one would enter into the realm. I traveled around with them in Colorado, whilst they distributed their wares.

As our relationship deepened I started to fly from Colorado with suitcases of mescaline to San Francisco, to exchange for Owsley Acid to bring back so they could distribute in Texas. If we had only known, Stanley was living no more than a mile and a half away, producing LSD in Denver, whilst financing The Family Dog locally…

I never got paid money, as I wasn’t looking for cash, but I handed out hundreds of free mescaline doses across the west. I was on a roll…

At that time, when I was in Colorado, I would host people travelling from the east coast going west, and vice versa. Along the way in midsummer, I hosted a group coming from Millbrook New York, where Tim Leary, Ralph Metzner & Richard Alpert (later Baba Ram Dass) had set up the Castalia Foundation a few years earlier… Now it was Tim & Rosemary there, with people coming through. Anyway, 6 travelers showed up at my door one night, and I put them up for a couple of days. Sweet people, all of them. We spend a couple of days tripping together, and on the way out back to their car, one of them stops, and presses 4 capsules of a red crystalline substance into my hands. “This is something special” he said, “it is Yage. Take it out in the countryside”. I of course didn’t know what Yage was at that point. I thanked them, and off they went to San Francisco.

A couple of days later, I flew out to the west coast again to deliver mescaline. After I was done I flew down to L.A. on my way home. I stopped off at friends commune. Of course I had my bottle of mescaline caps, and at the top of the bottle wrapped in tin foil, the crystallized yage. I tossed the bottle over to my friend Richard when I came in, saying, “Hey! Mescaline, share it around the group!” Then thinking, I said, “Except for those capsules in the tin foil! I am saving those for something special!”…. We talked for a bit, and I headed over to Fairfax to Canter’s to meet other friends.

I was up all night of course. After Canters it was on to Sunset Strip and hanging out until daytime. It was normal for that time it seems.

When I came back to the commune the next day, Richard grabbed me and took me aside…. “I have to apologize, I took the capsules in the tin foil before you told us not to…. what was in it?” I asked, “Why?” He just stood there for a minute, composing himself and then speaking quietly, quickly, it just spilled out… “I took the red ones, and topped it off with 2 of the mescaline caps. in about a half hour it kicked in, and then I was in a place I had never been before with Acid, or anything!” “I was tripping, and then all of a sudden, I was in a jungle. I realized I was a jaguar following a caiman or a crocodile…. and then I transformed into an anaconda following the jaguar… and then I looked up into the sky, and I became a great eagle flying over the jungle and the mountains!” “I passed into a great light after that, and woke up this morning!”

“Damn” I thought… “Sorry to have missed that”… I assured him it was okay. It was not until reading Michael Harner’s (Bless his soul) works later on did I know what happened to my friend.

Modern Note: As I see it, someone in Millbrook or elsewhere had gotten ahold of some Caapi Vine, and reduced it down to crystalline levels, and capped it. When Richard mixed the mescaline with it, there was a great synergy produced, not unlike the traditional mix of Caapi & P. Viridis…. If I recall, some tribes on the western slopes of the Andes combine Caapi with San Pedro (there might be the precedent!) I don’t know how safe it is though…

Back To The Past: Well, we hung out the rest of the day before I caught the next flight out to Denver. (Richard and I had further adventures, but those are for another time.)

Flying back into Denver, I decided it was time to head up into the mountains to a cabin the Mescaline Crew had, but that is an adventure for another time.

Pax,
G

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Lusine – Just A Cloud (feat. Vilja Larjosto)

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Whit Griffin Poesy:

A Far-Shining Crystal
(Extract: )“The River of Milk, the Snake Canoe”

The stone age didn’t end because we ran
out of stone. The force that formed the
stone can also dissolve it. Bacchus turned
the amethyst red. No god, but the translator,
turned Andromeda into a dromedary.
Tamberlane’s tent turned from white to red.
Red stones do not appeal to idealists. Roman
widows wore white. Rosicrucians believe iron
is the product of dark powers. The sly fox in
sympathy with the wily god. The lame god
is the provider of all good things.
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A Welter of Cormorants

If you’re not too busy, my
house is on fire. No close-ups
please, I’m too old. Everything
can be mitigated with the proper
use of scented candles. The
Supreme Court turned the tomato
into a vegetable. Let’s not tussle
on this sandy shore; share the shell.
Around here we say carapace.
You’ve a penchant for the superfluous.
Outfitting a bass boat with an
astrolabe. A moped with no petrol
is just a bike. Help yourself to as
many samosas as you think you
deserve, then go back for seconds.
If animals could talk there’d be
more vegetarians. The moon
shines enough light for the muskrats
to find their ramble. We found
a didgeridoo in Saskatchewan.
The most heavily-scored eleven
minutes of my life.

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Extract: “We Who Saw Everything”

All these worlds are transformed
by thy hand bearing fire. Worshippers of the solar fire.
Savitri revealed herself in the sacrificial fire. A tiger
was created in the sacrificial fire. The business of
the torch. Nine days she wandered over the earth,
with flaming torches in her hands. The glittering glassy
plains. The waste-places flowed with honey. Tapio,
Lord of the Forest. In the forest of Taragam dwelt
multitudes of heretical rishis. Those who blow on knots.
The master, the provost and the scholar. The
assembly of the wonderful head. And his severed
head they strung on the skull-rack. Ye shall leave
with him all your heads. As it is said Thor had a
piece of whetstone in his forehead.

[Balder Waits
For The Old
Order To Be
Destroyed]

From the left eye of Izanagi is born the sun goddess, and
from his right eye the moon god. Yellow like the amber body of
the goddess with the sapphire eyes. When the child
had ceased speaking, the king’s right eye was no
longer blind. The child is protected against the malice
of his brother. The bush is hidden. He lived the life
of a saint until his evil brother led him into sin.
Then he fled his city, Tula. He followed the word
of the scorpion-man. A scorpion will not go near
a filbert. I shall be so valuable that there will be
whole towns without one of me. Coral tree, tree of
the red puma. As Adonis to the myrrh tree. Born
from a hollow mulberry tree. The rim of the
shaman’s drum is cut from a living larch. On
March 22 a pine tree was brought into the
sanctuary of Cybele. Graybeard with the pineleaf hat.
He bled the calf of his right leg to
stain thorns with blood. He who has come to
us, his body is the flesh of gods! Born rather
than flourished. Let me take birth in the
Dhanakosha Lake. The code of Handsome Lake.
Hymns on the divine origin of water. Osiris
of the mysteries, who sprang from the returning
waters. Waiting beyond the breakers. Why
are the stone images of the ship destroyed?
Reuben is said to be as unstable as water. A
tea of ephedra and fennel. An ephedra beverage
in the home of Zoroaster. Olaf the Quiet
introduced cups to replace animal horns. Grim
the Good, a drinking horn that could foretell
the future. Grim, one of Odin’s many names.
No mention of drinking horns in Beowulf. As
it was once thought Solomon wrote the Iliad.
Philites composed a glossary of obscure archaic
words. Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote on the Trojan
origin of Britain. Paper was introduced to the west
by Chinese POWs from the Battle of Talas.
Pancrates convinced Hadrian to name a lotus
after Antinous. Pan hid his pipe from the Satyrs,
but they stole it nevertheless. The pipe is the
universe. We are microscopic instances of a
macrocosmic event. Ghost constellations. Leo
was the domicile of Osiris. Long after Taurus
had ceased to be the first of the signs. A
calendar is a pile of stones. Zeus’ semen fell
upon the Agdos rock. A new way down the
mountain. The Mountain Mother protects the
hunt. The protection of Horus is the great dwarf
who goes about the Netherworld at twilight.

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Gwyllm/ Dreams:

A couple of weeks ago I had another one of those really odd dreams. In the dream I was watching and experiencing the collapse of society and civilization in the US as we know it. It was like watching an illuminated map with lights winkling out here there, everywhere, until the map was almost completely dark.

At first, I can feel an overwhelming panic with what was occurring. Society was in turmoil. As I was watching I realized that there was an underlying net of lights hardly visible that was still illuminated. There was hope and there was new awakenings…

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Thanks to P.D. Newman

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Work in Progress: Seraphim/Eye Mandala

A new direction I am working on. I hope you enjoy.

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Martin Nonstatic – Granite Remixes

Thank you for visiting!

Gwyllm

Another week, another birthday. Time flies when you are having fun. Got to spend time with our son and his son for a quiet gathering. It was sweetness. Finished up an art piece “Rubedo” (It is Shining, It is Shining) as well on my birthday. (See below). Thanks for visiting, please leave feedback if you so choose!

G

On The Menu:

Links:

New Piece of Art

Poetry: Three By Gary

Worakls – Elea

Up In the Hills/Close Encounters of the Weird Kind…

Parra for Cuva – Swept Away (feat. Anna Naklab & Mr. Gramo)

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Links: Hearing Voices? / The Ol’ Three Card Monte / Life Thrums with Music / She Can’t Forget / AI Slop: – John Oliver 

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New Piece of Art: Rubedo (It is Shining, It is Shining. Acrylic Pens, 3 weeks of work. I am hoping to be working again with my airbrushes soon, to take on some new challenges.

For Reference: Rubedo

Poetry: Three by Gary

Riprap

Lay down these words

Before your mind like rocks.

placed solid, by hands

In choice of place, set

Before the body of the mind

in space and time:

Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall

riprap of things:

Cobble of milky way,

straying planets,

These poems, people,

lost ponies with

Dragging saddles—

and rocky sure-foot trails.

The worlds like an endless

four-dimensional

Game of Go.

ants and pebbles

In the thin loam, each rock a word

a creek-washed stone

Granite: ingrained

with torment of fire and weight

Crystal and sediment linked hot

all change, in thoughts,

As well as things.

—

Above Pate Valley

We finished clearing the last

Section of trail by noon,

High on the ridge-side

Two thousand feet above the creek

Reached the pass, went on

Beyond the white pine groves,

Granite shoulders, to a small

Green meadow watered by the snow,

Edged with Aspen—sun

Straight high and blazing

But the air was cool.

Ate a cold fried trout in the

Trembling shadows. I spied

A glitter, and found a flake

Black volcanic glass—obsidian—

By a flower. Hands and knees

Pushing the Bear grass, thousands

Of arrowhead leavings over a

Hundred yards. Not one good

Head, just razor flakes

On a hill snowed all but summer,

A land of fat summer deer,

They came to camp. On their

Own trails. I followed my own

Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill,

Pick, singlejack, and sack

Of dynamite.

Ten thousand years.

—

John Muir on Mt. Ritter

After scanning its face again and again,
I began to scale it, picking my holds
With intense caution. About half-way
To the top, I was suddenly brought to
A dead stop, with arms outspread
Clinging close to the face of the rock
Unable to move hand or foot
Either up or down. My doom
Appeared fixed. I MUST fall.
There would be a moment of
Bewilderment, and then,
A lifeless rumble down the cliff
To the glacier below.
My mind seemed to fill with a
Stifling smoke. This terrible eclipse
Lasted only a moment, when life blazed
Forth again with preternatural clearness.
I seemed suddenly to become possessed
Of a new sense. My trembling muscles
Became firm again, every rift and flaw in
The rock was seen as through a microscope,
My limbs moved with a positiveness and precision
With which I seemed to have
Nothing at all to do.

Gary & Yers Truly at Dale Pendell’s Wake/Birthday 2018.

Dale Pendell, the renowned poet, writer lived with Gary back when, late 60’s and into the 70’s. They remained friends for years up to Dales passing. It was a deep honor talking with Gary and being friends with Dale Pendell.

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Worakls – Elea

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Up In the Hills/Close Encounters of the Weird Kind…

In the summer of 1969, I took to traveling and visiting various communes and communities in Northern California and Southern Oregon. One of these that I went to was on a headwater of a river up in the Siskiyou Mountains. The first thing that I noticed was that the camp/commune was incredibly orderly and respective of the land. (Many weren’t sad to say)

The man who started the camp, was an ex-marine, who went on the Boho, Beat path after leaving the military. He, to my young eyes was ancient; 36-37 years old. I liked him, he was straight forward and kind. We remained friends for years.

On my second visit to the camp, there were a new couple who were there. They struck me as odd, and I had a vague memory (possibly) of the woman. Their vibe was not as chilled out as the rest of the camp. The man was especially jittery. Folks seemed uneasy around them as well. They honestly gave me the creeps. After a day or so there, I packed up and moved on off to see other friends, folks, groups relieved to be moving on.

I didn’t make it back to the camp for a few weeks. When I showed back up, several folks had transitioned on. Among those gone, were the strange couple.

I asked my friend what happened. “They got incredibly weird, always suggesting group sex, or odd ceremonies. I finally asked them to move on, and they did.”

I forgot about this incident for years until September 5th, 1975 (as I recall) I was just getting myself together for the day, watching TV with my friend Mike in his Westwood Blvd flat in L.A. All of a sudden, this incident came on the screen in a news flash:

I yelled out “Squeaky”! as I saw the events unfold on the TV. It was 1/2 of the two up in the camp from 6 years earlier. (I held back the name for this reveal). There she was, trying to shoot Gerald Ford in Sacramento.

It was indeed Squeaky. I believe she was one of the women that I met in this episode of my earlier life: Darkness

Her companion, as I remember “Rabbit” (aptly named, jittery fellow that he was) had supposedly/mysteriously disappeared after angering Charlie up at Spahn Ranch above Claremont California. It was said that he was killed and buried on Manson’s orders. I have no way to verify this. It was the name that he was called by the folks up at the camp in the Siskiyous.

Funny how paths cross in life. Twice with Squeaky in the flesh, and then to see her on national TV.

Over the years I have had strange occurrences up in the hills. Some four legged, mostly two legged. I took to moving off trail when I heard folks coming my way. Although there are good people everywhere, there are some strange folks up in the hills. My ex-brother-in-law had a mining claim up on the Klamath, he told me that he always packed a pistol due to the encounters he had over the years.

I confess, this chance meeting was one of the strangest. I became much more wary as the years wore on. I still exercise caution in the woods.

Thanks for reading!

G

—

Parra for Cuva – Swept Away (feat. Anna Naklab & Mr. Gramo)

A short entry. Not a bunch of verbiage, but straight to the point.

Enjoy.

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On The Menu: The Links/ Radio EarthRites 21st year/ A Bit of Art Bohdisattva #109/ A Beautiful Tragedy / W.B. Yeats – The Second Coming

The Links: Clear Spot/A Span of Autonomy / DMT Entities possibly Real? / Why Love Matters Most / Pure Awareness: 5meO-DMT / The Importance of Counter-Clockwise Dance Rituals

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Radio EarthRites 21st year:

Listen To Radio EarthRites Here / Want to Link Radio EarthRites?

Time flies when you’re having fun. 21 years ago, an online friend suggested that I put together a radio station. At that time my website was called Earth Rites, it was a mixture of neo pagan and psychedelic writings… it included a forum which still exist to this day.

Although the station is hobbled with my lack of promotional savvy it still continues and is on 24/7 365 days a year.

It is mainly music nowadays, but it has featured poet’s philosophers and lectures on the various subjects as well over the years. We recently had a week of poetry and if I can organize it will be having more of those in the future.

We have bounced around with various providers over the years. The biggest problem has been financial in supporting the cost. Our current provider is pretty good cost wise, but we do see the station going up and down on and offline a bit too frequently. I would love to be able to run a dedicated computer with enough bandwidth out of my studio. Hopefully we can work towards that in the near future.

I do want to shout out to our supporters who have helped keep us going over the years. You know who you are, and I so appreciate your support and care and deep interest in the music that is provided along with the occasional poetry and lectures.

At this point people usually ask for donations which is all good and well… I also understand that money is tight, and the cost of living is prohibitive. I would appreciate folks sharing out the links or even posting on the site what is the good, the bad, the ugly, the moving bits about the station. Feedback is greatly appreciated so if you want to comment, please do.

In celebration the 21st year we also have a new mix that you might appreciate. Please give it a listen share it out as I’ve said and remember station is here for all of you.

Deep Thanks To All!

Gwyllm

Catch the new show here, now streaming:

Listen To Radio EarthRites

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A Bit of Art:

Bodhisattva #109

This is one of those pieces that I put together several years ago in the mid to late ’90s. India Ink, Pen & Airbrush. I used multiple friskets on this for all the different layers that you can see. The piece took several months as I had to cut friskets for each round of spraying.

Working with multiple mediums on a piece has its challenges. One of those challenges is fixing and or ignoring mistakes. They do happen. The key perhaps is to incorporate the accident into the body of the work. Bob Ross “Happy Accidents” and all of that.

This piece follows along the line of work that I have pursued since I first discovered Mandalas back in the 1960’s. I found the mid-late 90’s particularly fruitful for art. The momentum drifted away from physical art to computer in the early 2000’s but is now cycling back. (Thankfully).

Bohdisattva #109 is available as Blotter Art currently; it will soon be released in other formats.

If you have any questions about it, techniques etc., please ask.

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A Beautiful Tragedy:

W.B. Yeats – The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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Thank you for visiting!

Gwyllm

Radio EarthRites Presents: “The Awakening” Dream Themes, Awakenings and much more. Music to stimulate your frontal cortex! Show Currently Playing!

Come out of the circle of time And into the circle of love. – Rumi

In Memory of John McFadden, John Vail & Jonathan Ott

Radio EarthRites: The Awakening Mix

“After the Solstice” Mix
Featuring “Hashisheen End of Law”… and oodles of new music, as well as music not played on the station for several years and more.
Mix starts at 4:00PM PCT Sunday the 22nd

We have pantheons within us. – John Opsopaus.

I have been neglectful. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa. I actually started this entry in January, but you may or may not know I was very ill for some 4/5 months and it fell off of the to-do list. Better Now!

Lots of changes in our world. Our first grandchild, Sorrel born at the end of last November. My last sibling, Suzanne from my original family died 4 days before Sorrel was born. Odd how life balances… I am now an orphan, my whole original family is gone. I do have some lovely 1/2 siblings from my father’s second marriage, and step siblings who I am close to. Life continues. Still dealing with the loss of my sister. Sorrel though is the joy of our lives:

I have a new book! “Alcove of Dreams”, info included below. I hope you enjoy this Entry.

Blessings,
G
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On The Menu:

The Links
The Book
In Memory
3 Poems – W.B. Yeats
Levon Minassian – Bab’aziz
Ur Fascism
Walter Nakai – Creation
____________________
The Links:
We Weren’t Lilly White
“The infant race”: David Crosby’s UFO conspiracy theory
Capuchins Are ‘Kidnapping’ Baby Monkeys of Different Species, And Scientists Are Baffled
A cure for individualism
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The Book:

Purchase Alcove of Dreams $49.00 (USA only)

(Please Contact Us for Overseas Price/Shipping)

Purchase Alcove of Dreams Signed Edition $59.00 (USA only)

(Please Contact Us for Overseas Price/Shipping)

Nearly 200 pages, a hybrid of sorts, combining some of my artwork over the last 2 decades with chronicles of adventures along the path as well. Illustrations included those done for the Invisible College Review, as well as sections for my visionary work, and for Radio EarthRites, another project spanning 20 years. The writing covers various adventures from the mid 60’s to the present. Some of the entries are entheogenically fueled, others not so much.

“Gwyllm does not withhold his cornucopia of visual delights. His collages are an abundant offering of intricacy, movement, and mystique. Sometimes, it is mysterious and thought provoking; at other times, it is accessible and fun. Either way, it is always delicious.”

Liba Waring Stambollion, Painter, author, queen bee of the artist-writer association “Dreams & Divinities”.

An Abbreviated PDF To Give You an Idea About It.

Alcove of Dreams 5-25 Online
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In Memory of…

I first became aware of Diane in the mid 1990’s. Along with my family, we had ventured to Powell’s Book Store in NW Portland one Saturday afternoon. We explored the mythology section, the Celtic selection in particular. Along the way through the store, I decided to visit the burgeoning Pagan selection. I discovered a copy of “The Green Egg”, and within, a wonderful introduction to the Green Egg from Diane, who was its editor. It was love at first read. I must hunt up my copies of The Green Egg again it seems.
A few years down the road, Diane & I became acquainted on VPL, the Visionary Plant List. From there on we became fast friends over the years, finally meeting at the Sacred Elixir’s Conference in San Jose, back when. We got to spend some excellent hours together, along with other beautiful people.
Over the years, Diane wrote articles for The Invisible College, helped edit it, made suggestions, got on my case when I went into lazy mode, demanded excellence in the most loving way.
She was my editor for The Hasheesh Eater & Other Writings. Always there, willing to help, refusing payment. She did it for the love of the project. Her work and input on The Hasheesh Eater were deeply valuable, timely, succinct.
Diane was a lover of horses, dogs, donkeys, kids, cats any living thing it seemed. She had a wide circle, touching so many…
Her generosity was legendary. As far as I could tell, she advocated for everyone whose path crossed hers, and her love of community and community building was ever evident. She cared deeply about those around her, her son Zack along with his friends.  Her last years were devoted in taking care of her elderly mother. She gave it her all, and we talked about her mum frequently. Her motivation was always love it seems.

Thank You Diane for being in our lives, and sharing all that you did.
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3 Poems – William Butler Yeats:

The Cold Heaven

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven

That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,

And thereupon imagination and heart were driven

So wild that every casual thought of that and this

Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season

With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;

And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,

Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,

Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent

Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

—-
Adam’s Curse

We sat together at one summer’s end,

That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,

And you and I, and talked of poetry.

I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;

Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,

Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow-bones

And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones

Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;

For to articulate sweet sounds together

Is to work harder than all these, and yet

Be thought an idler by the noisy set

Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen

The martyrs call the world.’

                                          And thereupon

That beautiful mild woman for whose sake

There’s many a one shall find out all heartache

On finding that her voice is sweet and low

Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know—

Although they do not talk of it at school—

That we must labour to be beautiful.’

I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing

Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.

There have been lovers who thought love should be

So much compounded of high courtesy

That they would sigh and quote with learned looks

Precedents out of beautiful old books;

Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;

We saw the last embers of daylight die,

And in the trembling blue-green of the sky

A moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell

About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:

That you were beautiful, and that I strove

To love you in the old high way of love;

That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown

As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

—-
Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop

I met the Bishop on the road

And much said he and I.

`Those breasts are flat and fallen now

Those veins must soon be dry;

Live in a heavenly mansion,

Not in some foul sty.’

`Fair and foul are near of kin,

And fair needs foul,’ I cried.

‘My friends are gone, but that’s a truth

Nor grave nor bed denied,

Learned in bodily lowliness

And in the heart’s pride.

`A woman can be proud and stiff

When on love intent;

But Love has pitched his mansion in

The place of excrement;

For nothing can be sole or whole

That has not been rent.’

___________________________
Levon Minassian – Bab’aziz

“UR-Fascism” – Umberto Eco

…”Fascism became an all-purpose term because one can eliminate from a fascist regime one or more features, and it will still be recognizable as fascist. Take away imperialism from fascism and you still have Franco and Salazar. Take away colonialism and you still have the Balkan fascism of the Ustashes. Add to the Italian fascism a radical anti-capitalism (which never much fascinated Mussolini) and you have Ezra Pound. Add a cult of Celtic mythology and the Grail mysticism (completely alien to official fascism) and you have one of the most respected fascist gurus, Julius Evola.

But in spite of this fuzziness, I think it is possible to outline a list of features that are typical of what I would like to call Ur-Fascism, or Eternal Fascism. These features cannot be organized into a system; many of them contradict each other, and are also typical of other kinds of despotism or fanaticism. But it is enough that one of them be present to allow fascism to coagulate around it.

1. The first feature of Ur-Fascism is the cult of tradition. Traditionalism is of course much older than fascism. Not only was it typical of counter-revolutionary Catholic thought after the French revolution, but it was born in the late Hellenistic era, as a reaction to classical Greek rationalism. In the Mediterranean basin, people of different religions (most of them indulgently accepted by the Roman Pantheon) started dreaming of a revelation received at the dawn of human history. This revelation, according to the traditionalist mystique, had remained for a long time concealed under the veil of forgotten languages – in Egyptian hieroglyphs, in the Celtic runes, in the scrolls of the little known religions of Asia.

This new culture had to be syncretistic. Syncretism is not only, as the dictionary says, “the combination of different forms of belief or practice”; such a combination must tolerate contradictions. Each of the original messages contains a silver of wisdom, and whenever they seem to say different or incompatible things it is only because all are alluding, allegorically, to the same primeval truth. As a consequence, there can be no advancement of learning. Truth has been already spelled out once and for all, and we can only keep interpreting its obscure message.

One has only to look at the syllabus of every fascist movement to find the major traditionalist thinkers. The Nazi gnosis was nourished by traditionalist, syncretistic, occult elements. The most influential theoretical source of the theories of the new Italian right, Julius Evola, merged the Holy Grail with The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, alchemy with the Holy Roman and Germanic Empire. The very fact that the Italian right, in order to show its open-mindedness, recently broadened its syllabus to include works by De Maistre, Guenon, and Gramsci, is a blatant proof of syncretism.

If you browse in the shelves that, in American bookstores, are labeled as New Age, you can find there even Saint Augustine who, as far as I know, was not a fascist. But combining Saint Augustine and Stonehenge – that is a symptom of Ur-Fascism.

2. Traditionalism implies the rejection of modernism. Both Fascists and Nazis worshiped technology, while traditionalist thinkers usually reject it as a negation of traditional spiritual values. However, even though Nazism was proud of its industrial achievements, its praise of modernism was only the surface of an ideology based upon Blood and Earth (Blut und Boden). The rejection of the modern world was disguised as a rebuttal of the capitalistic way of life, but it mainly concerned the rejection of the Spirit of 1789 (and of 1776, of course). The Enlightenment, the Age of Reason, is seen as the beginning of modern depravity. In this sense Ur-Fascism can be defined as irrationalism.

3. Irrationalism also depends on the cult of action for action’s sake. Action being beautiful in itself, it must be taken before, or without, any previous reflection. Thinking is a form of emasculation. Therefore culture is suspect insofar as it is identified with critical attitudes. Distrust of the intellectual world has always been a symptom of Ur-Fascism, from Goering’s alleged statement (“When I hear talk of culture I reach for my gun”) to the frequent use of such expressions as “degenerate intellectuals,” “eggheads,” “effete snobs,” “universities are a nest of reds.” The official Fascist intellectuals were mainly engaged in attacking modern culture and the liberal intelligentsia for having betrayed traditional values.

4. No syncretistic faith can withstand analytical criticism. The critical spirit makes distinctions, and to distinguish is a sign of modernism. In modern culture the scientific community praises disagreement as a way to improve knowledge. For Ur-Fascism, disagreement is treason.

5. Besides, disagreement is a sign of diversity. Ur-Fascism grows up and seeks for consensus by exploiting and exacerbating the natural fear of difference. The first appeal of a fascist or prematurely fascist movement is an appeal against the intruders. Thus Ur- Fascism is racist by definition.

6. Ur-Fascism derives from individual or social frustration. That is why one of the most typical features of the historical fascism was the appeal to a frustrated middle class, a class suffering from an economic crisis or feelings of political humiliation, and frightened by the pressure of lower social groups. In our time, when the old “proletarians” are becoming petty bourgeois (and the lumpen are largely excluded from the political scene), the fascism of tomorrow will find its audience in this new majority.

7. To people who feel deprived of a clear social identity, Ur-Fascism says that their only privilege is the most common one, to be born in the same country. This is the origin of nationalism. Besides, the only ones who can provide an identity to the nation are its enemies. Thus at the root of the Ur-Fascist psychology there is the obsession with a plot, possibly an international one. The followers must feel besieged. The easiest way to solve the plot is the appeal to xenophobia. But the plot must also come from the inside: Jews are usually the best target because they have the advantage of being at the same time inside and outside. In the U.S., a prominent instance of the plot obsession is to be found in Pat Robertson’s The New World Order, but, as we have recently seen, there are many others.

8. The followers must feel humiliated by the ostentatious wealth and force of their enemies. When I was a boy I was taught to think of Englishmen as the five-meal people. They ate more frequently than the poor but sober Italians. Jews are rich and help each other through a secret web of mutual assistance. However, the followers must be convinced that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are constitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy.

9. For Ur-Fascism there is no struggle for life but, rather, life is lived for struggle. Thus pacifism is trafficking with the enemy. It is bad because life is permanent warfare. This, however, brings about an Armageddon complex. Since enemies have to be defeated, there must be a final battle, after which the movement will have control of the world. But such a “final solution” implies a further era of peace, a Golden Age, which contradicts the principle of permanent war. No fascist leader has ever succeeded in solving this predicament.

10. Elitism is a typical aspect of any reactionary ideology, insofar as it is fundamentally aristocratic, and aristocratic and militaristic elitism cruelly implies contempt for the weak. Ur-Fascism can only advocate a popular elitism. Every citizen belongs to the best people of the world, the members of the party are the best among the citizens, every citizen can (or ought to) become a member of the party. But there cannot be patricians without plebeians. In fact, the Leader, knowing that his power was not delegated to him democratically but was conquered by force, also knows that his force is based upon the weakness of the masses; they are so weak as to need and deserve a ruler. Since the group is hierarchically organized (according to a military model), every subordinate leader despises his own underlings, and each of them despises his inferiors. This reinforces the sense of mass elitism.

11. In such a perspective everybody is educated to become a hero. In every mythology the hero is an exceptional being, but in Ur-Fascist ideology, heroism is the norm. This cult of heroism is strictly linked with the cult of death. It is not by chance that a motto of the Falangists was Viva la Muerte (in English it should be translated as “Long Live Death!”). In non-fascist societies, the lay public is told that death is unpleasant but must be faced with dignity; believers are told that it is the painful way to reach a supernatural happiness. By contrast, the Ur-Fascist hero craves heroic death, advertised as the best reward for a heroic life. The Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.

12. Since both permanent war and heroism are difficult games to play, the Ur-Fascist transfers his will to power to sexual matters. This is the origin of machismo (which implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality). Since even sex is a difficult game to play, the Ur- Fascist hero tends to play with weapons – doing so becomes an ersatz phallic exercise.

13. Ur-Fascism is based upon a selective populism, a qualitative populism, one might say. In a democracy, the citizens have individual rights, but the citizens in their entirety have a political impact only from a quantitative point of view – one follows the decisions of the majority. For Ur-Fascism, however, individuals as individuals have no rights, and the People is conceived as a quality, a monolithic entity expressing the Common Will. Since no large quantity of human beings can have a common will, the Leader pretends to be their interpreter. Having lost their power of delegation, citizens do not act; they are only called on to play the role of the People. Thus the People is only a theatrical fiction. To have a good instance of qualitative populism we no longer need the Piazza Venezia in Rome or the Nuremberg Stadium. There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.

14. Ur-Fascism speaks Newspeak. Newspeak was invented by Orwell, in 1984, as the official language of Ingsoc, English Socialism. But elements of Ur-Fascism are common to different forms of dictatorship. All the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning. But we must be ready to identify other kinds of Newspeak, even if they take the apparently innocent form of a popular talk show.

On the morning of July 27, 1943, I was told that, according to radio reports, fascism had collapsed and Mussolini was under arrest. When my mother sent me out to buy the newspaper, I saw that the papers at the nearest newsstand had different titles. Moreover, after seeing the headlines, I realized that each newspaper said different things. I bought one of them, blindly, and read a message on the first page signed by five or six political parties – among them the Democrazia Cristiana, the Communist Party, the Socialist Party, the Partito d’Azione, and the Liberal Party.

Until then, I had believed that there was a single party in every country and that in Italy it was the Partito Nazionale Fascista. Now I was discovering that in my country several parties could exist at the same time. Since I was a clever boy, I immediately realized that so many parties could not have been born overnight, and they must have existed for some time as clandestine organizations.

The message on the front celebrated the end of the dictatorship and the return of freedom: freedom of speech, of press, of political association. These words, “freedom,” “dictatorship,” “liberty,” – I now read them for the first time in my life. I was reborn as a free Western man by virtue of these new words.

We must keep alert, so that the sense of these words will not be forgotten again. Ur- Fascism is still around us, sometimes in plainclothes. It would be so much easier, for us, if there appeared on the world scene somebody saying, “I want to reopen Auschwitz, I want the Black Shirts to parade again in the Italian squares.” Life is not that simple. Ur- Fascism can come back under the most innocent of disguises. Our duty is to uncover it and to point our finger at any of its new instances – every day, in every part of the world.”

https://www.pegc.us/archive/Articles/eco_ur-fascism.pdf

—-
Walter Nakai – Creation

Thank You for visiting! – G

We are happy to announce the publication of the Invisible College # 12, “Psychedelics & The Occult.”

This the 12th issue of The Invisible College is dedicated to our dear friend Diane Darling who passed suddenly in January.

Diane contributed frequently to the review, as well as served as editor on “The Hasheesh Eater & Other Writings”. Her contributions to the wider community don’t stop here of course. She founded the She Shaman’s Confrence, was the Editor for The Green Egg for many years as well. An amazing spirit, a friend of the deepest sort. She is missed.

From where things are at this point, this issue is the last for The Invisible College. 12 issues is a good number. We will be reissuing the older copies soon.

This is our largest edition. I think you’ll be thrilled with it all.

Bright Blessings, Thank You for Your Support!

Gwyllm

Contents:
Introduction
Dedication – Diane Darling
Hakim Bey
On The Forthcoming Publication of Divine Inebriation Part 1
from Silsila (Book Two: The Cywanu Trilogy – Whit Griffin
Auntie Etha’s Cow Lip Tea (“An Early Case of the Use of a Coprophilous, Possibly Entheogenic, Fungus in African American Folk Healing”) – P.D. Newman
The Golden Path – A. Andrew Gonzalez
Hymn For The Azure Soul – Dalton Miller
Egungun Of Benin – Michael Landau
Absinthe: Artemisia absinthium – Dale Pendell
Nepenthe – Gwyllm
Acacia: the philosophical mercury of Zosimos, Paracelsus, and Newton
– Khalil Reda
Thoughts Upon the Bacchae
The Dream & Divinities Tarot – Liba Stambollion
Coda
Adios Will Penna

Truly an amazing volume of the Invisible College. 160 pages plus, with art, psychedelic mysteries revealed, poetry, and much more.

A Small Gallery of some of the Art! Click on the images to enlarge:

Hieros Gamos – A. Andrew Gonzalez

Smoke – Gwyllm Llwydd

Michael Landau

Strength – Martina Hoffmann

Dreams & Divinities Tarot – Liba Stambollion

Bacchante – Gwyllm Llwydd

A PDF To Check This Edition Out:

Invisible College #12 sample

I want to thank all who have contributed to The Invisible College over the years, either with contributions to the various issues, or by purchasing a copy or copies. It has been our profound joy to bring The Invisible College to the world.

Gwyllm

Purchase Your Copy Here!

Gwyllm’s Art Calendar for 2024!

14 new images, some from the vault, some from the new book coming out in December, others from the passing year now about to make its’ exit. Touching on Psychedelia, Surrealism, and Visionary impulses… there is something here to delight everyone! Check out the gallery! More of course contained within the calendar! Price is inclusive of shipping.

Click the Link Below to Order!
Thanks ever so much,
Gwyllm

Our Wedding Day, October 16th, 1978, London

45 years ago on October 16th 1978 Mary and I were married in London at the Chelsea Kensington Registry Office.

We had met in December of 1977 and after 2 weeks of knowing her I proposed marriage over the telephone from Heathrow Airport as I was flying back to the United States.

It has been a wonderful experience being with her over all of these years. We have created lots of art, music and a welcoming home as well.

We have been blessed with a wonderful son Rowan, who recently was married to his incredible partner Suzanne.

I honestly believed when I was young that I would never marry and of course the last 45 years has disproved that.

I feel blessed with the Good Fortune and the time that we have had together.

Gwyllm

____________________________
On The Menu:
The Links
Losing My Religion
Poetry: Gary Snyder
Connla and the Fairy Maiden
Happy Shiny People
____________________________
The Links:
The Dream Inducing Plants Of Ancient Persia
The Hidden Earthworks
Hitch Hiking Life?
Leaving Religion
____________________________
Losing My Religion:

____________________________
Gary Snyder Poetry:

There Are Those Who Love To Get Dirty

There are those who love to get dirty
and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn,
beer after work,

And those who stay clean,
just appreciate things,
At breakfast they have milk
and juice at night.

There are those who do both,
they drink tea.
__
For The Children

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light
__
How Poetry Comes To Me

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
__
Milton By Firelight

Piute Creek, August 1955

“O hell, what do mine eyes
with grief behold?”
Working with an old
Singlejack miner, who can sense
The vein and cleavage
In the very guts of rock, can
Blast granite, build
Switchbacks that last for years
Under the beat of snow, thaw, mule-hooves.
What use, Milton, a silly story
Of our lost general parents,
eaters of fruit?

The Indian, the chainsaw boy,
And a string of six mules
Came riding down to camp
Hungry for tomatoes and green apples.
Sleeping in saddle-blankets
Under a bright night-sky
Han River slantwise by morning.
Jays squall
Coffee boils

In ten thousand years the Sierras
Will be dry and dead, home of the scorpion.
Ice-scratched slabs and bent trees.
No paradise, no fall,
Only the weathering land
The wheeling sky,
Man, with his Satan
Scouring the chaos of the mind.
Oh Hell!

Fire down
Too dark to read, miles from a road
The bell-mare clangs in the meadow
That packed dirt for a fill-in
Scrambling through loose rocks
On an old trail
All of a summer’s day.
__
Night Song of the Los Angeles Basin

Owl
calls,
pollen dust blows
Swirl of light strokes writhing
knot-tying light paths,

calligraphy of cars.

Los Angeles basin and hill slopes
Checkered with streetways. Floral loops
Of the freeway express and exchange.

Dragons of light in the dark
sweep going both ways
in the night city belly.
The passage of light end to end and rebound,
—ride drivers all heading somewhere—
etch in their traces to night’s eye-mind

calligraphy of cars.

Vole paths. Mouse trails worn in
On meadow grass;
Winding pocket-gopher tunnels,
Marmot lookout rocks.
Houses with green watered gardens
Slip under the ghost of the dry chaparral,

Ghost
shrine to the L. A. River
The jinja that never was there
is there.
Where the river debouches
the place of the moment
of trembling and gathering and giving
so that lizards clap hands there
—just lizards
come pray, saying
“please give us health and long life.”

A hawk,
a mouse.

Slash of calligraphy of freeways of cars.

Into the pools of the channelized river
the Goddess in tall rain dress
tosses a handful of meal.

Gold bellies roil
mouth-bubbles, frenzy of feeding,
the common ones, the bright-colored rare ones
show up, they tangle and tumble,
godlings ride by in Rolls Royce
wide-eyed in brokers’ halls
lifted in hotels
being presented to, platters
of tidbit and wine,
snatch of fame,

churn and roil,

meal gone the water subsides.

A mouse,
a hawk.

The calligraphy of lights on the night
freeways of Los Angeles

will long be remembered.

Owl
calls;
late-rising moon.
__
The San Juan Ridge…. Gary’s home.

___________________________
Connla and the Fairy Maiden

CONNLA of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire coming towards him.

“Whence comest thou, maiden?” said Connla.

“I come from the Plains of the Ever Living,” she said, “there where there is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday always, nor need we help from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill Folk.”

The king and ail with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.

“To whom art thou talking, my son? ” Said Conn the king.

Then the maiden answered, “Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor has there been complaint or sorrow in that land since he has held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy youth, till the last awful day of judgment.”

The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name.

“Oh, Coran of the many spells,” he said, ” and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us, and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy king by woman’s wiles and witchery.”

Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot where the maiden’s voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again, nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid’s mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.

For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat or to drink, save only from that apple. But as he ate it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen.

But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him.

“’Tis a glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among short-lived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones.

When Conn the king heard the maiden’s voice, he called to his men aloud and said:

“Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day the power of speech.”

Then the maiden said ” Oh, mighty Conn, fighter of a hundred fights, the Druid’s power is little loved; it has little honour in the mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law will come, it will do away with the Druid’s magic spells that come from the lips of the false black demon.”

Then Conn the king observed that since the maiden came Connla his son spoke to none that spake to him. So, Conn of the hundred fights said to him, “Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?”

“’Tis hard upon me,” then said Connla; “I love my own folk above all things; but yet, but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden.”

When the maiden heard this, she answered and said “The ocean is not so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon we can reach Boadag’s realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens’ dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy.”

When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away from them and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun. Away and away, till eye could see it no longer, and Connla and the Fairy Maiden went their way on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know where they came.

__________