Gwyllm.com

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
_______

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.
___________________________

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.

__________

 

The News First:

Dear Friends,
Well, it has been a while, has it not? Playing catch up at this point, all kinds of things going on!
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If you haven’t read it already on my Substack: “The Time Has Come”     Our son Rowan & his beloved, Suzanne was married on the first of September. We are beyond happy for the two of them. Read more about the occasion on the above link.
We spend time with our new in-laws, Dana & Rick. Amazingly nice people. I really am taken with Suzanne’s extended family. Musicians, college professors, schoolteachers, health workers, carpenters & construction workers. We met many of them whilst visiting in Colorado in July.
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On Notice: It looks as if my art & writing book is going to press in December. Very excited about that as you can imagine. Stay Tuned!
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Radio EarthRites: Lots going on, new mixes usually lasting around 24 hours! Spoken word has been absent for a few months due to all of the activity this summer, but should be back soon. This is our new mix, starting October 2nd, 9:00PM            “The Golden Path”
Please consider subscribing and supporting Radio Free EarthRites! 19 years on line!

________________
Okay, back to the Hare’s Tale format!
On the Menu:
The Links
Poesy – Rabia al Basri
The Fairy Wife
From Peter: Ambient Storms
________________
The Links:
Rethinking the Luddites
Have We Recorded Proof of Alien Civilizations?
AI used in proper context
The Aztec Empire…

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.’
—————-

The Fairy Wife

VERY many years ago there lived in the farmhouse of Ystrad, in Nant y Bettws, the Vale of the Beadhouse, a youth who was joyous and active, brave and determined of heart. On moonlight nights he used to amuse himself with watching the Fairy Family dancing, and with listening to their music. One night they came very near the house, to a field near the lake, which was afterwards called Llyn y Dywarchen, the Lake of the Sod, there to beguile the night in merrymaking. The young fellow, as was his wont, went out to watch them. Immediately his eye fell on one of the fairy damsels, whose beauty was beyond anything he had ever seen in a human being. Her complexion was like blood upon snow: her voice was like the voice of a nightingale and as gentle as the breeze of a summer evening in a flower garden: her bearing was graceful and noble, and she tripped on the greensward as lightly as the rays of the sun had danced a few hours before on the ripples of the lake hard by. He fell in love with her over head and ears, and under the impulse of that sudden passion, when the merriment was at its height, he rushed into the middle of the fair crowd, snatched the lovely maiden in his arms, and ran off instantly with her into the house. As soon as the other fairies saw the violence that had been done by a mortal, they broke up the dance and ran off after her towards the house. But they were too late: the door was locked and bolted, and the stolen maiden was safely lodged in a chamber. The iron bolt and lock made it impossible for them to reclaim her, for the Fair Family abhor iron. When the young man had got her under his roof, he applied every means in his power to win her affection and asked her to marry him. She refused him, though he begged her time after time to be his wife. When, however, she saw that he would not allow her to return to her own people, she said to him, “I will not be your wife, but if you can find out my name I will be your servant.” He, thinking that the task was by no means impossible, reluctantly agreed to the condition.

But the task was harder than he had imagined. He tried every name that he had ever heard of, even such curious Bible names as Zeruiah, La-ruhamel and Hazelelponi, but found himself no nearer his point. Nevertheless, he was not willing to give up, and at last fortune came to his rescue. One night, as he was returning from Carnarvon market, he espied a number of the Fair Family in a turbary not far from his path. They seemed as if they were seriously deliberating together in council, and he at once thought to himself, “I am sure they are planning how to recover their stolen sister. Perhaps if I can get within hearing distance of them without being observed I shall be able to find out my darling’s name.”

On looking carefully around, he saw that a deep ditch ran through the turbary, and passed near the spot where the Fair Family sat in council. So he made his way round to the ditch and crept, on all fours, along it as quietly as a snail and almost as slowly, until he was within hearing of the group. After listening a while he found that he had been correct in his surmise: they were discussing the fate of the maiden whom he had carried away from them, and he heard one of them wailing aloud, “Oh, Penelope, Penelope, my sister, why didst thou run away with a mortal?”

“Penelope,” said the young man to himself; “that must be the name of my beloved: that is enough.” At once he began to creep back as quietly as he had crept there, and he managed to reach home without being seen by the fairies. When he got into the house he called out to the damsel, “Penelope, my heart of gold, come hither.”

She came forward and asked in astonishment, “Oh, mortal, who has betrayed my name to thee?” Then folding her tiny hands, she exclaimed, “Alas, my fate, my fate! ” But she resigned herself to her lot and took to her work as servant in earnest. Everything in the house and on the farm prospered under her charge. There was no better or cleanlier housewife in all the country around, or one that was more provident and thrifty than she was. She milked the cows three times a day, and they gave the usual quantity of milk each time. The butter she made was so good that it fetched a penny a pound more than any other butter sold at Carnarvon market. The young man, however, was by no means willing that she should be a servant to him, and he persistently begged her to marry him. Many a blow will break the stone, says the Welsh proverb, and she at last consented to be married. But, said she, “There is one condition you must observe: you must never strike me with iron: if you do, I must be free to leave you and return to my family.”

The young man would have agreed to any conditions, and this one he considered very easy to observe. So they were wedded, and lived happily together for years, and were blessed with two children, a boy and a girl, the images of their mother and the idols of their father. So wise and active was the fairy wife that he became one of the richest men of that country, and besides the farm of Ystrad he farmed all the lands on the north of Nant y Bettws to the top of Snowdon and all Cwm Brwynog, in Llanberis, or about five thousand acres.

One day the husband wanted to go to a fair at Carnarvon, and went out to catch a filly that was grazing in a field near the house, in order to sell her at the fair. But for the life of him he could not secure her, and he called to his wife to come to assist him. She came with-out delay, and they managed to drive the frisky young creature to a secure corner, as they thought: but, as he approached her to put on the bridle, the frolicsome animal rushed past him. In his anger he threw the bridle after her; but who should be running after her but his wife! The iron bit struck her on the cheek, and she vanished out of sight in a moment. But, though the broken compact had compelled her disappearance, the fairy wife could not forget her love for her children and husband. One cold night, a long time after this event, when the Dead Men’s Feet Wind was blowing, the husband was awakened from his sleep by a gentle tapping on the glass of his bedroom window. After he had given a response he recognised the gentle and tender voice of his wife saying to him:

“Should the cold oppress my son,
See his father’s coat’s put on
If my daughter feels the cold,
Wrap her in my skirt’s thick fold.”

She even contrived a way to see and speak to her loved ones regularly. The law of her country would not allow her to walk the earth after her return to Fairyland, so she made a large sod to float on the surface of the lake: on this she would spend hours and hours, freely conversing in tenderness with her husband and children on the shore. By means of this contrivance they managed to live together, until husband and children breathed their last. The floating island she made may still be seen, and it is from this that the lake acquired its name.
—————-
From Peter, Ambient Storms:

—————-
Although sorely neglected, The Hare’s Tale still is in my heart. Please let me know if you still want these postings.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

Sometimes you meet a great artist, and human. Noel is such a person. He recently had an almost catastrophic heart attack. Shortly after being admitted to hospital, he and his beloved Janae both tested positive for Covid.

At this point they are at home, recovering hopefully from all of this situation. Yet, they need assistance, as neither are able to work, and having no income at the present. This is a good cause, and truthfully any of us could be in the same situation in the US due to the abysmal medical & social systems that are in place.

I hope you can assist them get through this crisis period. Links to a Gofundme and Mealtrain are below. Please check out their story on those links.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

You can read the details on these two sites.

Meal Train For Noel & Janae

Go Fund Me For Noel Taylor

Here is a PDF of Noel’s work from The Invisible College #9
Noel Taylor

Video given to me today from what is happening in Paris.

Live Feed:

Paris Tonight

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“Asher” A new piece. I haven’t come up another name as of yet.

Magick is Afoot! “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance.”  – Oscar Wilde
Hello Dear Friends, off to the start of another Gregorian Calendar Event…

In General: The last year 2022, (as if you need reminding) was a wild ride for all and sundry. On the main, enjoyable, but gone, poof, just like that. I am okay with letting it go though. It seemed on the main to be a point of stasis on multiple levels. I am not going to wax on about politics. Sick of it, at this point. Just let me say I think we live in a failed system. House cleaning, is needed.

2022 might be the year that social media began to wane, and crawl back under the rock it emerged from. Seeing the slow cascading of Twitter into oblivion, FB looking dire, Instagram being cited for toxicity for young women, and Tiktok being a tool of the Chinese Government and disinfo central… Good riddance. It may take a few years, but we can pray for it to go away. I found this article to be quite enlightening Bring Back Personal Blogging 

Art/Writing Updates:

“The Garden” Invisible College Review #11

I will be putting out my art book soon. Re-editing of course. Almost there. Stressing about the minutiae re page design as I am given to do.

What I would like to draw your attention to though is the current writings, re my Substack. https://gwyllmllwydd.substack.com/ new pieces coming soon.

You are now reading the beginning of my re-imagining of  “The Hare’s Tale”. which deals more with mythology, poetry, music, politics etc. There is some 20 years of personal writing, etc. scattered throughout the entries here.

I will continue to post art here, and at Instagram, Mastodon, Ello…

Top of the New Year!

G

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Commercial Break:

Gwyllm Art Calendar!
https://py.pl/7BMiMsCHJao
Available Now! (US sales only at this time)
My Art Calendar for 2023! 14 illustrations.

——————

On the subject of Art… and AI.

Here is a link on a tangential course:  The Alt-Right Manipulated My Comic. Then A.I. Claimed It. (Thanks to Michael Zonta for providing the link!)

So, AI generated illustration has been tearing through the Interwebs as of late. People are claiming to be artist because their phrases/prompts are “creating” pieces.  I have heard everything from, “Who has the time to learn?”, “Who wants to put in the years of discipline to produce “Art”?.  Well I would suggest the term “Phrasers or Prompters” as opposed to artist.

AI “illustration” is based on software scavenging image from artist pieces that are resident on the web, yet, there is no recompense for said artist. See the article above… Is it outright theft?

Question: If you prompt a text generator AI to write a poem, does that make you a poet?

These are legitimate questions IMO.  Thoughts? Do we end 40k years of human expression for convenience/speed?
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Starting Off The New Year Spoken Word Events!

Spoken Word: Ancient Celtic Anarchy & Music
Tuesday 1/3 8:00PM Pacific Coast Time & Friday 1/6 8:00PM Pacific Coast Time

Radio EarthRites: https://gwyllm.com/radio-earthrites/

More Spoken Word Coming. We are aiming to have an event every or every other day if possible. Request are appreciated!
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On The Menu:

Alan Stivell/Music

The Trooping Fairies – Changelings

Whit Griffin Poems

Martyn Bennett & Sorley MacLean/Poetry-Music

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Alan Stivell – I was lucky enough to see him perform this piece and others, twice. Once in Freiburg, Germany the late 1970’s, and then at McCabes’ in Santa Monica late 1980’s. He is the real deal.

————————————————–
The Trooping Fairies
Changelings…

Sometimes the fairies fancy mortals, and carry them away into their own country, leaving instead some sickly fairy child, or a log of wood so bewitched that it seems to be a mortal pining away, and dying, and being buried. Most commonly they steal children. If you “over look a child”, that is look on it with envy, the fairies have it in their power. Many things can be done to find out if a child’s a changeling, but there is one infallible thing–lay it on the fire with this formula, “Burn, burn, burn–if of the devil, bum; but if of God and the saints, be safe from harm” (given by Lady Wilde). Then if it be a changeling it will rush up the chimney with a cry, for, according to Giraldus Cambrensis, “fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom, in so much that those who have seen apparitions fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire”.

Sometimes the creature is got rid of in a more gentle way. It is on record that once when a mother was leaning over a wizened changeling the latch lifted and a fairy came in, carrying home again the wholesome stolen baby. “It was the others,” she said, “who stole it.” As for her, she wanted her own child.

Those who are carried away are happy, according to some accounts, having plenty of good living and music and mirth. Others say, however, that they are continually longing for their earthly friends. Lady Wilde gives a gloomy tradition that there are two kinds of fairies–one kind merry and gentle, the other evil, and sacrificing every year a life to Satan, for which purpose they steal mortals. No other Irish writer gives this tradition–if such fairies there be, they must be among the solitary spirits–Pookas, Fir Darrigs, and the like.

– Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry
Edited and Selected by W. B. Yeats [1888]
_____________________________________
Poetry: Whit Griffin

“The Ones Who Listen”
(Extract:)At dawn a man with a golden beard
comes down to the brook  A morning
of many-colored light  Alphabets of
color  The Cosmic Colour Fellowship
Friendhood  A self-imposed envelope
of colorI think of some old monk or sage who
grew up in a traditional family in some
far-off place and has lived a very full
life of inner exploration  And they reflect
back on the life they were born into and
“how far they have come,” and they ask,
“what have I done to deserve such a gift?”The Red Ray, the Life Ray  Pass a laser
light through ruby and apply it to the
heart meridian  Seeking the Land of
Immortality, the young prince finds himself
in the capital of the Blue Kingdom  Cherenkov
radiation  The blue men of the MinchYour heart is in the system of the Shewolf
Wrapped in a veil of shining silver mist
A cock crows and a golden star appears
on Lizina’s forehead  Sandra’s holding
the leopardWe will cherish the past while not limiting
our perception of reality to the mindset of the pastThe beggar boy becomes Count Piro
Dick Grayson becomes Robin  Trading
crow feathers for soy candles  The dagger
which was to act as a passport  Kosovo,
Field of BlackbirdsLeo Martello’s Witch-In in Central Park,
Halloween, 1970  Alberto Aguas giving
readings at the Metaphysical Bookshop
on Sutter Street, SFCA  The anonymous
conversations in Quest  Antonio Ricardo
of Turin emigrates to Peru, and in Lima
in 1584 prints a leaflet on corrections to
the calendarI do think that certain texts are almost
invisible to us until we are ready for them
They may sit patiently on a shelf for years,
and when our vibration meets the vibration
emanating from the book, it suddenly becomes
visible to us / materializes / manifests itself
in a tangible way  It takes on a psychic shine
that catches our eyeCalvinism is the theology of slavery  When
you put your mind in a cage you can put
human beings in cages  Enough with the
death cult that invaded the Western hemisphere

The Whole Poem is here!
___
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.
___
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.
——————
Martyn Bennett & Sorley MacLean

Of course, this brought up memories.
I dedicate this to those who await us on that far, far shore.

Much Love,
G

The weight of me in your arms.
A photo of the two of us in Fitzgerald’s Park.
Three years of age I was.
The weight of the pair of us.
Our weight together.
The weight of your hat shading your laughter.
My weight as you bore me for nine months.
The weight of sitting, getting up, lying down.
Your weight that I never lifted from the
Ground – before burying you in the ground.
Your living weight.
Your dead weight.
The weight of words rising and
Falling between us, the wingbeat of swans.
The heavy weight of prayers.
The feather weight of lilting.
The middle weight of memory, ancient spiral.
The weight of the music of your country voice in the city.
The weight of the lipstick on your lips airing vowels.
The weight of your fragrance in the bedroom after giving birth.
The weight of your maternal weariness asking me kindly to go outside.
The weight of your relations.
The weight of intimacy.
The weight of ancestry.
The weight of neighbours.
The weight of tribal lore.
The weight of the great world.
The weight of priests.
The weight of brothers.
The weight of drink.
The weight of history.
The weight of humour.
The weight of those who got away.
The weight of the otherworld.
The weight of your faith.
The sorrowful weight of your fear.
The weight of your shame.
The weight of the two of us as we met for lunch in the city.
The weight of my patience waiting for you at the chapel door.
The weight of your patience waiting for me to enter.
The weight of your praying.
The weight of the crosses of the world.
The weight of your appetite.
The weight of your lingering over food.
The airy weight of a girl stepping it out at a dance.
The weight of the accordion on your shoulders.
The weight of your two knees keeping time with dances.
The weight of your corpse as we waked you three nights and three days.
The weight of the terror in your eyes
As they called to you from the other side.
The weight of your refusal to go.
The weight of the anchor from yonder as it took a firm hold of you.
The weight of secrets that had nowhere now to hide.
The weight of unspoken love that death’s call freed in you.
The weight of confusion that had your head in a merry-go-round.
The weight of life draining away.
The weight of my last visit.
The weight of country folk making their way to the city.
The weight of their murmurings.
The weight of your conversation with us from beyond.
The weight of things you said when
Alive and continued to say in death.
The weight of your language, still.
The weight of the shower that didn’t allow us
To stand very long at the mouth of the grave.
The lightness of your soul that covered us like
The silk sheet on your bed after we buried you.
After we buried you.
After.
(Thanks to Morgan Miller for sharing this to me yesterday.)