August 2006 – Page 3

August 11, 2006

Invitation to Invocation…

Nice evening… I sat at the table with family and friends, ranging in age from 92 to 15 years. Diverse backgrounds, Russian Ex-pats, English, Scots, Americans.. A lively conversation, good food, excellent wine and the night unwinding around us in a beautiful breeze.

Various images arise: Rowan cooking aubergine over the charcoal grill under the bamboo with Sofie looking on, Tony wandering the garden enquiring about the plants, Irina looking lovely, Mary smiling, tired from all the preparation… Maggie with her Mother Ruth and her nephew John (a truly wonderful 15 year old from Pendelton), Zena laughing, asking her daughter Irina what everyone is saying in English… Andre crusing through as he always does with his impish smile.

Nothing like being with good friends and family! A great night.

—

The entry for today is based on Invocation… I found a series of poems, meditations and thought they would cap the week nicely. It is funny I feel the sacred in the strangest ways. Sometimes it strikes me at what would be considered awkward… 80) Nothing like having an epiphany whilst shopping at Home Depot in the morning, staring off into space at a display and seeing the patterns of chaos congeal into a coherent concept. This was not the way the corporation hoped you would spend your time on their territory.

I find the mind going over a concept, a poem, or a lyric and finding a gem of incredible worth staring back at me; often times I will have heard or read it for years, and missed the point. Here is to finding the point, and all the multiple facets of the situation!

These Poems/Invocations help bring me back to the root of things as I have come to know it. Your speed may vary of course…. 8o)

I hope this finds you well,

Gwyllm

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On the Menu

The Links

The Quotes

4 Poems of Invocation…

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The Links

Greek archaeological sites celebrate Lunar festival

Goat crowned King of Ireland at ancient fair

A Closer Look: On justice and the sacred

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The Quotes

“On my income tax 1040 it says ‘Check this box if you are blind.’ I wanted to put a check mark about three inches away.”

“Television is a new medium. It’s called a medium because nothing is well-done.”

“We need anything politically important rationed out like Pez: small, sweet, and coming out of a funny, plastic head.”

“Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.”

“Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedy.”

“There is no passion like that of a functionary for his function.”

“Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”

“The best way to predict the future is to invent it.”

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The Invitation

It doesn’t matter what you do for a living or how much money you have,

what matters is how you live, how much you give of yourself.

It doesn’t matter where you were born or with whom you studied,

It matters only when you give birth to yourself, and then share that wealth.

I do not care what planets square your moon,

or how much joy you express when times are good

and all the world seems to smile upon you,

I care only that when fortune betrays you, and you stand naked

abandoned at night near the edge of the lake–

you can still lift up your arms to the great silver of the moon and shout, “Yes!”

It doesn’t matter how much money you have, or how many things you possess,

it matters only that you can be content when alone in the silent spaces,

and then wake each morning confident to do what needs to be done for the children.

[Remembered from the words of a Mountain Elder]

—-

Hymn to Dionysos

Blessed, blessed are the ones who know the mysteries of the god.

Blessed, blessed are those who hollow their lives in the worship of god,

whom the spirit of the god possesseth,

and who belong to the holy body of the god.

Blessed, blessed are the dancers and those who are purified,

who dance on the hill in the holy dance of god.

Blessed are they who keep the rite of Cybele the Mother.

Blessed are the disciples who become prophets, the Gnostics

who hold the holy wand of god.

Blessed are those who wear the ivy crown of the Conquering One–

Blessed, blessed are they,

Dionysos is our god!

–Adapted from the Bacchae

Euripides [480-406 B.C.E.]

—-

INVOKATION TO CERES

O great and Holy Goddess,

I pray Thee by thy

plenteous and liberal right hand,

by the joyful ceremonies of thy harvest,

by the secrets of thy Sacrifice, by the flying

chariots of thy dragons, by the sowing of the ground gnosis

thou hast invented on earth for thy children;

by the marriage of Persephone, by the diligent wisdom and

devotion of thy blessed daughter; and by the other secrets and

devotions thou hast revealed to thy mortal followers,

whose hands till the earth in love for Thee.

Come to us here in this

consecrated place,

Deign to bless these rites

with thy shinning face,

Bless thy faithful Children

with thy Holy Grace.

O beautiful Ceres and Great Mother Isis are One!

Grant us thy fruitful protection!

—

The Golden Thread of Time

Chaos rules the world of Man and Nature

in the moment of now

Order will return for a while in the cycle of the times,

but the World will never die,

The Vine of Man and Woman may wither and pass away.

New Birth will come and Ma-at return.

New eyes may greet the rising of the Sun

In distant future, another kind may taste the living air of ancient dead

and rise in life from the dust of ages,

To wonder once again at the stars

and keep the Time to sail the seas on wind and tide.

They who are to walk the earth

will spin beneath the ruthless eye of Starry Serpent

and watch the hoary Twelve sail by with Orion

at the helm

And will they see the Sun give life by day?

As did we,

and live in balance with the world

For a while.

What clothes will you wear, my love?

And how shall I recognise thee?

Will we be as One as once before?

When we meet again in this ship of life.

in distant times,

On the Golden Thread of millions of years.

—-

Priests

And who will write love songs for you

When I am lowered at last?

And your body is that little highway shrine

That all my priests have passed.

My priests they will put flowers there

They will kneel before the glass

But theyll wear away your little window love

They will trample on the grass.

And who will aim the arrow

That man will follow thru your grace?

When I am lowered of memories

And all your armor has turned to lace.

The simple life of heroes

The twisted life of saints

They just confuse the sunny calendar

With their red & golden paint.

And all of you have seen the dance

That God has kept from me

But he has seen me watching you

When all your minds were free.

And who will write love songs for you

When I am lowered at last?

And your body is some highway shrine

That all my priests have passed.

My priests they will put flowers there

They will stand before the glass

But theyll wear away your little window light

They will trample on the grass.

Leonard Cohen

—-

August 10, 2006

The Paisley Gate

(“Windmill of the Time” Michael Cheval)

Thursday is here… working all over town. We have a party of friends tonight, Irina and her mother Zena from Russia along with Irina’s son Andre, Maggie & Tony with 3 relatives along as well. Should be fun, and as it is the coolest temps I have seen in Oregon in August, a pleasant night as well…

Out of here until later, more coming down the pike….

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

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The Paisley Gate: Tantric Psychedelia -Erik Davis

Poetry: XUE TAO

Art: Michael Cheval

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The Links:

Strange holes in the ground discovered in Krasnoyarsk region

Escaped golf-course grass frees gene genie in the US

Volcanic eruptions score melodies

Contrail and Shadow Above Glasgow

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(“Metamorphosis” Michael Cheval)

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The Paisley Gate: Tantric Psychedelia

by Erik Davis

This piece appears in Zig Zag Zen: Buddhism and Psychedelics (Chronicle Books, 2002)

I first visited Green Gulch Farms on a sunny Sunday in the fall of 1995. A group of students were sitting beneath the alien rows of eucalyptus trees, talking casually with Tenshin Reb Anderson, then abbot of the San Francisco Zen Center. Jerry Garcia had recently died, and at one point in the conversation, a blond, fortysomething woman asked Anderson, in all seriousness, whether Garcia was a bodhisattva.

Myself I would have failed this particular Marin County koan. But not Anderson, who answered the question promptly and without condescension. He first described the Buddhist idea of protectors: beings who can be said to encircle and guard the dharma without being entirely within the fold. Presumably, Anderson was taking inspiration from the dharmapalas of Tibetan Buddhism, especially the lokapalas: ferocious local spirits who swore allegiance to the Buddha-way only after being magically subjugated by the tantric missionary and wizard Padmasambhava. Some of these shamanic entities are even said to not fully accept the Buddha’s teaching; though integrated within Tibetan Buddhism, they retain an intense liminality, or “in-betweenness”. And as the recent controversy over the protector spirit Dorje Shugden makes clear, one monk’s manifestation of Manjushri can be another monk’s blood-thirsty demon.

In any case, Anderson’s response was brilliant. Without castigating whatever visionary and communal ecstasy Deadheads managed to extract from their loopy scene, Anderson established an open border between Garcia and the dharma, at once separating the two while acknowledging their connection — a connection which, in the Bay Area anyway, is as local as a lokopala. But though American Zen and the Grateful Dead have both served as major attractions in northern California’s spiritual carnival, the abbot also needed to draw the line. On the far side of this line lay drugs, because drugs, Anderson made clear, were definitely not the Buddha way.

Anderson did not name the drugs, which was just as well, as the day was growing short and the Dead’s curriculum vitae is long. Garcia’s appetite for heroin and freebase was at times prodigious, and few would make an argument for the enlightening nature of these substances. But in the larger context of the Grateful Dead experience, “drugs” means psychedelics — the LSD, mescaline, peyote, mushrooms, and other compounds that transformed the Dead’s cowboy jazz into the occasion for Dionysian romps in the electric bardo. In Anderson’s analogy, then, psychedelics correspond to the unassimilable shamanic elements of Tibetan folk magic, to those pre-Buddhist beliefs and practices, Bon-po or not, that remain outside the circle of dharma they nonetheless helped shape.

Leaving the Grateful Dead aside, I’d like to suggest that the overlap between American psychedelic culture and American Buddhism is roughly analogous to the liminal zone inhabited by the less sublime dharmapalas. The analogy works both historically and, if you will, institutionally. On top of providing an imaginative slant on the significant historical links between American Buddhism and psychedelics in the 1960s and 70s, the tantric tension between local demons and dharma protectors also helps us understand how some contemporary American Buddhists grapple with the controversial, even heretical specter of psychedelic spirituality. When Tibetan Buddhists engaged the fierce and sorcerous entities of the pre-Buddhist mindscape, they faced the same sort of problem that greets American Buddhists attempting to account for the convulsively magic molecules in their midst: how to simultaneously honor and vanquish, integrate and control.

The grizzled bearded visage of “Mahajerry” tells us something right off the bat: the question of psychedelics and American Buddhism remains intimately bound up with the collective spiritual narrative of one particular generation of Americans. Though American Buddhism sprouted from seeds planted long before the emergence of “the 60s”, the dharma rode to relative prominence on the same countercultural wave of mind-expansion that thrust Timothy Leary into the limelight. Indeed, if there had been no Pranksters, no acid tests, no “instant nirvana,” it is hard to imagine that places like Green Gulch would exist at all. Buddhism in American first hit its stride in the context of countercultural spirituality, and it is simply impossible to understand countercultural spirituality without taking psychedelics into account. Indeed, such understanding is probably impossible without taking psychedelics, period.

The legitimacy of psychedelic spirituality is a vexed question, especially given the ideas of authenticity and illusion that play such a pivotal role in the spiritual assessment of drugs. Anthropologically speaking, though, its hard not to see the question of legitimacy as anything other than a mechanism of cultural power through which religious institutions and lineages define and police their borders. (In this sense, religious discourse surrounding drugs is similar to those surrounding food and sex.) As we now know, psychedelic substances, not to mention other psychoactive drugs, have played a profound role in the history of the human spirit. We may never know what materials composed the soma praised in the Vedas or the punch that gave the Eleusinian Mysteries their mystical zap, but its a pretty safe bet that something more than watery oatmeal was being quaffed. Psychoactive plants are even more fundamentally linked to those ancient indigenous practices we rather loosely describe as “shamanism.” The religious culture of pre-Buddhist Tibet, for example, was part of a huge shamanic complex that stretched throughout Eurasia and included, in its more northern stretches at least, the ritual use of the psychedelic mushroom Amanita muscaria.

In any case, psychoactive drugs must be featured prominently in any catalog of what Mircea Eliade called humanity’s “technologies of ecstasy” — a tool-kit of altered states production that includes dancing, drumming, fasting, fucking, and physical ordeal. But in the 1960s, in a culture that has swept its mystical and ecstatic traditions under the moldering carpet of mainline Christianity, there was little to no context for the experiences such technologies helped produce. While one can certainly explore psychedelic space as a “modernist”, looking to art and science for models, many people found that only mystical language and occult images could frame their chemical illuminations. Many Westerners turned, in particular, to Eastern religion, partly because the Orient has long been an imaginal zone where Westerners scamper to when they want to escape the prison of scientific materialism. The “Eastern turn” also makes phenomenological sense. LSD could send serpentine energy shooting up your spine, or thrust you into apocalyptic mandalas, or vibrate the world into an energetic void. At the same time, drugs could also unveil the simple, immanent “Zen” of the ordinary world: a leaf, a breeze, or, as in Huxley’s famous mescaline tale in Doors of Perception, a fold in one’s trousers.

Drugs and dharma were themselves only a few of the ingredients in a heretical countercultural stew that included marijuana, free love, Tarot cards, street protests, long hair, anarchism, the I Ching, electric guitars, an active press, Carlos Castaneda, and Hindu iconography. From the perspective of serious Western Buddhists with Eastern teachers, not to mention the roshis and lamas who themselves arrived in the 1960s and 70s in order to found institutions, the freak scene must have seemed, in its eclectic mania, almost as wild and fierce as Tibet seemed to the Indian missionaries of the 8th century. In a sense, the counterculture was America’s own fractured shamanism, seething with untamed energies and magical phantasms. By taking root within this intensely vibrant culture, the Western dharma was able to make the transition from a marginal pursuit of intellectuals and cultural mavericks to the influential if constrained mass phenomenon it is today. While those roots may have been intoxicant-free, the soil they found was psychedelic, and its peculiar nutrients fundamentally shaped the blooms to come.

For one thing, Buddhism owed many of its recruits to the widespread fascination with altered states of consciousness — a fascination that was largely sparked, if not fueled, by drugs. Simply put, psychedelics gave people a taste for the excitement, power, anxiety, insight, and joy of altered states of consciousness. On an even more basic level, drugs also encouraged people to explore their own immediate experience, and to recognize that heaven and hell were functions of their own minds. Many Westerners were drawn to Buddhism because it too offered a “hands on” dimension lacking in Christianity, one that also loosely accorded with the modern “scientific” temperament that drugs, in their own way, subtly reinforced. This democratic turn towards direct experience became one of the hallmarks of countercultural spirituality, just as it became a hallmark of American Buddhism. The notion that samadhi was available to all, that everyone possessed something like the Buddha-mind, was emphasized by the universal action of the Sandoz molecule. “Have you ever been experienced?” Hendrix asked. If not, why not?

Once blown, many Western minds were far more likely to put up with alien rituals and grueling disciplines that promised even deeper and subtler experiences. The notion of practice — perhaps the richest and most multivalent term in American Buddhism — is crucial here. One basic meaning of practice is technique: one does not believe, one acts (or, perhaps more accurately, “action happens”). In other words, one adopts a technique, an internalized technology or a psycho-behavioral recipe, and explores the results. Though the act of swallowing a sugar cube is a pretty rinky-dink operation compared to the rigor and depth of zazen or hatha yoga, psychedelics did teach people that altered states, even refined ones, could be accessed through technologies of perception.

Indeed, LSD was only one device in the counterculture’s ever-expanding occult tool kit, which included divination systems like tarot cards and the I Ching, biofeedback devices and floatation tanks, as well as a variety of internal and physical disciplines: breathwork, t’ai chi, massage, pranayama, veganism, Kriya yoga. Given the unprecedented technological experience of the baby boom generation, it’s not surprising that they developed the conviction that technique, in some form, was integral to the process of transformation and insight. Whether the technology was external or internal was less important — was an acid test, with its feedback systems, light shows, and communal chemistry, inside or out? LSD helped insure that the Eliadean metaphor of spiritual practices as “inner technologies” would find its way into the lexicon of countercultural spirituality, so much so that it appears in the writings of a serious Buddhist scholar like Robert Thurman.

The problem with the metaphor of technology is that technologies generally encourage a dualistic viewpoint, while mature practice erodes the perception that there is a doer using a tool to pursue a goal. This was an important lesson for American Buddhists during the freak years, when the goals were cosmic. In those idealistic times, there was a veritable obsession with the achievement of enlightenment experiences — an obsession that may have owed much of its ferocity to expectations first laid down by drugs. Over the decades, the emphasis has shifted away from such fierce pursuits, and many teachers go out of their way to deflate the excitement surrounding powerful meditation experiences. Indeed, I suspect that the hostility that some contemporary Buddhists express towards psychedelics conceals an anxiety that their practice remains tainted, on some level, with the desire to get high. But this is an understandable desire — it’s hard to say how many people would continue the practice over the years if they didn’t occasionally “get the goods,” whether on the pillow or on drugs.

But psychedelics don’t just get people high. Like literal acid, they work to empty, on both individual and social levels, the apparently solid substance of conventional reality — so-called common sense. Regardless of the otherworldly visions drugs can bestow, the deeper psychedelic message concerned the relativity of thought and perception — a “philosophical” insight that drugs reveal directly through the operation of your own nervous system. Unfortunately, as Nietzsche saw with a prophet’s eye, relativity is only a stone’s throw away from nihilism. Strong psychedelics gave people a glimpse of emptiness, but while the void could be glittering at its peak, it could feel like a bottomless pit the morning after. The ease with which so many psychedelic users sank into cynicism, mental instability, and addiction to more insidious drugs shows that psychedelics themselves do nothing to build the contexts of meaning and spiritual aspiration necessary to prevent such ecstatic technologies from becoming hollow and even destructive mechanisms. Some of the new religious movements of the 1970s — like the Jesus Freaks — reacted against the druggy void with a new fundamentalism. But the dharma — whose full-frontal embrace of sunyata is coupled with a compassionate rejection of nihilism — seemed unusually poised to answer the problems posed by a stark psychedelic confrontation with the ultimate relativity and provisional nature of all phenomenal experience.

So how do we express and characterize the relationship between psychedelics and dharma practice? The conventional answer, offered by many once-tripping Buddhists, is that drugs “open the door.” Without much work or knowledge on the part of the user, psychedelics can crack open consensus reality, expand identity beyond the confines of the conventional self, induce ego-death, and unveil the connection between mind and the totality of the real. However “inauthentic” these experiences may be judged to be, many people respond to them by turning to Eastern practice in order to extend, comprehend, and deepen their insights. Once their practice has stabilized and opened up, many of these people abandon drugs as needless or even harmful distractions. In this view, spiritual practice becomes something like the lift-off of Apollo 11. Drugs point you towards the moon of enlightenment, and somewhat violently thrust you away from the gravity of consensus reality. Having done so, they can then be abandoned like the early stages of a rocket. Or as Alan Watts quipped, “Once you get the message, hang up the phone.”

Here psychedelics, once again, play the role of a liminal technology. That is, like a doorway or a telephone, they stand in-betwixt and in-between, shuttling mind over a threshold. However, while the image of door-opener certainly jibes with many people’s life experiences, it also serves to cordon off and subtly undermine the full force of psychedelic experience — not to mention their ongoing potential for insight. In other words, once drugs become nothing but expendable tools, the experiences they help provide (with more than a little help from the mind) can be ignored without being wholeheartedly denied. In Zen terms, they can be dispensed with as nothing more than “makyo.”

But what happens when serious practitioners continue to follow what Dale Pendell calls “the poison path”? What happens when you open the door and don’t shut it tightly behind you? Here is where the real controversy begins. No-one’s logging any numbers, but I suspect that a healthy chunk of self-identified practicing American Buddhists keep at least occasional dates with the writhing, world-rending void lurking in the heart of psychedelic hyperspace. But I also suspect that, if asked to render judgment on such activities, most dharma teachers would deliver a fat thumbs down. Indeed, psychedelic spirituality may well be the only real heresy in American Buddhism (except for maybe voting Republican). Heresy, though, is a Western concept, the stuff of witch burnings and gnostic cults. And though serious psychedelic culture certainly has its gnostic aspects, in the context of American Buddhism, it is perhaps best described as a kind of tantra — a crude and scandalous one for sure, but homegrown at least, arising from our “native” tradition of countercultural craziness.

Given the generally cheesy spectacle of American neo-tantric sexology, I want to emphasize that I am not claiming that psychedelics have much of anything to do with authentic Asian tantra, an immensely rich and complex tradition about which I have only a scattering of book learning. Nonetheless, in the spirit of productive analogies rather than proclamations of metaphysical truth, I’d like to suggest a number of intriguing parallels. The most obvious one is secrecy. Despite their crucial role in the propagation of American Buddhism, psychedelics are basically not the stuff of dharma talks, or Shambhala books, or Tricycle articles. Discussions occur within the context of sangha and teacher-student relationships, but only selectively and probably not very often at all. One reason for this secrecy derives from another similarity: as with the panca-tattva practices of “left-handed” tantric adepts, who, among other things, ritually consume booze, fish, and meat, the materials of psychedelic Buddhism are socially unsanctioned — literally, “against the law.” In fact, the condemnation that surrounds psychedelics may actually lend them some of their esoteric power, just as the negative social mores surrounding meat, alcohol, and sexual congress in traditional India contribute a certain antinomian buzz to the feistier tantric practices.

The connection between psychedelics and tantra goes beyond social practices, into the heart of esoteric perception. This material is difficult to describe, but one could say for starters that psychedelics usher the bodymind into a magical, liminal zone that unfolds between the consensual sensory world and the worlds depicted in the different languages of dream, art, and high-octane metaphysics. Within this “bardo logic,” memories, ideas, and images multiply and pulse like hieroglyphic sigils, suggesting patterns of association and hidden resonances that voyagers often take — or mistake — for revelations. But the real object of revelation is the mind itself — not simply as a source of meaning, or linguistic categories, but as an organic machine of perception, a machine that can be tweaked. Simply put, psychedelics present the imagination, and by “imagination” I don’t simply mean the source of our hazy daydreams or visionary flights, but the synthetic power that Kant posited as the generally unconscious mechanism through which our basic conceptual faculties construct the world of space-time.

The status of the imagination in Buddhism is, to put it mildly, ambivalent. On the one hand, the imagination is often treated as a synonym for avidya — it is the imagination that mistakes the rope of reality for the frightening (or seductive) serpent. The very literary form of the earliest Buddhist texts — their dryness, repetition, and lack of flavor — argues that the desiccation of the imagination was a goal of practice. On the other hand, many Mahayana sutras are brimming with the materials of “fantasy”: galaxies of bodhisattvas, infinite garlands of wish-fulfilling gems, “clouds of spheres of light the color of the curl of hair between the Buddha’s eyebrows.” All this can seem very familiar. Indeed, I have not come across a canonical religious text that can approach the psychedelic majesty of the Avatamsaka Sutra, whose infinite details and ceaseless lists captures both the adamantine excess and fractal multiplicity of deep psychedelia.

The literary function of such apparently “imaginative” materials are of course debatable. Are they glimpses of sambhogakaya, seductive folk material, depictions of literal powers, allegories of wisdom? Whatever its function in sutra, however, the work of the esoteric imagination in tantra is central, even on the most literal level of visualization. For the generation stages of tantra, during which deities and their associated mandalas are constructed with the inner eye, the merely individual imagination is used a gateway, an engine to tame and train for the powerful perceptions of tantric reality. Through diligence, conduct, and ritual, the imagination itself is alchemically transformed, and the completion stages actualize, according to traditional accounts, what had only previously been imagined. Psychedelics are generally too chaotic and willful for this kind of controlled work; nonetheless, serious psychonauts will often encounter feelings, images, and pocket universes with an intensely tantric flavor. And why not? If one buys into tantric accounts of the subtle body, with its nadis and chakras and winds, then it is not too tough to imagine that, just as physical practices like hatha yoga, mantra, and tummo can stir up the energies of transformed perception, so might swarms of molecules swimming in the neural bath of the brain. Certainly it is the case that psychonauts who also practice yoga, tai chi, and visualization often find their work reshaping the phenomenology of their trips.

Of course, even if drugs trigger actual changes in the esoteric bodymind, they may be quite harmful, even demonic — a fear immortalized in the notorious claim that drugs somehow put “holes in your astral body.” As David Gordon White makes clear, however, medieval tantrics were not above ingesting alchemical elixirs, even as renegade sadhus ingest hashish and even jimson weed today. It is hard to imagine that if LSD, peyote, or DMT existed in ancient India, these substances would not have been used by at least some folks who conceived of their path as tantra. Despite the thoroughly integrated example of Vajrayana in Tibet, the religious temperament of tantra suggests that some of its practitioners will almost inevitably stray towards heterodoxy; its extreme wings will adapt extreme technologies, dangerous or not. Representatives of orthodoxy may argue that such activities represents degenerate tantra, and they may well be right. But technology is about nothing if it is not about speed, and tantra is the lightning path, appropriate for a time of waning Dharma. Perhaps psychedelics are the greased lightning appropriate for an even more degenerate West, when only the philosophy of a Malcolm X makes sense — by any means necessary.

One red herring in the psychedelic debate is the rejoinder that drugs are artificial and cannot provide “authentic” spiritual experiences. Leaving aside the reverse spiritual materialism of this argument (i.e., that there are some productions of mind that we can legitimately embrace as authentic spiritual experiences), there is the evident fact that psychedelics can produce something like spiritual or visionary experience. In other words, we can look at them as simulators. The use of the individual’s imagination in the generation stages of tantra, during which images, colors, and processes are constructed which only later become actualized, alerts us to the productive work that can be done by staging “run-throughs” of later, more profound experiences.

The most profound experience that lies ahead of most of us is death. Given the scandalous liberties I’ve already taken, I don’t want to draw too tight an analogy here, but the ultimate object of tantric simulation is the dying process: the loss of the elements, the experience of the clear light, and the bardo. Similarly, the most ferociously meaningful psychedelic experiences tend to be those in which something like dying seems to occur. These experiences can be so powerful that, even if some kernel of us knows that we are on drugs, they rip “us” down to the bones. (The nature of the witnessing consciousness that undergoes intense psychedelic experiences is one of the koans of drugs). Even if the trip itself does not resemble the actual dying process — and given the dizzying range of psychedelic experiences across both substances and minds, I suspect it doesn’t — it may be the closest most of us come to having the world snatched away and replaced with an exhilarating, terrifying, and blissful realm of deep cosmic mind. From this perspective, drugs can be seen as flight simulators for the Dharma; certain substances, including ketamine, ayahuasca and 5MEO-DMT, seem to lend themselves particularly well to this kind of work.

And it is work. Psychedelics can be as grueling, frightening, and anxious as any sesshin. Moreover, they offer any number of yawning traps for the spiritually inclined experimenter, and part of the kind and grizzled wisdom radiated by some longtime aficionados arises from avoiding those traps. One of these is to cling to the visions, to interpret the images or narratives or self-models that arise as being messages from some being or deeper plane of reality. Besides representing a literalizing of the imagination — the sin of idolatry, if you will — this grasping overlooks the site of much of the real work. The visions are not the point. The point is how “you” change in relationship to your experience, both inside it and out — phenomenologically, ethically, and aesthetically. There is no revelation but your own experience. And what is this experience? Submission to change, and the absolute truth of impermanence. After all, the altered states pass, obvious products of changing causes and conditions — in this case, eminently material ones.

Recognizing impermanence is a crucial lesson for any spiritual paths that involves altered states of consciousness, since the temptation to reify and cling to realizations, visions, and insights is so overwhelming. This temptation leads to “religion” in the bad sense of the term, and it is one that Buddhism, to its everlasting credit, goes out of its way to undermine. One of the lessons dealt by psychedelics, at least for mature aficionados, is that they disenchant the very exalted states they also introduce to the psyche . That is, not only do drugs show that such states can be generated by swallowing a pill or insufflating some noxious powder, but they invariably snatch those states away as they are metabolized and flushed from the body. They are always and evidently upaya, or “means.” In contrast, the material or contingent aspect of purely “spiritual” altered states of consciousness are not always so obvious, making the temptation to hold onto those states and experiences as revelations all the greater. Indeed, drugs may also have something to say to these apparently non-technological states of consciousness that play such a profound role in deep meditation, reminding us that they do arise from causes and conditions that are material as well as karmic. In fact, drugs may encourage us to sap the illusion of “essence” from all states of consciousness — not just this serotonin trance we take for ordinary reality, but for even the most legitimate mystical experiences. And yet the powerful phenomenology of drugs argues that we would be foolish to take these material causes as the only reality.

The dark side of drugs goes without saying (if only because it is said so much). One does not need to be a genius, or even a psychologist, to understand how easily drugs can amplify delusion, disassociation, and spiritual materialism, let alone feed into patterns of behavior and consumption that lead ever further away from the Dharma. Even if the real horrors are avoided, I suspect that anything more than occasional use of all but the most sacred medicines does not help much in the long run. From the perspective of an established meditation practice, drugs can come to seem quite crude, even absurd, their once awe-inspiring dynamics revealing ever more mechanical, repetitive and confusing effects. Nonetheless, at this point in the history of the spirit, spiritual practice and the psychedelic path are perhaps most fruitfully considered as distinct paths. Just as therapy is perhaps best seen as a complement of Dharma, sharing elements but also diverging somewhat in both goals and results, so might psychedelics be seen as a kind of shadow practice, with its own peaks and pitfalls — again, like the bon-po side of Tibetan Buddhism, always a little dodgy, a bit too earthy and coarse.

And it is for this reason that psychedelic Buddhism remains a marginal subject, buried beneath the far more established narrative of psychedelics as a door-opener. This narrative is simpler to accept, not only because it takes the heat of the present moment, but accords so well with the larger Buddhist boomer narrative, a narrative which still dominates the American Dharma.

You know the basic tale: the 60s were a crazy time of collective and individual experiments, including the copious consumption of mind-bending drugs. The fascination with altered states led some to the deeper rewards of Eastern practice, which many embraced with radical, even revolutionary intensity. But the 1970s and 80s brought various forms of disillusionment: cult-like scenes, sex and money scandals, and the erosion of naive expectations surrounding spiritual attainment. While continuing to refine their commitment to the Dharma, many practitioners embraced more conventional careers, married and spawned, and became increasingly integrated and identified with mainstream society. Meanwhile, previously uninterested, largely liberal boomers began to turn to pop Dharma as a path of healing rather than a means of probing the fringes of the mind. Today, as the gray hair thickens and bodies starts to creak, American Buddhism has become a rather conventional affair, especially when compared to the days of Trungpa, early Tassajara, and Be Here Now. The popular focus has shifted from the great doubt to the gentle heart, from fierce aspiration to everyday integration. Jack Kornfield says it all in the title of his recent book: After the Ecstasy, the Laundry.

There is nothing wrong with this story, reflecting as it does the genuine experience of a generation growing out of its unprecedented narcissism while simultaneously shaping a mass American vessel for the Dharma. But it inevitably marginalizes, if not denies, the crazy wisdom of psychedelia. In so doing, Buddhist boomers put themselves in a curious position, especially regarding generational transmission. Because even if psychedelic spirituality is a youthful folly, such folly may be necessary, at least for some Americans. Are we to suppose that the doors of perception are somehow easier for younger generations to open than they were for children of the 1950s? If so, why? In rejecting (or more frequently, ignoring) psychedelia, Buddhist boomers find themselves in a similar position to middle-aged ex-heads who pressure their children away from drugs, and justify their decision through the notion that “things were different then.”

I can say this as a being, born in the summer of love, whose teenage years were largely spent tuning into Southern California’s lingering freak vibes. For me, the I Ching, psychedelics, Dead shows, anarcho-leftism, and meditation (or “meditation”) were all part of one countercultural package of hedonic pop mysticism. Though I make no claims for the lasting value of my teenage experiments, they certainly set me up for a more “authentic” contact with the Dharma in the my mid-20s, when I was ready to take on the more sobering kit-and-kaboodle of vows, grueling retreats, and the four noble truths. In this way, psychedelic culture did serve to “protect” the Dharma for me, providing me with a host of superficial triggers that were only fired off later, when I encountered the “real deal.” For long before an American Gelugpa monk slipped me a copy of Tsongkhapa in India, a text which simply blew my mind, I had already seen the scary bodhisattva grin of Mahajerry beaming down from the stage, urging me to wake up and find out that I was the eyes of the world.

____________

Poetry: XUE TAO (768-831)

Sending Old Poems to Yuan Zhen

Everyone writes poems in their own manner

but only I know delicacy of wind and light,

and when writing of flowers in moonlight, lean towards the

dark.

Of a willow in rainy dawn I write how twigs hang down.

They say green jade should stay hidden deep,

but I write candidly on red-lined paper.

I’m old now but can’t stop writing

so I open myself to you as if I were a good man.

—-

A Spring in Autumn

Behind a ribbon of evening mist, a chill sky distills,

and a melody of far waterfalls like ten silk strings

comes to my pillow to tug my feelings,

keeping me awake in sorrow past midnight.

—-

Spring Gazing

Flowers bloom but we can’t share them.

Flowers fall and we can’t share our sadness.

If you need to find when I miss you most:

when the flowers bloom and when they fall.

I pull a blade of grass and tie a heart-shape knot

to send to the one who understands my music.

Spring sorrow is at the breaking point.

Again spring birds murmur sad songs.

Wind, flowers, and the day is aging.

No one knows when we’ll be together.

If I can’t tie my heart to my man’s,

it’s useless to keep tying heart-shaped knots.

Unbearable when flowers fill the branches,

when two people miss each other.

Tears streak my morning mirror like jade chopsticks.

Does the spring wind know that?

Willow Catkins

In February, light, fine willow catkins

play with people’s clothes in spring breeze;

they are heartless creatures,

flying south one moment, then north again.

—–

Hearing Cicadas

Washed clean by dew, cicada songs go far

and like windblown leaves piling up

each cicada’s cry blends into the next.

Yet each lives on its own branch.

—–

Moon

Its spirit leans like a thin hook

or opens round like a Han-loom fan,

slender shadow whose nature is to be full,

seen everywhere in the human world.

______

Xue Tao was well-respected as a poet during the Tang Dynasty, when she lived. She was born either in the Tang capital Zhangan or later on when her father, a minor government official, was posted to Chengdu in present-day Sichuan province. A story about her childhood, perhaps apocryphal, suggests that she was able to write complex poems by the age of seven or eight. She may have gained some literary education from her father, but he died before she had come to marriageable age and she ended up being a very successful courtesan (one of the few paths for women in Tang Dynasty China in which conversation and artistic talent were encouraged). After Wei Gao, the military governor, became her literary patron, her reputation was widespread. She seems to have had an affair with another famous literary figure, Yuan Zhen. Late in life she went to live in seclusion and put on the habit of a Taoist churchwoman. More than one hundred of her poems survive. She is often considered (with Yu Xuanji) to be one of the two finest female poets of the Tang Dynasty.

(“Wake up call in Wonderland” Michael Cheval)

August 9, 2006

Everything Changes…

People use the word “natural”…what is natural to me are these botanical species which interact directly with the nervous system. What I consider artificial is 4 years at Harvard, and the Bible, and Saint Patrick’s cathedral, and the sunday school teachings.Timothy Leary

If you feel the urge to join in with others supporting Radio Free EarthRites, please do!

Thanx- Gwyllm

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Here is the entry today, I am off to a clients so it is all brevity until later. Have a good one, and enjoy the beauty of the day.

Blessings,

Gwyllm

On the Menu

The Links

Using Psychedelics Wisely – Myron Stolaroff

Ancient Celtic Poetry

_________

The Links:

The Men in Black Ride Again

An Alien Abductee Shares Proof That We are Not Alone

Birth Pangs of a new Christian Zionism…

It could happen anywhere…

Hardly alien territory

________

Using Psychedelics Wisely

by Myron Stolaroff

A veteran researcher explains how psychedelics can be used to give beneficial results

GNOSIS, No. 26, Winter 1993

MY WIFE JEAN AND I had driven several miles up the mountain to an elevation of 6000 feet a few miles south of Mount Whitney in California. We were about to meet Franklin Merrell-Wolff, author of the book Pathways through to Space, an impressively articulate and detailed description of a person entering a state of enlightenment and savoring it over several months.

When we were ushered into his private office, we found ourselves before an outstanding personage who radiated a marvelous glow. When we had talked for a few minutes and I felt sufficiently at home, I spoke of our research work, telling him that we had spent three and a half years administering LSD, sometimes in conjunction with mescaline, to 350 research subjects and had published our findings in medical journals.

“My oh my!” he said, looking at us with consternation. “I hope you haven’t used these drugs yourselves.”

We admitted that we had. He continued, “According to X” (here he mentioned an Indian sage whose name I do not remember), “it will take you seven incarnations to recover from the damage of taking such substances!”

Naturally I was upset, but I didn’t think of the appropriate reply until we were driving back down the hill: “Never underestimate the grace of God!”

There is no question that psychedelic substances are remarkable graces. The farther one can reach into the vastness to be explored, the more one realizes how powerful these materials are. There seems to be no end to the levels of awareness that can be realized by those who use them to explore their psyches with integrity and courage.

The great value in these chemicals is that, in some way still not scientifically explained, they dissolve the boundaries to the unconscious mind. They give us access to our repressed and forgotten material, to the Shadow that C.G. Jung so effectively dealt with, to the archetypes of humanity, to an enormous range of levels of thought, and to the wellspring of creativity and mystical experience that Jung called the collective unconscious.

At the heart of the unconscious is what many experience as the source of life itself, and which some call God. Those who have experienced this describe it as a wondrous, ineffable source of light and energy that infuses all of creation, embracing all wisdom and radiating a vast, unending, and ever-constant love. Immersion in this is the essence of the mystical experience and produces what the great mystics have described as the state of unity or oneness. Such union is the culmination of all seeking, all desire; it is the most cherished of all experiences of which man is capable.

Not all who ingest these substances can count on such revelations. In fact, psychedelics are powerful agents and can be misused. It must be remembered that they help reveal the unconscious, and most of us have made its contents unconscious for very specific reasons. We may not welcome the appearance of repressed, painful feelings, or of evidence that our values and lifestyles might be considerably improved. Nor is it always easy to accept the spaciousness of our being, our immense potential, and the responsibility that these entail. We may also refuse to believe that we are entitled to so much beauty and joy without paying any price other than being ourselves!

To assure a rewarding outcome, let’s look at some factors that should be taken into consideration when using these materials. I must add here that in no way am I encouraging the use of illegal substances. I do hope, however, that greater understanding of these materials will help restore an intelligent policy that will make further research possible. Here are some things that will help ensure beneficial results:

SET AND SETTING

Set and setting have been widely recognized as the two most important factors in undertaking a psychedelic experience. Of these, set has the greatest influence.

As the drug opens the door to the unconscious, huge spectrums of possibilities of experience present themselves. Just how one steers through this vast maze depends mostly upon set. Set includes the contents of the personal unconscious, which is essentially the record of all one’s life experience. It also includes one’s walls of conditioning, which determine the freedom with which one can move through various vistas. Another important aspect of set consists of one’s values, attitudes, and aspirations. These will influence the direction of attention and determine how one will deal with the psychic material encountered.

In fact, one can learn a great deal by accepting and reconciling oneself with uncomfortable material. Resisting this discomfort, on the other hand, can greatly intensify the level of pain, leading to disturbing, unsatisfactory experiences, or even psychotic attempts at escape. This latter dynamic is largely responsible for the medical profession’s view of these materials as psychotomimetic. On the other hand, surrender, acceptance, gratitude, and appreciation can result in continual opening, expansion, and fulfillment.

Setting, or the environment in which the experience takes place, can also greatly influence the experience, since subjects are often very suggestible under psychedelics. Inspiring ritual, a beautiful natural setting, stimulating artwork, and interesting objects to examine can focus one’s attention on rewarding areas. Most important of all is an experienced, compassionate guide who is very familiar with the process. His mere presence establishes a stable energy field that helps the subject remain centered. The guide can be very helpful should the subject get stuck in uncomfortable places, and can ask intelligent questions that will help resolve difficulties, as well as suggesting fruitful directions of exploration that the subject might have otherwise overlooked. The user will also find that simply sharing what is happening with an understanding listener will produce greater clarity and comfort. Finally, a good companion knows that the best guide is one’s own inner being, which should not be interfered with unless help is genuinely needed and sought.

MOTIVATION

This is extremely important. Those who earnestly seek knowledge and deeply appreciate life in all its forms will do well. Yet certain characteristics of psychedelics make them very popular for recreational use. The most attractive of these is their great enhancement of sensual responses, which offer heightened perception, amplification of beauty and meaning, and intensified sensual gratification. Psychedelics can also generate a great sense of closeness among participants, especially in a group setting. While I am convinced that one of the great cosmic commands is “Enjoy,” there are traps in using these substances purely for recreation. The first is that a person seeking the delights of the senses may find himself overwhelmed by the eruption of repressed unconscious material without knowing how to deal with it. Another danger is that constant pleasure-seeking without giving anything back to life can distort the personality and ultimately produce more discomfort. The safe, sure way to rewarding outcomes with psychedelics is through intelligent, well-informed use.

HONESTY

For the serious spiritual seeker, or for that matter anyone seeking knowledge, the single most important characteristic is honesty. This means the courage to look at whatever is presented by the deep mind, the ability to admit one’s shortcomings when they become apparent, and the determination to change one’s behavior in line with the truth one has experienced.

ONGOING DISCIPLINE

Experts in the field now generally agree that it is wise to conduct psychedelic explorations within the framework of a spiritual discipline or growth program that will continually call attention to fundamental values and goals. A good discipline will outline a body of ethics for personal behavior that will support the changes required. Good ethics will also help us stay clear about our objectives, and will keep the door open to increasing depths of experience. Moreover, there is evidence to suggest that the more we are prepared to pass on to others whatever spiritual largess we have accumulated, the more we will be given.

For myself, I found training in Tibetan Buddhist meditation a potent adjunct to psychedelic exploration. In learning to hold my mind empty, I became aware that other levels of reality would more readily manifest. It was only in absolute stillness, accompanied by a special, highly developed quality of listening, that many subtle but extremely valuable nuances of reality appeared. While I achieved this to some extent in ordinary practice, I found this effect to be greatly amplified while under the influence of a psychedelic substance. This in turn intensified my daily meditation practice.

PSYCHEDELICS AS WAY-SHOWERS

The role of psychedelics is often misunderstood. Many feel that having had wonderful experiences, they now have the answers and are somehow changed. And no doubt in many respects they are. But users often overlook the fact that there are usually heavy walls of conditioning and ignorance separating the surface mind from the core of our being. It is a blessing that psychedelics can set aside these barriers and give access to our real Self. But unless one is committed to the changes indicated, old habits of personality can rapidly reestablish themselves.

At this point many feel that repeating the experience will maintain the exalted state. It may, but most often real change requires hard work and dedicated effort. Unfortunately this is not always clear during the experience itself; it has merely pointed the way and shown what is possible. If we like what we see, it is now up to us to bring about the changes indicated.

There is a grace period following profound psychedelic experiences when changes can be rapidly made. At this time one is infused with the wonder and power of the new information. Moreoverand this is an area where some valuable research can be donethe drug experience releases a great deal of bodily and psychic armoring that is tied to our neuroses. This rejuvenation is quite noticeable after a good psychedelic experience, when, without the dragging weight of physical habit patterns, behavior can be more readily changed.

On the other hand, if you make no effort to change, old habits rapidly reassert themselves, and you find yourself sliding back into your previous state. In fact, it can be worse than before, because now you know that things can be better and are disappointed to find yourself mucking around in the same old garbage.

Another factor makes this process even more uncomfortable. A lot of the energy formerly tied up in repressed material is now released. This energy may be used quite fruitfully to expand the boundaries of your being to the new dimensions you have experienced. But if you return to old patterns of behavior, you now have more energy to reinforce them, making life more difficult. For this reason, these experiences must not be taken lightly, but with serious intent.

DEALlNG WITH THE SHADOW

As Jung indicated, the Shadow holds all the material that we have pushed aside so we can hide from ourselves. Unfortunately, it also contains much of our energy, and as long as it is unconscious, it exerts a powerful influence on our behavior without our knowing it. Furthermore, Shadow material is responsible for most of the difficulties humans create in the world. We project our Shadow onto others, believe those others to be the source of our difficulties, and seek refuge from them rather than taking responsibility in our own hands. Consequently we must resolve Shadow material if we are to develop. If this were accomplished on a widespread basis, it would be a major benefit for the world.

Jung describes human development as the process of “making the unconscious conscious.” Psychedelics, particularly in low doses, can be an extremely effective tool in this process. The bulk of my experience is with the phenethylamine compounds, which remained legal longer than the standard psychedelics such as LSD, mescaline, and psilocybin. Whereas a full dose of a phenethylamine like 2C-T-2 or 2C-T-7 might be 20 milligrams, a low dose would be ten or twelve milligrams, or roughly equivalent to 25-50 micrograms of LSD.

The most infallible guide to Shadow material is our uncomfortable feelings. Many do not like to use low doses because these feelings come to the surface. Rather than experience them, they use larger doses to transcend them. But these uncomfortable feelings are precisely what we must resolve to free ourselves from the Shadow, gain strength and energy, and function more comfortably and competently in the world. By using smaller amounts and being willing to focus our full attention on whatever feelings arise and breathe through them, we find that these feelings eventually dissolve, often with fresh insight and understanding of our personal dynamics. The release of such material permits an expansion of awareness and energy. If we work persistently to clear away repressed areas, we can enter the same sublime states that are available with larger doseswith an important additional gain. Having resolved our uncomfortable feelings, we are in a much better position to maintain a high state of clarity and functioning in day-to-day life.

I would also like to add a word about frequency: Individuals vary greatly in their frequency of use of these materials. Some are satisfied with an overwhelming experience which they feel is good for a lifetime. Others wish to renew their acquaintance with these areas once or twice a year. Still others are interested in frequent explorations to continually push their knowledge forward. Regardless of the frequency, it is wise to make sure that the previous experience has been well integrated before embarking on the next one. Early in one’s contact with these substances, where there is a wealth of new experience, this may take several months. As one becomes more experienced, the integration time grows shorter, and the interval between trials may be shortened.

Many stop the use of psychedelics when they feel they have learned what they wished. But often it is likely that they halt because they have hit a deeply repressed, painful area that is heavily defended. The issue goes beyond purely personal material, however. One is unlikely to reach full realization without awareness, not merely of one’s own pain and suffering, but of that of all mankind. This may help explain the Dark Night of the Soul, which is the final barrier to mystical union described by Evelyn Underhill in her classic book Mysticism. Since we are one, we must not only confront the personal Shadow, but the Shadow of all humanity. We can do this more readily when we discover the ample love that is available to dissolve all Shadow material.

FREElNG CONSTRlCTED AREAS

There is another way in which psychedelics can serve the serious seeker. It often happens that those pursuing rigorous spiritual disciplines achieve elevated states by pushing aside or walling off certain aspects of behavior. With honest use, psychedelics will not permit such areas to remain hidden, but will insist upon their surfacing. One then experiences the great relief of being in touch with all aspects of one’s being. The joy and thrill of being totally alive come from having complete access to all of one’s feelings.

THE TRAINED USER

There appears to be a cosmic law that says that giving our complete attention to an object, image, or idea with constancy, patience, and acceptance will allow its different attributes to unfold. Psychedelics greatly accelerate this process. To operate most effectively, the observer must have developed the ability to hold his mind steady so he can watch the process develop. Large doses can push one so hard that it is most difficult to do this. Therefore the best results are achieved by a “trained user”a person who has learned to manage high doses of psychedelics, or who has learned to hold his mind steady enough to observe his inner process competently. As a user clears up his “inner stuff,” he gains more freedom in directing his experience. At this stage, higher doses can be profitably used to penetrate deeper into the nature of Reality.

Interestingly, this concept of the trained user does not appear in the literature. But it is precisely the trained user who can best take advantage of the unfathomed range of wisdom and understanding contained in the far reaches of the mind. There seems to be no limit to the dimensions of understanding that can be experienced by the explorer who has the courage, integrity, and skill to navigate them. With integrity, and with the support of appropriate disciplines and friends, one can bring back a great deal for the betterment of oneself and mankind.

Are psychedelics necessary? Can’t these same explorations be conducted by those who have mastered the skills of meditation? No doubt they canwith an enormous investment of time and effort. But it is unlikely that many Westerners will be willing to make such a commitment. For Western seekers, whose spiritual practice must usually be integrated with making a living, the proper use of psychedelics can considerably accelerate the process. However, it is not a path for everyone. Choice should be based on full knowledge of the factors involved.

Psychedelics are not a shortcut, as it is of little value to sidetrack important experiences. If enlightenment requires resolution of unconscious material (and my personal experience indicates that it does), those who aspire to such achievement must carefully consider the pace and intensity with which they are willing to encounter this vast range of dynamics. The psychedelic path, while much more intense than many other disciplines, is in a sense easier because it often provides an earlier and more profound contact with the numinous. Such contact inspires commitment and opens the door to more grace in surmounting uncomfortable material.

Myron with Albert, 2001

If our commitment is truly to the well-being and happiness of all sentient beings, then it is reasonable to study all useful tools for accomplishing these ends. Psychedelics, used with good motivation, skill, and integrity, can contribute much toward easing the pain and suffering of the world while giving access to wisdom and compassion for spiritual development.

The author has worked for many years in the field of psychedelic research. Between 1960 and 1970 he headed the International Foundation for Advanced Study, a research group conducting clinical studies with LSD and mescaline.

I hear it’s yer Birthday…

We are getting close to having the fund raising for the radio complete. If you feel the urge to join in with others supporting Radio Free EarthRites, please do!

Thanx- Gwyllm

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In a bit of a rush today… Rowan turns 16 today at 1:23. He has a most interesting chart, full of challenges for his Dad. 80) He just finished Mary Stewart’s “The Crystal Cave”, and has been tearing through all the Celtic Mythology and Reference books in our library. This summer has been a great one for him.

I am pleased to welcome Jay Kinney to our featured writers. His work with Gnosis Magazine (which he founded) and other projects over the years has helped me immensely in understanding the workings of the metaphysical universe. I still have a Roxy album (a bootleg copy of course!) that he did the cover on back in the early 1970′s. Hopefully we will be seeing more of his articles in the future. Welcome Jay!

On The Menu:

The Links

Islamic Dilemma and the Sufi Message – Jay Kinney

Poetry: William Blake

Art Work: John William Godward

Have a Brilliant Day!

Gwyllm

________

The Links

Cultivating cannabis? It’s like growing tomatoes, says judge

Evolution reversed in mice

After 40 years’ burrowing, Mole Man of Hackney is ordered to stop

Scared to Death

Jewish references erased in newly found Nazi Bible

________

Islamic Dilemma and the Sufi Message – Jay Kinney

Please Visit Jay Kinney’s Personal Web Site…

Please Visit Gnosis Magazine as well. Wonderful Site!

As the West comes to grips with the terrorist attacks and threats, there is a strong temptation to see things in simple terms of Good and Evil. But before we are stampeded into a clash of civilisations, we need to step back for a moment and examine the real forces at work. Islam is undergoing its own crisis, with many conflicting voices clamouring to be heard. The angry cries for Jihad threaten to drown out the saner counsel of Islams living mystics, the Sufis. What follows is one attempt to clear the air, in the hope that disaster might be averted.

Ironies abound. Amidst all the uproar it is easy to forget that in Arabic, Islam means surrender, and that it is derived from the same root word as peace. Those who are disposed to dismiss religion itself as an irrational scourge are happy to see this as just another case of religious hypocrisy. After all, if we add up all the casualties caused by holy wars, crusades, inquisitions, and other battles taken up in the name of God, the endless line of corpses would seem to give the lie to religious claims of a higher morality or compassion.

All religions are founded on the fear of the many and the cleverness of the few, Stendhal cynically observed. But, as Oscar Wilde noted: Who is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. While religions have failed to live up to their own ideals, the same charge can be levelled against Democracy, Communism, Humanism, Monarchy, Science, and every other means of human self-organisation and inquiry. Of this we can be sure: no sooner will a model for social benefit be formulated than a dozen uses will be found to employ it for social ill. Social institutions by their very nature become arenas for the exercise of power and greed: the forces of the reptilian brain which take us back to Step One, over and over again.

Yet despite the abysmal record of folly and destruction, there is an enduring human need for a sense of spiritual connection to something greater than ourselves. Religions may be imperfect, but they have nevertheless provided a moral anchor for billions of people throughout history. Even if a believers faith be relatively unsophisticated and dependent on others say so, when sincerely held, it does offer some sense of connection with the Universe. This is no small thing, but it hardly exhausts the possibilities.

Fortunately, there is clear testimony that some individuals and groups have been able to fully realise the kernel of truth that too often lies slumbering within the religious husk. Anyone who has given sincere attention to the accounts and writings of genuine mystics, such as Meister Eckhart, Ibn Arabi, or Plotinus, cannot fail to see that a higher consciousness, which encompasses both the Infinite Source of Being and the human individual, is possible.

This consciousness, as a direct and authentic experience, does not depend for its existence on theological or religious doctrine. Indeed, mystics say that this consciousness itself clarifies and illuminates doctrine.

Religions, as theological and social structures built around the realisations of their founders, must accommodate themselves to and address the traditions and customs of the cultures in which they evolve. Had Jesus been born in a Chinese manger or had Buddha been enlightened while sitting under Newtons apple tree, the religions that followed in their wake would have been far different affairs. In order to better understand the current state of Islam, a brief look at its origin and evolution is in order.

There is no question that Muhammad, the Prophet of Islam, was a profound mystic whose lot it was to be born into a Bedouin tribal society shaped by intense family ties, trading routes, localised pagan gods, and relatively primitive cultural forms. The Quranic message, articulated by Muhammad in poetic Arabic, was received in discreet parts over the course of 22 years years marked by attacks on the Prophet and his small band of followers by other hostile tribes.

Muhammads communion with the Real was called upon to provide guidance to the Muslims as they struggled to defend their faith amidst war and social chaos. As observed by some Quranic scholars, such as Fazlur Rahman, some passages of the Quran are addressed to a specific time and place, while others are of a more universal nature. This is important to note, as it accounts for some of the seeming contradictions between verses, as well as the problems that arise when verses are quoted out of context. But in any event, the Qurans identity as a dialogue with the Supreme Being is so intertwined with the circumstances of its birth that, to this day, Muslims only consider a Quran to be the Quran if it is in its original Arabic. All translations into other languages are merely interpretations and inexact facsimiles.

This is an admirable attempt to preserve fidelity in transmission, though one wonders if even this devotion to the original text isnt a case of closing the barn door after the mule is gone. For the special value of a living mystic or prophet is the dynamic nature of their expression of the Real, to which they have access. The Qurans words in the absence of Muhammads living interpretation, like Jesuss parables without his own commentary, are susceptible to a dogmatic crystallisation induced by the limited understanding of later followers who risk mistaking their own piety for insight.

One early attempt within Islam to head off a decline in religious practice following Muhammads death, was the collection and preservation of hadiths (quotations from the Prophet), among which are the hadiths qudsi (Prophetic quotations conveying messages from God, given outside of Quranic passages). Hadiths typically contain testimonies, by the Prophets companions, of Muhammads suggestions and judgments on the details of daily life and specific questions of practice, law or family concerns. The hadiths qudsi are understood to provide an extra-Quranic source of Divine guidance. A secondary source of information is the Sunna, a recording of the Prophets own personal habits and practices, including quite intimate reports by his wives.

Unfortunately, even preserving the specifics of the Prophets interpretations, insights and behaviours still finds them anchored to their time and place. At the same time, there is much dispute over various hadiths authenticity, with many being suspected of later manufacture for partisan purposes.

Islams institutionalisation, once the Prophet was gone, saw Muhammad defined as the most perfect exemplar of Islam, with all questions of right behaviour and scriptural meaning referred back to his own statements and behaviour, or to the Quran. The best means that later Ulema (scholars and jurists) could suggest in rendering decisions was analogy and consensus of the community processes that have left little room for creative insights or inspired interpretations.

Because Muhammad served his community as resident mystic, prophet, commander in chief, and social arbiter, Islam again, in taking him as its exemplar developed an ideal of theocratic rule as its civilisation grew. As in Medieval Christianity, there was little sense of separate spheres for religion and civil society Islam was a way of life. The combined figure of Sultan (Ruler) and Caliph (Religious leader), though hardly consistent throughout the succession of Islamic empires, was in place in the final centuries of the Ottoman Empire, only to collapse along with the implosion of the Ottomans following WWI. The Caliphate was abolished by Ataturk in his effort to constitute a secular Turkish republic on the ruins of the Empire.

The inroads made by European colonialism in the waning decades of the Ottomans, and particularly post-WWI, helped stir the pot of Arab nationalism, Pan-Arabism, and radical Islam, all of which arose in response to the splintering of Islamic civilisation. There was no single Islamic solution put forth that commanded universal support. A multitude of Islams, ethnic nationalisms, and dictatorial regimes carried the day.

It is this sequence of events that brings us to the present reality of a decentralised and dispirited Islamic world mourning its former glories, riven along nationalist and sectarian lines, resentful of previous Western colonialism, and defensive towards an encroaching globalisation that promises to be more pervasive and invasive than mere colonialism ever was.

The lightning rod for Muslim resentment towards this state of affairs has come to be symbolised, for better or worse, in the creation of Israel, in what was previously Palestine. What was seen by Jews as a refuge from Nazi persecution, and by the Zionists as the fulfilment of a scriptural and political dream, was seen by many Muslims as an exclusionary Western wedge, achieved by Haganah, Irgun, and Stern Gang terrorism: an ethnically-defined state disenfranchising its former residents, and a surrogate for the present Western superpower, the USA. The Israeli/Palestinian blood-feud, terrible enough in itself, has metastasised throughout the Muslim body, taxing the Islamic immune system, and readily diagnosed as the underlying Western cancer which can be blamed for every painful social malady.

As stated at the beginning, ironies abound. The very virtue that enables millions of Muslims to feel a brotherhood across national and racial divides the sense of an Umma (community) of believers also fuels the presumption of extremist Islamic terrorists to represent the whole of Islam in their assault on the West. In truth, bin Laden and Co. (or Islamic Jihad or Hezbollah) no more represent Islam than the judicially-selected Bush regime represents the whole of Western democracy. Behind each camps stated purposes and PR, loom the reptilian brains Will to Power the opposite of the mystics realisation and of the stated goal of most religions: surrender to the will of God.

Religion, devoid of the mystics link to the Real, may not save us in fact when religion is used as a rationale to wage political warfare, it may condemn us to a hell on earth of its own creation. But that doesnt mean that we should turn our backs on the spiritual impulse toward realisation and human perfection that lies at the root of religion. The survival of Sufism within the broader confines of Islam is a significant case in point.

Sufism is a term coined by Western orientalists for the mystical path in Islam, commonly known as tasawwuf by Muslims. Ill continue to use it here for the sake of simplicity. Sufism isnt a sect or subgroup within Islam, so much as it is an expression of the mystical understanding underlying Islam.

Despite Muhammads roles of prophet, commander in chief, and social arbiter, it was his vocation as mystic that preceded and subsumed his other responsibilities. According to Sufi tradition, Muhammad acknowledged Ali, his nephew and son in law, as his spiritual successor, i.e., as the one Muslim within his inner circle who had also been blessed with a potent mystical awakening. Because the roles of spiritual and political leader had been combined in Muhammad, they became the object of the power struggles following the Prophets death. Those struggles eventually resulted in the division between Sunni and Shia Islam, though that need not concern us here. Suffice it to say, that for most Sufis, Ali represents the continuation of the mystical impulse within Islam, and nearly all Sufi brotherhoods trace their initiatory lineage back to Ali.

The operating premise of Sufism is that the mystical consciousness (but not the Prophetic role) of the Prophet and Ali is possible for others. The encounter with the Real in which the dynamic paradox of the Infinite and the finite, the Absolute and the particular is known and experienced is not relegated to the distant past or possessed by a designated few, but is within the capacity of everyone, should they so desire.

Authentic mystics have usually occupied a position in tension with established religion, because their dynamic relationship with the Infinite has often placed them at cross-purposes to the theological certainties promulgated by religious authorities. It is to Islams credit that it made more room for its mystics than did Christianity, its chief rival. This leeway was sometimes due to the patronage of Sultans who were interested in tasawwuf, and sometimes due to the popular support that some saints enjoyed. This is not to say that Sufis were always honoured or even tolerated. They were sometimes persecuted as heretics, executed or merely silenced; but whether welcomed or deplored, they were able to pass along their wisdom and methods from generation to generation.

The predominant means of this transmission was through Sufi brotherhoods or Orders (tariqas) caretakers of continuous lines of teaching methods derived from the founding inspiration of a particular mystic. Unlike Christian contemplative monastic orders that demanded celibacy and a sequestered life, the Sufi tariqas were generally composed of everyday people, with families and outside professions. Thus, up to the present, the Sufis have provided a street-level access to mystical experience.

Jalaluddin Rumi, whose mystical poetry has enjoyed great popularity in the West in recent years, is the best known representative of Sufism. His emphasis on Love as the key entry-point to communion with the Divine has led many people to assume that this is true of all Sufism. However, just as Yoga can be subdivided into several parallel paths to the Divine, including Hatha (physical), Jnana (mental), Bhakti (devotional), etc., so each Sufi order has its own flavour and emphasis, derived from its founding saint. Still, whatever their emphasis or methods, all Sufis share the ultimate goal of a spiritual awakening or opening, where the seeker comes to intimate knowledge of the Real.

This may sound terribly remote from anything of practical value, especially if one imagines this awakening to be a state of everlasting bliss which renders its recipient incapable of dealing with mundane affairs. However, Sufism teaches the need for the mystic to descend again into daily life, where he can function in normal situations while maintaining an expanded awareness. This is truly the path of Muhammad, who from the mystical point of view stands as exemplar for the completed human: one who is both physically and spiritually alive, and able to interpret his own Quran.

Such individuals light the way for others, often serving inconspicuously as conduits of inspiration and encouragement. A pharmacist in Istanbul, a shopkeeper in Fez, a poet in Damascus there is no predicting where one may find those who are called friends of God.

Fundamentalist movements originate out of a form of spiritual inspiration themselves. Despairing of the decadence and corruption they perceive in the present expression of their Faith, the fundamentalists as their name suggests try to return to the pure fundamentals.

For religions of the Book religions based on revealed scriptures this commonly takes the form of cleaving even closer to scriptural authority. But rejecting the succeeding centuries of religious evolution, and not privy to dynamic interpretation of the founder or of mystics, the fundamentalists commonly opt for the most literal readings of their holy texts. And when those texts are as ambiguous and nuanced as the Quran, this can lead to confusion and incoherence, thinly veiled by rigidity.

The result is a proliferation of mini-Caliphs or Popes, certain of their own purity and the truth of their interpretation, cut off from scholarly commentary and discourse, and contemptuous and dismissive of all who disagree. In eras of profound change and discord, the fundamentalists reduce the Infinite Source of Being to a static icon created in their own image, in a tragic reversal of the creative process.

Those who kill and terrorise in the name of God demonstrate their own distance from any real connectedness with the Whole. This is the dilemma of Islam at the dawn of the 21st century. The Umma of believers are themselves held hostage by the terrorists who claim to represent them. As Zia Sardar has written in The Observer (UK – Sept 23, 2001): . . . all good and concerned Muslims are implicated in the unchecked rise of fanaticism in Muslim societies. . . . We have been silent as they proclaim themselves martyrs, mangling beyond recognition the most sacred meaning of what it is to be a Muslim. . . . The terrorists are among us, the Muslim communities of the world. . . . And it is our duty to stand up against them.

The Prophet affirmed that Allahs Mercy supersedes his Wrath. (Hadith al-Qudsi). One can only hope that the moderate Muslim majority will draw upon the wisdom of those within their own tradition who know that Mercy intimately and find the courage to stand up.

_________________________________________________________

© Jay Kinney, 2001. Jay Kinney is the co-author, with Richard Smoley, of Hidden Wisdom: A Guide to the Western Inner Traditions (Quest Books, 2006). He is editor of The Inner West: An introduction to the Hidden Wisdom of the West (Tarcher/Penguin. 2004). His next book, The Masonic Enigma, will be published by HarperSanFrancisco in 2007.

From New Dawn Magazine…

_____________________

Poetry: William Blake

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

Youth of delight! come hither

And see the opening morn,

Image of Truth new-born.

Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,

Dark disputes and artful teazing.

Folly is an endless maze;

Tangled roots perplex her ways;

How many have fallen there!

They stumble all night over bones of the dead;

And feel–they know not what but care;

And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

—

THE GARDEN OF LOVE

I laid me down upon a bank,

Where Love lay sleeping;

I heard among the rushes dank

Weeping, weeping.

Then I went to the heath and the wild,

To the thistles and thorns of the waste;

And they told me how they were beguiled,

Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen;

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and desires.

—

THE HUMAN ABSTRACT

Pity would be no more

If we did not make somebody poor,

And Mercy no more could be

If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings Peace,

Till the selfish loves increase;

Then Cruelty knits a snare,

And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,

And waters the ground with tears;

Then Humility takes its root

Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade

Of Mystery over his head,

And the caterpillar and fly

Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,

Ruddy and sweet to eat,

And the raven his nest has made

In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and sea

Sought through nature to find this tree,

But their search was all in vain:

There grows one in the human Brain.

August 7, 2006

Further Along: A Monday Edition…

(THE PASSAGE – Jean-Pierre Ugarte)

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—-

Welcome to Monday…

Spent a good part of yesterday at Sauvie Island, hanging out at Sturgeon Lake. Sophie chased frogs, wallowed in various unmentionables and generally had a blast. It was very quiet on the main, though it seems even that far out, you can still here a motor at any given time. Silence is a commodity in short supply. Some have never known it. Stillness would be the second part of the component…

Anyway, we all sat in the shade of a tree taking it all in. Reading, eating and just getting away from right angles. No telephone lines, buildings what have you.

Back Now, and have a good one.

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

Hiroshima

The Priest’s Ghost

Poetry: William Butler Yeats

The Art: Jean-Pierre Ugarte

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The Links:

Legalizing Marijuana – A New Republican Strategy?

Brazil Publishes Biodiversity Generic Name List

American Madrassas: Jesus Camp

Love-Sick Manatees Put on a Show in Fla.

Save Bear Butte…

———

Hiroshima… not for the faint hearted.

_____

(THE DOLMEN – Jean-Pierre Ugarte)

The Priest’s Ghost

“A SAD tale’s best for winter,” saith the epigraph; and it was by the winter’s hearth that I heard the following ghost-story, rendered interesting from the air of reverential belief with which It was delivered from the withered lips of an old woman.

Masses for the souls of the dead are among the most cherished items of the Roman Catholic peasant’s belief; and it was to prove how sacred a duty the mass for the “soul of the faithful departed” is considered before the eternal judgment-seat, that the tale was told, which I shall endeavour to repeat as nearly as my memory will serve, in the words of the original narrator. It was a certain eve of St. John, as well as I can remember, that the old dame gave as the date of the supernatural occurrence.

“Whin Mary O’Malley, a friend of my mother’s (God rest her sowl!) and it was herself tould me the story: Mary O’Malley was in the chapel hearin’ vespers an the eve o’ Saint John, whin, you see, whether it was that she was dbrowsy or tired afther the days work–for she was all day teddin’ the new-cut grass, for ’twas haymakin’ sayson–or whether it was ordhered and that it was all for the glory of God, and the repose of a throubled sowl, or how it was, it doesn’t become me to say, but howsomever, Mary fell asleep in the chapel, and sound enough she slep’, for never a wink she wakened antil every individhial craythur was gone, and the chapel doors was looked. Well, you may be sure, it’s poor Mary O’Malley was freken’d, and thrimbl’d till she thought she’d ha’ died on the spot, and sure, no wondher, considerin’ she was locked up in a chapel all alone, and in the dark, and no one near her.

Well, afther a time she recovered herself a little, and she thought there was no use in life in settin’ up a phillelew, sthrivin’ to make herself heerd, for she knew well no livin’ sowl was within call; and so, on a little considheration, whin she got over the first fright at being left alone that-a-way, good thoughts kem into her head to comfort her; and sure she knew she was in God’s own house, and that no bad sper’t daar come there. So, with that she knelt down agin, and repeated her credos and pather-and -aves, over and over, antil she felt quite sure in the purtection of hiv’n, and then, wrappin’ herself up in her cloak, she thought she might lie down and sthrive to sleep till mornin’, whin, ‘may the Lord keep us!’ piously ejaculated the old woman, crossing herself most devoutly, ‘all, of a suddint a light shined into the chapel as bright as the light of day, and with that poor Mary, lookin’ up, seen it shinin’ out of the door of the vesthry, and immediately out walked out of the vesthry a priest dhressed in black vestments, and goin’ slowly up to the althar, he. said: ‘Is there anyone here to answer this mass?’

Well, my poor dear Mary thought the life ‘id lave her, for she dhreaded the priest was not of this world, and she couldn’t say a word; and whin the priest ax’d three times was there no one there to answer the mass, and got no answer, he walked back agin into the vesthry, and in a minit all was dark agin; but before he wint, Mary thought he looked towards her, and she said she’d never forget the melancholy light of his eyes, and the look he gave her quite pitiful like, and she said she never heerd before nor since such a wondherful deep voice.

Well, sir, the poor craythur, the minit the sper’t was gone–for it was a sper’t, God be good to us!–that minit the craythur fainted dead away; and so I suppose it was with her from one faint into another, for she knew nothin’ more about anything antil she recovered and kem to herself in her mother’s cabin, afther being brought home from the chapel next mornin’ whin it was opened for mass, and she was found there.

I hear, thin, it was as good as a week before she could lave her bed, she was so overcome by the mortial terror she was in that blessed night, blessed as it was, bein’ the eve of a holy saint, and more by token, the manes of givin’ repose to a throubled sper’t; for you see, whin Mary tould what she had seen and heard to her clergy, his Riverence, undher God, was enlightened to see the maynin’ of it all; and the maynin’ was this, that he undherstood from hearin’ of the priest appearin’ in black vestments, that it was for to say mass for the dead that he kem there; and so he supposed that the priest durin’ his lifetime had forgot to say a mass for the dead that he was bound to say, and that his poor sowl couldn’t have rest antil that mass was said, and that he must walk antil the duty was done.

So Mary’s clergy said to her, that as the knowledge of this was made. through her, and as his Riverence said she was chosen, he ax’d her would she go and keep another vigil in the chapel, as his Riverence said–and thrue for him–for the repose of a sowl. So Mary, bein’ a stout girl, and always good, and relyin’ on doin’ what she thought was her duty in the eyes of God, said she’d watch another night, but hoped she wouldn’t be ax’d to stay long in the chapel alone. So the priest tould her ‘twould do if she was there a little store twelve o’clock at night; for you know, sir, that people never appears antil afther twelve, and from that till cock-crow. And so accordingly Mary wint on the night of the vigil, and before twelve down she knelt in the chapel, and began a-countin’ of her beads, and the craythur, she thought every minit was an hour antil she’d be relaysed.

Well, she wasn’t kep’ long; for soon the dazalin’ light burst from out of the vesthry door, and the same priest kem out that appeared afore, and in the same melancholy voice he ax’d, when he mounted the althar: ‘Is there anyone here to answer this mass?’

Well, poor Mary sthruv to spake, but the craythur thought her heart was up in her mouth, and not a word could she say, and agin the word was ax’d from the althar, and still she couldn’t say a word; but the sweat ran down her forehead as thick as the winther’s rain, and immediately she felt relieved, and the impression was taken aff her heart like, and so, whin for the third and last time the appearance said: ‘Is there no one here to answer this mass?’ poor Mary mutthered out ‘Yis’ as well as she could.

Oh, often I heerd her say the beautiful sight it was to see the lovely smile upon the face of the sper’t as he turned round and looked kindly upon her, saying these remarkable words: ‘It’s twenty years,’ says he, ‘ I have been ‘askin’ that question, and no one answered till this blessed night, and a blessin’ be on her that answered, and now my business on earth is finished,’ and with that he vanished before you could shut your eyes.

So never say, sir, It’s no good praying for the dead; for you see that even the sowl of a priest couldn’t have pace for forgettin’ so holy a thing as a mass for the sowl of the faithful departed.”

(Cavern – Jean-Pierre Ugarte)

______

Poetry: William Butler Yeats

To An Isle In The Water

Shy one, shy one,

Shy one of my heart,

She moves in the firelight

pensively apart.

She carries in the dishes,

And lays them in a row.

To an isle in the water

With her would I go.

With catries in the candles,

And lights the curtained room,

Shy in the doorway

And shy in the gloom;

And shy as a rabbit,

Helpful and shy.

To an isle in the water

With her would I fly.

—

The Arrow

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,

Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.

There’s no man may look upon her, no man,

As when newly grown to be a woman,

Tall and noble but with face and bosom

Delicate in colour as apple blossom.

This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason

I could weep that the old is out of season.

—

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

—

Crazy Jane on God

That lover of a night

Came when he would,

Went in the dawning light

Whether I would or no;

Men come, men go;

All things remain in God.

Banners choke the sky;

Men-at-arms tread;

Armoured horses neigh

Where the great battle was

In the narrow pass:

All things remain in God.

Before their eyes a house

That from childhood stood

Uninhabited, ruinous,

Suddenly lit up

From door to top:

All things remain in God.

I had wild Jack for a lover;

Though like a road

That men pass over

My body makes no moan

But sings on:

All things remain in God.

(THE PRISONER – Jean-Pierre Ugarte)

August 6, 2006

Song To The Siren

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From Rumi: Ghazal 2133

wake up, wake up

this night is gone

wake up

abandon abandon

even your dear self

abandon

there is an idiot

in our market place

selling a precious soul

if you doubt my word

get up this moment

and head for the market now

dont listen to trickery

dont listen to the witches

dont wash blood with blood

first turn yourself upside down

empty yourself like a cup of wine

then fill to the brim with the essence

a voice is descending

from the heavens

a healer is coming

if you desire healing

let yourself fall ill

______

Welcome to Sunday… Visited our Tom and Cheryl last night, it was very pleasant, we got to see friends that we haven’t seen for quite awhile, Darren & Donna and their son Gavin. Gavin and Rowan were friends when they were young(er), until we moved over to the Hawthorne District (The People’s Autonomous Region Of Hawthorne) Gavin is a drummer, a very good singer and an actor. It was nice to see the connection being made again. We had a great time, staying later than we planned originally but that was nice as well.

Heating up at this point, about to head out to Sauvie Island for some relief from right angles.

Stay tuned….

Gwyllm

_________

On The Menu:

Tim Buckley – Song To The Siren

Tom Moore and the Seal Woman

Poems – Ira Cohen

Art by Nicholas Kalmakoff

Tim Buckley – Song To The Siren

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Tom Moore and the Seal Woman

A PROPOS of the following tale, I may say: The intermarriage with and descent of men from beings not human touches upon one of the most interesting and important points in primitive belief. Totemism among savage races in our day, and descent from the gods in antiquity are the best examples of this belief; derived from it, in all probability but remotely, are family escutcheons with their animals and birds and the emblematic beasts and birds of nations, such as the Roman eagle, the British lion, the American eagle, the Russian bear. The Roman eagle and the wolf which suckled Romulus may have been totems, if not for the Romans, at least for some earlier people. The lion, eagle, and bear of England, America, and Russia are of course not totemic, though adopted in imitation of people who, if they had not totems, had as national emblems birds or beasts that at some previous period were real totems for some social body.

There is a tale in Scotland concerning people of the clan MacCodrum, who were seals in the daytime, but men and women at night. No man of the MacCodrums, it is said, would kill a seal. The MacCodrums are mentioned in Gaelic as “Clann Mhic Codruim nan rón” (Clan MacCodrum of the seals).

In the village of Kilshanig, two miles north-east of Castlegregory, there lived at one time a fine, brave young man named Tom Moore, a good dancer and singer. ‘Tis often he was heard singing among the cliffs and in the fields of a night.

Tom’s father and mother died and he was alone in the house and in need of a wife. One morning early, when he was at work near the strand, he saw the finest woman ever seen in that part of the kingdom, sitting on a rock, fast asleep. The tide was gone from the rocks then, and Tom was curious to know who was she or what brought her, so he walked toward the rock.

“Wake up!” cried Tom to the woman; “if the tide comes ’twill drown you.”

She raised her head and only laughed. Tom left her there, but as he was going he turned every minute to look at the woman. When he came back be caught the spade, but couldn’t work; he had to look at the beautiful woman on the rock. At last the tide swept over the rock. He threw the spade down and away to the strand with him, but she slipped into the sea and he saw no more of her that time.

Tom spent the day cursing himself for not taking the woman from the rock when it was God that sent her to him. He couldn’t work out the day. He went home.

Tom could not sleep a wink all that night. He was up early next morning and went to the rock. The woman was there. He called to her.

No answer. He went up to the rock. “You may as well come home with me now,” said Tom. Not a word from the woman. Tom took the hood from her head and said, “I’ll have this!”

The moment be did that she cried: “Give back my hood, Tom Moore!”

“Indeed I will not, for ’twas God sent you to me, and now that you have speech I’m well satisfied! And taking her by the arm he led her to the house. The woman cooked breakfast, and they sat down together to eat it.

“Now,” said Tom, “in the name of God you and I’ll go to the priest and get married, for the neighbours around here are very watchful; they’d be talking.” So after breakfast they went to the priest, and Tom asked him to marry them.

“Where did you get the wife?” asked the priest.

Tom told the whole story. When the priest saw Tom was so anxious to marry be charged £5, and Tom paid the money. He took the wife home with him, and she was as good a woman as ever went into a man’s house. She lived with Tom seven years, and had three sons and two daughters.

One day Tom was ploughing, and some part of the plough rigging broke. He thought there were bolts on the loft at home, so he climbed up to get them. He threw down bags and ropes while he was looking for the bolts, and what should he throw down but the hood which he took from the wife seven years before. She saw it the moment it fell, picked it up, and hid it. At that time people heard a great seal roaring out in the sea.

“Ah,” said Tom’s wife, “that’s my brother looking for me.”

Some men who were hunting killed three seals that day. All the women of the village ran down to the strand to look at the seals, and Tom’s wife with the others. She began to moan, and going up to the dead seals she spoke some words to each and then cried out, “Oh, the murder!”

When they saw her crying the men said: “We’ll have nothing more to do with these seals.” So they dug a great hole, and the three seals were put into it and covered. But some thought in the night: “Tis a great shame to bury those seals, after all the trouble in taking them.” Those men went with shovels and dug up the earth, but found no trace of the seals.

All this time the big seal in the sea was roaring. Next day when Tom was at work his wife swept the house, put everything in order, washed the children and combed their hair; then, taking them one by one, she kissed each. She went next to the rock, and, putting the hood on her head, gave a plunge. That moment the big seal rose and roared so that people ten miles away could hear him.

Tom’s wife went away with the seal swimming in the sea. All the five children that she left had webs between their fingers and toes, half-way to the tips.

The descendants of Tom Moore and the seal woman are living near Castlegregory to this day, and the webs are not gone yet from between their fingers and toes, though decreasing with each generation.

________

Poetry: Ira Cohen, 3 more…

Atlantis Express

Lets take a silver train underground

to the back streets of Atlantis

thru the corrugated iron roots &

then to the peak itself, to the

saddle of the last ridge past strewn

boulders,

finally meandering thru cascading snow

wearing miners hats on the perpendicular

dark night &

going up to the edge of the Southern Cross

where we reach at last the pure white

glistening glaciers &

begin to chant over bones in rags

of Scorpio

Armless in the sticky substance how could

they ever have had a chance?

Permission will not be required

only poems of blood offered to

the memory of TREE

It is not ice which is eternal

but the fury of the absolute

separating the void from the spirit

of man,

uplifting like life when it is used

against itself,

that is, Radical Love — & again, we

are reduced to living beings

Caught by the instant

we are taken away

We live in the imprint of the flame

& we are helmeted within the internal

blackness

where the ray begins its passage

across the indignant sky

Vain clouds uncaring in a tangle of

crossbeams

culminate in the hermaphroditic mirror

of the epileptic dancer

asleep

And during sleep

the light is joined

to the light

It is all a matter of getting up

and then to abandon the pain

It is there that the journey beings

in the self generated flame of

Spontaneous Combustion

(Swayambhunath)

The main line running counter

to the triangle comprising the

MAELSTROM, the DOLDROMS & the

SARGASSO SEA where sleeping Atlanteans

dream forever,

this line, this battlefield of the ages,

crosses the divide of my most wandering

backdoor heart.

We will all have to go

if we want to reappear

in the rhythm of the ritual

Its the wheel of fools spinning

over my bed

If I put my left foot first

they will find a way to call me

by that name

tracking tremors

like glyphs

on drunken walls

in the negative palace

just before taking eave

of my senses

the white powder dissolves

in the sunlight

& making noise like a peacock

he hops on one foot up the mountain.

—

Song to Nothing

And surely we will die without memory

coming to cold in the shadow of space

& if it isnt too late

for the star to love you

spraying the sky w/ whispers

attuned to galaxies hungry for flame

And if the tongue of night sings

of Albino winos

till the morning light shafts

the doorway

then surely we will die tonight

faceless at the White

Gate

sharing the smoke

w/ ancient shapes in future garb

and you stand somewhere there

on the other side

feeding on the pain of dreamlessness

Wherefrom the misty morning of

white shadows

& the unresisting need to destroy?

Samael, Samael, I beg it may be forgiven

that they may be driven

out of the black into the white

Only let the dazzle remain

for gamblers to surprise,

the strategic diamond, the throne

of compressed bone

in the unshored dark

where only light can forgive

& your mind is singed

Embers of echoes in the vastness

disguise the yearning to burn

blind eyes

in arrogant displays of feeling

Running wild these beasts will feast

on the newborn kind

for surely we will die tonight

unless we learn to ignore

what the others live for

on the other side of morning

& the Skin of Nothing left by the same

summer

masks the faceless wanderer

O let it happen,

this weird to discover

the shape of Beauty in everything

extreme

for surely we will die tonight

whether we will or whether we

dream

O Samael, forgive the dreamer

forgive the dream

The Song of Nothing is your lullabye.

—-

If my heart were made of bread

I would wait at least one moment

before breaking the sunrise —

The Arm of the Dorje

Sunyata Song to the Winter Sun

There was much wind

but I new not how to call it,

a roomful of strangers,

how familiar the feeling,

how cold it must be barefoot

at the fountain when the sun goes down,

how the brown people love the blond baby

The white horse which looks out

from the wall suggests a journey

I once might have taken,

a covered memory reeking of sulphur

Words, they can go anywhere,

can they tell me where I come from,

the name of my planet,

the empty space which was my home?

The condemned murderer longs for

a firing squad, knows

where to put the shadows

you keep inside

Between hands there are worlds

of ashes & thunder,

silent collisions of meaning,

the utter sugar of nights

taken for granted

They say the sun rises every day,

that sleep is incidental

I say myself

& so I look for your face at dawn

rising over my grief, over

the twice told terrain, violet w/ciphers,

Suffused w/ yr eternal smile

I would offer my flesh to your tiger,

turn your stone wheels w/ my water

Longing for the peaks the stars say

it will be clear

Let us meet in the sky then

till we come closer down here.

The Day of the Basilisk The Wayfarers Song

It started in the dark room

thinking that night had fallen at dawn

Then arising we glued red eyes

into the dry sockets of a dead bird

its belly full of dirty cotton

Then across the paddies & out of

the town

where familiar figures of Kleist &

Eschenbach

rise from the road in eddies of dust

The voice of the Changeling names the day,

the day of the Basilisk, usurped

from the tyrants quest to know

how not to maim the Gilded Hind of

self knowledge

Licchavi sirens shortchanged of a renaissance

spread out cracked wooden arms,

split skulls of haunting beauty, smiling

Mud murtis made by nature distract

Goethean comments fearful of what is hidden

while the delicate head of Mahadev

whittled by the wind

still seals the lingam in the ancient temple

We look with Mudusas eyes

at the first born fruits,

the full breasts of the river

where there is no infidelity

The golden larva w/ the royal face of Narayan,

hold it by its tail & call it by its name

Narayan, Narayan

it will dance for you & shake its head,

it lives only on air we do not know if

it is alive or if it is dead, so gilded

its beauty

The face of Vishnu etches a dream of

ancient seas tinted w/ fallen light

Your face is everywhere

Your glory rings out over the peaks

capped w/ flame

Your shadow is enclosed within your shadow

You watch yourself falling

While falling you watch yourself looking down

You want to pick up the Tamang corpse

no one will touch

You call the children of darkness,

refute the wasted years of salt

poured into furrows

You see the thread needled to the hem of Night

betrayed by the shinbone of Day

where the fear is burned away

You look w/ basilisk eyes

turning the day to stone,

touched & transfigured

by the human, by the changing,

by the eternal, the always repeating

Alone.

Dhulikel/Panauti

August 5, 2006

The Horned Woman…

(Astarte – 1926 Nicholas Kalmakoff)

___________

Still working on the fund raising for the radio, we are getting closer with the help we have been receiving! Still a ways to go, if you can help out, that would be super!

Click on to Donate :

This edition being a weekend one in linkless. In it you will find artwork hardly ever seen, by the visionary artist Nicholas Kalmakoff… More of his stuff coming soon. I have included a video of Jeff Buckley, late lamented singer, son of Tim Buckley. Wonderful stuff.

Out to clean up my bicycle, more later…

Gwyllm

______

On The Menu:

Hallelujah -Jeff Buckley

w/Lyrics by L. Cohen

The Horned Woman – Lady Gray

3 Poems – Ira Cohen

Art by Nicholas Kalmakoff

Glorious Stuff this, I hope you enjoy the Art!

In 1955, a Russian émigré died alone, unknown and in poverty at the hôpital de Lagny to the north of Paris. After leading a hermit’s existence in his small room at the hotel de la Rochefoucault in Paris, this former Russian aristocrat had created a fascinating body of work which, deemed eccentric and worthless, was locked away in storage and forgotten.

Throughout his solitary life, the artist had painted works that reflected his various obsessions with martyrdom, asceticism, decadence, spirituality and sexuality. Executed in a style marked by the Russian art nouveau, his imagery nevertheless transcended this movement, bearing undeniable traces of demented vision, indeed, genius.

Only in 1962 did some of his works come to light when Bertrand Collin du Bocage and Georges Martin du Nord discovered forty canvases in the Marché aux Puces, a large flea market to the north of Paris. All the works in this unusual collection were signed with a stylized ‘K’ monogram.

The Hungarian merchant who sold the lot to them included with it a poster of an exhibition held in Galerie Le Roy, Brussels, in 1924. Here, for the first time, the full name of the mysterious ‘K’ was revealed – Nicolas Kalmakoff….

_____________

“Hallelujah” – Leonard Cohen

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

It goes like this

The fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you

To a kitchen chair

She broke your throne, and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain

I don’t even know the name

But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?

There’s a blaze of light

In every word

It doesn’t matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn’t much

I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you

And even though

It all went wrong

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah

___________________

THE HORNED WOMEN

Lady Wilde

(The Apparition – Nicholas Kalmakoff)

A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called–”Open! open!”

“Who is there?” said the woman of the house.

“I am the Witch of the one Horn,” was answered.

The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: “Where are the women? they delay too long.”

Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, “Open! open!”

The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.

“Give me place,” she said, “I am the Witch of the two Horns,” and she began to spin as quick as lightning.

And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire–the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.

And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove.

All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.

Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said–

“Rise, woman, and make us a cake.” Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.

And they said to her, “Take a sieve and bring water in it.”

And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.

Then a voice came by her and said, “Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.” This she did, and the sieve held water for the cake; and the voice said again–

“Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, ‘The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire’.”

And she did so.

When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, 1 where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of witches if they returned again.

And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited.

Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.

“Open! open!” they screamed, “open, feet-water!”

“I cannot,” said the feet-water, “I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.”

“Open, open, wood and trees and beam!” they cried to the door.

“I cannot,” said the door, “for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I have no power to move.”

“Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!” they cried again.

“I cannot,” said the cake, “for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.” Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night’s awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.

(Leda – Nicolas Kalmakoff)

___________

3 Poems – Ira Cohen

Imagine Jean Cocteau

Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby

holding a torch

Imagine a trained dog act,

a Rock and Roll Band

Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges

disguised as Wm Shakespeare

Imagine that I’m the cousin of the Mayor

of New York or the King of Nepal

(I didn’t say Napoleon!)

Imagine what it is like to be in the glare

of hot lights when you are longing for dark

corners

Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal

Orchestra –

Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica

or someone weighing out bones on the edge

of the desert in Afghanistan

Imagine that these poems are recorded moments

of temporary sanity

Imagine that the clock was just turned back –

or forwards — a hundred years instead of an hour

Let us pretend that we have no place to go,

that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,

that our bags are packed & that we have one hour

to checkout time

Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not

imagination but experience which makes poetry,

and that behind every image,

behind every word there is something

I am trying to tell you,

something that really happened.

——-

An Act of Jeopardy – for Garcia Lorca

A star of blood you fell

from the point of the hypodermic

singing of fabulous beasts &

spitting out the sex of vowels

Your poems explode in the mouth

like torrents of sperm on a night

full of zebras & bootheels

Your ghost still cruses the river-

fronts of midnight assignations

in a world of dead sailors carrying

armfuls of flowers in search of

your unmarked grave

Your body no sanctuary for bees,

Death was your lover in a rain of

broken obelisks & rotting orchids

In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat

I offer you the shadow of a double

profile,

two heads held together at the bridge

of the nose by a nail of opium

smoke

in the long night’s dreaming

& memory of water poured between

glasses

In my mailbox I find a letter from

a dead man & know that for every

shadow given

one is taken away

Yet subtraction is only a special form of

addition and implies a world of hidden

intentions below a horizon of lips

thin as your fingernail sprouting

mysteries in the earth

The ace of spades dealt from the bottom

of the deck severs the hand which

retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty

sewn together peer over a black lace fan

in the vulgar sunlight of a Spanish

morning without horses

The Belt of Orion is loosened

before you as you remove the silver

fingerstalls from your mummy hands &

kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of

bitter diamonds.

(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps

for a lover.)

Peace to your soul

& to your empty shoes

in the dark closets of

kings with no feet!!!

—

From The Moroccan Journal – 1987

My heart feels like an uncut diamond

Though it is still the same, it is not the same

Someone speaks of a bridge to be built from Tangier

to Algeciras or is it Gibraltar?

“Yes & then a highway to the stars or more likely

an elevator to the Underworld,” says Yellow Turban

To White Jellaba as the exhaust fumes from the bus

engulf them, leaving behind not even a single

shadow.

Is that Mel Clay in a white jacket turning the corner?

No, it is a figment of my imagination escaped from the

asylum.

Is that Ian Sommerville walking backwards up the street

as if pulled by a giant magnet?

No, that is Wm. Burroughs making electricity

from dead cats.

Is that Tatiana glistening on Maxiton?

No, that is the sun dancing in the sugar bowl.

Is that Marc Schelfer wavering on the cliffedge?

No, it is a promontory in the wind of time

about to fall in the sea.

Is that Beethoven’s 9th Symphony being played

up the street?

No, it is the sound of the breadwagons

rumbling over cobblestones

Is that George Andrews with two girls in hand

looking for bread?

No, it is an unidentified flying object about to land.

Is that One-eyed Mose hanging by his heels?

No, that is the hanged man inventing the Taro.

Are the dead really so fascinated by lovemaking?

Yes, that is how they travel.

Is that Irving in short pants looking for trouble?

No, that’s me unable to stop thinking.

Is that Kenneth Halliwell looking for Joe Orton?

Is that Jane Bowles looking for Sherifa, Rosalind looking

for her baby, Alfred searching for his lost hair?

Is that the wig of it all, the patched robe of my brain,

the wind talking to itself?

Brion is dead and Yacoubi is dead, and I am a not unhappy

ghost remembering everything, the warp & woof of memories,

her yellow slip, her shaved cunt, her idiot child.

Dream shuttle makes me exist everywhere at once.

The blind beggars led by children keep coming.

“They all have many houses in the Casbah,”

chant the unbelievers sucking on sugar.

Words keep coming back like Bezezel for tits, Lictcheen

for oranges, like Mina, like Fatima, like Driss Berrada

dropping his trousers for an injection in the middle

of his shop.

The trunk is full of old sepia postcards,

barebreasted girls smoking hookahs etcetera.

We speak of the cataplana, the mist which obscures

even the cielo you cannot even see the hand in front

of your face.

We embrace, he says he thought of me only yesterday,

he says there are always nine such men who look like us

in the world and that we are the tenth.

We speak of the gold filets in the sky over Moulay Absalom.

The garbage men in rubber boots go thru the Socco pushing

wheeled drums of collected garbage.

An unveiled woman wobbles out of a taxi and heads home

before sunrise.

Paul couldn’t believe that was a Karma Street,

but I will never forget it.

And Billy Batman, who made the best hash in the world,

he dropped a loaded pistol in Kabul, shot himself in the balls,

took some heroin and lay down to die.

Now I must get up from my table in the allnight Café Central.

No more Dr. Nadal, no more window with red crosses & red

crescents.

The water thrown from buckets runs across the café floors

& over the sidewalks & I drop a dirham into the hand

of a blind beggar singing in the dark on the American stairs

(From Anais Nin’s -A Spy in the House of Love- ” The women wear fireflies in their hair, but the fireflies stop shining when they go to sleep so now and then the women had to rub the fire- flies to keep them awake.”

(Stage Design: The Serpentine Crypt – c 1910 Nicholas Kalmakoff)

(La Crypte Vermiculaire)

August 4, 2006

Symbolist Dreams

(Solitude – ALBERT LORIEUX)

Well, here we are at the end of the week. I am helping my friend Paul on a kitchen over in North Portland. We put up the drywall ceiling yesterday… The lady who owns the house has two nice dogs, who wanted to be right there, in the middle of things all the time. When I got home Sofie went a bit nuts with jealousy from the smells….

Still working on the fund raising for the radio, it is moving slower than I imagined it would. If you want to help out, this would be a great time to do it!

Click on to Donate :

On the Menu

The Links

Arthur Lee… passes on

Fairies Or No Fairies

Connla and the Fairy Maiden

Poets Against War – Poems of the Week

Have a good Friday!

Blessings.

Gwyllm

_________

Links…

Crazy Claws…

Dog destroys £40,000 Elvis teddy

Exit Without Saving…

_________

GoodBye Arthur… We’ll miss ya!

__________

Fairies Or No Fairies

JOHN MULLIGAN was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur into the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody Farland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch than his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than he ought to have done-but that is nothing whatever to the story I am going to tell.

John believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly printed in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he used to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many believed his stories – many more did not believe them – but nobody, in process of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a pity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbours who were just come down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the summer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Cromwellian, who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to let the old man have his own way undisputed.

Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was impossible – that it was merely old woman’s gabble, and other such things. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from the most credible sources – nay, that some of them had been told him by his own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own knowledge – they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity to pulling a long bow.

“But,” said they, “Jack Mulligan, did you ever see a fairy yourself?”

“Never,” was the reply. – Never, as I am a man of honour and credit.”

“Well, then,” they answered, ” until you do, do not be bothering us with any more tales of my grandmother.”

Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the: cudgels for his grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an argument. This evening – it was at their uncle’s, an old crony of his with whom he had dined – he bad taken a large portion of his usual beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion, ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host’s entreaties, galloped off, although he had intended to have slept there, declaring that he would not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies, who, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing hooks in cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-snouted, prating prigs, (“not,” added he, “however, that I say a man may not be a good man and have a red nose,”) they imagined they knew more than a man who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the world for five dozen years.

He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie could powder away over the limestone. ” Damn it!” hiccupped he, ” Lord pardon me for swearing! the brats had me in one thing – I never did see a fairy; and I would give up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of one – and, by the powers! what is that?”

He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them, as a beautiful promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of the county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand different fragments – and how it. filled the entire tree with a glorious flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my story. By this light Jack saw a, brilliant company of lovely little forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The company was large. Some spread out far beyond the furthest boundary of the shadow of the oak’s branches – some were seen glancing through the flashes of light shining through its leaves – some were barely visible, nestling under the trunk – some no doubt were entirely concealed from his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and beyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck, and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning over it, surveyed, with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out, ” Bravo! little fellow,” said he, well kicked and strong.” But the instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies vanished with the speed of lightning.

” I wish,” said Jack, “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall just turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think themselves, out of the field clean.”

No sooner said than done; and Jack was back again as if upon the wings of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the two collegians.

” Hallo!” said he, “young Flatcaps, come down now, if you dare. Come down, if you dare, and I shall give you oc-oc-ocular demonstration of the truth of what I was saying.”

Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, “Jack Mulligan, what brings you back so soon?”

“The fairies,” shouted Jack; “the fairies!”

I am afraid,” muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, ” the last glass you took was too little watered: but, no matter – come in and cool yourself over a tumbler of punch.”

He came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits he told his story ; – how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies dancing about the old oak of Balllinghassig; he described their beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats, glittering in the moonbeams; the princely stature and demeanour of the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing, and playing the most enchanting music; but this was merely imagination. The young men laughed, but Jack held his ground. “Suppose, said one of the lads, ” we join company with you on the road, and ride along to the place, where you saw that fine company of fairies?”

“Done!” cried Jack; “but I will not promise that you will find them there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees, and heard their wings whizzing through the air.” This, you know, was a bounce, for Jack had heard no such thing.

Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood. They arrived at the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright as when Jack had passed. “Look there,” he cried, exultingly; for the same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his horsewhip; ” look, and deny if you can. “

“Why,” said one of the lads, pausing, ” true it is that we do see a company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten time~ over, I shall go among them;” and he dismounted to climb over the wall.

“Ah, Tom Tom;” cried Jack, ” stop, man, stop! what are you doing? The fairies – the good people, I mean – hate to be meddled with. You will be pinched or bIinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or – look! a wilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak – God help him! for he is past the help of man.”

By this time Tom was under the tree and burst out laughing. “Jack,” said he, “keep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad at all. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.”

Catsup,” said Jack, who when he found that the two lads (for the second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly -What do you mean by catsup?”

“Nothing,” replied Tom, ” but that they are mushrooms (as indeed they were); and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball.”

Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, staggered back to his horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face the laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the people of the parish, aye, and five parishes round, called him nothing but Musharoon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom.

I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little dignity; but –

“These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air – into thin air.”

______________

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 alway, 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 shortlived 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.

Jacobs, Joseph, ed. Celtic Fairy Tales.

___________

(Der Auserwählte – Ferdinand Hodler)

Poets Against War – Poems of the Week…

Helen Hensley

God Bless Our Troops – Microfridge in Room

The marquee outside the motel

was unintentionally ironic

Im sureprobably the work

of some well-meaning but clueless

young man. I imagine him trying

to balance on an aluminum ladder,

while he carefully places each magnetic letter,

wondering if he should leave extra space

after God Bless Our Troops

and not quite sure whether microfridge

should be hyphenated or not.

As my car speeds past the sign,

my mind conjures up another young man

huddled wearily in the bombed-out remains

of a building, cradling his assault rifle

and sucking hard on a cigarette.

As he tries to ignore the sweltering heat

and the dirt and the fear that never goes away,

he wonders if hell ever sleep in a real bed

again, with a warm, sweet body

pressed close to his in a room

with a microfridge full of fresh food

and cold beer, just waiting

for him to taste it.

—

Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Shada Zeest Hashmi is originally from Pakistan. Her poems have been published in New Millenium Writings, Hubbub, The Bitter Oleander, Poetry Conspiracy and will appear in the forthcoming anthology Risen from the East. She is the editor of the annual Magee Park Poets Anthology.

U.S. Air Strikes

In the four minutes

it took me to mince the cloves,

dump the tea leaves

in the rose bush,

and soap the carafe,

a whole city was lost.

There were feet still in school shoes,

limp flesh singing into satchels,

clinging to a post, a shattered clock.

The children, if not orphaned,

were purpled beyond recognition.

Orders had been carried down,

one signal igniting another.

And a man had let a deafening rhapsody

guide his young hand to drop

a five hundred pound bomb

on a mosque.

Just when I finished rinsing the carafe,

a whole city was under cement dust and smoke,

and I thought I heard screaming behind walls of fire

in the kettles sharp whistle,

just when I added the cloves,

the last green lime.

—-

Jane Haladay

Jane Haladay, PhD, is a writer and scholar of Native/American Indian Studies whose home place is California. Her work focuses on the literatures of indigenous Americans, supporting native sovereignty, and the project of cross-cultural decolonization within institutionalized education.

Bloom

On this day,

these things happened:

Dentist.

Coffee with a good friend first.

Then shopping.

Oranges, toothpaste, eggs.

Home briefly.

Email, three bills.

Mundane, the activities

of twenty-one centuries.

Of longer millennia

amidst great change,

of sacred fires burning,

of oil burning

to its ultimate depletion

and to ours.

Outside,

thinking about this earth.

How it is to be of

and within her.

Walking,

I saw dark geraniums

the color of fresh blood.

Mowed weed fields

with magpies trolling.

At the edges of the lake,

yellow iris bloom

with only beauty

as intention while

black waters hold

the rippling undersides

of clouds

tenderly,

without

entrapment.

I have not forgotten war.

Brutality, grief, despair

blossom freshly

in the same

early April where

here and now

new life thrusts deeply

up from roots.

overhead,

dark birds fly beyond

white petals from

the plum trees that

drift slowly down

like ashes,

like bombs.

——–

( Der Traum – Pierre-Cécile Puvis de Chavannes)

August 3, 2006

Cathedral Oceans…

(Parasamgate – Roberto Venosa)

We are still trying to sort out our relationship with our provider, Bluehost.com. As it stands, we are in the midst of fund raising to pay for the privelege of playing music commercial free. Gotta love how these things work.

Will talk later,

Gwyllm

On the Menu:

Cathedral Oceans

Fund Raiser & Thanks…

The Links

The Quotes

Ayahuasca Reading by Peter Lamborn Wilson

The Poetry Of Hafiz

Art – Roberto Venosa (Thank you Roberto!)

_____________

The Golden Flute

A sea of Peace and Joy and Light

Beyond my reach I know.

In me the storm-tossed weeping night

Finds room to rage and flow.

I cry aloud, but all in vain;

I helpless, the earth unkind

What soul of might can share my pain?

Death-dart alone I find.

A raft am I on the sea of Time,

My oars are washed away.

How can I hope to reach the clime

Of God’s eternal Day?

But hark! I hear Thy golden Flute,

Its notes bring the Summit down.

Now safe am I, O Absolute!

Gone death, gone night’s stark frown!

Hafiz

_____

I hope you can view Cathederal Oceans… One of my favourite artists, John Foxx’s “Oceans” has a nice haunting feel to it. He started originally with Ultravox as their vocalist, and has since moved on to perform and record with the likes of Harold Budd among others.

_____

Firstly, I would like to thank our generous contributors who have sent in donations. I am very grateful to you all. Thanks ever so much! We have had a very good start to the fund raising for Radio Free Earthrites due to the generosity that has been shown so far!

We are almost 1/3 there to paying the fees to allow the radio to be used again. If you can, please show your support for EarthRites Radio and help out.

Cheers,

Gwyllm

Click on to Donate :

________________

The Links:

‘Buddha rays’ spark statue-gazing

The Truth does come out…

The Brick Testament..

Allan Watts Podcast…

(Crystal Tree _Roberto Venosa)

_______________

The Quotes:

“Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke.”

“All that is human must retrograde if it does not advance.”

“I am prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.” “Men live in a fantasy world. I know this because I am one, and I actually receive my mail there.”

“To read a newspaper is to refrain from reading something worthwhile. The first discipline of education must therefore be to refuse resolutely to feed the mind with canned chatter.”

“Get all the fools on your side and you can be elected to anything.”

“We are born charming, fresh and spontaneous and must be civilized before we are fit to participate in society.”

“My idea of an agreeable person is a person who agrees with me.”

“Where all think alike, no one thinks very much.”

“To be pleased with one’s limits is a wretched state.”

“I was so naive as a kid I used to sneak behind the barn and do nothing.”

________________

Ayahuasca Reading

by Peter Lamborn Wilson

-Read by Peter Lamborn Wilson on WBAI 99.5FM NYC sometime in 1994 during one of his Ayahuasca shows (same as the icaro tape). In this audio transcription unknown words are spelled phonetically and marked with (sp) when they first appear.-

(Enlightenment -Roberto Venosa)

Ayahuasca Drinkers among the cha-ma (sp) Indians by Heinz ku-sel (sp) see what I mean? Originally appeared in the Psychedelic Review, 1965 Read from reprint in the Psychozoic Press I lived for seven years traveling and trading in the upper Amazon region and often heard stories about the effect of ayahuasca.

Once on a long canoe trip down the river my Indian companion had chanted the song of the Goddess of Ayahuasca. Ayahuasca, a Quechua word meaning ‘vine of death’ is the collective name for various climbing tropical lianas and also designates the tea prepared from the leaves of the vine, either by itself or in combination with other leaves. Indians and the Mestizos alike visit the ayahuasquero or witch-doctor when they are ailing or think they need a general check-up, or want to make an important decision, or simply because they feel like it.

Among the scattered half-casts and natives of the swamps and rainforests of the Ucayali region the ayahuasca cult plays a significant role in their religious medical practices and provides them with a good deal of entertainment. Repeatedly I heard how in a vision induced by drinking the tea prepared from the liana the patient had perceived the specific plant needed for his cure – had later searched and found it in the jungle and had subsequently recovered.

To the enigmatic mind of the Indian ayahuasca opens the gate to the healing properties of the forces of nature at whose mercy he lives. A recurrent theme whenever the natives refer to the results of the drug is the vision of the ‘Procession of Plants,’ with garlic, ‘the king of the good plants’ leading the way. Garlic, tobacco, quinine and oh-hey (sp), a tree latex, are at the head of a long line of friendly elf-like plants which, in ayahuasca visions, bow to mankind, offering their services. The Campa Indians, sturdy fellows, who today specialize in drawing mahogany and cedar logs for the sawmills in Iquitos undergo a purge of ayahuasca before they enter the flooded areas of the forest to float out the logs and assemble them into tremendous rafts. For a cure of that nature they prepare themselves by a prolonged diet, avoiding meat, salt, alcohol and sugar.

Aside from the main use of the drug for curing or keeping the consumer in good general condition, ayahuasca will, according to its users, induce clairvoyance and may for example solve a theft or prophesy the success or failure of a given enterprise. A man might be planning a trip to a certain river where he knows of a good place to tap rubber, but to be sure of good results he will consult ayahuasca first. After that, more than likely, he will abandon the enterprise altogether and set off in another direction to pan gold, hunt peck-oh-re (sp) or do something else.

In these unhurried hours and days I arrived at an insight into the native’s fantastic beliefs and images, the richness of which is equaled only by the growth of the surrounding vegetation. Their superstitions, ideas and images freely cross and recross the borderline of reality in strangely patterned ways. Their stories have one thing in common – man, plant and animal are one, forever woven into an inextricable pattern of cause and effect. Later I found that ayahuasca visions are fabrics that illustrate endless combinations of this pattern. Man, plant and animal also passively undergo the irradiations of each other. Irradiations of powers that to us are mostly non-existent. Somehow sometimes they even acquire each other’s characteristics.

Once, while drifting in a canoe the Campa Indian with me disturbed the silence by imitating the voice of the kuto-mono (sp), a copper colored monkey. A kuto-mono from the shore answered him, a third joined in. After a while the whole shoreline seems to come alive with kuto-monos. The natives use this ability to imitate voices to such a degree that hunting takes on the character of treacherous assassination. Though hardly in the way of an equivalent, the animal world puts out a bird that I heard one night on the pa-cha-tey-ah (sp) River. It filled the darkness with an ascending scale of glass clear notes. Quite likely it is a beautiful scale but nevertheless it resembles the hysterical laughter of an insane women. It shocked me. I felt upset, mocked, laughed at. Everything calls in the jungle.

Once a Campa Indian in my boat when we were drifting far from the shore was called by ayahuasca! He followed the call and later emerged from the forest with the a sampling of the fairly rare liana that today is cultivated by the ayahuasquero in secret spots. I myself certainly did not hear the call.

If this jungle life and its irrational mutual dependency forms a picture of general confusion, ayahuasca is the magic mirror that reflects this confusion as something beautiful and attractive. For whomever I listened to, all manifested the enjoyment of a wondrous spectacle that was pleasing to the senses. If fearsome visions occurred they said that the ayahuasquero could easily dispel them by shaking a dry twig near the ear of the affected drinker; or by blowing the smoke of a cigarette on the crown of his head. The aesthetic climax of the spectacle was, they claimed, the ‘vision of the goddess with concealed eyes,’ who dwelt inside the twining tropical vine.

Many times I listened to these tales but it never crossed my mind to try the liana myself. It belonged definitely to the local Indian lore, to something sordid, outside of the law, something publicly frowned upon like the binding up of the heads that the cha-ma (sp) practice on their babies; or like burying one twin alive as they also do; or so many other equally fantastic or ghastly things.

In 1949 I had my headquarters in a white washed brick house in pu-cul-pa overlooking a wide curve of the Ucayali. Pu-cul-pa at that time was a village of about 200 homes, a Catholic church, an American Protestant mission, a Masonic temple and two primitive hotels. The place had gained some importance by being at the end of the only road precariously connecting Lima and the Pacific with a navigable river of the Amazon system. It also had an airport which could be used when the ground was dry. After the war and the falling of prices for rubber, the importance of the road decreased and Pu-cul-pa fell back into the stagnation of a Peruvian jungle settlement.

At that time I realized that my days in the jungle were coming to an end and in spite of being somewhat skeptical about the possible effects of the drug, I decided to try it. I drank the bitter salty extract of the vine three times. It seemed too much trouble to look for a venerated great ayahuasquero like Juan in-uma (sp) who lived up the river near masi-eh-sia (sp). There were a number of less widely esteemed fellows in pu- cul-pa such as no-lore-bey (sp) who was recommended to me as the most reliable of the witch doctors in the village. Hs hut was the last upstream in the long row of buildings above the steep shore of pu-cul-pa.

It was there that I found myself sitting on an empty gasoline crate while other people squatted on the floor. I drank the required dose, about a quart, and nothing happened. The only noticeable effect was an increased auditory sensitivity which is the reason why the drug is usually consumed in secluded places at night. A neighborhood rooster crowed recklessly which upset me considerably for it seemed to happen right inside my head. The people in the hut were disturbed also – they sighed and shifted their positions uneasily. No-lore-bey blamed the ineffectiveness of the drug on the fact that it had not been freshly prepared.

Another evening the guide who carried my blanket led me to a hut far outside the limits of the village. The hut, a typical structure of a floor on stilts without walls covered by a thatched roof, belonged to sal-dani-ah (sp), a mestizo I did not particularly like who had many patients in the village. I lay down on the raised floor of beaten palm bark, overlooking the clearing, and sal-dani-ah handed me a bottle of ayahuasca. I started to drink and heard him singing behind a partition where he was tending his patients. I listened carefully to the startling song that is always sung in ken-cha (sp), the language of the highland Indians which only old people in the Ucayali region speak. The song starts with a shrill musical question and continues with a series of answers intermixed with hissing sounds and syncopated with guttural noises produced with the tongue against the palate.

I drank the whole dose sal-dani-ah had prepared for me and felt slightly dizzy and nauseated. After a while I climbed down from the raised floor using the ladder, made as usual by hacking footholds into an upright log. The clearing and surrounding jungle looked as though covered with white ashes in the strong moonlight. From the hut behind me I heard sound of voices speaking monotonously. I heard sal-dani-ah intermittently singing the song or administering his cures. One of the procedures used to relieve a pain is actually to suck the pain out of the hurting member. When this has been often enough the pain is supposed to be located in the doctor’s mouth and removed from there by spitting. Again my stimulated hearing reported those awful noises so intensely that at times they were hard to endure.

The next day sal-dani-ah attributed this failure to the fact that I has a slight cold. I was more skeptical than ever. After all, if unlike those people, I was not able to hear the call of the plant, or to walk noiselessly through the jungle maybe I lacked also the required acuteness of senses to meet the iridescent goddess.

I am glad that I went a third time. I made another appointment with no-lore-bey for a Saturday night. I walked out to his place at the edge of the forest at about 10pm. I realized that his one room house that stood in darkness and silence was crowded and waited outside till he emerged. I told him that I would rather not join the crowd and he obligingly showed me a good-sized canoe pulled up for repairs and resting about twenty feet from the cane wall of his shack towards the edge of the jungle. I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay down comfortably; my shoulders against the cedar walls of the dugout – my head resting on the slanting stern. I felt relaxed and full of expectation. No-lore-bey had appeared eager and confident. A small barefooted Indian with something queer and slightly funny about his face he showed a nervousness that did not go with his sturdy build. He seemed to be never quite present as if continuously distracted by frequent encounters with his vegetable gods and devils. His eyes were not steady but pulled in different directions. While something fearful, there was something very happy about this man, as if a hidden gaiety were buried under his worried features. He believed himself smart and powerful. He lived a glorious life, even if sometimes he seemed to go to pieces in his effort to walk back and forth professionally between two equally puzzling worlds. I remembered seeing him once in the como-sari-ah (sp) in conflict with one of them (one of those equally puzzling worlds), accused again of leading a disorderly life and practicing quackery. He was standing in his formerly green trousers before a wooden table and the Peruvian flag answering the rude guardia-seville (sp) with a humble smile – his eyes going apologetically in all directions.

He soon appeared with a gourd full of liquid he had carefully prepared by stewing for hours the leaves of the vine with those of another plant who’s name possibly was his secret. He squatted at the canoe and whispered, his eyes going sideways, ‘Gringo, today you will experience the real thing. I will serve you well. We will have the true intoxication. You will be satisfied, wait and see..’ and he left me alone.

After a while a girl approached me from the hut and asked for a cigarette. She lighted it, inhaled, and for a moment I saw her wide face surrounded by hard black hair, then she walked noiselessly back into the hut. A two-eye-oh (sp) bird began to call repeatedly high above my face. The whistling and melodious sound at the end of his call seemed to touch me like a whiplash. A truck loaded with cedar boards left the village and on the distant highway accelerated madly and shifted gears. By that time I knew the drug was working in me. I felt fine and heard no- lore-bey whispering near my ear again, ‘Do you want more? Shall I give you more? Do you want to see the Goddess well?’ And again I drank the full gourd of cool bitter liquid. I cannot say how often no-lore-bey was present whispering and drinking with me, singing the song near my ear and far away, treating his patients and making those awful primitive noises that I despised. There was another sound that upset me more than anything, like something round falling into a deep well, a mysterious, slippery and indecent sound. Much later I found out that it was produced by normally innocuous action of no-lore-bey ladling water out of an old oil barrel by means of a small gourd. I yawned through what seemed to be an interminable night till the muscles of my face were strained. Sometimes I yawned so hard that it seemed to me as loud as the roaring of the sea on a rocky coast. Things got so gay, absorbing and beautiful that I had to laugh foolishly. The laughter came out of my insides of its own accord and shook me absurdly. At the same time I cried, and the tears that were running down my face were annoying, but they kept running madly and no matter how often I wiped my cheeks I could not dry them.

(Garden ofDelights-Roberto Venosa)

The first visual experience was like fireworks. Then a continuously creating power produced a wealth of simple and elaborate flat patterns and color. There were patterns that consisted of twining repeats and others geometrically organized with rectangles or squares that were like Maya designs or those decorations which the cha-ma paint of their thin ringing pottery. The visions were in constant flux. First intermittently, then successively the flat patterns gave way to deep brown, purple or beige depths like dimly lighted caves in which the walls were too far away to be perceived. At times snake- like stems of plants were growing profusely in the depths, at others these were covered with arrangements of myriads of lights that, like dewdrops of gems, adorned them. Now and then brilliant light illuminated the scene as though by photographic flash showing wide landscapes with trees placed at regular intervals or just empty plains. A big ship with many flags appeared in one of these flashes. A merry-go-round with people dressed in brightly colored garments in another. The song of no-lore-bey in the background seemed to physically touch a brain-center, and each of his hissing, guttural syncopations hurt and started new centers of hallucinations which kept on moving and changing to the rhythm of his chant. At a certain point I felt helplessly that no-lore- bey and his song could do ANYTHING with me. There was one note in his song that came back again and again which made me slide deeper whenever it appeared, deeper and deeper into a place where I might lose consciousness. If, to reassure myself, I opened my eyes, I saw the dark wall of the jungle covered with jewels – as if a net of lights had been thrown over it. Upon closing my eyes again I could renew the procession of slick, well-lighted images.

There were two very definite attractions. I enjoyed the unreality of a created world. The images casual, accidental or imperfect but fully organized to the last detail of highly complex, consistent, yet forever changing, designs. They were harmonized in color and had a slick sensuous polished finish. The other attraction of which I was very conscious at the time was inexplicable sensation of intimacy with the visions. They were mine and concerned only me. I remembered an Indian telling me that whenever he drank ayahuasca he had such beautiful visions that used to put his hands over his eyes for fear someone might steal them. I felt the same way. The color scheme became a harmony of browns and greens. Naked dancers appeared turning slowly in spiral movements. Spots of brassy lights played on their bodies which gave them the texture of polished stone. Their faces were inclined and hidden in deep shadows. Their coming into existence in the center of the vision coincided with the rhythm of no-lore-bey’s song and they advanced forward and to the sides, turning slowly. I longed to see their faces. At last the whole field of vision was taken up by a single dancer with inclined face covered by a raised arm. As my desire to see the face became unendurable it appeared suddenly in full close-up, with closed eyes. I knew that when the extraordinary face opened those eyes I experienced a satisfaction of a kind I had never known. It was the visual solution of a personal riddle. I got up and walked away without disturbing no-lore-bey. When I arrived home I was still subject to uncontrollable fits of yawning and laughter. I sat down before my house. I remembered that a drop of dew fell from the tin roof and that its impact was so noisy that it made me shudder. I looked at my watch and realized it was not yet midnight. The next day, and for quite some time I felt unusually well.

Three years later in a letter from pu-cul-pa I heard that no-lore-bey had been accused of bewitching a man into insanity and had been jailed in Iquitos.

_________________

(Return To Source-Roberto Venosa)

The Poetry Of Hafiz

A Grievous Folly Shames My Sixtieth Year

A grievous folly shames my sixtieth year

My white head is in love with a green maid;

I kept my heart a secret, but at last

I am betrayed.

Like a mere child I walked into the snare;

My foolish heart followed my foolish eyes;

And yet, when I was youngin ages past

I was so wise.

If only she who can such wonders do

Could from my cheeks times calumny erase,

And change the color of my snow-white locks

Give a young face

To my young heart, and make my old eyes new,

Bidding my outside tell the inward truth!

O! It is a shallow wit with which time mocks

An old mans youth!

Ah! it was always so with us who sing!

Children of fancy, we are in the power

Of any dream, and at the bidding we

Of a mere flower;

Yet Hafiz, though full many a foolish thing

Ensnared your heart with wonder, never were

you wont to be imaginations slave

As you are now.

—

We are Deep in Love with Solitude

Now that the rose bush in its dainty hand

Lifts high its brimming cup of blood-red wine,

And green buds thicken in the empty land,

Heart, climb out of speculation’s mine

And seek the grassy wilderness with me.

Who cares for problems, human or divine!

The dew of morning glitters like a sea,

And listen how that happy nightingale

Tells with his hundred thousand new-found tongues

Over again the old attractive tale.

Yes, close your books; let schools and schoolmen be;

Only a little lazy book of songs

Snatch up, and take the long green road with me.

Men left behind us, like that fabled bird

Anca, that dwells in Caucasus alone,

Remote from footfall, secure from human word,

We ask no company except our own:

For we are deep in love with solitude,

And green-leaved peace, and woodland pondering

Yes, even Love itself would here intrude.

Hafiz would be alone with the sweet spring,

Hafiz would be alone with his sweet song.

Of the immortal lonely ones is he anew,

Whom solitude and silence have made strong.

Therefore, he laughs at rivals such as you

Who think to match his inaccessible fame;

Yes, you remind him, poor presumptuous fools,

Of that rush-weaver of the olden time

Who to the shop of a great goldsmith came

And said: I too an artist amfor tools

I also use, and keep a shop the same.

Yes, you too keep your little shop of rhyme!

—-

Look at This Beauty

The beauty of this poem is beyond words.

Do you need a guide to experience the heat of the sun?

Blessed is the brush of the painter who paints

Such beautiful pictures for his virgin bride.

Look at this beauty. There is no reason for what you see.

Experience its grace. Even in nature there is nothing so fine.

Either this poem is a miracle, or some sort of magic trick.

Guided either by Gabriel or the Invisible Voice, inside.

No one, not even Hafiz, can describe with words the Great Mystery.

No one knows in which shell the priceless pearl does hide.

___________

Thanks For Visiting!

Gwyllm

(Mindscape II – Roberto Venosa)

August 2, 2006

The Death Of Earthrites Radio?

A very short edition today….

Ah strange times… We were just about to launch Radio Free EarthRites spoken word… Arundhati Roy, Terence McKenna, Aldous Huxley, Alan Watts, Allen Ginsberg, The Sacred Elixirs Conference, Jonathan Ott and others…

Now, we have to figure out how to raise the fiscals to pay for licensing. No license no radio.

If you believe that Earthrites, can make a difference, then help out if you can. If we got but 1.00 from all that visit Turfing in a day, we would be there.

Click on to Donate :

__________

The Link….

We Are The Internets…

__________

Our Friend Ron died yesterday, he was 43 years old. We will miss him, and his shy, gentle ways.

This is for you Ron.

Our death is our wedding with eternity.

What is the secret? “God is One.”

The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house.

This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes;

It is not in the juice made from the grapes.

For he who is living in the Light of God,

The death of the carnal soul is a blessing.

Regarding him, say neither bad nor good,

For he is gone beyond the good and the bad.

Fix your eyes on God and do not talk about what is invisible,

So that he may place another look in your eyes.

It is in the vision of the physical eyes

That no invisible or secret thing exists.

But when the eye is turned toward the Light of God

What thing could remain hidden under such a Light?

Although all lights emanate from the Divine Light

Don’t call all these lights “the Light of God”;

It is the eternal light which is the Light of God,

The ephemeral light is an attribute of the body and the flesh.

…Oh God who gives the grace of vision!

The bird of vision is flying towards You with the wings of desire.

Rumi

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More Coming….

Peace be with you.

Gwyllm