Month: June 2006

Thursday Night. My friend Terry comes over , and we go to explore a semi-new Organic Brewery, “Roots” down on 7th off of Hawthorne. Tasty IPA, nice crowd, Reggae Music, Dance Hall and some Dub pounding out of the door.

After 2 IPAs’ we head up the street to Caer Llwydd, settle back and crack open the Absinthe and settle in, listening to XM channel 100 (The French Channel)… Conversations dance in and out of some 40 years, touching on the latest screw-ups in Iraq to our dear Ann Coulters latest verbal car-wrecks…

The evening moves on, from 7:30, and now at 12:46 Friday morning, we talk about the failures of the education system for most of the kids…

A nice night, good music, good friendship…. 8o)

On the Menu…

The Linkage:

Article: Scotland’s Nostradamus and the Queen of the Fairies

The Ballads in two different Versions: “True Thomas”

Enjoy…!

Gwyllm

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The Linkage:

Survivalist Personals…

Loony Tunes: Ann Coulter’s Further Adventures…

Bullied by the Eunuchs

Hijaras in Pakistan…

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Scotland’s Nostradamus and the Queen of the Fairies

IAIN LUNDY

True Thomas sat on Huntley bank,

And he beheld a lady gay;

A lady that was brisk and bold,

Come riding o’er the ferny brae.

Her skirt was of the grass green silk,

Her mantle of the velvet fine;

At every lock of her horse’s mane,

Hung fifty silver bells and nine.

SO BEGINS the ballad of the quaint 13th-century figure known as Scotland’s Nostradamus and his enchantment by the Queen of the Fairies. Thomas of Ercildoune – more commonly known as Thomas the Rhymer – was a soothsayer of such repute that for a time his fame rivalled that of the Arthurian magician Merlin.

The accuracy of what happened to Thomas and how he gained his supernatural powers has become confused over the centuries, but there are common threads running through every variation of the story. It is, in essence, a fairy story but one which seeks to explain how Thomas was able to predict some of the most important events in Scottish history, including the defeat by the English at the Battle of Flodden and the Union of the Crowns of Scotland and England.

Very few “fairy stories” are given such credence as that of Thomas and his dalliance with the Queen of Elfland. After all, he was no fairy. He was a real person and his predictions – which were written down – were treated so seriously that they were consulted before both the two Jacobite rebellions.

So who was Thomas and why was he singled out for mystical powers? Born around 1220, he lived in Learmont Tower, near Ercildoune, now Earlston in Berwickshire. Close by there stood a grove of hardwood trees on the banks of Huntly Burn and as a youngster Thomas had a favourite tree under which he used to lie.

The story goes that as he lay there one day he saw the beautiful Queen of the Fairies approaching on her graceful white horse. She was wearing green silk and velvet and on her horse’s mane there hung 59 silver bells. Thomas was entranced by her beauty and readily complied when the Queen asked him to kiss her underneath his favourite tree. He then agreed to accompany her, and the two rode off into the Eildon Hills where Thomas spent seven years as the Queen’s lover in her fairy home in Elfland.

The years seemed only a few minutes to Thomas. But when the time came for the Queen to return him to mortal land, she made him promise never to speak of what he had seen. He agreed and she gave him an apple and said: “Take this for thy wages Thomas, it will give thee a tongue that can never lie.”

From then on he was known as “True Thomas”. The Queen also conferred on him the gift of prophecy.

He used his new powers to prophesy several significant historical events including the death of King Alexander lll; the succession of Robert the Bruce to the throne of Scotland; the defeat of the Scots at the Battle of Flodden; the defeat of Mary, Queen of Scots’ forces at the Battle of Pinkie in 1567; and the Union of the Crowns in 1603.

He is also said to have predicted the Scottish success at the Battle of Bannockburn and the Jacobite uprisings of 1715 and 1745.

The story of Thomas is told in the ballad Thomas the Rhymer, which was included by Sir Walter Scott in his work, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. In recent years recordings of the ballad have been made by the folk-rock band Steeleye Span and Scottish folk musician Ewan MacColl.

Thomas himself was a noted poet and is supposed to be the author of one of the oldest-known surviving Scottish stories, Sir Tristrem, also edited by Sir Walter himself.

There is one final twist to the saga of Thomas the Rhymer. One day, many years after returning from Elfland, he walked out of his house to his favourite tree under which he had first met the Queen. He has never returned and has not been seen since.

According to legend he will return one day to help Scotland in her hour of greatest need. Some might say that time is not far off.

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Two Ballad Versions of the Tale:

Campbell HISS, II, 83

As Thomas lay on Huntlie banks –

A wat a weel bred man was he

And there he spied a lady fair,

Coming riding down by the Eildon tree.

The horse she rode on was dapple gray,

And in her hand she held bells nine;

I thought I heard this fair lady say

These fair siller bells they should a’ be mine.

It’s Thomas even forward went,

And lootit low down on his knee

‘ Weed met thee save, my lady fair,

For thou’rt the flower o this countrie.’

O no, O no, Thomas,’ she says,

‘O no, O no, that can never be,

For I’m but a lady of an unto land.

Comd out a hunting, as ye may see.

O harp and carp, Thomas,’ she says,

‘O harp and carp, and go wi me;

It’s be seven years, Thomas, and a day.

Or you see man or woman in your am countrie.’

It’s she has rode, and Thomas ran.

Until they cam to yon water clear ;

He’s coosten off his hose and shon,

And he’s wooden the water up to the knee.

It’s she has rode, and Thomas ran,

Until they cam to yon garden green ;

He’s put up his hand for to pull down ane,

For the lack o food he was like to tyne.

‘Hold your hand, Thomas,’ she says,

‘Hold your hand, that must not be;

It was a’ that cursed fruit o thine

Beggared man and woman in your countrie

‘ But I have a loaf and a soup o wine,

And ye shall go and dine wi me;

And lay yer head down in my lap,

And, I will tell ye farlies three.

‘It ‘s dont ye see yon broad broad way,

That leadeth down by yon skerry fell?

It’s ill’s the man that dothe thereon gang,

For it leadeth him straight to the gates o hell.

It’s dont ye see yon narrow way,

That leadeth down by yon lillie lea?

It’s weel’s the man that doth therein gang,

For it leads him straight to the heaven hie.’

—–

It’s when she cam into the hall

I wat a weel bred man was he –

They’ve asked him question[s], one and all,

But he answered none but that fair ladie.

O they speerd at her where she did him get,

And she told them at the Eildon tree;

______

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 251, ed. 1802

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,

A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee,

And there be saw a lady bright,

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her shirt was o the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o the velvet fyne,

At ilka tett of her horse’s mane

Hang fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas, he pulld aff his cap,

And louted low down to his knee

‘All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth I never did see.’

`O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,

‘ That name does not belang to me;

I am but the queen of fair Elfland,

That am hither come to visit thee.

‘ Harp and carp. Thomas.’ she said,

‘Harp and carp along wi me,

And if ye dare to kiss my lips.

Sure of your bodie I will be.’

‘ Betide me weal, betide me woe,

That weird shall never daunton me ; ‘

Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

‘Now ye maun go wi me,’ she said,

True Thomas, Ye maun no wi me,

And ye maun serve me seven years.

Thro weal or woe, as may chance to be.’

She mounted on her milk-white steed,

She’s taen True Thomas up behind,

And aye wheneer her bridle rung,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on –

The steed gaed swifter than the wind –

Untill they reached a desart wide,

And living land was left behind.

‘ Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,

And lean your head upon my knee;

Abide and rest a little space,

And I will shew you ferlies three.

see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briers?

That is the path of righteousness,

Tho after it but few enquires.

‘And see not ye that braid braid road,

That lies across that lily leven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Tho some call it the road to heaven.

`And see not ye that bonny road,

That winds about the fernie brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland

Where thou and I this night maun gae.

‘ But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,

Whatever ye may hear or see,

For, if you speak word in Elflyn land,

Ye’Il neer get back to your ain countrie.’

they rade on, and farther on,

And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee,

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light,

And they waded thro red blade to the knee;

For a’ the blude that’s shed on earth

Rins thro the springs o that countrie.

Syne they came on to a garden green,

And she pu’d an apple frae a tree

Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,

It will give the tongue that can never lie.’

‘ My tongue is mine ain,’ Tree Thomas said

‘ A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!

I neither dought to buy nor sell,

At fair or tryst where I may be.

‘ I dought neither speak to prince or peer,

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye :’

Now hold thy peace,’ the lady said,

‘ For as I say, so must it be.’

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green,

And till seven years were gane and past

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

____________

A. 7 stands 15 in the MS

82. golden green if only my copy is right.

112,3are 112,3 in the MS: the order of words is still not simple enough for a ballad.

144. goe

Jamison has a few variations, which I suppose to be his own.

11, oer yonder bank. 34. your like. 44. And I am come here to. 64. her steed. 82. garden, rightly. 102. clarry. 112. Lay your head. 121. see you not. 124. there’s few. 13. see ye not yon. 141. see ye yon. 142. which winds.

B. 32. her knee. 38. thou save.

121. MS perhaps unto.

131,2 follows st. 12 without separation.

C. 201. a cloth

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The groves were God’s first temples.

– William Cullen Bryant, A Forest Hymn

Mary’s Garden Assistant. This is the 2nd year that she has come back. We rescued her when she was young, having fallen out of the tree. We saved her from the cats, fed her and helped her to fly.

Miss Robin joins Mary when she working in the garden, often no more than a foot or two away from Mary, waiting for bugs and worms. Sadly, she turns her beak up at slugs. A bit of retraining?

She is a member of a family that has come to the same tree since we have been here at our house. I begin to suspect that there are traditional grounds for most animals…. There are also areas of our yards where swarms of gnats appear every year, like clock work.

The Tao of life, the Morphic Fields abound around and within us. The Squirrels, the Crow Tribe, The Raccoon Raiders… all have their place in our world. The gnats, the bees… (oh the bees!) all have their parts to play in the divine dance, of the garden.

They shouldn’t grow here, but somehow they do. I have raised most of them since they were wee pups. Good friends, and a wonder for the garden here in the NW.

I have always loved raising cactus. I started in San Francisco some 30 years ago. Fascinating plants, and very patient and forgiving.

A trio of beings who really dodge the camera at the best of times. This is looking to the SW…

We have some challenges for growing in our garden, as our neighbor believes that if you trim trees, they will only grow more. Thank goodness this logic doesn’t run to keeping the yard trimmed. Way to much shade!

Our Challenge every year….

Our new Fire Pit. Rowan is wild for this little number. We were looking for one of those portable ones, but ended up sticking to earth and rock, the old standbys…

Since we have put it in, we don’t eat inside any more. Nice!

I love watching the flames. It brings out the dreaming… and it turns Marys’ Garden into a magickal place for us.

More tomorrow!

On the Menu:

Big Brother’s new toy: Another bloated gas bag watching you from the sky

Quotes: On Gardeners & Trees

Two Poems on Nature: William Cullen Bryant

I hope you enjoy this edition.

Big Love,

Gwyllm

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Big Brother’s new toy: Another bloated gas bag watching you from the sky

By James Renner – Cleveland Free Times

Last week, a fire ignited at the Akron Airdock that once housed a fleet of Goodyear blimps. Firemen rushed to the 211-foot-tall structure and quickly doused the flames. Reporters and photographers descended on the landmark. Many were surprised to learn the blimps were no longer being stored there.

Turns out Lockheed Martin — the company that gave us the Trident intercontinental ballistic missile — was renovating the site for an upcoming project when the fire started. It’s being turned into a hangar for a prototype airship. If you’re frightened of this administration’s habit of spying on American citizens, you may want to stop reading.

The prototype is called the High Altitude Airship, or HAA. Lockheed Martin Maritime Systems & Sensors in Akron won the $40 million contract from the Missile Defense Agency to build HAA in 2003. It is essentially another blimp. A giant one. Seventeen times the size of the Goodyear dirigible. It’s designed to float 12 miles above the earth, far above planes and weather systems. It will be powered by solar energy, and will stay in a geocentric orbit for up to a year, undetectable by ground-based radar. You can’t see it from the ground. But it can see you.

“The possibilities are endless for homeland security,” says Kate Dunlap, a Lockheed Martin spokesperson. “It could house cameras, and other surveillance equipment. It would be an eye in the sky.”

According to a summary released by the U.S. Army Space and Missile Defense Command, the HAA can watch over a circle of countryside 600 miles in diameter. That’s everything between Toledo and New York City. And they want to build 11. With high-res cameras, that could mean constant surveillance of every square inch of American soil. “If you had a fleet of them, this could be used for border surveillance,” suggests Dunlap.

Launch date: 2009.

Of course, mimicking its defense of warrantless wiretapping and phone-log data mining, the government maintains it only wants to protect its citizens from external threats. But as any geek can tell you, blimps were ubiquitous in The Watchmen, the seminal ’80s graphic novel in which heroes have been driven underground and Nixon is still president.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not watching you.

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Trees and the Gardener…

Our Cherry Tree, left over from when our part of town was the largest insane asylum west of the Mississippi. Some say it still is. We try to maintain the tradition in our own little ways….

When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than

the ordinary, and shutting out the sky with their thickly inter-twined

branches, do not the stately shadows of the wood, the stillness of

the place, and the awful gloom of this doomed cavern then strike

you with the presence of a deity?

– Seneca

—-

Trees serve as homes for visiting devas who do not manifest in earthly bodies,

but live in the fibers of the trunks and larger branches of the trees, feed from

the leaves and communicate through the tree itself. Some are permanently

stationed as guardians of sacred places.

– Hindu Deva Shastra, verse 117, Nature Devas

—-

The sacred tree, the sacred stone are not adored as stone or tree;

they are worshipped precisely because they are hierophanies,

because they show something that is no longer stone or tree but sacred,

the ganz andere or ‘wholly other.’

– Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries

—-

Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky,

We fell them down and turn them into paper,

That we may record our emptiness.

– Kahlil Gibran

—-

God is the experience of looking at a tree and saying, “Ah!”

– Joseph Campbell

—–

Give me a land of boughs in leaf,

A land of trees that stand;

Where trees are fallen there is grief;

I love no leafless land.”

– A.E. Housman

—–

We can see from the experience of Odin that the image of the tree was the template

within which all of the sacred world could be apprehended. The tree was the framework

within which one “flew” to these Otherworlds. And since the exploration of sacred space

was also a quest into the nature of human consciousness, the tree was regarded as an

image of the ways in which we, humans, are constructed psychically. It was a natural

model for our deepest wisdom, our highest aspirations.

– Brian Bates, Sacred Trees

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Two Poems on Nature: William Cullen Bryant

A Forest Hymn

THE groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above them,—ere he framed

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

And supplication. For his simple heart

Might not resist the sacred influences,

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed

His spirit with the thought of boundless power

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect

God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs,

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find

Acceptance in His ear.

Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns, thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,

Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,

And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died

Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold

Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,

These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride

Report not. No fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the form

Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill’st

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

That run along the summit of these trees

In music; thou art in the cooler breath

That from the inmost darkness of the place

Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,

The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.

Here is continual worship;—Nature, here,

In the tranquility that thou dost love,

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,

From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak—

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

Almost annihilated—not a prince,

In all that proud old world beyond the deep,

E’er wore his crown as lofty as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower

With scented breath, and look so like a smile,

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

An emanation of the indwelling Life,

A visible token of the upholding Love,

That are the soul of this wide universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think

Of the great miracle that still goes on,

In silence, round me—the perpetual work

Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed

Forever. Written on thy works I read

The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,

How on the faltering footsteps of decay

Youth presses—-ever gay and beautiful youth

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

Wave not less proudly that their ancestors

Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost

One of earth’s charms: upon her bosom yet,

After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

Of his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himself

Upon the tyrant’s throne—the sepulchre,

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth

From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived

The generation born with them, nor seemed

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks

Around them;—and there have been holy men

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.

But let me often to these solitudes

Retire, and in thy presence reassure

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink

And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou

Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill,

With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods

And drowns the village; when, at thy call,

Uprises the great deep and throws himself

Upon the continent, and overwhelms

Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight

Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face

Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath

Of the mad unchained elements to teach

Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,

In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,

And to the beautiful order of the works

Learn to conform the order of our lives.

———

The Gladness of Nature

IS this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around;

When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;

The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,

And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,

And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,

There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree,

There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles

On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,

On the leaping waters and gay young isles;

Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away.

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Our Sky over the Roof…

Have a wonderful day…

G

This one of those mono-focused entries. The destruction of important archaeological sites always puts me in a twist, especially for something like a road. Argh. The Irish Gov’t is relentless with this drive up the Gowra Valley. Write the Irish Gov’t! This is a crime against all of our histories. What has happened in other parts of the world can be stopped here, and should be.

On The Menu:

Link o’ Rama!

Land of High Kings is battlefield for fight between heritage and growth

Protests over plan to route four-lane motorway through historic sites

Poetry:William Butler Yeats

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Link 0′ Rama!:

Crazy Fishing Style

Snack Time!

The Monkey Chow Diaries

Shroom: A cultural history of the magic mushroom by Andy Letcher

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Land of High Kings is battlefield for fight between heritage and growth

Protests over plan to route four-lane motorway through historic sites

Owen Bowcott, Ireland correspondent

Tuesday May 30, 2006

The Guardian

The panoramic view from the Hill of Tara reputedly encompasses half the counties of Ireland. Windswept, grass ramparts enclose the ancient seat of the country’s High Kings. Nearby stands the Mound of the Hostages, a megalithic passage tomb.

Soon a four-lane motorway, speeding traffic in and out of Dublin, will bulldoze its way through the landscape below the Iron Age earthworks. The first scars are already visible as archaeologists investigate the lush Gowra valley for the remains of a civilisation whose monuments pre-date many Egyptian pyramids. Unless survey teams uncover a new site of “national archaeological importance”, the controversial, government-backed route through County Meath is likely to go ahead.

The row over construction of the M3 has set Ireland’s marginalised, heritage lobby at odds with the republic’s newfound prosperity and the drive to upgrade its outdated infrastructure. It has also highlighted Ireland’s increasing reliance on the car.

The row is now entering a more embittered phase. Construction of the 36-mile road, connecting Clonee, on Dublin’s congested outskirts, to Kells, north-west of the capital, was scheduled to begin early this month. The national roads authority (NRA) is blaming legal action by environmental protesters for delays costing €1m (£680,000) a week and for the number of fatal car crashes attributable to the unmodernised road.

No date has yet been set for an appeal to the supreme court over the disputed route, and the NRA has cautioned its preferred tenderer, the Eurolink consortium, not to start work until court proceedings are completed. If the case goes to Europe, it could take years.

Vincent Salafia, a Dublin lawyer fighting the Tara M3 case, denied his action had caused delays. He said he could be amenable to “mediation” if “an independent archaeological expert [was] appointed to determine whether the M3 passes through the greater national monument of Tara [or] if any of the 38 sites [already unearthed constitute] national monuments in their own right”. He lost his case in the high court.

“The government is saying the Tara monument is just the tip of the hill,” he told the Guardian. “But there are outer defensive forts which are all part of a large, single [complex]. We want to force [the road] to move further away. A route further out to the west would be better.”

Boom

The issue has rocketed up the domestic political agenda as the economy has boomed and Dublin’s commuter belt has expanded far out into the Irish midlands. Tara is barely 30 miles from the capital but car journeys can take several hours at peak traffic times.

Ireland has not experienced direct action protests against road building but the campaign has attracted celebrity support, notably from the Hollywood actress Charlize Theron and her Irish partner, Stuart Townsend.

Muireann Ni Bhrolochain, a university lecturer in Celtic studies at Maynooth, is one of the leading opponents. “Tara is one of the premier sites in Europe,” she said. “Some of the tombs date back 4,000 years and the hill was used by the High Kings of all Ireland until 1200AD. I’m not anti-roads but we have the opportunity to learn from mistakes in other countries,” she said.

Given the success of single issue candidates in Ireland’s proportional representation system, there has been talk of an anti-M3 candidate at the general election anticipated next year. Several opposition parties, including Sinn Féin and the Green party, have backed the campaign. The Labour party’s environment spokesman, Eamon Gilmore, described the route as a “betrayal of the country’s Celtic heritage that will result in the destruction of the Tara landscape”.

Many question why the existing freight railway line, from nearby Navan via Drogheda to Dublin, has not been improved to relieve congestion.

“The government said it would take until 2015 to [rebuild] the direct line from Navan to Dublin [closed in the 1960s],” said a local campaigner, Proinsas MacFheargus. “But that railway was begun in 1859 and finished in 1862. So nowadays it would take three times as long to build? They won’t open up the line because it would conflict with the motorway’s tolling arrangements.”

Julitta Clancy, of the Meath Historical Society, did not join the legal action because the costs would have put her at risk of losing her home. “We went through the planning process and found it very frustrating,” she said. “There was no remedy. We tried to persuade the government that the road could be moved, producing a better transport and heritage solution. We have petitioned the European parliament on the rights of litigants to oppose infrastructure projects. The delays to the road are not due to us but to the fact that the route picked was rich in archaeology. These sites are part of our European collective memory. We have asked for independent monitoring of the excavations. At present if they find anything in the valley … it’s the NRA that decides whether it’s a national monument.”

The M3 will also slice through Dalgan Park, headquarters of the St Columban Missionaries in the Gowra valley. The estate’s woodland and riverside walks are open to the public.

“This road will be a violation of the sacredness and tranquility of the area,” said Father Pat Raleigh. “This was given in trust to us by the people of Ireland. People are not going to enjoy a greater quality of life commuting to Dublin.”

Last year 400 people died on the republic’s roads, about 100 deaths per million people. That rate is close to the European average. The litany of casualties, however, fills the daily papers. Last week the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, joined the controversy, complaining that protests meant that “not a thistle has yet been cut” on the motorway. In the meantime, he added, existing roads were still proving deadly. “Nine people have died in the past nine months.”

Saving lives

An NRA spokesman also accused protesters of endangering the public.”The sooner we have a modern motorway the sooner we will start saving lives,” he insisted. “Motorways, because of the traffic separation, are much safer. Construction was due to start at the beginning of May … but we have to wait until all the legal challenges have been exhausted.

“We are not going through or over the Hill of Tara. The M3 has taken into account the historical significance of the area. It was known from the outset. There were two years of public reviews. More than 2,000 issues were addressed. We have tried to minimise the visual impact. The local community supports [us] and wants the M3 to be built.”

Backstory

The oldest excavated monument is the Mound of the Hostages, constructed in 2500BC. Its name derives from Niall of the Nine Hostages, a king who held prisoners from every province of Ireland as well as from Britain and Europe. Legend has it that candidates for the high kingship had to drive their chariots towards two standing stones positioned close together which opened only for the rightful king. In historic times, Tara was the seat of power in Ireland; 142 High Kings reigned from the hilltop that was revered as a sacred place with a direct connection to the underworld. St Patrick visited the hill in 433AD to convert the pagan king. One interpretation of “Tara” says it means “place of great prospect”. An Israeli archaeological team excavated the hill in the 20th century, convinced the Arc of the Covenant was buried under the soil of County Meath.

_________

William Butler Yeats – Poems

A POET TO HIS BELOVED

I bring you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams;

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

——

HE VALLEY OF THE BLACK PIG

The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears

Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,

And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries

Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.

We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore,

The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,

Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you,

Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.

——-

HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

HadI the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

——–

HE HEARS THE CRY OF THE SEDGE

I wander by the edge

Of this desolate lake

Where wind cries in the sedge:

Until the axle break

That keeps the stars in their round,

And hands hurl in the deep

The banners of East and West,

And the girdle of light is unbound,

Your breast will not lie by the breast

Of your beloved in sleep.

A short note, kinda tired and all…

Monday Evening… watched some of the Wicker Man, extended version tonight. Got to the last 5 minutes, and the DVD hiccuped. Enough to make you twist. It is as if it completely disappeared.

Argh.

Hoping to have some new music on the radio show soon. Stay Tuned!

On the Menu:

The Links For This Holy Day…. 80)

UFOs Over Sacred Sites

Poem & Lyrics: Robin Williamson

I hope you enjoy

Gwyllm

_________

The Links For This Holy Day…. 80)

Mrs. Malkin’s sacrifice

Is Michelle Malkin doing the Michael Jackson thing?

More Tasteless Misinterpetations: Dutch Evangelicals calls for pray-in against the Devil

Dan Brown sequel unveiled: ‘The Rolf Harris Code’

_________

UFOs Over Sacred Sites by Brad Steiger

In the early 1970s, numerous metaphysical groups began conducting pilgrimages to ancient sacred sites around the world. Travel agencies were soon formed that specialized in offering tour packages designed to attract those individuals seeking spiritual enlightenment, rather than exotic locales, on their two-week vacation. Many of these spiritual pilgrims returned to report dramatic sightings of UFOs hovering above sacred areas.

My wife Sherry and I believe them, for we have witnessed UFO activity at Petra, the ancient Nabatean city in Jordan; Machu Picchu, the Incan metropolis located high in the Andes; the Great Pyramid of Giza; the Sphinx; the mystical city of Luxor in Egypt; Masada, the hilltop fortress at the edge of the Judean Desert; the remains of the Essene community at Qumran; the transformational vortex areas of Sedona, Arizona; the powerful Kahuna shrines of Hawaii; the Temple of the Sun in Cuzco, Peru; Mt. Nebo, the legendary burial place of Moses; the ancient Incan healing springs at Tambo Machay; the gigantic, sprawling mystery lines in the Nazca Desert; the sacred Peruvian city of Ollantaytambo; tribal medicine power places in Santa Fe and the Four Corners area of the Southwest; and an ancient pre-Navajo monastery recently discovered on private property outside of Sedona.

Higher Awareness

In addition to having observed UFO activities at these sacred sites, a number of spiritual pilgrims also claimed a personal mystical encounter with otherworldly intelligences. To many of these UFO experiencers, the contact that they received during an encounter with an alien or multidimensional intelligence at these holy places served as an initiation into higher awareness. Their interaction with an intelligence that had previously existed far beyond their normal mundane world of ordinary expectations served as an impetus to awaken their consciousness to consider undreamed facets of the universe.

At some level of the universe, these experiencers declare, there is a Force that blends and interconnects each of us to the other—and to all other living things. On some level of consciousness, every living cell is in communication with every other living cell. The UFO experience, some maintain, may be yet another method the Universe has devised to get humankind in touch with aspects of self and of other life forms in the cosmos.

In recent years the hologram has been found to be a workable analogy to illustrate the concept of the Oneness of things. What is most remarkable about a hologram is that every single part of it contains all the information about the whole, just as the DNA in each cell of the body contains the blueprint for the entire physical structure. Split a hologram in half, shine a laser through it, and the whole object is reconstituted in three dimensions.

It has been postulated by some that the entire universe may be a single hologram. It may well be that information about all of the cosmos is encapsulated in each part of it. And that includes each of us human beings. We may all be unfolded images of aspects that exist in a higher reality.

UFO as Symbol

In Wholeness and the Implicate Order, physicist David Bohn of the University of London urges contemporary men and women to become aware that the modern view of the world has become fragmented, especially in the sciences, but also in the execution of our daily lives. In science’s efforts to divide our universe into stars and atoms, it has separated us from nature. In humankind’s penchant for dividing itself into races, nations, ethnic groups, political parties, and economic classes, we have fragmented ourselves from any underlying wholeness with each other.

Perhaps there is a Higher Intelligence that has been striving for centuries to bring our species into the Wholeness, the Oneness. Perhaps the circular shape of the UFO is a symbol of the wholeness of life in the universe.

Since the most ancient of times, tribal elders, priests, and religious orders have worked to develop traditions of spirituality to provide inspiration for life’s challenges. Rituals and rites were designed to reveal certain truths, explain various mysteries, and present a process by which initiation into a higher awareness might be achieved. Spiritually, the significance of initiation lies in the death of the egoistic, physical self and its rebirth in the divine, transcendental order.

In some sacred traditions, such special knowledge and power were kept secret and remained exclusive to the initiated. Other great teachers focused their energies on arousing the sleeping spiritual senses of their students, thereby bringing about enlightenment through the personal mystical experience. These wise masters were aware that the individual mystical experience was the catalyst that awakened the initiate to the Inner Voice that speaks of a sense of Oneness with All That Is and the wisdom that the Great Mystery dwells within each soul.

Many great spiritual teachers have declared that initiation may be bestowed upon the sincere seeker by entities that exist on higher planes of being. The UFOs that appear above sacred sites may combine ancient symbols of initiation with the space age. Among these images capable of elevating one to higher awareness are the following:

Egyptian Icons

The Sphinx, created by the oldest human priesthood, represents in its majestic combination of human head, bull’s body, lion’s paws, and eagle’s wings the living unity of nature’s kingdoms. These same four animal representations also manifest in the otherworldly entities in Ezekiel’s vision of a wheel within a wheel; and they are the four constituent elements of microcosm and macrocosm—water, earth, air, and fire, the foundations of esoteric science.

The answer to the ancient riddle of the Sphinx—What first walks on four legs, then two, then three?—is the human being, the divine agent that includes within itself all the elements and forces of nature. Achieving higher awareness with the Sphinx teaches the initiate, the experiencer, how human nature evolves from animal nature and develops “eagle wings” to travel to other dimensions of a greater reality.

Many spiritual teachers believe that the Great Pyramid was a holy place in which sacred initiations were conducted rather than a tomb for Egyptian royalty, and that the sarcophagus in the King’s Chamber was an agent of the initiate’s resurrection into the Light.

In recent years, dozens of UFO and metaphysical conferences have been held near the Great Pyramid and thousands of spiritual seekers have lain in the ancient sarcophagus to make contact with the essence of the alien or multidimensional beings that they believe actually constructed the pyramid as a kind of cosmic educational toy to stimulate the nascent human thinking process.

Biblical Figures

The mysterious figure of the prophet Elijah, messenger of God, who had no known parents, who came from nowhere to challenge the forces of darkness, and who returned to heaven in a fiery chariot has come to represent to certain UFO experiencers the very pinnacle of otherworldly wisdom and resolve. For many UFO contactees, Elijah has become their spiritual mentor, or, in some cases, his essence serves as the conduit that connects them with their own personal spiritual guide.

Melchizedek, King of Salem, priest of Elohim, initiated Father Abraham with wine served in a golden chalice. Jesus of Nazareth was also a priest of the Order of Melchizedek. Many UFO experiencers have expressed their belief that the beings that they have encountered came to Earth to perpetuate the Order of Melchizedek. These beings, many believe, hold the golden chalice of Melchizedek, a symbol of supreme spiritual transformation and divine inspiration, and give assurance that the Divine Being that exists above the soul dwells in each of us.

Since very ancient times, the image of a serpent gripping its tail in its mouth and becoming a living circle has represented the ineluctable cycle of universal life. The fact that so many UFO experiencers state that their contact was with reptilian entities presents little difficulty. Throughout human history, the serpent has represented wisdom, and vast numbers of early culture bearers were described as being reptilian in appearance. From these serpentine alien intelligences, UFO experiencers say that they have been able to envision the universe as a living whole, endowed with intelligence, soul, and will. The universe is but the reflection of an invisible order of cosmogenic forces and spiritual kingdoms, classes, and species which through their perpetual involution into matter produced the evolution of life.

Child of Man, Child of God, Cross of Stars

A great number of UFO experiencers insist that the alien intelligences with whom they have been in contact revere the sign of the cross and that the cross is a symbol of profound universal teachings. The ancient Doctrine of the Divine Word taught by Krishna in India, by the priests of Osiris in Egypt, by Pythagoras in Greece, and by the prophets of Israel reveals the great mystery of the Child of Man and the Child of God.

In Hindu, Egyptian, and Greek initiations, the term “Child of God” meant a consciousness identified with Divine Truth and a will capable of manifesting it. The universal sign of the Child of Man is that of four stars in the form of a cross.

This sign of ancient spiritual transformation was familiar to the priests of Egypt, preserved by the Essenes, and worshiped by the sons of Japhet as the symbol of earthly and heavenly fire. Native American medicine practitioners and other initiates have seen in the Cross of Stars the symbol of balance, the wholeness of the Great Mystery, the image of the Ineffable Being that reveals itself in the Cosmos.

Initiation

The ancient masters predicted a time when the great mass of earthbound humanity would pass to a higher dimension of consciousness to begin a new cycle of evolution. As we have seen since the 1950s, one of the principle messages of the UFO contactees has to do with Homo sapiens graduating to a higher vibratory state and moving into a higher dimension.

Both the ancient teachers of wisdom and the contemporary UFO experiencers state that in the series of cycles that constitute the planetary evolution of Earth, all humankind will one day develop the intellectual, spiritual, and transcendent principles that were previously manifested only in the Great Initiates. Such a development may require many more thousands of years and will likely bring about unimaginable changes in the overall condition of humankind. The supreme goal of spiritual transformation is to reproduce divine perfection in the soul. Only when spiritual seekers can say that they have acquired divine freedom and conquered fate can they become true prophets, seers, healers, and initiators. Only those who control themselves through spiritual discipline can teach others. Only those who have set themselves free can set others free.

In Healing States by Alberto Villoldo and Stanley Kripper, the shaman Don Eduardo speaks of the true meaning of initiation:

“Initiation represents a readiness to assume responsibility for the planet and for serving humanity.

“Initiation helps one to forge a link between oneself and an ancient lineage of knowledge.

“Initiation is not graduation. It is only the beginning of the great work that lies ahead of the initiate.

“Initiation is basically a salute to the spirit of a person whose consciousness has been awakened.”

And, as Don Eduardo emphasizes, initiations are taking place all the time: “Initiations can occur on the way to the supermarket or on top of the Himalayas. And the most powerful initiations…are bestowed from the hands of the masters who work directly from the ‘overworld.’ These initiations may occur in our dreams or during meditation or may take us by surprise…when we least expect them. But in the final analysis we make the choice to be initiated ourselves.”

(Brad Steiger is a professional writer who deals with the all aspects of the strange and unknown.)

_______________

Poem & Lyrics: Robin Williamson

Through the Horned Clouds Lyrics

I see your faces

blown through the horned clouds

in the silent cities

they call me so loud

come through the fire

come through the foam

come at the world’s night

call the herds home

dearest child dearest child

Most High

please don’t let our fancy die

till all the grapes are gathered from the vine

when you come

will you sound the harp

give to the blind

cat’s eyes in the dark

o will we know you for what you are

you who have come so far

sweetest fair sweetest fair

Most High

don’t let them cut that ladder before its time

for all the grapes to be gathered from the vine

He comes again

She comes again

through the mist of time

through the mist of rain

no more words my heart brims over

in the sea of circustance

rows for the rocky shore

we who have sworn

by the dead and the unborn

wheels within wheels

O Most High.

——-

Me and the mad girl lyrics

I learned in school

That I was mad if they were sane, you see

They had to beat me black and blue

They said it hurt them more than me

But I learned who were my enemies

and I learned who were my friends

I learned to read between the lines

When I was 10

I’d do anything to get out of school

Away from the teacher’s stick

To shoot streetlamps with my slingshot

Smoke cigarettes and get sick

Steal apples in September

Fight shadows in green June

Or just sit and smell the burning leaves

Of an autumns afternoon

Of an autumns afternoon

Once I met a mad girl

As she came hopping through the furze

Her clothes all stuck with fluff and stuff

Bearded barley and bristly burrs

and I was high among the branches green

and she, she hadn’t seen me there

As she went shuffling with her shadow

and snatching at the air

Wild weeds, wilting

Were twined all in her curls

and I could tell by her mad blue eyes

She was a mad girl

She was thin as any sparrow

Her song it had no tune

Just scuffling through the piney glades

Of a summer’s afternoon

Of a summer’s afternoon

I came dropping through the branches down

She started round in surprise and fear

I don’t know what I had to say

But something I knew she had to hear

She picked up a piece of flint

Drew back her arm and flung it high

Not a bad throw that cut my cheek

Just below the eye

Mad girl, mad girl

Before you ran away

I knew you were as mad as me

and as sane as a summer’s day

Mad girl, mad girl

We both were wrong again

You took me for an anemy

and I took you for a friend

I took you for a friend…

——

Witches Hat

Certainly

The children have seen them

In quiet places where the moss grows green

Coloured shells

Jangle together

The wind is cold, the year is old

The trees whisper together

And bent in the wind they lean

If I was a witches hat

Sitting on her head like a paraffin stove

I’d fly away and be a bat

Across the air I would rove

Stepping like a tightrope walker

Putting one foot after another

Wearing black cherries for rings

If I was a witches hat

Sitting on her head like a telegraph pole

Id fly away and be a bat

Across the air I would roll

Stepping like a tightrope walker

Putting one foot after another

Wearing black cherries for rings

——

When Evening Shadow Fall

When evening shadow fall

All tongues at last will tire of bustling trade

The brightest eye at last grows dull

And the finest flowers fade

Life is short o life is sweet

Sweeter is the love you gave to me

Sure by cold death we two must parted be

But life is sweet

When evening shadows fall

Gaze long upon the lamps that light the sky

And sing again that oldest song of all

Poor mortals born to die

________

Biography

Between 1966 and 1974, Robin Williamson was one half of the Incredible String Band, but his career did not founder after ISB’s demise, although it might be said to have taken a few quirky turns, including collaboration on a spy novel and the publication of a bizarre semi-autobiography. Away from these literary avocations, Williamson formed the Far Cry Ceilidh Band with Stan Schnier and Mark Simos, but never made it to the recording studio. In 1976, Williamson met with harpist Sylvia Wood, and together with Chris Caswell and Jerry McMillian, they formed Robin Williamson and His Merry Band. Between 1977 and 1979, they released three albums: the highly traditional Journey’s Edge in 1977, American Stonehenge in 1978, and A Glint at the Kindling in 1979, which featured the epic historical cycle, “Five Denials on Merlin’s Grave.” After the breakup of the Merry Band, Williamson started to tour solo, offering highly ambient sets dominated by traditional stories set to song. Releases of this period include Songs of Love and Parting and the dedicated folklorist’s Legacy of the Scotish Harpers. Williamson’s concern with the British bardic tradition also manifested itself in several books and tapes containing spoken renditions of traditional tales. Subsequent projects have seen the the prolific Williamson recording tapes and discs of music for children and pouring his energies into environmental projects for the Scottish Wildlife Trust. ~ Leon Jackson, All Music Guide

______

Jeremy Sneaks Up On The Pentax….

Wonderful day here in Portland. Rain, Sun, more Sun! The trials of the “sunbreak”… a term used in the NW for those moments when the sun peaks through… It rained for some 8 hours straight last night…

A Happy Birthday To My Sister Rebecca! (Call ya soon!)

On the Menu:

The Links

Pharmako Gnosis Tour Part II – The Party

Poetry: Gary Snyder Part II

I hope you enjoy…..

Gwyllm

___________

The Links:

Enter the dragons

BeatHippieRaver

Why We Fight

___________

Pharmako Gnosis Tour Part II – The Party

Dale comes in from the reading, finding a rather full house to his bemusement….

Mix Master Morgan, Mary, and PK enjoying Dales’ offering for the gathering: Absinthe….. a lovely green, oh yes….!

Gayle telling stories about her times in Equador. She is heading back soon from what I gather….

Dale mixing up the medicine for all of the guest…

Jeremy and Laura relaxing half way through the gathering….

On past Midnight…… 80) Cymon, Ed, Mike H, and friends around the table in the Dining Room….

A lovely night……

___________

Poetry: Gary Snyder Part II

Long Hair

Hunting Season:

Once every year, the Deer catch human beings. They

do various things which irresistibly draw men near them;

each one selects a certain man. The Deer shoots the man,

who is then compelled to skin it and carry its meat home

and eat it. Then the deer is inside the man. He waits and

hides in there, but the man doesn’t know it. When

enough Deer have occupied enough men, they will strike all

at once. The men who don’t have Deer in them will

also be taken by surprise, and everything will change some.

This is called “takeover from inside”.

Deer Trails:

Deer trails run on the side hills

cross country access roads

dirt ruts to bone-white

board house ranches,

tumbled down.

Waist high through manzanita,

Through sticky, prickly, crackling

gold dry summer grass.

Deer trails lead to water,

Lead sideways all ways

Narrowing down to one best path –

And split –

And fade away to nowhere.

Deer trails slide under freeways

slip into cities

swing back and forth in crops and orchards

run up the sides of schools!

Deer spoor and crisscross dusty tracks

Are in the house: and coming out the walls:

And deer bound through my hair.

——

Manzanita

Before dawn the coyotes

weave medicine songs

dream nets — spirit baskets –

milky way music

they cook young girls with

to be woman;

or the whirling dance of

striped boys –

At moon-set the pines are gold-purple

Just before sunrise.

The dog hastens into the undergrowth

Comes back panting

Huge, on the small dry flowers.

A woodpecker

Drums and echoes

Across the still meadow

One man draws, and releases an arrow

Humming, flat,

Misses a gray stump, and splitting

A smooth red twisty manzanita bough.

Manzanita the tips in fruit,

Clusters of hard green berries

The longer you look

The bigger they seem,

`little apples’

—————-

For a Stone Girl at Sanchi

half asleep on the cold grass

night rain flicking the maples

under a black bowl upside-down

on a flat land

on a wobbling speck

smaller than stars,

space,

the size of a seed,

hollow as bird skulls.

light flies across it

–never is seen.

a big rock weatherd funny,

old tree trunks turnd stone,

split rocks and find clams.

all that time

loving;

two flesh persons changing,

clung to, doorframes

notions, spear-hafts

in a rubble of years.

touching,

this dream pops. it was real:

and it lasted forever.

————

this poem is for bear

“As for me I am a child of the god of the mountains.”

A bear down under the cliff.

She is eating huckleberries.

They are ripe now

Soon it will snow, and she

Or maybe he, will crawl into a hole

And sleep. You can see

Huckleberries in bearshit if you

Look, this time of year

If I sneak up on the bear

It will grunt and run

The others had all gone down

From the blackberry brambles, but one girl

Spilled her basket, and was picking up her

Berries in the dark.

A tall man stood in the shadow, took her arm,

Led her to his home. He was a bear.

In a house under the mountain

She gave birth to slick dark children

With sharp teeth, and lived in the hollow

Mountain many years.

snare a bear: call him out:

honey-eater

forest apple

light-foot

Old man in the fur coat, Bear! come out!

Die of your own choice!

Grandfather black-food!

this girl married a bear

Who rules in the mountains, Bear!

you have eaten many berries

you have caught many fish

you have frightened many people

Twelve species north of Mexico

Sucking their paws in the long winter

Tearing the high-strung caches down

Whining, crying, jacking off

(Odysseus was a bear)

Bear-cubs gnawing the soft tits

Teeth gritted, eyes screwed tight

but she let them.

Til her brothers found the place

Chased her husband up the gorge

Cornered him in the rocks.

Song of the snared bear:

“Give me my belt.

“I am near death.

“I came from the mountain caves

“At the headwaters,

“The small streams there

“Are all dried up.

– I think I’ll go hunt bears.

“hunt bears?

Why shit Snyder.

You couldn’t hit a bear in the ass

with a handful of rice!”

Pharmako Gnosis World Tour “2006″

Pharmako Gnosis World Tour Bus (Hey Jeremy!)

_____________

The Links:

Plastic Martians…

Beware of Laughing At The Man Wearing New Balance Sneakers

Gene experts say we are not entirely human

Alien Skulls: The Great Debate

Museum of Computer Art…

_______________

The Talk at Powells’, June 1st 2006

Jan Introducing Dale…

Jan has been on the Portland book scene for many a year. She used to work at Looking Glass Books, arraigning speaking engagements for many a writer, including Terence McKenna and Martin Prechtel…

She moved over to Powell’s a few years back, and it is always a pleasure seeing her when we cruise by the store on Hawthorne…

Dale Speaking…

Dale spoke first on what he calls, “Horizon Anarchism” dealing with changes that will take place over millenia as opposed to rapid/spiked changes that most people look at as signpost..

The talk went on from there, centered on Pharmako Gnosis… with a reading of one of my favourite chapters…(on DMT) It comes across nicely when it is spoken, the poetic side leaps out in rich detail…

Enraptured….

A nice audience. Good comments, and lots of laughter. In the audience were friends of Dales’ back some 36 years to when they all lived on Gary Snyders’ land in the Sierras. There were several members of Earth Rites there, and many people who I recognized from events around town. Over all, a nice balance…. of smiling faces!

Dale going into detail about the concepts of Horizon Anarchism, and how the state has been perpetuated from so long ago…

The talk was very enjoyable. You will be able to hear it on Earth Rites some time next week I believe, as Jeremy will be sending it up for us to put up for your enjoyment

More tomorrow or Monday, stay tuned! 80}

Gwyllm

_______________

Poetry: Gary Snyder

second shaman song

Squat in swamp shadows.

mosquitoes sting;

high light in cedar above.

Crouched in a dry vain frame

— thirst for cold snow

— green slime of bone marrow

Seawater fills each eye

Quivering in nerve and muscle

Hung in the pelvic cradle

Bones propped against roots

A blind flicker of nerve

Still hand moves out alone

Flowering and leafing

turning to quartz

Streaked rock congestion of karma

The long body of the swamp.

A mud-streaked thigh.

Dying carp biting air

in the damp grass,

River recedes. No matter.

Limp fish sleep in the weeds

The sun dries me as I dance

———

Civilization

Those are the people who do complicated things.

they’ll grab us by the thousands

and put us to work.

World’s going to hell, with all these

villages and trails.

Wild duck flocks aren’t

what they used to be.

Aurochs grow rare.

Fetch me my feathers and amber

A small cricket

on the typescript page of

“Kyoto born in spring song”

grooms himself

in time with The Well-Tempered Clavier.

I quit typing and watch him through a glass.

How well articulated! How neat!

Nobody understands the ANIMAL KINGDOM.

When creeks are full

The poems flow

When creeks are down

We heap stones.

———

The Spring

Beating asphalt into highway potholes

pickup truck we’d loaded

road repair stock shed & yard

a day so hot the asphalt went in soft.

pipe and steel plate tamper

took turns at by hand

then drive the truck rear wheel

a few times back and forth across the fill–

finish it off with bitchmo around the edge.

the foreman said let’s get a drink

& drove through the woods and flower fields

shovels clattering in back

into a black grove by a cliff

a rocked in pool

feeding a fern ravine

tin can to drink

numbing the hand and cramping in the gut

surging through the fingers from below

& dark here–

let’s get back to the truck

get back on the job.

—–

Regarding Wave

The voice of the Dharma

the voice

now

A shimmering bell

through all.

Every hill, still.

Every tree alive. Every leaf.

All the slopes flow.

old woods, new seedlings,

tall grasses plumes.

Dark hollows; peaks of light.

wind stirs the cool side

Each leaf living.

All the hills.

The Voice

is a wife

to

him still.

Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water.

The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.

Although its light is wide and great,

The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide.

The whole moon and the entire sky

Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

Dogen

__________

Excellent Talk at Powell’s! Nice Gathering after, Pictures tomorrow, and oh yes, excellent Absinthe! Lots of laughs. Wish you were there!

Pax,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

The Article: Summer Land – The Periodic Autonomous Zone – HAKIM BEY

Poetry: Ancient Breton Poetry

__________

The Links:

Is It Raining Aliens?

Dock Ellis Says He Pitched 1970 No-Hitter Under The Influence of LSD

Music Eases Perception Of Chronic Pain

Lovely Stuff…

___________

Summer Land – The Periodic Autonomous Zone

HAKIM BEY

I would guess that the old life way of transhumancy always proved both enjoyable and practical, at least in small scale economies. Twice a year you get up and move, travel, change your life and even your diet – – a taste of nomadic freedom. But always the same two places. One place is typically more heimlich than the other — the village, the hearth; while the other place is typically wilder than the first, and this one might be called the place of Desire, of Summer.

In the tales of Finn Mac Cumal and his Fenian band we nearly always meet them at this wilder end of the spectrum, the greenwood, the landscape of the hunt which reaches “back” in time to a more golden pre-agricultural age, and also “aslant” in time — to Tir nan Og, the Land of Summer, realm of the Tuatha de Danaan, who are both the Dead and the Fairies. We forget that the Fenians spent only half the year free in the forests. They were like transhumants — they owed the other half of the year to work (military service) for the King. In this respect they resembled the Irish peasants, who until recently practiced pastoral transhumancy. Traces may survive even now. Irish folklore certainly preserves the image of this Summertime freedom; “Nature” always seems somehow interlaced and even confused with “Culture” in Irish tradition (as in the zoomorphic capitals of the Book of Kells), in ways which have often impressed the foreign observer as uniquely Irish.

Elizabethan colonists compared native Irish with native American Indians: — both were perceived as “wild” — and both received the same treatment from the English. Transhumancy gives a people the chance to remain in touch with Nature in its “merrie” aspect (as Morton of Merrymount would have phrased it), even if that people’s economic life is virtually defined by agriculture, peonage, and drudgery. This explains the “radical” aspect of poaching, from Robin Hood to the Black Laws, and also the universal human romanticization of hunting.

This romanticism begins already even in hunter/gatherer societies, where the prestige (and fun) of the hunt provides far less food for the tribe than the (comparative) drudgery of gathering — and the romanticism continues to this day. I think of my two late uncles, who cultivated the country romance of the hunt like characters out of Turgeniev’s Sketchbook. I find it impossible to despise this romanticism, which appears to me so clearly as the last remnant of Paleolithic freedom in a world given over to the gridwork of the plow — and the highway.

In effect Romanticism itself can be said to revolve (if not resolve) around this tension in the Nature/Culture spectrum. The transhumant must be a sort of practical romantic, an “ambulatory schizophrenic” who functions as a personality, “split” between the magnetic poles, and ambulating back and forth according to the weather.

Winter………………………………Summer

village……………………………….mountain or forest

work…………. Pivot:……………..play

agriculture……….festival………..pastoralism/hunt

fireside………(axes of …………. ” bothy” (the hut of greenery)

narrative…………the year) ……..adventure

reverie………………………………desire

etc.

When agriculture reproduces itself, through a process of further rationalization and abstraction, and creates industrial culture, then the split widens beyond breaching. The transhumants lose the basic structure of their economy through enclosure of village commons and loss of “forest rights” or traditional grazing lands. Pure nomads, who provide (as Ibn Khaldun recognized) a necessary dialectic tension in traditional (agricultural) societies, become “redundant” in the Industrial regime — but they do not disappear. The Tinkers and Travelers still roam around Ireland as in the 18th and 19th centuries (and perhaps even in prehistory). But the transhumants are simply doomed. The liminal space they once occupied, in between settlement and nomadry, in between Culture and Nature, has simply been erased.

The psychic space of transhumancy however cannot be so easily disappeared. No sooner does it vanish from the map but it re-appears in Romanticism — in the new-found appreciation for landscape and even wilderness, in “Nature worship” and Naturphilosophie, in tours of the Alps, in the Parks movement, in picnics, in nudist camps, in the Summer cottage, even in the Summer vacation. Nowadays “reformers’ want children to attend school year round, and they criticize the summer vacation of two or three months as an inefficient remnant of an agricultural economy. But from the (romantic) viewpoint of children, summer is sacred to freedom — a temporary (but periodic) autonomous zone. Children are diehard transhumants.

To a certain extent — and from a certain point of view — we now inhabit a “post-industrial” world; and it has been noted that precisely to the extent that this is so, “nomadism” has reappeared. This has its good aspects (as in Deluze and Guattari) and its bad aspects — as for instance in tourism. But what has become of transhumancy in this new context? What situations might we elucidate by seeking out its traces?

A very clear trace or remnant of psychic transhumancy expressed itself in the 1920’2 – 1950′s in America as the summer camp movement. A great many of these camps were inspired by various progressive and radical tendencies — naturism, communism and anarchism, Reicheanism and other psychological schools, oriental mysticism, spiritualism — a plethora of “marginal” forces. The utopian rural commune like Brook Farm was diluted into a low-cost summer vacation for cranks. During the same period countless thousands of “vacation communities” were created, with cabins only a bit less primitive than those of the camps. My family owns one in a decaying lakeside resort-town in Upstate New York, where all the streets are named after Indians, forests, wild animals. These humble communities represent the “individualist” or entrepreneurial version of the summer camp’s communalism; but even now some vestiges of seasonal communitarian spirit survive in them. As for the camps, eventually the majority began to cater to children, those natural citizens of summer. As the price of sheer hedonistic idleness went up and up, soon only the children of the well-to-do could afford camp — and then not even them. One by one the camps began to close, a slow decline over the 70′s, 80′s, and 90′s. Desperate measures are still attempted (“Marxist Computer Slim-down Camp”; neo-pagan gatherings and holistic seminars, etc.) — but by now the Summer Camp almost seems like an anachronism.

Now the Summer Camp may be an extremely watered-down version of the utopia of transhumancy — much less the utopia of utopia! — but I would argue that it is worth defending, or rather, worth re-organizing. If the old economics failed to support it, perhaps a new economics can be envisioned and realized. In fact such a tendency has already appeared. As old Summer Camps go bankrupt and come on the market, a few are acquired by groups who try to preserve them as camps (with perhaps some year-round residents), either as private or semi-private summer “communes”. Some of these neo-camps will simply serve as vacation retreats for the groups who acquire them; but others will need extra funding, and will thus be drawn into experiments in subsistence gardening, craft work, conference-organizing, cultural events, or some other semi-public function. In this latter case we can speak of a neo-transhumancy, since the camp will serve not simply as a space of “leisure” but also as a space of “work” for the primary participants.

Summer “work” appears to the transhumant as a kind of “play” by comparison with village labor. Pastoralism leaves time for some arcadian pleasures unknown to full-time agriculture or industry; and the hunt is pure sport. (Play is the point of the hunt; “game” is a bonus.) In somewhat the same way the neo-summer camp will have to “work” to get by, but its labor will be “self-managed” and “self-owned” to a greater extent than Winter’s wages, and it will be work of a “festal” nature — “recreation”, hopefully in the original sense of the word — or even “creation”. (Artists and craftsfolk make good citizens of Summer.)

If the economy determined the downfall of the old summer camp movement, the state played a role as well: — regulations, restrictions, precautions, insurance requirements, codes, etc., helped raise the real cost of running a camp above the level of feasibility. One might almost begin to suspect that “the State” somehow felt the camp movement as some vague sort of threat. For one thing, camps escape the daily gaze of control, and are removed from the flow of commodities and information. Then too, camps are suspiciously communal, focuses of possible resistance to the alienation and atomization of consumerism and “modern democracy.”

Camps have an erotic subversiveness to them, as every ex-Summer-camper will testify, a wildness and laxness of super-ego, an air of Misrule, of Midsummer Night’s dreams, skinny-dipping, the crush, the languor of July. The camp cannot be reconciled to the ideal of the industrial production of leisure (“holiday package”) and the reproduction and simulation of summer as a theme park, the vacation process, the systematic “emptying-out” of all difference, all authentic desire.

Inasmuch as the State distrusts the camp, the neo-camp will (to that extent) need to cultivate certain forms of invisibility or social camouflage. One possible disguise for the neo-camp however would be to assume the precise guise of an old-fashioned half-bankrupt summer camp. After all, the Summer camp is not illegal, and if your group can meet the insurance requirements, why not fit yourselves into an already-existing archetype? Provided you’re not running a kids’ camp, or an openly-proclaimed Anarcho-Nudist retreat, you might be able to pass yourselves off as just another bunch of harmless make-believe Indians with a month’s vacation to waste.

My defense of the summer (neo-)camp is based on two simple premises: — one, a month or two of relative freedom is better than absolutely none; two, it’s affordable. I’m assuming that your group is not made up of “nomads” or full-time freedom fighters, but of people who need to work for a living or are stuck in a city or ‘burb most of the year — potential transhumnats.

You want something more than a summer vacation – you want a summer community. Splashing in a humble Adirondack lake is more pleasureable to you than Disney World — provided you can do it with the people you like. Sharing the costs makes it possible, but also makes it an adventure in communicativeness and mutual enhancement. Making the place pay for itself or even turn a little off-the-books profit would transform your group into true neo-transhumants, with two economic focuses in your lives. Even if you seek legal status (as a tax-exempt educational center religious retreat, or Summer camp) your proprietorship affords you a certain degree of privacy which — if used discreetly — can exceed all legal bounds in terms of sex, nudity, drugs, or pagan excess. As long as you don’t frighten the horses or challenge local interests, you’re simply another bunch of “Summer people”, and as such expected to be a bit weird.

Of all the versions of the TAZ imagined so far, this “periodic” or seasonal zone is most open to criticism as a social palliative or an “Anarchist Club Med.: It’s saved from mere selfishness however by the necessary fact of its self-organization. Your group must create the zone — you can’t buy it pre-packaged from some tourist agency. The summer camp can’t be the social “Revolution”, true enough. I suppose it could be called a training-camp for the Uprising, but this sounds too earnest and pretentious. I would prefer simply to point to the desperation felt by many for just a taste of autonomy, in the context of a valid romanticism of Nature. Not everyone can be a neo-nomad — but why not at least a neo-transhumant? What if the uprising doesn’t come? Are we never to regain the land of summer even for a month? Never vanish from the grid even for a moment? The summer camp is not the war, not even a strategy — but it is a tactic. And unmediated pleasure, after all, is still its own excuse.

___________

Ancient Breton Poetry

The Dance of the Sword.

(Ha Korol ar C’Hieze.)

Blood, wine, and glee

Sun, to thee,–

Blood, wine, and glee!

Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!

Fire, fire! steel and fire!

Oak! oak, earth, and waves!

Waves, oak, earth and oak!

Glee of dance and song,

And battle-throng,–

Battle, dance, and song!

Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Let the sword blades swing

In a ring,–

Let the sword blades swing!

Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Song of the blue steel,

Death to feel,–

Song of the blue steel!

Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Fight, whereof the sword

Is the Lord,–

Fight of the fell sword!

Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Sword, thou mighty king

Of battle’s ring,–

Sword thou mighty king!

Fire! fire! steel, etc.

With the rainbow’s light

Be thou bright,–

With the rainbow’s light!

Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!

Fire, fire! steel and fire!

Oak! oak, earth and waves!

Waves, oak, earth, and oak!

The Lord Nann and the Fairy (Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan)

The good Lord Nann and his fair bride

Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied–

Were young when death did them divide.

But yesterday that lady fair

Two babes as white as snow did bear;

A man-child and a girl they were.

“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,

For making me a man-child’s sire?

‘Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,–

“What food soe’er thee lists to take,

Meat of the woodcock from the lake,

Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”

“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!

To eat thereof would do me good,

But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”

The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,

Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;

His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,

And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.

By the skirts of the wood as he did go,

He was ware of a hind as white as snow.

Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,

That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.

Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,

That the sweat to drop from his brow began–

That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;

So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.

When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,

Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.

The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,

And he lighted down off his horse to drink.

The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,

A-combing her long and yellow hair.

A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,–

(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).–

“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here

To trouble my fairy fountain clear?

Either thou straight shall wed with me,

Or pine for four long years and three;

Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”

“I will not wed with thee, I ween,

For wedded man a year I’ve been;

“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,

Nor die in three days for spell of thine;

“For spell of thine I will not die,

But when it pleaseth God on high.

“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,

Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.

*

“O mother, mothe! for love of me,

Now make my bed, and speedily,

For I am sick as a man can be.

“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;

Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;

The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”

Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,

To her mother-in-law the ladye said:

“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,

Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?

“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,

All clad in their vestments white as snow?”

“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,

He died last night, my daughter dear.”

“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son

My husband-whither is he gone?”

“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;

And at your side he’ll be back anon.”

“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,

My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”

“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,

That women for churching black should don.”

As through the churchyard porch she stept,

She saw the grave where her husband slept

“Who of our blood is lately dead,

That our ground is new raked and spread?”

The truth I may no more forbear,

My son–your own poor lord–lies there!”

She threw herself on her knees amain,

And from her knees neer rose again.

That night they laid her, dead and cold,

Beside her lord, beneath the mould

When, lo! –a marvel to behold!–

Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,

Shot lusty boughs high up in air;

And in their boughs–oh wondrous sight!–

Two happy doves, all snowy white–

That sang, as ever the morn did rise,

And then flew up–into the skies!

————

Alain the Fox

The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades;

Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades.

His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood.

Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood.

The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see,

It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany.

The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war;

It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore.

They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye;

But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony.

I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn:

I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn.

It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat;

But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses’ feet.

I heard the cry when threshing’s done, the joy-cry onward borne

Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn:

From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land’s-End rocks.

In Brittany’s four corners give a glory to the Fox!

From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times!

But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes!

For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung :

Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue.

But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his:

He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies.

—–

Bran (The Crow.)

Wounded full sore is Bran the knight ;

For he was at Kerloan fight;

At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore

Was Bran-Vor’s grandson wounded sore;

And, though we gained the victory,

Was captive borne beyond the sea.

He when he came beyond the sea,

In the close keep wept bitterly.

“They leap at home with joyous cry

While, woe is me, in bed I lie.

Could I but find a messenger,

Who to my mother news would bear!”

They quickly found a messenger

His best thus gave the warrior:

“Heed thou to dress in other guise,

My messenger, dress beggar-wise!

Take thou my ring, my ring of gold,

That she thy news as truth may hold!

Unto my country straightway go,

It to my lady mother show!

Should she come free her son from hold,

A flag of white do thou unfold!I

But if with thee she come not back,

Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!

So, when to Leon-land he came,

At supper table sat the dame,

At table with her family,

The harpers playing as should be.

“Dame of the castle, hail! I bring

From Bran your son this golden ring,

His golden ring and letter too;

Read it, oh read it, straightway through!

“Ye harpers, cease ye, play no more,

For with great grief my heart is sore!

My son (cease harpers, play no more!)

In prison, and I did not know!

Prepare to-night a ship for me!

To-morrow I go across the sea.”

The morning of the next, next day

The Lord Bran questioned, as he lay:

“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!

Seest thou no vessel on its way?”

“My lord the knight, I nought espy

Except the great sea and the sky.”

The Lord Bran askt him yet once more,

Whenas the day’s course half was o’er;

“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!

Seest thou no vessel on its way?”

“I can see nothing, my lord the knight,

Except the sea-birds i’ their flight.”

The Lord Bran askt him yet again,

Whenas the day was on the wane;

“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!

Seest thou no vessel on its way?”

Then that false sentinel, the while

Smiling a mischief-working smile;

“I see afar a misty form–

A ship sore beaten by the storm.”

“The flag? Quick give the answer back!

The banner? Is it white or black?”

“Far as I see, ’tis black, Sir knight,

I swear it by the coal’s red light.”

When this the sorrowing knight had heard

Again he never spoke a word;

But turn’d aside his visage wan;

And then the fever fit began.

Now of the townsmen askt the dame,

When at the last to shore she came,

“What is the news here, townsmen, tell!

That thus I hear them toll the bell?”

An aged man the lady heard,

And thus he answer’d to her word:

“We in the prison held a knight;

And he hath died here in the night.”

Scarcely to end his words were brought,

When the high tower that lady sought;

Shedding salt tears and running fast,

Her white hair scatter’d in the blast,

So that the townsmen wonderingly

Full sorely marvell’d her to see;

Whenas they saw a lady strange,

Through their streets so sadly range

Each one in thought did musing stand;

“Who is the lady, from what land?”

Soon as the donjon’s foot she reacht,

The porter that poor dame beseecht;

“Ope, quickly ope, the gate for me!

My son! My son! Him would I see!”

Slowly the great gate open drew;

Herself upon her son she threw,

Close in her arms his corpse to strain,

The lady never rose again.

There is a tree, that doth look o’er

From Kerloan’s battle-field to th’ shore;

An oak. Before great Evan’s face

The Saxons fled in that same place.

Upon that oak in clear moonlight,

Together come the birds at night;

Black birds and white, but sea birds all;

On each one’s brow a blood-stain small,

With them a raven gray and old;

With her a crow comes young and bold.

Both with soil’d wings, both wearied are;

They come beyond the seas from far:

And the birds sing so lovelily

That silence comes on the great sea.

All sing in concert sweet and low

Except the raven and the crow.

Once was the crow heard murmuring:

“Sing, little birds, ye well may sing!

Sing, for this is your own countrie!

Ye died not far from Brittany!”