I Am That…

On The Music Box: Jori Hulkkonen

(Marie Spartali Stillmann – Madonna Pietra degli Scrovegni)

I am that

I am that which is highest.

I am that which is lowest.

I am that which is All.

-Mother Julian of Norwich

——–

So it seems that there can be a bit of change in the world. Now, if the public will only keep the fire to the feet of the New Democratic Majority….

Must Scoot Along… Much To Do!

Gwyllm

_______

On the Menu

Negativland – Gimme The Mermaid

The Quotes

Noor Inayat Khan

Poetry: Hadewijch of Antwerp

Various Artist…

__________

Negativland – Gimme The Mermaid (a big thanks to Morgan!)

copyright-copyfree-copyright-copyfree-copyright-copyfree-copyright-copyfree— The ongoing struggle…

___________

The Quotes:

“She was a woman who, between courses, could be graceful with her elbows on the table.”

“The Romans would never have found time to conquer the world if they had been obliged first to learn Latin.”

“I don’t deserve this award, but I have arthritis and I don’t deserve that either.”

“Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.”

“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”

“When they call the roll in the Senate, the Senators do not know whether to answer ‘Present’ or ‘Not guilty.’”

___________

Noor Inayat Khan

Noor Inayat Khan lived a remarkable life of self sacrifice for the cause of freedom. Brought up in the mystical Sufi tradition, Noor abhored violence but she willingly volunteered for the dangerous task of being a secret agent in occupied France.

Noor was the great great great granddaughter of the celebrated Muslim ruler of Mysore – Tipu Sultan, who in the 18th Century fought the British, stemming their advance into South India. Ever after the British held the family with high suspicion but her father Hazrat Inayat Khan did not pursue a political path. Instead Hazrat Inayat Khan was responsible for bringing the great spiritual tradition of Sufi mysticism to the West. In particular Hazrat emphasized the role of music as a means of promoting spirituality. Hazrat Inayat Khan married an American, Ora Meena Ray Baker Noor (distantly related to Mary Eddy Baker founder of the Christian Science movement) The couple married in Paris and settled in Russia. Hazrat Inayat Khan was also the father of Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan who was later to take on the leadership of the Sufi order in the West.

Noor was born in Russia in 1914 and after a brief spell living in England the family relocated to France. Noor believed in the principles of ahimsa (non violence) but in the face of overwhelming Nazi aggression of 1939-40 she felt compelled to take an active role in the liberation of Europe. (see link at end for her discussion of non violence with her brother Pir Vilayat) Therefore Noor decided to flee France and getting on one of the last boats to England, she was able to sign up in the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) where she trained as a wireless operator. Since Noor stood out as an accomplished wireless operator and was also bilingual in French and English she was invited to join the SOE on a perilous mission as a radio operative in occupied France. She was told about the potential dangers but Noor was quite eager to participate and also working as a radio operative did not compromise her principles of non violence.

Not everyone was certain she had the temperament to be a secret agent. One cynical British spymaster remarked she seemed over emotional to be a spy. However his judgement may well have been due to her bold statement at her interview. She said after the war she may well return to India and fight against the British for Indian Independence. Some officers were shocked at this but others were impressed by her fearlessness and boldness. Her British commanders also expressed a little bewilderement about her “Sufi mysticism” which would have been unusual for the time. Later however the chief British spymaster went on record as saying she was the most remarkable person he had met. Noor always remained a great patriot to India and was a firm believer in Indian independence, but in the circumstances she found herself, she was willing to fight on behalf of India’s occupier, such was her belief in freedom.

In 1943 Noor was dropped into enemy France and began sending radio messages from around Paris. She proved a good operator in the field and was said to have done her work very skillfully and conscientiously. Unfortunately soon after arriving the “Prosper” network was broken up by the Gestapo, leaving her as the one remaining wireless operator. Her superiors in England recommended she return such was the high likelihood of capture. However Noor refused to return, instead playing a vital role as the last remaining wireless operator in Paris. At one time she was nearly caught when the Gestapo stopped her whilst she was carrying her radio machine. However she was able to bluff her way past saying it was a home cine film projector. Remarkably the Gestapo believed her and for a time she escaped.

However in October Noor was betrayed, possibly by “Renee”… the wife of her first contact. It was believed Renee sold information to the Gestapo for a small amount of money (1000Fr) . A few hours after her arrest Noor attempted an audacious escape across the roof and nearly succeeded but for a British air raid that led to a sudden tightening of security. Thereafter Noor was sent to Germany and kept in shackles in solitary confinement in the civil prison at Pforzhei. Having a strong belief in the truth not once did Noor reveal any information. Saying only she was an operative from England. It is said that her resilience and tenacity and endurance had an effect even on the hardened prison chiefs of the Gestapo. After enduring 9 months of tortuous imprisonment Noor was transferred with 3 other SEO to the Dachau concentration camp where she was executed with a bullet to the back of her head (just days before Dachau was liberated by the Americans). It is reported her last words before being shot were “liberty” Another report by a witness says a guard tried to force her to say “Heil Hitler” she refused saying “One day you will see the truth”.

Noor was an exceptional person who had an impact on whoever she met. She was described as being “dreamer” and “otherworldly” with a capacity for clairvoyance. Her biographer said she moved with “a different rhythm” to other children. Like her father Noor was also a gifted musician who also studied medicine in Paris. Her children stories were published in Figaro and a collection of traditional Indian stories, Twenty Jataka Tales, appeared in 1939.

Although she was an Indian Muslim who passionately believed in Indian Indepence she was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for a cause neither her nationality or religion compelled her to fight for. After her death she was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre and the George Cross (1949).

_________

Poetry: Hadewijch of Antwerp

May your service of love a beautiful thing; want nothing else, fear nothing else and let love be free to become what love truly is.

The Madness of love

The madness of love

Is a rich fief;

Anyone who recognized this

Would not ask Love for anything else:

It can unite Opposites

And reverse the paradox.

I am declaring the truth about this:

The madness of love makes bitter what was sweet,

It makes the stranger a kinsman,

And it makes the smallest the most proud.

To souls who have not reached such love,

I give this good counsel:

If they cannot do more,

Let them beg Love for amnesty,

And serve with faith,

According to the counsel of noble Love,

And think: ‘It can happen,

Love’s power is so great!’

Only after his death

Is a man beyond cure.

Imagining

Imagining we possessed what she kept back for herself.

What is sweetest in love is her tempestuousness,

Her deepest abyss is her most beautiful form;

To lose one’s way in her is to touch her close at hand.

To die of hunger for her is to feed and taste;…

We can say yet more about Love:

Her wealth is her lack of everything;

Her truest fidelity brings about our fall;

Her highest being drowns us in the depths;…

Her revelation is the total hiding of herself;

Her gifts, besides, are thieveries;

Her promises are all seductions;

Her adornments are all undressing;

Her truth is all deception;

To many her assurance appears to lie—

This is the witness that can be truly borne

At any moment by me and many others

To whom Love has often shown

Wonders by which we were mocked,

Imagining we possessed what she kept back for herself.

After she first played these tricks on me,

And I considered all her methods,

I went to work in an entirely different way:

By her threats and her promises

I was no longer deceived.

I will belong to her, whatever she may be,

Gracious or merciless; to me it is all one.

To Live Out What I am

My distress is great and unknown to men.

They are cruel to me, for they wish to dissuade me

From all that the forces of Love urge me to.

They do not understand it, and I cannot explain it to them.

I must then live out what I am;

What love counsels my spirit,

In this is my being: for this reason I will do my best.

Whatever vicissitudes men lead me through for Love’s sake

I wish to stand firm and take no harm from them.

For I understand from the nobility of my soul

That in suffering for sublime Love, I conquer.

I will therefore gladly surrender myself

In pain, in repose, in dying, in living,

For I know the command of lofty fidelity.

I do not complain of suffering for Love:

It becomes me always to submit to her,

Whether she commands in storm or in stillness.

One can know her only in herself.

This is an unconceivable wonder,

Which has thus filled my heart

And makes me stray in a wild desert.

_____

We know of Hadewijch only what comes from her writings. She wrote in the Brabant dialect of Middle Dutch, and she perhaps came from the area around Antwerp. She knew French and Latin and was familiar with contemporary chivalric poetry. She appears to have been a beguine, perhaps the mistress of a beguinage.

At some point she was criticized for her views, perhaps forced out of her community, and separated from women for whom she cared. Her need to keep in touch with them and to continue to teach and encourage them seems to have led to her writings: 31 letters (Brieven), 14 descriptions of visions (Visioenen), 45 poems in stanzaic form (Strofische Gedichten), and 16 to 29 poems in mixed form (Mengeldichten).

Hadewijch also compiled a “List of the Perfect,” naming 86 persons, living and dead, whom she described as “clothed in love”; the list includes a beguine who had been executed, probably in 1236. It is from the datable references in this list that Hadewijch has been assigned to the mid-1200s.

___________________

(Lord Frederick Leighton – Wedded)

Saving A Nation…

_____________

Ah… Election Day. Vote Early, Vote Often! 8o) (I have to admit, this is not a day of joy for yours truly.. exhausted with all the BS…)

Though I have a faint glimmer of hope, I am hedging my emotional involvement with this whole box of woe that we have going here. Yet, the old forms should be met. Vote. Vote Now. It does matter. If you don’t like the local candidates, consider standing up for election your self.

Enough is enough.

Blessings,

G

On The Menu

Just In Time For The Election Links

Cocteau Twins – Evangeline

Much has happened since we handed over our voice

Poetry: Mirabai Part 2

A wee reminder…

__________

Just In Time For The Election Links:

Calif. ‘pot docs‘ put selves at risk

VA-Sen: Voter suppression in Virginia

Fired Evangelist Slams Gays in New Movie

It Flushes To The Anthem….

PhotoShopped HighTimes…

__________

Cocteau Twins – Evangeline

__________

Much has happened since we handed over our voice

Kevin Tillman

Kevin Tillman joined the Army with his brother Pat in 2002, and they served together in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pat was killed in Afghanistan on April 22, 2004. Kevin, who was discharged in 2005, has written a powerful, must-read document.

It is Pat’s birthday on November 6, and elections are the day after. It gets me thinking about a conversation I had with Pat before we joined the military. He spoke about the risks with signing the papers. How once we committed, we were at the mercy of the American leadership and the American people. How we could be thrown in a direction not of our volition. How fighting as a soldier would leave us without a voice until we got out.

Much has happened since we handed over our voice:

Somehow we were sent to invade a nation because it was a direct threat to the American people, or to the world, or harbored terrorists, or was involved in the September 11 attacks, or received weapons-grade uranium from Niger, or had mobile weapons labs, or WMD, or had a need to be liberated, or we needed to establish a democracy, or stop an insurgency, or stop a civil war we created that can’t be called a civil war even though it is. Something like that.

Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow our elected leaders were subverting international law and humanity by setting up secret prisons around the world, secretly kidnapping people, secretly holding them indefinitely, secretly not charging them with anything, secretly torturing them. Somehow that overt policy of torture became the fault of a few “bad apples” in the military.

Somehow back at home, support for the soldiers meant having a five-year-old kindergartener scribble a picture with crayons and send it overseas, or slapping stickers on cars, or lobbying Congress for an extra pad in a helmet. It’s interesting that a soldier on his third or fourth tour should care about a drawing from a five-year-old; or a faded sticker on a car as his friends die around him; or an extra pad in a helmet, as if it will protect him when an IED throws his vehicle 50 feet into the air as his body comes apart and his skin melts to the seat.

Somehow the more soldiers that die, the more legitimate the illegal invasion becomes.

Somehow American leadership, whose only credit is lying to its people and illegally invading a nation, has been allowed to steal the courage, virtue and honor of its soldiers on the ground.

Somehow those afraid to fight an illegal invasion decades ago are allowed to send soldiers to die for an illegal invasion they started.

Somehow faking character, virtue and strength is tolerated.

Somehow profiting from tragedy and horror is tolerated.

Somehow the death of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people is tolerated.

Somehow subversion of the Bill of Rights and The Constitution is tolerated.

Somehow suspension of Habeas Corpus is supposed to keep this country safe.

Somehow torture is tolerated.

Somehow lying is tolerated.

Somehow reason is being discarded for faith, dogma, and nonsense.

Somehow American leadership managed to create a more dangerous world.

Somehow a narrative is more important than reality.

Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared, and distrusted countries in the world.

Somehow being politically informed, diligent, and skeptical has been replaced by apathy through active ignorance.

Somehow the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtueless, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country.

Somehow this is tolerated.

Somehow nobody is accountable for this.

In a democracy, the policy of the leaders is the policy of the people. So don’t be shocked when our grandkids bury much of this generation as traitors to the nation, to the world and to humanity. Most likely, they will come to know that “somehow” was nurtured by fear, insecurity and indifference, leaving the country vulnerable to unchecked, unchallenged parasites.

Luckily this country is still a democracy. People still have a voice. People still can take action. It can start after Pat’s birthday.

Brother and Friend of Pat Tillman,

Kevin Tillman

__________

Poetry: Mirabai Part 2….

I Am Mad

I am mad with love

And no one understands my plight.

Only the wounded

Understand the agonies of the wounded,

When the fire rages in the heart.

Only the jeweller knows the value of the jewel,

Not the one who lets it go.

In pain I wander from door to door,

But could not find a doctor.

Says Mira: Harken, my Master,

Mira’s pain will subside

When Shyam comes as the doctor.

The Dagger

The dagger of love has pierced my heart.

I was going to the river to fetch water,

A golden pitcher on my head.

Hariji has bound me

By the thin thread of love,

And wherever He draws me,

Thither I go.

Mira’s Lord is the courtly Giridhara:

This is the nature

Of his dark and beautiful form.

Strange is the Path of Love

Do not mention the name of love,

O my simple-minded companion.

Strange is the path

When you offer your love.

Your body is crushed at the first step.

If you want to offer love

Be prepared to cut off your head

And sit on it.

Be like the moth,

Which circles the lamp and offers its body.

Be like the deer, which, on hearing the horn,

Offers its head to the hunter.

Be like the partridge,

Which swallows burning coals

In love of the moon.

Be like the fish

Which yields up its life

When separated from the sea.

Be like the bee,

Entrapped in the closing petals of the lotus.

Mira’s lord is the courtly Giridhara.

She says: Offer your mind

To those lotus feet.

Mine Is Gopal

Mine is Gopal,

the Mountain-Holder;

there is no one else.

On his head he wears the peacock-crown:

He alone is my husband.

Father, mother, brother, relative:

I have none to call my own.

I’ve forsaken both God, and the family’s honor:

what should I do?

I’ve sat near the holy ones,

and I’ve lost shame before the people.

I’ve torn my scarf into shreds;

I’m all wrapped up in a blanket.

I took off my finery of pearls and coral,

and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.

With my tears,

I watered the creeper of love that I planted;

Now the creeper has grown spread all over,

and borne the fruit of bliss.

The churner of the milk churned with great love.

When I took out the butter,

no need to drink any buttermilk.

I came for the sake of love-devotion;

seeing the world, I wept.

Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder:

Now with love

He takes me across to the further shore.

___________

A wee reminder….

____________

Mirabai

Tying the bells in her ankles

Mira dances and dances in Thy honor.

Lord Naaraayana came to her in dreams,

and she surrendered to His lotus feet.

Brother-in-law sent a cup full of poison

so that Mira dies,

she drank it up and laughed, since it became nectar

due to the divine intervention.

The world and the people said: Mira has gone crazy;

even her father confirmed, she has ruined the family reputation.

Says Mira: O my Lord, who is clever and lifter of mountain

Govardhana on His right hand’s pinky finger,

I am Your entirely Your servant,

as You steal away all the worries of Your devotees.

Dear Reader… Rainy Nights here in Portland… Bucketing, Bucketing Down…

Slept strangely with the noise of it all. Some interesting stuff in store for you all this morning…

Well, I must be flying.

On The Menu

The Links

David Sylvian – Orpheus

Abductions by Modern Neandertals?

Poetry: Mirabai…

Mirabai: A short Biography…

Enjoy!

Gwyllm

__________________

The Links

Chemical Salvation?

Brand new substance created from water

Octopus: Genius of the deep

Why do we exist? Don’t look to the stubborn string theorists

___________________

David Sylvian – Orpheus

___________________

An odd little article…

Abductions by Modern Neandertals?

Neandertals left their tracks, above, behind. Have they interacted with modern humans in contemporary times, and left behind much more?

Is there a record of human beings being abducted by hairy unknown hominids, perhaps even Neandertals in Europe?

Black Almas

The reported sleeping position of the Ksy-gyik. Did it sleep with humans?

Here is a list of a few possible kidnapping incidents, none of them before published in English, shared by Norwegian cryptozoologist Erik Knatterud:

Spain, Sienra. Probably about 800 years ago. Baby abduction. An infant boy was stolen from his nanny, but a swift rescue party managed to find the boy being “happily sucking one of the tits of the animal;” [the rescue party] chased away the wild woman and retrieved the baby. The serrana (wild woman) was referred to as a “bear.”

France, Savoie, the village of Naves. 1602 Female abduction, cited in writing already in 1605. Seventeen-year-old Anthoinette Culet was herding animals when she disappeared. Later the same year three lumberjacks from the village happened to work in the mountains, where one of them noticed a voice from behind a boulder blocking a cave, a voice that insisted to be the abducted Anthoinette Culet. She told them about the ugly but amorous monster with enormous strength obviously stole and brought her baskets of bread, fruit, cheese, linen and thread. That night the creature intruded the village but was ambushed and shot to death. The creature was a “bear,” but it “had a navel like humans and almost looked like a human.”

Allevard, Dauphine. District of Isère. Late 19th century. Male abduction. The young lumberjack Bourne was about to cross a hill at night to visit his fiancé when he was taken and slung over the shoulders of a hairy giant and brought to a cave with a group of brown longhaired creatures talking a strange language. The biggest hairy man was about 8 feet and “looked almost human” and had long arms and big hands. After several hours Bourne pulled out his pipe which was snatched away. In the following fight over the pipe Bourne managed to escape. Locals called such creatures marfolats. [Comment by Loren Coleman: You will note that this story sounds a great deal like the 1924 B.C. kidnapping account of Swedish immigrant Albert Ostman. Ostman told of his sleeping bag (with him in it) being thrown over a Sasquatch’s shoulder, and how he was brought back to a canyon to a family of four Bigfoot that uttered short phrases that seemed to carry meaning. Ostman eventually escaped when he used a tin of snuff to confuse the guarding Sasquatch.]

France, Briançon, Haute Alpes. Late 19th century. Male abduction. A man missing for days told that he had been abducted by a hairy forest man (homme des bois) and kept in a cave with his family, a female and two kids. He was fed some berries, but eventually they lost interest in him.

Spain, Lézignan (Aude). About 1920. Female abduction. A young couple was tending farm animals in the Sierra Morena when the female was taken by an “ape” when she was washing clothes at a stream. She was kept in a cave and raped, but escaped eventually. The resulting baby girl, Anica known as “the daughter of the orangutan,” had a hairy body, long arms and an ape like mouth. Male wildmen are known as basajaun, master of the forest.

Erik Knatterud also writes that he knows of “three cases from Sweden, not really about abduction, but about having [relationships] with hairy females out in the forest at night. Here the wildwomen are called skograa (master of the forest). In my country [Norway] there are many local anecdotes about abductions, probably very ancient legends. Very strange since I have not been able to find the slightest trace of trolls living here today.”

For a little bit of translation and interpretation for the English-reading audience, Mark A. Hall has pointed out via his past writings that “trolls” are not the “little people” that we know from American children’s stories, but the real Trolls of northern Euroasian hominology are indeed giant unknown hairy hominoids.

___________________

Poetry: Mirabai…

” Mirabai was a devotee of the high, higher, highest order. Among the saints of India, she is absolutely unparalleled. She composed many, many bhajans, which are prayerful songs to God. Each song Mirabai wrote expressed her inspiration, aspiration and sleepless self-giving. “

– Sri Chinmoy

The Plums Tasted

The plums tasted

sweet to the unlettered desert-tribe girl-

but what manners! To chew into each!

She was ungainly, low-caste, ill mannered and dirty,

but the god took the fruit she’d been sucking.

Why? She knew how to love.

She might not distinquish

splendor from filth

but she’d tasted the nectar of passion.

Might not know any Veda,

but a chariot swept her away-

now she frolics in heaven, esctatically bound

to her god.

The Lord of Fallen Fools, says Mira,

will save anyone who can practice rapture like that-

I myself in a previous birth

was a cowherding girl

at Gokul.

O My Mind

O my mind,

Worship the lotus feet of the Indestructible One!

Whatever thou seest twixt earth and sky

Will perish.

Why undertake fasts and pilgrimages?

Why engage in philosophical discussions?

Why commit suicide in Banaras?

Take no pride in the body,

It will soon be mingling with the dust.

This life is like the sporting of sparrows,

It will end with the onset of night.

Why don the ochre robe

And leave home as a sannyasi?

Those who adopt the external garb of a Jogi,

But do not penetrate to the secret,

Are caught again in the net of rebirth.

Mira’s Lord is the courtly Giridhara.

Deign to sever, O Master.

All the knots in her heart.

That Dark Dweller

That dark Dweller in Braj

Is my only refuge.

O my companion,

Worldly comfort is an illusion,

As soon you get it, it goes.

I have chosen the Indestructible for my refuge,

Him whom the snake of death

Will not devour.

My Beloved dwells in my heart,

I have actually seen that Abode of Joy.

Mira’s Lord is Hari, the Indestructible.

My Lord, I have taken refuge with Thee,

Thy slave.

—-

Nothing is really mine

Nothing is really mine except Krishna.

O my parents, I have searched the world

And found nothing worthy of love.

Hence I am a stranger amidst my kinfolk

And an exile from their company,

Since I seek the companionship of holy men;

There alone do I feel happy,

In the world I only weep.

I planted the creeper of love

And silently watered it with my tears;

Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling.

You offered me a cup of poison

Which I drank with joy.

Mira is absorbed in contemplation of Krishna,

She is with God and all is well!

________

Mirabai (also known as Meera) was born in 1504 A.D. at Chaukari village in Merta District of Rajasthan. As a young child Mirabai would spend her time playing with a small image of Krishna. Nobody understood her infatuation. But to Mirabai this doll was a living embodiment of Krishna. From an early age Mirabai dedicated her life to the worship and praise of her beloved Krishna. However, depsite her life of intense devotion, she faced great difficulties from her family who didn’t respect the amount of time she would spend in devotion to Krishna.

Her father, Ratan Singh, was the second son of Rao Dudaji, a descendent of Rao Jodhaji Rather, the founder of Jodhpur. Meera’s mother died when she was ten year old. She then came to live with her grandfather who died in 1515. Her father’s elder brother Vikram Deo who succeeded to the throne arranged her marriage with Prince Bhol Raj, the eldest son of Rana Sanga of Chitter. This marriage raised Meera to a very high social status as the ruler of Chitter was considered to be the leader of the Hindu princes. But luck didn’t favor Princess Meera. By 1527 A.D. she had lost her father, her husband and her fatherin-law as well. Meera, who dedicated her life to Lord Krishna, accepted these bereavements as a matter of course

At the lime Meera was born there was widespread political and social turmoil in India. Bloody conflicts for petty selfish gains, disrespect for human life and hatred for others was a norm. Meera was bewildered and at a loss to understand all that was going on all around. She was in search of peace which she found in Chaitanya’s Vaishnav Panth and dedicated her life to the love of Lord Krishna.

Mirabai began to devote most of her time in prayer and worship and did not pay any attention to the etiquettes of a royal household. This led her to be subjected to great hardships and punishments. These physical hardships became intolerable and after praying to Krishna, she left the palace for good and went to the pilgrimage of Mathura, Vrindavana and finally to Dwarika.

Mirabai was a born poetess. She expressed in a beautiful style her intense and deep love of God. She composed hundreds of poems in a simple, unpretentious style. They are full of vivacity and feelings. No poetess in the history of India enjoys a greater respect than Meera. Her poems have gained a unique popularity and are sung by the rich and the poor alike, even to this day. She spent her life dancing In trance and singing the attributes of her Beloved Krishna till she left this mortal world in 1550 to be united with Him. She was a great Hindu woman saint and will always be remembered.

The Promise…

On the Music Box: Cluster – Sowieso…

Remember, remember the fifth of November

The gunpowder treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, twas his intent

To blow up king and parliament.

Three score barrels were laid below

To prove old England’s overthrow.

By God’s mercy he was catched

With a dark lantern and lighted match.

Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring

Holler boys, holler boys, God save the King.

_____________________

well… here is a bit for your Sunday. I hope to have a few more essays soon, but it seems the more I look on the web, the deeper it goes, and I become… entranced.

On The Menu

Vas – The Promise

The Links

Sunday Koans: How Grass & Trees Become Enlightened / The Tunnel

Your New Browser!

Sacred Poetry: Mechthild of Magdeburg

Biography: Mechthild of Magdeburg

Brian Eno: Plateaux of Mirrors…

Have a good day!

Gwyllm

________________________

_________________

Vas – Promise

__________________

The Links:

2 Viking finds in Norway, Sweden

The Morning Of The Cannibals: Neo Culpa

When the War Comes Home

The Greensburg Dragon

Working With Difficult Psychedelic Experiences

__________________

Sunday Koans

How Grass & Trees Become Enlightened

During the Kamakura period, Shinkan studied Tendai six years and then studied Zen seven years; then he went to China and contemplated Zen for thirteen years more.

When he returned to Japan many desired to interview him and asked obscure questions. But when Shinkan received visitors, which was infrequently, he seldom answered their questions.

One day a fifty-year-old student of enlightenment said to Shinkan: “I have studied the Tendai school of thought since I was a little boy, but one thing in it I cannot understand. Tendai claims that even the grass and trees will become enlightened. To me this eems very strange.”

“Of what use is it to discuss how grass and trees become enlightened?” asked Shinkan. “The question is how you yourself can become so. Did you ever consider that?”

“I never thought of it in that way,” marveled the old man.

“Then go home and think it over,” finished Shinkan.

The Tunnel

Zenkai, the son of a samurai, journeyed to Edo and there became the retainer of a high official. He fell in love with the official’s wife and was discovered. In self-defense, he slew the official. Then he ran away with the wife.

Both of them later became thieves. But the woman was so greedy that Zenkai grew disgusted. Finally, leaving her, he journeyed far away to the province of Buzen, where he became a wandering mendicant.

To atone for his past, Zenkai resolved to accomplish some good deed in his lifetime. Knowing of a dangerous road over a cliff that had caused the death and injury of many persons, he resolved to cut a tunnel through the mountain there.

Begging food in the daytime, Zenkai worked at night digging his tunnel. When thirty years had gone by, the tunnel was 2,280 feet long, 20 feet high, and 30 feet wide.

Two years before the work was completed, the son of the official he had slain, who was a skillful swordsman, found Zenkai out and came to kill him in revenge.

“I will give you my life willingly,” said Zenkai. “Only let me finish this work. On the day it is completed, then you may kill me.”

So the son awaited the day. Several months passed and Zendai kept on digging. The son grew tired of doing nothing and began to help with the digging. After he had helped for more than a year, he came to admire Zenkai’s strong will and character.

At last the tunnel was completed and the people could use it and travel in safety.

“Now cut off my head,” said Zenkai. “My work is done.”

“How can I cut off my own teacher’s head?” asked the younger man with tears in his eyes.

___________________

Your New Browser!

______________________

Sacred Poetry: Mechthild of Magdeburg

The desert has many teachings

In the desert,

Turn toward emptiness,

Fleeing the self.

Stand alone,

Ask no one’s help,

And your being will quiet,

Free from the bondage of things.

Those who cling to the world,

Endeavor to free them;

Those who are free, praise.

Care for the sick,

But live alone,

Happy to drink from the waters of sorrow,

To kindle Love’s fire

With the twigs of a simple life.

Thus you will live in the desert

I cannot Dance

I cannot dance, Lord, unless you lead me.

If you want me to leap with abandon,

You must intone the song.

Then I shall leap into love,

From love into knowledge,

From knowledge into enjoyment,

And from enjoyment beyond all human sensations.

There I want to remain, yet want also to circle higher still.

God speaks to the Soul

And God said to the soul:

I desired you before the world began.

I desire you now

As you desire me.

And where the desires of two come together

There love is perfected

HOW THE SOUL SPEAKS TO THE SOUL

Lord, you are my lover,

My longing,

My flowing stream,

My sun,

And I am your reflection.

HOW GOD ANSWERS THE SOUL

It is my nature that makes me love you often,

For I am love itself.

It is my longin that makes me love you intensely,

For I yearn to be loved from the heart.

It is my eternity that makes me love you long,

For I have no end.

——–

Most of what is known of Mechthild of Magdeburg comes from her book: references to court custom and courtly literature suggest she was from an educated family, as does the fact that she could read and write German (although she tells us that she does not know Latin). She had at least one brother who became a Dominican. In her early 20s, she left her home to go to Magdeburg (on the Elbe River); she appears to have lived most of her life there as a beguine, apparently in a community, perhaps as a superior. Near the end of her life, about 1270, she entered a monastery at Helfta which followed Cistercian custom.

She may have gone to Helfta because of the increasing restrictions being placed on beguines in Germany and the Low Countries. The women had received statements of papal approval in 1215 and 1233, but with approval went a requirement for clerical direction and eventually for control. In 1261, a synod meeting in Magdeburg ordered the local beguines to obey their parish priests, rather than relying on the mendicant orders for spiritual advice.

When she was in her mid-30s, on the advice of her Dominican confessor, Mechthild had begun to write down her love songs and visionary experiences. We know that some of these writings were quickly circulated because she speaks of the harsh criticism she received, as a woman writing about spiritual matters. But she continued to write until her death.

Fliessende licht der Gottheit (Flowing light of the Godhead) is divided into seven books: Books 1-5 were written during the 1250s, Book 6 in the 1260s, and Book 7 in the 1270s at Helfta. Within the seven books are 267 sections, from a few lines to several pages long. They include not only Mechthild’s visionary experiences, but also letters of advice and criticism, allegories, reflections, and prayers; they use prose and verse, dramatic dialogue and lyric.

Mechthild wrote in the dialect used in the north of Germany; fragments remain of this original, but our complete text is a translation made in the language of southern German about 60 years after her death. Yet scholars assume that the text as we have it reflects Mechthild’s words and, for the first six books, an organization determined by her and her confessor.

______________________

And Now For a bit of Brian Eno…

______________________

FSOL – Dancing In The Rain

Somethings Don’t Change: Portland in the rain, 80 years ago…

Friday Finally…

Had friends over last night, and then ended up watching a ghastly German film about the Priory of Sion and The Knights Templar set in modern Germany. Ever watched a car wreck? This was our opprotunity to witness something as mad and random as that. My brain is still hurting. It was so bad that Rowan fled early on. Mary and I sat there to the end expecting… something of relevance to happen. nope.

Todays’ entry is a bit late getting out, but it is a bit of fun.

______

On the Menu

Roberto Venosas’ Portrait of Albert Hofmann

FSOL

The Links

Calamus: The Splendour of al-Andalus

The Poetry of Yunus Emre

_______

Have a good weekend!

Gwyllm

_________

A new Painting By Roberto Venosa…

‘Portrait of Albert Hofmann’

Another nice one from Roberto. Roberto is donating proceeds from the selling of prints to help MAPS fund much needed psychedelic research. If you are interested in obtaining a print, please click on the links below!

NOW AVAILABLE

A Limited Edition Print of

‘PORTRAIT OF ALBERT HOFMANN

by ROBERT VENOSA

This is an edition of 50 exemplars

Signed and numbered by

Robert Venosa and Albert Hofmann

Size: 27″ x 33″

For information on prices and availability

contact:

sales@maps.org

roberto@venosa.com

Roberto & Albert – Summer 2006

______________

____________

The Links:

British believe Bush is more dangerous than Kim Jong-il

Turn your iPod into a Ouija board

Otter ‘escorts’ mate to hospital

Viral Fossil Brought Back to Life

___________

I am currently entranced with this Album and Band from Spain. Please check it out!

Calamus: The Splendour of al-Andalus

The emirate of al-Andalus (756-1031 AD), or Muslim Spain, was one of the world’s great civilizations. Wealthy, stable, and tolerant (since taxes fell chiefly on non-believers, they welcomed diversity), it was a center of learning, a realm in which all of the arts flourished.

Sometime around 822 AD, Ziryab—a great court musician and poet from Baghdad—arrived in Cordoba. His impact on the culture of Moorish Spain cannot be overstated: he revolutionized Spanish-Arabian manners (down to the arrangement of courses in a meal); created new poetic forms; founded a music school; and brought with him the knowledge of how to build some 40 musical instruments—including his own creation, the instrument we now call the lute.

Over the next few centuries, al-Andalus developed a richly diverse musical tradition, one which was formally ejected from Spain during the reconquista (1031-1492 AD). By the 13th century, with the fall of Cordoba, Seville, and Valencia, the moriscos began their exodus toward Granada and Northern Africa. The great musical schools were re-established in Tunisia and Algeria, where the music remained reasonably true to its root-stock.

This is the tradition to which Calamus pays homage in this warm, vibrant, splendidly human CD, recorded in the Monasterio de la Santa Espina, Valladolid on a customized 96kHz Pioneer D-07 DAT recorder. The first thing you’ll notice about the disc is the richly reverberant room acoustic. When the initial notes of the disc—vigorously strummed on citola, a proto-guitar—fill the space and then bloom as they find the room’s boundaries and linger, it almost seems like too much of a good thing. But when the ensemble joins in, it’s articulate and detailed—warmed, not overwhelmed, by that marvelous acoustic. To achieve this, engineer Garfinkle has obviously recorded the ensemble from an intimate perspective, but it never sounds too close. After all, this was music that was designed to be performed among its listeners, not at them.

Intimacy informs this disc with every phrase. The quintet plays well together—colloquially, not stiffly. The music never strays far from dance. Begoña Olavide possesses a warm, intense, expressive voice. The first time I heard it—in Stax’s room at WCES—I nearly leaped out of my skin when she sang “Insad (God Watch Over the Singer)”; it was as warm and intimate and shocking as a tongue in the ear.

The disc is immensely moving, suffused with longing, pain, and a sense of resignation, and yet I can’t get enough of it. There’s such an exciting sense of shared humanity in this recording that I’m not conscious of the distance of centuries, continents, cultures—I am the singer, I have been the songwriter, I inhabit the notes.—Wes Phillips

__________

The Poetry of Yunus Emre (AD1240-1241 to 1320-21)

Yunus’ poetry made a great impact on Turkish culture….

The drink sent down from Truth,

we drank it, glory be to God.

And we sailed over the Ocean of Power,

glory be to God.

Beyond those hills and oak woods,

beyond those vineyards and gardens,

we passed in health and joy, glory be to God.

We were dry, but we moistened.

We grew wings and became birds,

we married one another and flew,

glory be to God.

To whatever lands we came,

in whatever hearts, in all humanity,

we planted the meanings Taptuk taught us,

glory be to God.

Come here, let’s make peace,

let’s not be strangers to one another.

We have saddled the horse

and trained it, glory be to God.

We became a trickle that grew into a river.

We took flight and drove into the sea,

and then we overflowed, glory be to God.

We became servants at Taptuk’s door.

Poor Yunus, raw and tasteless,

finally got cooked, glory be to God.

Ask those who know,

what’s this soul within the flesh?

Reality’s own power.

What blood fills these veins?

Thought is an errand boy,

fear a mine of worries.

These sighs are love’s clothing.

Who is the Khan on the throne?

Give thanks for His unity.

He created when nothing existed.

And since we are actually nothing,

what are all of Solomon’s riches?

Ask Yunus and Taptuk

what the world means to them..

The world won’t last.

What are You? What am I?

We entered the house of realization,

we witnessed the body.

The whirling skies, the many-layered earth,

the seventy-thousand veils,

we found in the body.

The night and the day, the planets,

the words inscribed on the Holy Tablets,

the hill that Moses climbed, the Temple,

and Israfil’s trumpet, we observed in the body.

Torah, Psalms, Gospel, Quran-

what these books have to say,

we found in the body.

Everybody says these words of Yunus

are true. Truth is wherever you want it.

We found it all within the body.

I am before, I am after

The soul for all souls all the way.

I’m the one with a helping hand

Ready for those gone wild, astray.

I made the ground flat where it lies,

On it I had those mountains rise,

I designed the vault of the shies,

For I hold all things in my sway.

To countless lovers I have been

A guide for faith and religion.

I am sacrilege in men’s hearts

Also the true faith and Islam’s way.

I make men love peace and unite;

Putting down the black words on white,

I wrote the four holy books right

I’m the Koran for those who pray.

It’s not Yunus who says all this:

It speaks its own realities:

To doubt this would be blasphemous:

“I’m before-I’m after,” I say

Your love has wrested me away from me,

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

Day and night I burn, gripped by agony,

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

I find no great joy in being alive,

If I cease to exist, I would not grieve,

The only solace I have is your love,

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

Lovers yearn for you, but your love slays them,

At the bottom of the sea it lays them,

It has God’s images-it displays them;

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

Let me drink the wine of love sip by sip,

Like Mecnun, live in the hills in hardship,

Day and night, care for you holds me in its grip,

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

Even if, at the end, they make me die

And scatter my ashes up to the shy,

My pit would break into this outcry:

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

“Yunus Emre the mystic” is my name,

Each passing day fans and rouses my flame,

What I desire in both worlds in the same:

You’re the one I need, you’re the one I crave.

Yunus Emre is considered by many to be one of the most important Turkish poets. Little can be said for certain of his life other than that he was a Sufi dervish of Anatolia. The love people have for his liberating poetry is reflected in the fact that many villages claim to be his birthplace, and many others claim to hold his tomb. He probably lived in the Karaman area.

His poetry expresses a deep personal mysticism and humanism and love for God.

He was a contemporary of Rumi, who lived in the same region. Rumi composed his collection of stories and songs for a well-educated urban circle of Sufis, writing primarily in the literary language of Persian. Yunus Emre, on the other hand, travelled and taught among the rural poor, singing his songs in the common tongue of Turkish.

A story is told of a meeting between the two great souls: Rumi asked Yunus Emre what he thought of his great work the Mathnawi. Yunus Emre said, “Excellent, excellent! But I would have done it differently.” Surprised, Rumi asked how. Yunus replied, “I would have written, ‘I came from the eternal, clothed myself in flesh, and took the name Yunus.’” That story perfectly illustrates Yunus Emre’s simple, direct approach that has made him so beloved.

Interestingly, the name Yunus means “dolphin” in Turkish.

________________

Albert & Roberto!

Amorphous Androgynous…

On the Music Box: Amadou et Mariam – Wati

I can not recommend this album enough. Run don’t walk to your World Music Shop…

This is the music of a very special Dreamtime. It is very moving, full of beauty, full of light.

________

A quick one… as I run out the door!

Have a good day. Raining here, cats, dogs, crows, muffins. Wind has calmed down, we should get some 2 inches today according to the reports….

Enjoy!

Gwyllm

—–

On The Menu

Martina Hoffmann’s New Work

November 2nd…

The Links

Amorphous Androgynous

Poetry: Rumi

_________

Martina Hoffmann – Lysergic Summer Dream)

Catching Up: Martina Hoffmann

One of Martina Hoffmann’s new paintings… “Lysergic Summer Dream”

Here is Martina showing her work to Albert & Anita Hofmann at their home in Switzerland.

A pretty amazing piece of work IMO. It is wonderful seeing the process of art unfold and mutate in new and wonderful ways.

A big Thank You to Martina for sharing these with us!

_________

2 November. All Souls’ Day, when the dead members of families were supposed to return and had to be shown hospitality. In Ireland the fire was left lit, the door unlocked and food was left on the table when the family went to bed. Souls crowded in as thickly as bees. In Naples the dead members could rest while the members of their families came to see them. The mortuaries were thrown open, revealing the fleshless bodes arranged for viewing in niches along the walls. Intercession is made for the souls in Purgatory for the whole of November.

The Links:

Paranoid Yet?: Forgetful? Virus may be eating your brain

Govt. Tells Singles No Sex Till You’re 30

Decades later, the Dover Demon still haunts

Atheists top book charts by deconstructing God

____________

Amorphous Androgynous…

Kind of the bastard offspring of FSOL (Future Sounds of London) A tryppier sound in my opinion, and full of great textures. Reminds me a bit at times of “The Glove”, from the mid 1980′s… Rev Me0 turned me onto AA back when their first album came out, “The Isness”. A wonderful piece of music. Their recent album, “Alice In Ultraland” is a nice step forward. I especially like “Witchfinder”. If you get a chance, check out their site and especially look at some of the other videos…. Amorphous Androgynous Website…

I hope you enjoy this Snippet!

__________

Poetry: Rumi

REALITY AND APPEARANCE

‘Tis light makes colour visible: at night

Red, greene, and russet vanish from thy sight.

So to thee light by darness is made known:

Since God hat none, He, seeing all, denies

Himself eternally to mortal eyes.

From the dark jungle as a tiger bright,

Form from the viewless Spirit leaps to ligth.

DESCENT

I made a far journey

Earth’s fair cities to view,

but like to love’s city

City none I knew

At the first I knew not

That city’s worth,

And turned in my folly

A wanderer on earth.

From so sweet a country

I must needs pass,

And like to cattle

Grazed on every grass.

As Moses’ people

I would liefer eat

Garlic, than manna

And celestial meat.

What voice in this world

to my ear has come

Save the voice of love

Was a tapped drum.

Yet for that drum-tap

From the world of All

Into this perishing

Land I did fall.

That world a lone spirit

Inhabiting.

Like a snake I crept

Without foot or wing.

The wine that was laughter

And grace to sip

Like a rose I tasted

Without throat or lip.

‘Spirit, go a journey,’

Love’s voice said:

‘Lo, a home of travail

I have made.’

Much, much I cried:

‘I will not go’;

Yea, and rent my raiment

And made great woe.

Even as now I shrink

To be gone from here,

Even so thence

To part I did fear.

‘Spirit, go thy way,’

Love called again,

‘And I shall be ever nigh thee

As they neck’s vein.’

Much did love enchant me

And made much guile;

Love’s guile and enchantment

Capture me the while.

In ignorance and folly

When my wings I spread,

From palace unto prison

I was swiftly sped.

Now I would tell

How thither thou mayst come;

But ah, my pen is broke

And I am dumb.

am part of the load

Not rightly balanced

I drop off in the grass,

like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse

wherever I fall.

For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust-grains

floating and flying in the will of the air,

often forgetting ever being

in that state, but in sleep

I migrate back. I spring loose

from the four-branched, time -and-space cross,

this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture

I nurse the milk of millennia

Everyone does this in different ways.

Knowing that conscious decisions

and personal memory

are much too small a place to live,

every human being streams at night

into the loving nowhere, or during the day,

in some absorbing work.

White Light… and all that!

I hope you had a nice Samhain/Halloween…

Pictures of Ghoulies and Goblins probably later today with a new posting. We had a full house; between Rowan and his chosen clan and visitors… Tom C came by for dinner, and Colleen, Sanjay, and their 3 delightful kids came and hung out for awhile. Colleen and family have just moved to our neighborhood.

All in all a delightful evening. Rowan and his gang watched “Shadow of the Vampire”, one of the very good ones…

Well, must hop along. Lots to do today and I am like a bee in amber this morning… (send more coffee!)

Blessings,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

Links

The Wednesday Koan’s

Poems by Zen Master Hsu Yun

Illustrations: Tales of the Nations/STEFAN MART:

Herein lies a mystery.

Tales of the Nations was published in Germany in the early 30′s.

At one time it was the most popular children’s book in Germany but it is now largely forgotten.

The question is who actually was Stefan Mart?

He is listed as the illustrator, but there is no other works by him, and the person is untraceable…

A pseudonym perhaps? A mystery just the same.

________

The Links:

Genetic Engineering In Ancient Times

Tribute to Britain’s last ‘witch’

Dog cocks leg and cuts off power

Researchers developing purple tomatoes

___________

The Wednesday Koan’s

A Mother’s Advice

Jiun, a Shingon master, was a well-known Sanskrit scholar of the Tokugawa era. When he was young he used to deliver lectures to his brother students.

His mother heard about this and wrote him a letter:

“Son, I do not think you became a devotee of the Buddha because you desired to turn into a walking dictionary for others. There is no end to information and commentation, glory and honor. I wish you would stop this lecture business. Shut yourself up in a little temple in a remote part of the mountain. Devote your time to meditation and in this way attain true realization.”

—-

A Smile in His Lifetime

Mokugen was never known to smile until his last day on earth. When his time came to pass away he said to his faithful ones: “You have studied under me for more than ten years. Show me your real interpretation of Zen. Whoever expresses this most clearly shall be my successor and receive my robe and bowl.”

Everyone watched Mokugen’s severe face, but no one answered.

Encho, a disciple who had been with his teacher for a long time, moved near the bedside. He pushed forward the medicine cup a few inches. That was his answer to the command.

The teacher’s face became even more severe. “Is that all you understand?” he asked.

Encho reached out and moved the cup back again.

A beautiful smile broke over the features of Mokugen. “You rascal,” he told Encho. “You worked with me ten years and have not yet seen my whole body. Take the robe and bowl. They belong to you.”

_______________

Now for a revisit with one of our favourites….!

Poems by Zen Master Hsu Yun

Baoxi Tiefo Temple in Shanxi

If you walk deep into the forest,

At the edge of the white clouds,

You’ll find a temple.

The pines are old – as many years as there are wiggles on a dragon.

The cliffs are too steep even for tigers to sleep on.

As cold day starts to invade the heavens,

The sound of chanted sutras purifies your ears.

Dare I inquire after Old Pang Mei – Old Big Eyebrows?

How long has he managed to live here?

On visiting Longhua Temple in Rangoon

From this strategic point, one can control the Southern Seas.

And so a Buddhist Palace was built from a Dragon’s Illusion.

Incense floats out from the Golden Pagoda.

The Buddha, himself, seems to appear in the smoke.

The Courtyard buildings are now about to be locked.

The bridge to this place begins to support one end of a jade-like

rainbow.

Here, heaven and man can meet

To honor each other with one sound from the temple bell.

Passing the Winter at Yunhua but not meeting up with my friend

I came to this place where the trees are confusingly thick.

Suddenly in the arched vault of the forest I found a path.

I passed that stone… the one below the green pavilion.

There was frost on the leaves and the branch tips were bare and red.

Who was it who carved those emotional words in the rock?

I waited. Ah… All feelings,

Are they not just emptiness of “me”?

The Chan gates both rest quietly now

With the plum trees and the grasses

Awaiting the winds of Spring.

Given to Xing Jing, Fellow Member of the Sangha

My home can be anywhere, heaven or earth.

All I need is room in my heart.

And a good source of water, of course.

If I’m on a mountain, I can set my own pace.

Down here, I’m busy now putting away herbs.

But even when I’m not busy I still don’t read much.

You need room in your heart… a big empty space

To sort out what’s real from what’s not.

Crimson Stream Temple

At Crimson Peak the clouds are thickest;

But the mystic’s road is clear though it turns

Again and again.

The mountain flowers, glistening with frosty dew,

Reflect the moon;

And safe within the stands of bamboo, a kingfisher bird

Scolds humanity.

At dawn, rain beats a tattoo on the rocks.

In a crazed sortie, the dragon strikes at distant retreats,

Making clouds come in so thick that morning turns to dusk.

By noon there’s Armistice!

Sun and peace and a world that’s fresh and new.

___________