Looking out from Mt. Ararat..

A little bit of something for your day…..

I hope you enjoy!



On The Menu:

The Links

Alan Stivell..

Story Of The King Who Would See Paradise

A bit of Truth…

Poetry of the Diaspora: Vahan Tekeyan

Paintings: edward burne-jones


The Links:

Earliest horse figures of Anatolia in Eskişehir

Study: College students get an A in narcissism

Sceptre from Roman emperor exhibited

EU helps witches branch out


Alan Stivell..



Story Of The King Who Would See Paradise

Once upon a time there was king who, one day out hunting, came upon a fakeer in a lonely place in the mountains. The fakeer was seated on a little old bedstead reading the Koran, with his patched cloak thrown over his shoulders.

The king asked him what he was reading; and he said he was reading about Paradise, and praying that he might be worthy to enter there. Then they began to talk, and, by-and- bye, the king asked the fakeer if he could show him a glimpse of Paradise, for he found it very difficult to believe in what he could not see. The fakeer replied that he was asking a very difficult, and perhaps a very dangerous, thing; but that he would pray for him, and perhaps he might be able to do it; only he warned the king both against the dangers of his unbelief, and against the curiosity which prompted him to ask this thing. However, the king was not to be turned from his purpose, and he promised the fakeer always to provided him with food, if he, in return, would pray for him. To this the fakeer agreed, and so they parted.

Time went on, and the king always sent the old fakeer his food according to his promise; but, whenever he sent to ask him when he was going to show him Paradise, the fakeer always replied: ‘Not yet, not yet!’

After a year or two had passed by, the king heard one day that the fakeer was very ill– indeed, he was believed to be dying. Instantly he hurried off himself, and found that it was really true, and that the fakeer was even then breathing his last. There and then the king besought him to remember his promise, and to show him a glimpse of Paradise. The dying fakeer replied that if the king would come to his funeral, and, when the grave was filled in, and everyone else was gone away, he would come and lay his hand upon the grave, he would keep his word, and show him a glimpse of Paradise. At the same time he implored the king not to do this thing, but to be content to see Paradise when God called him there. Still the king’s curiosity was so aroused that he would not give way.

Accordingly, after the fakeer was dead, and had been buried, he stayed behind when all the rest went away; and then, when he was quite alone, he stepped forward, and laid his hand upon the grave! Instantly the ground opened, and the astonished king, peeping in, saw a flight of rough steps, and, at the bottom of them, the fakeer sitting, just as he used to sit, on his rickety bedstead, reading the Koran!

At first the king was so surprised and frightened that he could only stare; but the fakeer beckoned to him to come down, so, mustering up his courage, he boldly stepped down into the grave.

The fakeer rose, and, making a sign to the king to follow, walked a few paces along a dark passage. Then he stopped, turned solemnly to his companion, and, with a movement of his hand, drew aside as it were a heavy curtain, and revealed–what? No one knows what was there shown to the king, nor did he ever tell anyone; but, when the fakeer at length dropped the curtain, and the king turned to leave the place, he had had his glimpse of Paradise! Trembling in every limb, he staggered back along the passage, and stumbled up the steps out of the tomb into the fresh air again.

The dawn was breaking. It seemed odd to the king that he had been so long in the grave. It appeared but a few minutes ago that he had descended, passed along a few steps to the place where he had peeped beyond the veil, and returned again after perhaps five minutes of that wonderful view! And what WAS it he had seen? He racked his brains to remember, but he could not call to mind a single thing! How curious everything looked too! Why, his own city, which by now he was entering, seemed changed and strange to him! The sun was already up when he turned into the palace gate and entered the public durbar hall. It was full; and there upon the throne sat another king! The poor king, all bewildered, sat down and stared about him. Presently a chamberlain came across and asked him why he sat unbidden in the king’s presence. ‘But I am the king!’ he cried.

‘What king?’ said the chamberlain.

‘The true king of this country,’ said he indignantly.

Then the chamberlain went away, and spoke to the king who sat on the throne, and the old king heard words like ‘mad,’ ‘age,’ ‘compassion.’ Then the king on the throne called him to come forward, and, as he went, he caught sight of himself reflected in the polished steel shield of the bodyguard, and started back in horror! He was old, decrepit, dirty, and ragged! His long white beard and locks were unkempt, and straggled all over his chest and shoulders. Only one sign of royalty remained to him, and that was the signet ring upon his right hand. He dragged it off with shaking fingers and held it up to the king.

‘Tell me who I am,’ he cried; ‘there is my signet, who once sat where you sit–even yesterday!’

The king looked at him compassionately, and examined the signet with curiosity. Then he commanded, and they brought out dusty records and archives of the kingdom, and old coins of previous reigns, and compared them faithfully. At last the king turned to the old man, and said: ‘Old man, such a king as this whose signet thou hast, reigned seven hundred years ago; but he is said to have disappeared, none know whither; where got you the ring?’

Then the old man smote his breast, and cried out with a loud lamentation; for he understood that he, who was not content to wait patiently to see the Paradise of the faithful, had been judged already. And he turned and left the hall without a word, and went into the jungle, where he lived for twenty-five years a life of prayer and meditations, until at last the Angel of Death came to him, and mercifully released him, purged and purified through his punishment.


A bit of Truth…


Poetry of the Diaspora: Vahan Tekeyan

The Lamp of the Illuminator

In the uncountable array of stars

there is one that is ours alone.

It fixes itself over Arakadz,

different and apart from the rest,

as if another hand hung it in secret

to give hope to Armenian eyes,

lit it from Gregory’s light,

filling it with tears not oil.

Just as the faithful each day

are energized by the sight

of the Ararat crest,

so they are strengthened at night

as the star brightens in their souls

growing, growing into a new sunrise.

The Beautiful Ones

The beautiful one is always she who walked past you one day

And anointed your eyes- a divine visitor,

You failed to turn and look back at such beauty,

And you did not wish to meet her again.

The beautiful one is forever, always and ever,

She who grew into grace under the warmth of your eyes,

Who swayed like a flower in the sweet spring winds,

And when you went away, she stayed always fresh in your mind, ever fragrant

And the beautiful one- you know her delightful name-

Is she who might have loved you after all,

Who certainly guessed your love and waited eagerly for you,

But she is one whose heart it`s just as well you did not wound-

Ah, the beautiful ones are only they who through your desires

Came and went away, but who call you now from afar…

To the Reader

My soul belongs to me no matter how I offer pieces

to strangers passing by, on every page.

My soul belongs to me, no one can recognize it whole

with its formidable darkness and blinding lights.

Like the unstripped mine for gold, coal, or perhaps lead

the dredging has bared only the first layer

of joys, and the black floodwaters of pain.

A deeper volcano rumbles underneath it all.

My soul is that mine, only partially excavated.

Who knows how many new pains will burrow

and shaft, blast by blast? It belongs to me.

Today 1 regret that so many samples were passed

to onlookers when I intended all the while

to give it whole, only to one or two.

Vahan Tekeyan


Vahan Tekeyan was known as a perfectionist, because he always looked for the precise word. He was born in Istanbul in 1978 and educated in the Armenian schools there. His first poems were collected and published in 1901. Besides his own books, he published translations of French symbolist poetry and the sonnets of Shakespeare. The sonnet remained his favorite form.

During the 1896 persecutions, Tekeyan left Istanbul for Europe. He returned, but subsequently settled in Egypt, where he was active in Armenian political life and edited the Armenian newspaper, Arev.

His books are “Burdens” (1901), “The Wonderful Rebirth” (1914), “From Midnight Until Dawn” (1918), “Love” (1933), “Armenian Songs” (1943), and “Book of Odes” (1944).

If It Is Tuesday…

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.”

– Herman Hesse

I often assemble the basic body of Turfing at night, but leave the last minute stuff for the morning. The problem is that my writing differs vastly from 11:00pm to 9:00am. Not enough juice to kick it off properly.

I stumbled upon Hesse’s work (again) recently, and it makes me wonder how someone could not re-visit his works over the years. Though he has little cache now, I think he was one of the great ones. His writing certainly had an affect on me. We have included some quotes and extracts from him today, so you can catch his flavour…

We touch on the Count Saint Germain as this is a special day for him….

A visit to Li Bai of the T’ang dynasty rounds it all out nicely.

Here is to your Tuesday,


On The Tuesday Grill:

The Links

Count St Germain

Slug Love…

A Wee Visit With Herman Hesse…

From The T’ang Paradise: Li Bai


The Links:

Strewth! Australia rocked by ‘lesbian’ koala revelation


Instances of Use of United States Armed Forces Abroad, 1798 – 2004

ET Cures The Methadone Habit…

The Meth Song (“Hey Scary Looking”)

If A Tree Falls On Mars…


Count St Germain is supposed by some to have died on this day in 1784. He was seen by the composer Rameau and the young Countess Georgy in 1710 and looked about 45. Thirty years later at Louis XV’s court, he still looked about 45, he visited his old friend Mme d’Adhemar – to her great surprise, as she had thought his dead and buried – and told her that he would see her five more times. The last time was before the murder of the Duc du Berri in 1820.

A Life? St. Germain’s background and identity are shrouded in mystery, leading to many speculations about his origin and ancestry. According to Prince Charles of Hesse, St. Germain claimed, toward the end of his life, to be the son of Francis II Rákóczi, the Prince of Transylvania, by Rákóczi’s first wife. This seems to be the prevailing theory. Another theory says St. Germain was the illegitimate son of Maria Anna of Pfalz-Neuburg, the widow of Charles II of Spain; while still another believes him to have been the son of the king of Portugal.

St. Germain may have studied in Italy at Siena University, possibly as a protégé of Grand Duke Gian Gastone (the last of the Medici line).

The first “sighting” of St. Germain was in 1710, according to Baron de Gleichen, who says St. Germain was in Venice at that time. Other chronicled appearances include London in 1743 and in Edinburgh in 1745, where he was placed under house arrest for being suspected of espionage during the Jacobite revolution. He was released when no evidence was produced, and soon acquired a reputation as a great violinist–as good as Paganini, according to one account. During this time he met Jean-Jacques Rousseau. In 1746 he disappeared. Horace Walpole, who knew him from about 1745 in London, described him thus: “He sings, plays the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad and not very sensible”.

He reappeared in Versailles in 1758. The old portrait of him dates from these years. He claimed to have had recipes for dyes, and was given quarters in the Chateau de Chambord by Louis XV, with whom he spent a great deal of time, along with Louis’ mistress, Madame de Pompadour. During this time in Paris, St. Germain liberally gave diamonds, of which he had many, as gifts. The Italian adventurer Giacomo Casanova says he personally witnessed St. Germain turning silver into gold, but adds that he suspected it was done by sleight of hand. It is said St. Germain sometimes hinted he was centuries old. At the time a mime, who called himself Lord Gower, began to mimic his mannerism in salons, joking that St. Germain had advised Jesus. In 1760 St. Germain left for England through Holland on a mission for Louis XV, when the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Duke of Choiseul, tried to have him arrested.

After that the Count passed through the Netherlands into Russia and apparently was in St Petersburg when the Russian army coup put Catherine the Great on the throne. Later conspiracy theories credit him for causing it. The next year he turned up in the Southern Netherlands (now Belgium), bought land and took the name Surmount. He tried to offer his processes—treatments of wood, leather, oil paint—to the state. During his negotiations—that came to nothing—with Belgian minister Karl Cobenzl he hinted at a royal birth. He then disappeared for 11 years.

In 1774 he resurfaced, and apparently tried to present himself to a count in Bavaria as Freiherr Reinhard Gemmingen-Guttenberg, the Count Tsarogy. In 1776 the Count was in Germany, calling himself Chevalier Welldone, and again offered recipes—cosmetics, wines, liqueurs, treatments of bone, paper and ivory. He alienated King Frederick’s emissaries by his claims of transmutation of gold. To Frederick he claimed to have been a Freemason. He settled in a house of Prince Karl of Hesse-Kassel, governor of Schleswig-Holstein, and studied herbal remedies and chemistry to give to the poor. To him he claimed he was a Francis Rakoczy II, Prince of Transylvania. 1784 is when the Count supposedly died, probably of pneumonia. He left very little behind.

There were rumors of him alive in Paris in 1835, in Milan in 1867, and in Egypt during Napoleon’s campaign. Napoleon III kept a dossier on him but it was destroyed in a fire that gutted the Hotel de Ville in 1871. Theosophist Annie Besant said that she met the Count in 1896. Theosophist C. W. Leadbeater claimed to have met him in Rome in 1926, and said that St. Germain showed him a robe that had been previously owned by a Roman Emperor and that St. Germain told him that one of his residences was a castle in Transylvania. Theosophist Guy Ballard claimed he met the Count on Mt. Shasta and he introduced him to visitors from Venus and published a book series about his channelings; Ballard founded the “I AM” Activity.

On January 28, 1972, ex-convict and lover of singing star Dalida, Richard Chanfray claimed to be the Count of St. Germain on French television. He also claimed that Louis XV was still alive.



Slug Love…


A Wee Visit With Herman Hesse…

“There’s no reality except the one contained within us. That’s why so many people live an unreal life. They take images outside them for reality and never allow the world within them to assert itself.”

“You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, single power, a single salvation… and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else.”

“If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us”

“I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value.”

“To be able to throw one’s self away for the sake of a moment, to be able to sacrifice years for a woman’s smile – that is happiness”

“…So that’s it, thought I. They’ve disfigured this good old wall with an electric sign. Meanwhile I deciphered one or two of the letters as they appeared again for an instant; but they were hard to read even by guess work, for they came with very irregular spaces between them and very faintly, and then abruptly vanished. Whoever hoped for any result from a display like that was not very smart. He was a Steppenwolf, poor fellow. Why have his letters playing on this old wall in the darkest alley of the Old Town on a wet night with not a soul passing by, and why were they so fleeting, so fitful and illegible? But wait, at last I succeeded in catching several words on end. They were:


I tried to open the door, but the heavy old latch would not stir. The display too was over. It had suddenly ceased, sadly convinced of its uselessness. I took a few steps back, landing deep into the mud, but no more letters came. The display was over. For a long time I stood waiting in the mud, but in vain.

Then, when I had given up and gone back to the alley, a few colored letters were dropped here and there, reflected on the asphalt in front of me. I read:

FOR MADMEN ONLY!” – from ‘Steppenwolf’


“But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran, and was nevertheless always there, was always an at all times the same and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this, understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.” – from ‘Siddhartha’.

“I’m telling you what I’ve found. Knowledge can be conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it is possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it cannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as a young man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from the teachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you’ll again regard as a joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says: The opposite of every truth is just as true! That’s like this: any truth can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with words, it’s all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings of the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deception and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.” – from ‘Siddhartha’.

“Where does it come from, he asked himself? What is the reason for this feeling of happiness? Does it arise from my good long sleep which has done me so much good? Or from the word Om which I pronounced? Or because I have run away, because my flight is accomplished, because I am at last free again and stand like a child beneath the sky? Ah, how good this flight has been, the liberation! In the place from which I escaped there was always an atmosphere fo pomade, spice, excess and inertia. How I hated that world of riches, carousing and playing! How I hated myself for remaining so long in that horrible world! How I hated myself, thwarted, poisoned and tortured myself, made myself old and ugly. Never again, as I once fondly imagined, will I consider that Siddartha is clever. But one thing I have done well, which pleases me, which I must praise – I have now put an end to that self-detestation, to that foolish empty life. I commend you, Siddartha, that after so many years of folly, you have again had a good idea, that you have accomplished something, that you have again heard the bird in your breast sing and followed it.” – from ‘Siddhartha’.

… Let’s listen, you’ll hear more.

They listened. Softly sounded the river, singing in many voices. Siddhartha looked into the water, and images appeared to him in the moving water: his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; he himself appeared, lonely, he also being tied with the bondage of yearning to his distant son; his son appeared, lonely as well, the boy, greedily rushing along the burning course of his young wishes, each one heading for his goal, each one obsessed by the goal, each one suffering. The river sang with a voice of suffering, longingly it sang, longingly, it flowed towards its goal, lamentingly its voice sang.

“Do you hear?” Vasudeva’s mute gaze asked. Siddhartha nodded.

“Listen better!” Vasudeva whispered.

Siddhartha made an effort to listen better. The image of his father, his own image, the image of his son merged, Kamala’s image also appeared and was dispersed, and the image of Govinda, and other images, and they merged with each other, turned all into the river, headed all, being the river, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the river’s voice sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of unsatisfiable desire. For the goal, the river was heading, Siddhartha saw it hurrying, the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones and of all people, he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters were hurrying, suffering, towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the lake, the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal was followed by a new one, and the water turned into vapour and rose to the sky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into a source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on once again. But the longing voice had changed. It still resounded, full of suffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joy and of suffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred voices, a thousand voices. – from ‘Siddhartha’.


From The T’ang Paradise: Li Bai

Endless Yearning (I)

I am endlessly yearning

To be in Changan,

Insects hum of autumn by the gold brim of the well

A thin frost glistens like little mirrors on my cold mat,

The high lantern flickers, and deeper grows my longing

I lift the shade and, with many a sigh, gaze upon the moon,

Single as a flower, centered from the clouds

Above, I see the blueness and deepness of the sky

Below, I see the greenness and the restlessness of water…

Heaven is high, Earth wide, bitter between them flies my sorrows

Can I dream through the gateway, over the mountain?

Endless longing

Breaks my heart.

Endless Yearning (II)

The sun has set, and a mist is in the flowers

And the moon grows very white and people sad and sleepless,

A Zhao harp has just been laid mute on its phoenix holder

And a Shu lute begins to sound its mandarin-duck strings…

Since nobody can bear to you the burden of my song

Would that it might follow the spirit wind to Yanran Mountain,

I think of you far away, beyond the blue sky

And my eyes that once were sparkling, are now a well of tears,

Oh, if ever you should doubt this aching of my heart

Here in my bright mirror come back and look at me!

A Visit to Sky-Mother Mountain in a Dream

So, longing in my dreams for Wu and Yue

One night I flew over Mirror Lake under the moon,

The moon cast my shadow on the water

And traveled with me all the way to Shanxi,

The lodge of Lord Xie still remained

Where green waters swirled and the cry of apes was shrill,

Donning the shoes of Xie

I climbed the dark ladder of clouds,

Midway, I saw the sun rise from the sea

Heard the Cock of Heaven crow,

And my path twisted through a thousand crags

Enchanted by flowers I leaned against a rock

And suddenly all was dark,

Growls of bears and snarls of dragons echoed

Among the rocks and streams,

The deep forest appalled me, I shrank from the lowering cliffs,

Dark were the clouds, heavy with rain

Waters boiled into misty spray,

Lightening flashed, thunder roared

Peaks tottered, boulders crashed,

And the stone gate of a great cavern

Yawned open,

Below me, a bottomless void of blue

Sun and moon gleaming on terraces of silver and gold,

With rainbows for garments, and winds for horses

The lords of the clouds descended, a mighty host,

Phoenixes circled the chariots, tigers played zithers

As the immortals went by, rank upon rank.

On the Way Back to the Old Residence

Traveling to Heaven in dreams

There is another space and dimension in the kettle

Overlook the human Earth,

That is easily withered and rotten.

Ling Xu Mountain

Leaving the human world

Going toward the path to Heaven;

Upon Consummation through cultivation,

Then follow the clouds to Heaven,

Caves hidden under pine trees,

Deep and unseen among the peach blossoms…


The Monday Light….

(Carey Thompson – Singularity)

This is a bit of a mashup today. The general theme is psychedelics, but it is a bit more than that. I always loved reading Gracie and Zarkoff, so, they are included this time out. A bit of music that is tinged with something else… Tims’ Prayers. Still exuding a potent influence after all these years.

We are introducing Carey Thompsons’ art to Turfing. Truly wonderful stuff. Check it out via google.

Have to Hop.



On The Menu:

The Links

Ultravox-Hiroshima Mon Amour

Visible Language MDA & DMT

Psychedelic Prayers: Tims’ Message…

Kraftwerk – We Are The Robots

Art:2 by Carey Thompson….


The Links:

While you slumber, your brain puts the world in order

Strange New Creatures Found in Antarctica

Trees are sacred: message of Sufi shrine miracle

Man Gets 5 Years in Prison, Life Partner


Ultravox-Hiroshima Mon Amour


Visible Language MDA & DMT

by Gracie & Zarkov

DOSE : 150 mg oral MDA 40 mg smoked DMT (powder / crystals)

(Copyright March 1985 by Gracie and Zarkov Productions. We believe that in a truly free society the price of packaged information would be driven down to the cost of reproduction and transmission. We, therefore, give blanket permission and encourage photocopy, quotation, reprint or entry into a database of all or part of our articles provided that the copier or quoter does not take credit for our statements.)

We each had taken 150 mg of pure MDA. The differences from MDM are striking: MDA is more hallucinogenic with noticeable closed eye imagery, is a much greater aesthetic enhancer, especially of people and of music; is more euphoric; more ‘drug-like’, a heavier and more obviously body-involved trip. Tactile sensation is more powerful, erotic and noticeable on MDA. Physical effects are more up-front: gastric upset, pupil dilation, water retention, limbic arousal. On the whole, we find MDA a more enjoyable and interesting trip; longer lasting and more sexual/sensual. Our favorite characteristic is that one retains an interesting psychedelic ideation on MDA, rather then the feeling-oriented, but rather idealess thinking of MDM.

That evening we were very taken with the musical enhancement — we are both avid listeners — and had found MDM to actually interfere with our enjoyment of music. MDA goes especially well with second-rate classical music: the lushness and color of Strauss, Lizst, Rimsky-Korsakov, Smetana and other ethnic and minor romantic composers are very compatible with the sensual fantasy aspects of MDA. We were playing Smetana, ‘The Moldau’, a tone poem about the major river in Czechoslovakia.

During the past several weeks, I had had several episodes of allergic reaction which were unusual for me. Possible causes included the spring weather and flowers, gardening, adjustment to the West Coast, and six months of regular DMT use. While the music was playing, I noticed increased allergic symptoms. This is unusual on MDA, which as Andrew Weil points out, is one of the most powerful allergy suppressors around, and so it has always affected me in the past.

Along with the allergic response, I began to note the familiar ‘Goddess-possession’ phenomenon which we had first encountered on MDA-LSD trips, and which led us to our first profound trips and contact experiences. This time it was subtle, perhaps because no LSD was involved. At the same time, a series of flashes, ‘false memories’ or ‘past life’ reminiscences occurred, having to do with rivers and my riverine ancestry, triggered by the content of the music.

This is a characteristic of MDA experience which we had not encountered on MDM, where memories are more personal and less archetypal/symbolic. With MDA memories one can become caught up in an associative web of ancestral material.

During this whole period, I had continuing allergic symptoms. Zarkov felt fine and was having a great time. This dichotomy is even more noticeable since Zarkov is usually the one with allergy problems. I showered off and washed my face but I still felt uncomfortable and uneasy. We have noted on several occasions that allergic reactions had preceded profound contact trips.

About hour 4, I decided to try smoking some DMT. My blood pressure and pulse were only slightly elevated, but I still felt restless and uneasy. The week before I had reset an MDM trip with DMT. The DMT seemed to have had a calming and healing effect.

I smoked about 40 mg in 4-5 tokes.

As it came on, I asked the DMT entities for help and guidance.

I kept my eyes open until the visual changes became overwhelming. The whole room was being transformed into the characteristic DMT ‘crysthanthemum’ pattern. I closed my eyes and fell back into the trance.

The first thing I saw was the ‘visible language’! The words, the shapes, the ‘music’ (the ‘music’ refers to the DMT auditory effects, not music in this reality and the stereo was off during this part of the trip) and the voices all carried the same message: ‘Strong, safe, strong, safe; help, ok, ok, help; safe, safe, alright’! The ‘elves’ appeared. They sang/I saw/read/felt/heard. They are ‘made out’ of the visible language. The message is conveyed by the medium itself in several simultaneous sensory modalities. Vision, heard speech, read language, music, song, images and pictures all happen at once, so that the meaning is multi-dimensional.

For example, if one were to ‘see’ a cat in this state it would be communicated in many ways at once: one would see a picture or cartoon of a cat, made out of writhing, colorful strips or segments which are words — ‘cat, cat, cat, pussy, kitty, pussy, meow, tail, ears, cat, cat, kitty . . .’ and the picture would be accompanied by a musical description of the cat (like ‘Peter and the Wolf,’ only more descriptive and precise) and by voices singing ‘cat, cat, kitty, kitty, meow, puss, kittycat . . .’ which would match the text.

This time I saw the ‘elves’ as multidimensional creatures formed by strands of visible language; they were more creaturely than I had ever seen them before. The message was changing from the initial ‘ok, ok, safe, safe . . .’

The word changing suggests that this was a time-linear process. I don’t think this is the case. I believe that during the trance the whole message and its variations were there at once, from the start. There is a different meaning to time in the DMT state and the notion of linear temporal order that we usualiy believe is not valid or useful. All the information is always immediately there and the idea of linearity comes from our linear habits of attention and the fact that we do not yet know how to see/hear/perceive several messages simultaneously and consciously, so we string them out for perceptual convenience.

The elves were dancing in and out of the multidimensional visible language matrix, ‘waving’ their ‘arms’ and ‘limbs/hands/fingers?’ and ‘smiling’ or ‘laughing,’ although I saw no faces as such. The elves were ‘telling’ me (or I was understanding them to say) that I had seen them before, in early childhood. Memories were flooding back of seeing the elves: they looked just like they do now: evershifting, folding, multidimensional, multicolored (what colors!), always laughing, weaving/waving, showing me things, showing me the visible language they are created/creatures of, teaching me to speak and read. (Are they are linguistic programs made manifest and personified? This throws an entirely new light on Terence McKenna’s remark at Esalen about language being the ‘most alien artifact’ we have!)

Following is a paraphrase of the message content — all conveyed in the multimedia way described earlier (to emphasize, the entire message was conveyed via ‘visible language!’)

They ‘read-protect’ their contact with children. ‘No-no, bye-bye, uh-uh, don’t tell,’ is the phrase they used to keep me from remembering or telling the grown-ups. They come to you when you are a child. My younger brother and I saw them when we were very young. They lived under the bed, they played with us, but they only came out when our parents weren’t around. They showed us things, they showed us meaning and language. My brother say them more clearly (perhaps because he was younger) then I did. They taught us words – I read earlier than normal because of their help.

When I was frightened or anxious, I would crawl under the bed to where it was safe, because the ‘elves’ were there. ‘Bye-bye, uh-uh, don’t tell, we’ll be back,’ they used to sing.

‘I’ve been seeing it all along,’ I thought, ‘the chysthanthemum pattern is the elves is the visible language is the message.’ (however, true visions on DMT, like those on mushrooms, are different from these patterns, they are real, like seeing with ‘normal’ vision; more like a movie or a very vivid dream than like the pattern/cartoon/visible language.)

The personal reality of these creatures seems indisputable during the contact, but that interpretation runs into my normal skepticism when I am out of contact. Is the notion that these are beings merely the obvious interpretation of these phenomena by the human mind? Or is something else going on that we can only understand by interpreting it as an encounter with an alien being?

The visible language and the multidimensional nature of the forms seems so clear, but the relationship of these phenomena to me as an individual and to the human race in a species-history sense is less clear. I am always afraid of repeating the errors of misplaced concreteness (thinking the ‘creatures’ are ‘real’) and the dogmatic fallacy (thinking that I know what I saw). The most honest answer is that I don’t know what I saw (do we ever?), but that the description above is my attempt to communicate some of what I thought I saw.

The encounter felt profound, exhilarating, and filled with warmth, excitement and protection. I was not afraid, but was comforted by the experience.

And, after the encounter had ended, I found my allergic symptoms had disappeared. I was no longer agitated, but felt calm.

The visible language phenomenon was most interesting — I felt curious, excited, and peculiarly self-confident while experiencing it — a childlike delight and a consuming desire to see and know more. I only saw part of what was going on, and I only remember part of what I saw, and I can communicate only a little of what I remember.

When, dear reader, you have similar experiences, try to see/perceive as much as you can, remember as much as you are able (take notes or talk into a recorder) and attempt to write down your trip. It is hard to do, the results are always less than you hope, but we must all try to express these things if we are ever to build a descriptive consensus or even a start at understanding!

Stay High and Stay Free,

Gracie and Zarkov


This was the 3rd or 4th Book of Poetry that I purchased. Robert Frost, Allen Ginsberg, Tim Leary. It all makes perfect sense to me….

Psychedelic Prayers: Tims’ Message…


What is above is below

What is without is within

What is to come is in the past

Tall… deep… tree… green… branching… leaf

Root… above… below… thrusting… coiling

Sky… earth… stem… root

Leaf… green… sap

Soil… air


Soil… visible

Hidden… breathing… sucking

Bud… ooze… sun… damp

Light.. dark… bright… decay… laugh

Tear.. vein.,. rain… mud branch… root

What is above is below

What is without is within

What is to come is in the past

These wooden carvings displayed in her endless shelves


Within each uncut branch—

The carver’s knife


Its rising is not bright

nor its setting dark

Unceasing, continuous

Branching out in roots innumerable

Forever sending forth the serpent coil

of living things

Mysterious as the formless existence

to which it returns

Twisting back

Beyond mind

We say only that it is form from the formless

Life from spiral void



At each beat in the Earth´s rotating rotating

dance there is born ” “…..a momentary

cluster of molecules possessing the transient

ability to know-see-experience its own place in

the evolutionary spiral. Such an organism, such

an event senses exactly where he or she is in

the billion-year-old ballet. They are able to

trace back the history of the deoxyribonucleic

thread of which they are both conductive

element and current. They can experience the

next moment in its million to the millionth

meaning…..Exactly that. Some divine seers are

recognized for this unique capacity. Those that

are recognized are called and killed by various


Most of them are not recognized…..they float

through life like a snowflake kissing the Earth.

no one ever hears them murmur “Ah there” at

the moment of impact. Seers are aware of each

others existence the way each particle in the

hurtling nuclear trapeze is aware of other

particles. They move too fast to give names to

themselves or each other. such people can be

described in terms no more precise or less

foolish than the descriptive equations of

nuclear physics. They have no more or less

meaning in the cultural game of life than

electrons have in a game of chess. They are

present but cannot be perceived or categorized.

they exist at a level beyond the black and

white squares of the game board. The function

of ” ” is to teach. Take an apple and slice it

down the middle….a thin red circle surrounds

the gleaming white meat. In the center is a dark

seed whose function is beyond any of your

games. if you knew how to listen the seed

would hum you a seed song. The divine

incarnates teach like a snowflake caught in the

hand teaches. Once you speak the message you

have lost it. The seed becomes a dried pit, the

snowflake a film of water in your hand. Wise

seers are continually exploding in beautiful

dance. Like a speckled fish dying in your hand

as its eye looks at you unblinking. Like the

virus fragmenting divine beauty in the grasp of

tissue. Now and then the ” ” sings words

beyond rational comprehension. The message

is always the same though the sounds, the

scratched rhumba of inkmarks is always

different. It is like Einstein´s equation felt an

orgasm. The serpent unwinds up the spine,

mushrooms like a lotus sunflare in the skull. if

I tell you that the apple seed message hums the

drone of a Hindu flute will that stop the drone?

The secret of ” ” must always be secret.

Divine sage recognized, message lost.

Snowflake caught, pattern without being

recognized. caught in the act, they melt in

your hand. The message then contained in a

drop of water involves another chase for the infinite.

The sign of ” ” is change andanonymity.

as soon as you invent a symbol

give ” ” a name you assassinate the process

to serve your own ends.

To speak the name of Buddha…Christ…Lao

Tse…except as a sudden ecstatic breath is to

murder the living God, fix him with your

preservative, razor him onto a microscope

slide, sell him for profit in you biological

supply house. The seers have no function but

they produce in others the ecstatic gasp the

uncontrollable visionary laugh.

Too much!

So what!

Why not!

The stark stare of wonder.




Kraftwerk – We Are The Robots


(Carey Thompson – Synergenesis Lenticular)

It’s Those Situationist…

The whole folderol and whoop-de-do about the 1960s was that the crypto-fascist bullshit agenda was damn near overthrown by a bunch of 19 and 20 year olds on campuses scattered around the high tech world. The male dominant agenda is so fragile that any competitor is felt as a deadly foe.—Terence McKenna


Radio Free EarthRites: Music For The Heart Of The World

Turn On – Paste Into – Your Internet Radio Player!

-o-o-0-0-O Radio Free Earthrites! O-0-0-o-o-


Heading out for the day…

This edition is dedicated to Morgan & Dale… Elements that are embedded in this entry have long percolated in my head. Thanx to Morgan for reminding me!

Have a good day, and enjoy the rest of the weekend!



Metropolis Remix

The Guy Sez

Toward a Cultural Ecology of Anarchy

Can Dialectics Break Bricks?

Stéphane Mallarmé: Selected Poems

Art Photos: Fritz Langs’ Metropolis


Metropolis Remix


The Guy Sez:

“In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.”

“There is nothing more natural than to consider everything as starting from oneself, chosen as the center of the world; one finds oneself thus capable of condemning the world without even wanting to hear its deceitful chatter.”

“Young people everywhere have been allowed to choose between love and a garbage disposal unit. Everywhere they have chosen the garbage disposal unit.”

“Quotations are useful in periods of ignorance or obscurantist beliefs.”


Toward a Cultural Ecology of Anarchy

From Anarchy and Ecstasy: Visions of Halcyon Days

by John Moore, Aporia Press 1988

The aim of this essay is to subvert, and hence explode, one of the central ordering myths in Western civilization. The subversive action will occur through taking the elements within this myth to their logical conclusion. In the process, I hope to discover the conceptual basis for a new “politics,” or in fact an antipolitics.

The myth selected for this process concerns the act of universal creation and the subsequent fall of humanity. This myth remains of central significance for two reasons. First, it is a common component of the mythic legacy shared by paganism and Christianity, and thus plays a crucial ordering role within Western culture. And, secondly, in addition to offering an account of the structure of the universe and history, it provides an elementary paradigm in defining the nature and significance of obedience and disobedience. It is, then, a totalist explanatory grid, but one which contains within itself elements which can precipitate its collapse.

In order to gain access to this myth, I have decided to focus my analysis on one particular text—John Milton’s Paradise Lost. This text has been chosen partly for its lucidity, but mainly because it constitutes a major synthesis of the relevant Western myths. In this poem Judaeo-Christian creation myths are explicitly combined with their pagan counterparts. Milton sythesises scriptural interpretations with insights derived from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, itself a compendium of ancient myths. Moreover, Paradise Lost remains concerned with two interlinked phenomena that are fundamental to our concerns: power and religion.

1. Power

The events in the poem’s narrative remain familiar, and in the present context not entirely relevant. Satan and his cohorts unsuccessfully attempt to depose God through rebellious military action. As a result, they are expelled from Heaven and consigned to Hell. God creates the Earth, and humanity in particular, in order to fill the void left by the expulsion of the fallen angels. Partly as an act of revenge, and partly as the opening shot in a fresh campaign to dethrone God, Satan enters Eden and tempts Adam and Eve to eat of the Tree of Knowledge. As a punishment for this transgression, they are banished from paradise and forced to inhabit a world of sin, temporality, and death.

These events are of secondary significance here. The really important point which emerges from this narrative is the conception of the structure or order of the universe. After the Earth’s creation, the universe is essentially regarded in Manichean terms. Two vast and opposing forces—God and the Devil, or good and evil—fight a battle for universal control, a conflict the outcome of which depends upon enlisting a third element, humanity, into its ranks. The two opposing forces must each win over humanity to its side. Humanity can then be converted into combat troops in the war against the opposing force. Whatever the outcome, however, for humanity the result remains the same. Either victorious force will demand absolute submission and obedience from its former troops.

The significance of this cuneal perspective—of conceiving the structure of the universe in terms of an inverted triangle—can be seen when we realize that it has been generalized to such an extent that it now comprises the central method of formulating Western reality. The strife is not only between good and evil for the human soul, but (to list just a few examples) between the law and lawlessness for the community; capitalism and communism for the world; ruling class and proletariat for society; the superego and the id for the ego… The list could be extended indefinitely.

In every instance, however, certain shared characteristics are perceptible. The God-Satan-Humanity trio, and all their contemporary analogues, in the cuneal paradigm can be represented as the forces of control, counter-control, and the controlled. The control forces create and command a hierarchical power structure. The forces of counter-control, often a disaffected fragment of the control elite strata, attempt to overthrow the ruling control forces. In order to do this, they ostensibly disabuse the controlled, the victims of the control forces, about their controllers. In order to enlist the support of the controlled, the forces of counter-control may promise liberation from control. But this merely constitutes an illusory enticement. The forces of counter-control are not interested in total revolution, but a coup d’etat; they are not interested in eliminating coercion and hierarchy, but merely with displacing the current controllers and seizing power themselves. The controlled, then, remain victims whether they conform or rebel. And this, because of the universal application of the cuneal paradigm, remains the debilitating impasse of the controlled today. Apparently too weak to break the chains of control on their own, they are doomed to remain pawns in an alternating game of eternal conformity or endlessly betrayed revolt. And this will remain the case until the cuneal paradigm is completely subverted and exploded.

In undertaking this task, an antipolitical reading of Paradise Lost provides many of the requisite materials. Why an antipolitical reading? And what exactly is denoted by that term? By antipolitical I do not mean an approach that pretends it has no ideological dimensions. I do, however, mean an approach that is not political. The Concise Oxford Dictionary defines politics as the “science and art of government,” and political as “of the State or its government.” Political praxis, in this definition, thus remains the ideology of governance, and as such it remains appropriate to the shared discursive territory of the forces of control and counter-control. In attempting to transcend that territory, therefore, it is necessary to construct an antipolitics, an anarchic praxis that is more germane for those whose aim is the dissolution, not the seizure, of power.

Once intellectually emancipated from the political obsession with domination and order, fresh vistas and unexpected perspectives are immediately disclosed. In this particular instance, the antipolitical methodology discovers, through a heretical reading of Paradise Lost, the superficiality, fragility and comparative recency of the cuneal paradigm. If the text is considered without political blinkers, it can be readily discovered that the universe does not possess a cuneal structure, but (as a minimum) has a quadruplex form.

In Book Two of the poem, Satan, after consulting with his demonic associates, determines to leave Hell and travel to Earth in order to precipitate the fall of humanity. He persuades the porteress to open the gates of Hell, and we are told:

Before thir eyes in sudden view appear

The secrets of the hoarie deep, a dark

Illimitable Ocean without bound,

Without dimension, where length, breadth, highth,

And time and place are lost; where eldest Night

And Chaos, Ancestors of Nature, hold

Eternal Anarchie, amidst the noise

Of endless Warrs, and by confusion stand.

For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four Champions fierce

Strive here for Maistrie, and to Battel bring

Thir embryon Atoms; they around the flag

Of each his faction, in thir several Clanns,

Light-arm’d or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift or slow,

Swarm populous, unnumber’d as the Sands

Of Barca and Cyrene’s torrid soil,

Levied to side with warring Winds, and poise

Thir lighter wings. To whom these most adhere,

Hee rules a moment; Chaos Umpire sits,

And by decision more imbroiles the fray

By which he Reigns; next him high Arbiter

Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss,

The Womb of nature and perhaps her Grave,

Of neither Sea, no Shore, nor Air, nor Fire,

But all these in thir pregnant causes mixt

Confus’dly, and which thus must ever fight,

Unless th’ Almighty Maker them ordain

His dark materials to create more Worlds,

Into this wild Abyss the warie fiend

Stood on the brink of Hell and look’d a while.

(Book 2, 11.890-918)

In this passage, Milton combines Christian and pagan elements, the latter explicitly derived from Ovid. But in synthesising these two mythic traditions, he in fact transcends them both. In the Biblical and Ovidian accounts, the divine creative fiat transforms the entire chaos of primordial matter into a structured universe. The divine power is omnific, its creative act does not leave any remainder of chaotic matter. Here, however, Milton supplies a vision of an extant chaos or anarchy. And although his Christian perspective, necessarily a control perspective, obviously limits the pertinence of his representation, some of the remarks he makes are very suggestive.

First, although his imagery remains confined by the political concern with domination, conflict and militarism, it should be noted that, in pointed contrast to Heaven and Hell, there are several personified “rulers” here: eldest Night, Chaos, Anarchy and Chance. Furthermore, as their names indicate, these qualities can hardly be said to rule in any political sense. Chaos and Chance are both characterised as umpires, and by necessity this implies that there are certain codes and rules to be followed. This is not an image of total lawlessness. However, the conjunction of such terms as chaos and chance with the notions of arbitration imply that such rules are not absolute nor imposed, but remain amenable to reform. The contest Chaos and Chance preside over is characterized in military terms, but again this appears a less serious, more ludic, conflict than that between the divine and the demonic forces depicted elsewhere in the poem. While the latter strife remains concerned with the possibilities of eternal subjugation, the warring elements here are involved in a conflict which denies the basis of domination: “To whom these [atoms] most adhere,/Hee rules a moment.” The momentary nature of governance undermines power, and anyway these “subjects” adhere voluntarily, in contrast to the coerced obedience of the control forces.

Secondly, attention should be paid to the structure of the universe as it is revealed in the above passage. Milton characterizes Chaos’s territory as “The Womb of nature and perhaps her Grave.” Chaos gave birth, and possibly can bring death, to nature. By nature, Milton designates all creation, including Heaven, Earth and Hell, plus all of their inhabitants. In interpreting this, emphasis should be placed on the word creation. It should be remembered that God (the control force) created both the demons (the forces of counter-control) and humanity (the controlled). They are His creatures, he has called them into being, and determined (indeed preordained) their identities and roles—hence His absolute power. But, as this passage renders apparent, He manufactured them from raw materials derived from the primordial territory of Chaos. Essentially, they are composed of chaotic atoms. Metaphorically, then, Chaos could become the grave of nature if the creatures of God began to divest their assigned identities and, through a process of biodegradation, started to remerge with the extant realm of Anarchy. In doing so, they would undergo a total revolutionary transformation; no longer manipulated creations, they would become independent yet collective creators. For we can now see that there are at least four elemental forces within the universe: God-Satan-Humanity-Anarchy; or, the forces of control, counter-control, the controlled, and the uncontrollables. I say at least four because the last component does not possess any unitary coherence. What so appalls Milton about Anarchy is its multiplicity and proliferating capacities. Unlike the other limited and limiting locales, it represents unlimited possibility and potential. It represents a positive anarchy or disorder, rather than the totalitarianism of order, which the Concise Oxford Dictionary defines as “rank, row, class”—an inherently hierarchical concept. The positive nature of this anarchy is implicitly recognized by Milton when it is contrasted with Pandaemonium, a term he coined to describe Satan’s capital in Hell. Pandaemonium is the negative aspect of anarchy, anarchy as the site of lawlessness and malificence. Chaos, in contrast, is the positive aspect of anarchy, a site of multiple potentiality.

As Barbara C. Sproul’s anthology Primal Myths: Creating the World indicates, all cosmogonies—not merely those of the West—remain curiously silent regarding the reasons for the appearance of the control figure, who transforms the anarchic, paradisal and ecologically-integrated “state of nature” into the stratified, oppressive and coercive order of creation—the original State. Marx tried to discern these reasons in the development of material and productive conditions. But Fredy Perlman, in his monumental Against His-story, Against Leviathan!, provides a more convincing explanation. Control figures arise when anarchic communities, immersed in beatific dreams, visions and vocations, inadvertently delegate too much authority to an individual who is temporarily assigned the task of maintaining the (to them) subsidiary and trivial apparatus which sustains material life. The distracted community does not realize until too late that the strong individual gradually accumulates power through continuously performing the disparaged maintenance duties. The individual constructs a hierarchy to facilitate his responsibilities, and this hierarchical institution is eventually employed to enslave the free community. As the institution expands and becomes more impersonal, it gains a momentum of its own and becomes unmanageable, even by its ostensible rulers. Hence, its deistic, absolute powers, which are then projected or displaced onto the cosmos itself.

A version of this process appears in Paradise Lost. Chaos has not been a conscious or militant force, and hence has remained vulnerable to incursions by the divine. This becomes apparent when Chaos describes the structure of the universe to Satan:

I upon my Frontieres here

Keep residence; if all I can will serve,

That little which is left so to defend,

Enroacht on still through our intestine broiles

Weakening the Scepter of old Night; first Hell

Your dungeon stretching far and wide beneath;

Now lately Heaven and Earth, another World

Hung ore my Realm, link’d in a golden Chain

To that side Heav’n from where your Legions fell.

(Book 4, 11.998-1006)

Chaos, absorbed in internal excitements, has failed to prevent the annexation of its territories by the control forces. Such is the disarray that Milton refers to Chaos as a “brok’n foe” (Book 2, 1.1039). And, in fact, even the permission given to Satan to pass through the realm to Earth effectuates a further loss of territory. In the wake of Satan’s track, Sin and Death build an overarching bridge that will allow demons easier access to Earth. And this, of course, occurs with God’s assent. The forces of control in this text are so powerful that even revolt by the counter-control force (Satan) is countenanced and permitted. Rebellion of the counter-control type is not inimical to the control forces: it is allowed because it actually reinforces the power structure.

From an antipolitical perspective, the implications are clear. On the one hand, anarchy must be rejuvenated and become conscious and vigilant. Liberation from all forms of coercion and hierarchy, including its formulation in the cuneal paradigm, can be achieved only through an attentive and sagacious anarchy. On the other hand, techniques must be developed whereby the controlled can experience the psychosocial biodegradation process, with its liberating cathartic effects, and hence regain their forfeited heritage as uncontrollables—the real paradise lost. Through these two complementary processes, it should be possible to achieve the social ecology that is so desperately needed. But how are these processes to be initiated? Obviously, that is an enormous subject, and one that clearly remains beyond the scope of this essay. However, I will attempt to offer some suggestions which could perhaps be developed.

2. Religion

At the beginning, I indicated that Paradise Lost was important because of its concern with power and religion. So far, I have used the text as a way of exploring notions of power and control, particularly in respect to politics and order. Now, however, I wish to shift my attention to the topic of religion. In the foregoing, I have considered God as a political construct. He emerged as the ultimate totalitarian control force, and on those grounds can and should be utterly repudiated. But this leaves us with a problem, and one which has largely been ignored in anarchist theory: namely, the problem of confronting the ultimate questions of human existence. These are, of course, often characterized as religious or metaphysical issues, and hence not of interest to an atheistic revolutionary movement. Inadvertently, perhaps, anarchist theorists have encouraged this attitude. Bakunin’s God and the State, for example, comprises a thorough analysis of the socio-political function of God. It correctly repudiates the idea of God, but leaves nothing in its place. “Religious” issues constitute a vacuum at the centre of anarchism which limits its appeal and cogency.

In this essay, I have argued for a total shift of allegiance. As opponents of control, we should not assume an adversarial position (like the forces of counter-control), nor identify ourselves with the oppressed (the controlled); rather, we should situate ourselves within the matrix of anarchy, and become uncontrollables. Only then can we develop a liberatory praxis, which simultaneously promotes the disintegration of the entire control complex, and facilitates others to reintegrate within the creative potentialities of anarchy. We should be neither demonic, nor humanist, but anarchic. Our divine principle should not be deistic power, or demonic, Dionysian energies, or human community, but positive and creative chaos (a natural “order” which the advocates of order designate as disorder). Chaos is homologous with ecological order, and social ecology constitutes the specifically human component within that order. It is from this position that we must approach those existential problems that remain so troubling.

One of the major difficulties here remains the lack of an adequate vocabulary. Intrinsically, religion—which the Concise Oxford Dictionary defines as “human recognition of superhuman controlling power and especially of a personal God entitled to obedience”—remains anathema to anarchists. The two elements of this formulation, the emphasis on a superior control force and on unthinking obedience, are clearly unacceptable. All the more so in religions such as Christianity, which not only advocate dangerous delusions such as faith (i.e., belief in and prostration before an authority, without any proof of its existence), but also induce obscenities like worship, pietism, sanctimoniousness, sin, mortification, and the ultimate act of obedience, martyrdom. Given this legacy, the repudiation of religion hardly appears surprising. Nevertheless, the necessity remains for proponents of anarchy to reclaim what, for want of a better word, and despite its antipathetic connotations, can only be termed spirituality. This is necessary if anarchy is to become the integral praxis so manifestly required.

Certain aspects of this spirituality have been explored and designated as an ecological sensibility by Murray Bookchin in The Ecology of Freedom. My concerns in this essay, however, are rather more limited and specific. I am interested in delineating some spiritual techniques which may aid and promote an anarchic revolution. We require, not theology, nor even liberation theology, but a spiritual therapeutics that prefigures and participates in the social shift toward anarchy. Such emancipatory techniques can, I believe, be adapted from the praxis of Zen.

As Fredy Perlman indicates, most religions were, to varying degrees, originally liberation movements. But during the struggle for liberation, their initial ideals were distorted and recuperated to such an extent that they eventually became indistinguishable from the totalitarian ideologies of their oppressors. At the centre of every religion, however, there remains a residue of the original libertarian ideals, which occasionally returns to haunt the doctrine’s predominant authoritarian exponents. For example, Jesus’s non-violent resistance and derogation of private property periodically resurfaces to the consternation of Christian hierarchies. The crucial point here, however, is that in Zen these contradictions are intensified, quite deliberately I believe, to the point of absurdity. In contrast to their religious counterparts, the founders of Zen, presumably cognizant of the bureaucratic tendencies of such doctrines, implanted three techniques at the centre of their praxis which flatly confute the authoritarian debasement and the ensuing scholarly or commercialized industry. Their prognosis proved to be correct, and like its analogues, Zen was deluged by the hierarchical complex. However, submersed as they may be, the basic techniques fulfilled their founders’ desires, and managed to withstand the flood. They remain to be rediscovered and adapted to contemporary needs and circumstances. And, moreover, in terms of the challenges to authority they pose, each of these techniques remains broadly compatible, and can be modified to attune, with anarchic praxis. Just because they have been used to reinforce quietism and passivity in the past does not mean that they cannot now become part of the movement toward total social revolution.

Three techniques are used in order to break dependency at all levels—on authority figures, on the authority of doctrines, on the authority of thought itself—and thereby to induce illumination. Taken together, these techniques constitute a potent array of methods for undermining control structures.

The three techniques referred to above are zazen, the koan, and the mentor-neophyte relationship. They all share a common aim, the enlightenment or illumination of an individual, and are linked by the common means of eliminating, at various levels, dependence upon authority.

Zazen is a form of meditation wherein an individual, in time with respiratory rhythms, mentally recites a meaningless word. By repeatedly concentrating in this way, the flow of everyday thought ceases, and the individual is flooded with spiritual illumination and a sense of unity with the universe. At a later phase, thought may be reintroduced in zazen, but only in order to play across the surface of the inner grace (the metaphors used here are of course woefully inadequate). Zazen seeks to stem the logos (significantly the initiator of hierarchical creation in many cosmogonies) and break the authority of meaning through an amphigoric word. Here then, surely, we can discover several points of convergence with anarchic praxis—particularly in terms of the biodegradation process mentioned earlier. Zazen disrupts the psychology of dependence and points toward autonomy. Moreover, this autonomy remains intimately interlinked with a sense of ecological community. In turn, this cracks open the character armour, and allows glimpses into an anarchic future, a universe of free interaction within a reintegrated ecological complex. Zazen staunches the cacophony of internalized coercions and constraints, even those which appear to be self-generated, and thereby transcends the conventional parameters of the self. The sunburst of satori loosens what Perlman terms the Leviathanic integuments. Bliss results, but also the consciousness that this cannot remain a permanent, or for some hardly become a possible, state under the current socio-economic system. There could be no clearer cachet of anarchy. In order to encourage this consciousness, however, it remains necessary to reclaim and recontextualize zazen in ways which will allow people to reorientate themselves in this way. Obviously, as long as such techniques remain enmeshed within the domain of authoritarian religion and mysticism, they cannot become resources in the struggle for total liberation.

Many of the above remarks are also applicable to the two remaining techniques.

A koan is a conundrum, a paradoxical phrase which an individual is assigned to “work on.” Once again, although this time from a different angle, the aim is to explode dependence on logic, rationality, intellect and ultimately meaning, by allowing a person to discover their limitations. A koan cannot be “solved” through ratiocination, and the realization of this, coupled with continued concentration on the text, leads to a moment of insight comparable to that achieved through zazen.

The mentor-neophyte relationship is also designed to eliminate dependence on authority structures, unlike the parallel religious relationship between guru and proselyte, which merely transfers existing dependency. Its characteristic feature remains the so-called direct method, which rejects verbalization—even the most enigmatic—and attempts to break through the orderliness of reason to basic convivial impulses. Zen manifests itself in spontaneous acts, but evaporates once interpretation tries to discern meaning or significance within any action. Regaining the experiences of life’s instantaneousness constitutes its essence. The direct method attempts to propel the neophyte into the flow of life and unmediated experience. Language and ideation are too slow to grasp such instantaneity. Hence, the neophyte must be somehow shocked into abandoning interpretation and other inculcated forms of standardized response. Occasionally, these shock tactics assume the form of tempered violence, but more commonly they consist of unexpected responses and behaviour. When a neophyte asks for elucidation on a profound doctrinal opint, for example, a master may “reply” by undertaking a simple everyday task or leaving the room. Such actions are intended to have a demonstrative, rather than symbolic, effect. Indeed, if the neophyte attempts to interpret the meaning of the action, the moment—of direct existential contact and the spiritual illumination which accompanies it—has already been lost, and dependency will continue. However, should the neophyte respond by spontaneously participating in the playful stratagem instigated by the master, the cycle of dependency will be broken. The former no longer needs to rely upon the latter for guidance, for after continued practice the two effectively become equals. The moment of “coming alive,” or becoming existentially sensitive, achieved through the direct method, gradually develops into a perpetual sensibility, and sparkles through passages recording meetings between Zen masters.

In the Zen tradition, these three techniques are used in order to break dependency at all levels—on authority figures, on the authority of doctrines, on the authority of thought itself—and thereby to induce illumination. Taken together, these techniques constitute a potent array of methods for undermining control structures. And given that in the Zen tradition they are often coupled with the repudiation of private property, this is clearly something that proponents of anarchy cannot afford to dismiss lightly. This remains particularly true when the parallels between Zen and anarchic praxis are rendered apparent. Zen posits a series of techniques which suggest that all doctrine/ideology is irrelevant. And just as anarchy attempts to relieve us of politics and ideology, leaving the core of independent yet collective creativity, so Zen tries to relieve us of etiolated thought and internalized propaganda, leaving the core of limited experience. And it is at this point, that Zen makes its most significant contribution to the resolution of the existential problems mentioned earlier. Unlike authoritarian religions, which emphasise faith, Zen suggests its irrelevancy. The experience of nirvana may be evidence of an afterlife, or it may be pleasurable sensations caused by electrical impulses on the cortex, or it may be something altogether different. But these are all retrospective judgments, they are not available within the lived experience of nirvana. The information conveyed in that experience is of a totally different order. Faith, like political ideology, remains irrelevant at this level; it does not matter what you believe, the associated experiences of nirvana and anarchy provide the touchstone.

Zen techniques, adapted and recontextualized within anarchic praxis, possess an immense liberatory potential. Of course, they are not sufficient in themselves to precipitate the total revolution toward anarchy. All I have proposed here needs to be complimented by the ideas of theorists like Bookchin and Perlman, and the practice of communities in the process of liberating themselves. Nevertheless, Zen techniques can play an important part. We should not undervalue inner liberation as an accompaniment to social revolution—even as a spur to social revolution through its exeplary function. One of Emily Dickinson’s deliberately unpunctuated poems reads:

The mob within the heart

Police cannot suppress

The riot given at the first

Is authorized as peace

Uncertified of scene

Or signified of sound

But growing like a hurricane

In a congenial ground.

(Poem 1745)

This poem constitutes a microcosm compared to Milton’s macrocosm. Both consider liberated activity, Milton within universal Anarchy, Dickinson within an individual’s inner anarchy. But whereas the former poet rather negatively depicted a contracting territory, the latter positively represents an expansion of chaos. This expansion begins from within the individual, but an individual whose cramped and unitary self has developed into a plural, unrestrained and riotous mob, which the police—whether psychic or social—cannot suppress. As in Paradise Lost, the keynote remains free and independently-determined activity: there is no authorization, no certification, and no signification. It is as if anarchy has cancelled all social authority, and Zen has cancelled all internalized authority. Hence, we proceed to the anarchic, global and natural energy of the hurricane, already decimating the hierarchical order, and preparing more congenial ground in the individual, social and ecological environments. Dickinson’s untitled poem, not Milton’s pale sequel to his account of the Fall, should be entitled Paradise Regained.

But if Dickinson situates the action of her text “within the heart,” her concerns centre almost entirely on the exterior, in the environments convulsed by a proliferating anarchic energy. The poem does not indicate how it feels to be inside anarchy, to be possessed by a holistic sensibility and a capacity for revelations within the matrix of total liberation. In short, the inferiority of a spiritual condition—a condition characterized by its sense of beatific community—remains unexplained. But for proponents of anarchy, such an exploration becomes a vital necessity. Intimations of the myriad delights available within a renewed earthly paradise could inspire the controlled to discard their assigned identities. And amongst these delights the most fundamental remains the paradisal consciousness itself. The significance of a recontextualized Zen becomes apparent at precisely this juncture. Appropriately reorientated, its techniques could provide individuals with a gloriously expanded consciousness, a prefigurative vision of a social future of permanent revelry and jubilee.

Many have recently talked about the politics of desire. And Raoul Vaneigem has proposed a “politics” of pleasure. Can we now consider an antipolitics of ecstasy and bliss?

From Anarchy and Ecstasy: Visions of Halcyon Days

by John Moore, Aporia Press 1988


Can Dialectics Break Bricks?


Stéphane Mallarmé: Selected Poems

Sea Breeze

The flesh is sad, Alas! and I’ve read all the books.

Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense

That the birds, intoxicated, fly

Deep into unknown spume and sky!

Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –

Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea

O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,

On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,

No, not even the young woman feeding her child.

I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes

Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!

A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope

Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!

And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,

Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,

Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands…

But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors’ chant!

Funeral Libation (At Gautier’s Tomb)

O fatal emblem, you, of our happiness!

Greeting, pale with libation and madness,

Don’t think to some hope of magic corridors I offer

My empty cup, where a monster of gold suffers,

Your apparition cannot satisfy me:

Since I myself entombed you in porphyry.

The rite decrees our hands must quench the torch

Against the iron mass of your tomb’s porch:

None at this simple ceremony should forget,

Those chosen to sing the absence of the poet,

That this monument encloses him entire.

Were it not that his art’s glory, full of fire

Till the dark communal moment all of ash,

Returns as proud evening’s glow lights the glass,

To the fires of the pure mortal sun!

Marvellous, total, solitary, so that one

Trembles to breathe with man’s false pride.

This haggard crowd! ‘We are’, it cries,

‘Our future ghosts, their sad opacity.’

But with walls blazoned, mourning, empty,

I’ve scorned the lucid horror of a tear,

When, deaf to the sacred verse he does not fear,

One of those passers-by, mute, blind, proud,

Transmutes himself, a guest in his vague shroud,

Into the virgin hero of posthumous waiting.

A vast void carried through the fog’s drifting,

By the angry wind of words he did not say,

Nothing, to this Man abolished yesterday:

‘What is Earth, O you, memories of horizons?’

Shrieks the dream: and, a voice whose clarity lessens,

Space, has for its toy this cry: ‘I do not know!’

The Master, with eye profound, as he goes,

Pacified the restless miracle of Eden,

Who alone woke, in his voice’s final frisson,

The mystery of a name for the Lily and the Rose.

Is there anything of this destiny left, or no?

O all of you, forget your darkened faith.

Glorious, eternal genius has no shade.

I, moved by your desire, wish to see

Him, who vanished yesterday in the Ideal

Work that for us the garden of this star creates,

As a solemn agitation in the air, that stays

Honouring this quiet disaster, a stir

Of words, drunken, red, a cup that’s clear,

That, rain and diamonds, the crystal gaze

Fixed on these flowers of which none fade,

Isolates in the hour and the light of day!

That’s all that’s left already of our true play,

When the pure poet’s gesture, humble, vast

Must deny the dream, the enemy of his trust:

So that, on the morning of his exalted stay,

When ancient death is for him as for Gautier,

The un-opening of sacred eyes, the being-still,

The solid tomb may rise, and ornament this hill,

The sepulchre where lies the power to blight,

And miserly silence and the massive night.


Hyperbole! From my memory

Triumphantly can’t you

Rise today, like sorcery

From an iron-bound book or two:

Since, through science, I inscribe

The hymn of hearts so spiritual

In my work of patience, inside

Atlas, herbal, ritual.

We walked our face

(We were two, I maintain)

Over the many charms of place,

Comparing them, Sister, to yours again.

The era of authority’s troubled

When without design, we say

Of this south that our double

Consciousness has in play

That its site, bed of a hundred irises,

They know if it truly existed,

Bears no name the golden breath

Of the trumpet of summer cited.

Yes, on an isle the air charges

With sight and not with visions

Every flower showed itself larger

Without entering our discussions.

Such flowers, immense, that every one

Usually had as adornment

A clear contour, a lacuna done

To separate it from the garden.

Glories of long-held desire, Ideas

Were all exalted in me, to see

The Iris family appear

Rising to this new duty,

But this sister sensible and fond

Carried her look no further

Than to smile, and as if to understand

I give her my ancient care.

Oh! Let the contentious spirit know

At this hour when we are silent

The stalks of multiple lilies grow

Far too tall for our reason

And not as the riverbank weeps

When its tedious game tells lies

In wishing abundance would reach

Into my young surprise

On hearing the whole sky and the map

Behind my steps, endlessly called to witness,

Even the ebbing wave, that

This country never existed.

The child already learned in roads,

Resigns her ecstasy

Says the word: Anastasius!

Born for parchments’ eternity,

Before a tomb could laugh

In any clime, her ancestor,

For bearing that name: Pulcheria!

Hidden by the too-high lily-flower.


On The Cusp….


The moon’s reflected on the river a few feet away,

A lantern shines in the night near the third watch.

On the sand, egrets sleep, peacefully curled together,

Behind the boat I hear the splash of jumping fish.

Du Fu

I thought I would share with you a delightful Chinese Poet for the culmination of the week… Du Fu/Tu FU is perhaps one of the most influential of Chinese Poets. His work has been an inspiration for countless generations of poets in China and Japan.

So with that said, I bid you a good weekend… and may your path be one of beauty….


On The Menu:

The Links

Three Koans’

Du Fu… Poetry

Du Fu Biography…


The Links:

In China, Stern Treatment For Young Internet ‘Addicts’

The New Iraqi Oil: Leaked

Chimps Using Spears to Hunt Bushbabies

New Robo-Weapon: Paralyzing Floodlight

Opus Dei plans its own film


Two Koans’

Seijo’s Two Souls

Chokan had a very beautiful daughter named Seijo. He also had a handsome young cousin named Ochu. Joking, he would often comment that they would make a fine married couple. Actually, he planned to give his daughter in marriage to another man. But young Seijo and Ochu took him seriously; they fell in love and thought themselves engaged. One day Chokan announced Seijo’s betrothal to the other man. In rage and despair, Ochu left by boat. After several days journey, much to his astonishment and joy he discovered that Seijo was on the boat with him!

They went to a nearby city where they lived for several years and had two children. But Seijo could not forget her father; so Ochu decided to go back with her and ask the father’s forgiveness and blessing. When they arrived, he left Seijo on the boat and went to the father’s house. he humbly apologized to the father for taking his daughter away and asked forgiveness for them both.

“What is the meaning of all this madness?” the father exclaimed. Then he related that after Ochu had left, many years ago, his daughter Seijo had fallen ill and had lain comatose in bed since. Ochu assured him that he was mistaken, and, in proof, he brought Seijo from the boat. When she entered, the Seijo lying ill in bed rose to meet her, and the two became one.

Zen Master Goso, referrring to the legend, observed, “Seijo had two souls, one always sick at home and the other in the city, a married woman with two children. Which was the true soul?”

Ganto’s Two Meals

Kisan paid a visit to Ganto, who was living in quiet seclusion, and asked, “Brother, are you getting two meals regularly?” “The fourth son of the Cho family supports me, and I am very much obliged to him,” said Ganto. “If you do not do your part well, you will be born as an ox in the next life and will have to repay him for what you owed him in this life,” Kisan cautioned.

Ganto put his fists on his forehead but said nothing. “If you mean horns,” Kisan said, “you must stick out your fingers on top of your head.” But before he finished speaking, Ganto shouted, “Hey!” Kisan did not understand his meaning and said, “If you know something deeper, why don’t you explain it to me?” Ganto hissed at him and said, “You have been studying Buddhism for thirty years, as I have, and you are still wandering around. I have nothing to do with you. Just get out.” And with these words he shut the door in Kisan’s face.

The fourth son of the Cho family happened to be passing by and, out of pity, took Kisan to his home. “Thirty years ago we were close friends,” Kisan said sorrowfully, “but now he has attained something higher than I have and will not impart it to me.”

That night Kisan could not sleep. He got up and went to Ganto’s house. “Brother,” he implored, “please be kind and preach the Dharma for me.” Ganto opened the door and disclosed the teaching. The next morning Kisan returned home, happy with attainment.

Bodhidharma and the Emperor Wu

Emperor Wu of China was a very benevolent Buddhist. He built many temples and monasteries, educated many monks, and performed countless philanthropic deeds in the name of Buddhism. He asked the great teacher Bodhidharma, “What merit is there in my good works?” Bodhidharma replied, “None whatsoever.” The Emperor then asked, “What is the Primal meaning of Holy Reality?” Bodhidharma answered, “Emptiness, not holiness.” The Emperor then queried, “Who, then, is this confronting me?” “I do not know,” was Bodhidharma’s reply. Since the Emperor did not understand, Bodhidharma left his kingdom.

Later, the Emperor related this conversation to an adviser, Prince Shiko. Shiko reprimanded him, saying that Bodhidharma was a great teacher possessed of the highest truth. The Emperor, filled with regret, dispatched a messenger to entreat Bodhidharma to return. But Shiko warned, “Even if all the people in the land went, that one will never return.”


Du Fu… Poetry

Staying Overnight with Abbot Zan

How did your tin-edged cane get here?

The autumn wind’s already sighing.

The rain’s laid waste the inner court’s chrysanthemums,

And frost has felled half the pond’s lotuses.

Banished, you don’t renounce your nature,

In limbo, you don’t depart from Chan.

Now we’ve met, we can spend a night together,

The Gansu moon shines round upon us.

Parting from Abbot Zan

The hundred rivers flow east every day,

The traveller keeps on moving, without rest.

My life is one of bitterness and drift,

What time will they finally reach their end?

Abbot Zan, learned in Buddhist teaching,

Banished from the capital to here.

Still we’re bothered by these earthly cares,

Reflected in our lean and haggard faces.

We stood one morning with willow twigs in hand;

The beans sprouted; then rain; then they ripened again.

The body floats along just like a cloud,

What limit can there be, to south or north?

I meet my old friend in a foreign region,

Newly happy, I write what’s in my breast.

The sky is long, the fortified pass is cold,

At the year’s end, hunger and cold pursue me.

The desert wind blows my travelling clothes,

About to leave and journey into the sunset.

The horse neighs, remembering its old stable,

Returning birds, exhausted, fold their wings.

The places where we used to meet and part,

Thorns and brambles have quickly covered over.

We look at each other, both in years of decline;

Leaving or staying, we each must do our best.

Taking Down a Trellis

The sticks I tied already wither and fall,

The pumpkin leaves are getting sparse and thin.

It’s lucky that the white flowers fully grew,

You have to let the green vines fade away.

The autumn insects’ calling does not pass,

At dusk, whatever will the sparrows think?

Now, the world is one of cold and waste;

Human life has its beginning too.

Thinking of Li Bai at the End of the Sky

Cold wind rises at the end of the sky,

What thoughts occupy the gentleman’s mind?

What time will the wild goose come?

The rivers and lakes are full of autumn’s waters.

Literature and successful life are opposed,

Demons exult in human failure.

Talk together with the hated poet,

Throw a poem into Miluo river.

Thinking of My Brothers on a Moonlit Night

The army drum cuts off people’s actions,

A lone goose sounds on the borderland in autumn.

Tonight we start the season of white dew,

The moon is just as bright as in my homeland.

My brothers are spread all throughout the land,

No home to ask if they are living or dead.

The letters we send always go astray,

Still the fighting does not cease.

Du Fu or Tu Fu (February 12, 712–770) was a prominent Chinese poet of the Tang Dynasty. Along with Li Bai (Li Po), he is frequently called the greatest of the Chinese poets. His own greatest ambition was to help his country by becoming a successful civil servant, but he proved unable to make the necessary accommodations. His life, like the whole country, was devastated by the An Lushan Rebellion of 755, and the last 15 years of his life were a time of almost constant unrest.

Initially little known, his works came to be hugely influential in both Chinese and Japanese culture. He has been called Poet-Historian and the Poet-Sage by Chinese critics, while the range of his work has allowed him to be introduced to Western readers as “the Chinese Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Wordsworth, Béranger, Hugo or Baudelaire”.

The Great Way

Best Viewed Using Mozilla FireFox

On The Music Box:Tosca-Souvenirs

Todays’ Offerings… running a bit late.

( I find this a bit funny… everything in this entry talks a bit about stillness… ha!)

Hope you enjoy.



The Links

Coyote Juggles His Eyes

Koan:The First Principle

Wu Men: Poetry of the Way

All Photographs Ansel Adams unless otherwise noted…..


The Links:

Maybe We Deserve to Be Ripped Off By Bush’s Billionaires

Man Mistaken for Rodent

Ritual piece of Stonehenge discovered

How irises ‘reveal personalities’

Korean Porn Park…


(Declan McCaullagh Photography)

Coyote Juggles His Eyes

As he was walking through the timber one morning, Coyote heard someone say: “I throw you up and you come down in!”

Coyote thought that was strange talk. It made him curious. He wanted to learn who was saying that, and why. He followed the sound of the voice, and he came upon little Zst-skaká-na–Chicka-dee–who was throwing his eyes into the air and catching them in his eye-sockets. When he saw Coyote peering at him from behind a tree, Chickadee ran. He was afraid of Coyote.

“That is my way, not yours,” Coyote yelled after him.

Now, it wasn’t Coyote’s way at all, but Coyote thought he could juggle his eyes just as easily as Chickadee juggled his, so he tried. He took out his eyes and tossed them up and repeated the words used by the little boy: “I throw you up and you come down in!” His eyes plopped back where they belonged. That was fun. He juggled the eyes again and again.

Two ravens happened to fly that way. They saw what Coyote was doing, and one of them said: “Sin-ka-lip is mocking someone. Let us steal his eyes and take them to the Sun-dance. Perhaps then we can find out his medicine-power.”

“Yes, we will do that,” agreed the other raven. “We may learn something.”

As Coyote tossed his eyes the next time, the ravens swooped, swift as arrows from a strong bow. One of them snatched one eye and the other raven caught the other eye.

“Quoh! Quoh! Quoh’,” they laughed, and flew away to the Sun-dance camp.

Oh, but Coyote was mad! He was crazy with rage. When he could hear the ravens laughing no longer, he started in the direction they had gone. He hoped somehow to catch them and get back his eyes. He bumped into trees and bushes, fell into holes and gullies, and banged against boulders. He soon was bruised all over, but he kept on going, stumbling along. He became thirsty, and he kept asking the trees and bushes what kind they were, so that he could learn when he was getting close to water. The trees and bushes answered politely, giving their names.

After awhile he found he was among the mountain bushes, and he knew he was near water. He came soon to a little stream and satisfied his thirst. Then he went on and presently he was in the pine timber. He heard someone laughing. It was Kok-qhi Ski-kaka–Bluebird. She was with her sister, Kwas-Kay–Bluejay.

“Look, sister,” said Bluebird. “There is Sin-ka-lip pretending to be blind. Isn’t he funny?”

“Do not mind Sin-ka-lip,” advised Bluejay. “Do not pay any attention to him. He is full of mean tricks. He is bad.”

Coyote purposely bumped into a tree and rolled over and over toward the voices. That made little Bluebird stop her laughing. She felt just a little bit afraid.

“Come, little girl,” Coyote called. “Come and see the pretty star that I see!”

Bluebird naturally was very curious, and she wanted to see that pretty star, but she hung back, and her sister warned her again not to pay attention to Coyote. But Coyote used coaxing words; told her how bright the star looked.

“Where is the star?” asked Bluebird, hopping a few steps toward Coyote.

“I cannot show you while you are so far away,” he replied. “See, where I am pointing my finger?”

Bluebird hopped close, and Coyote made one quick bound and caught her. He yanked out her eyes and threw them into the air, saying: “I throw you up and you come down in!” and the eyes fell into his eye-sockets.

Coyote could see again, and his heart was glad. “When did you ever see a star in the sunlight?” he asked Bluebird, and then ran off through the timber.

Bluebird cried, and Bluejay scolded her for being so foolish as to trust Coyote. Bluejay took two of the berries she had just picked and put them into her sister’s eye-sockets, and Bluebird could see as well as before. But, as the berries were small, her new eyes were small, too. That is why Bluebird has such berrylike eyes.

While his new eyes were better than none at all, Coyote was not satisfied. They were too little. They did not fit very well into his slant sockets. So he kept on hunting for the ravens and the Sun-dance camp. One day he came to a small tepee. He heard someone inside pounding rocks together. He went in and saw an old woman pounding meat and berries in a stone mortar. The old woman was Su-see-wass–Pheasant. Coyote asked her if she lived alone.

“No,” she said, “I have two granddaughters. They are away at the Sun-dance. The people there are dancing with Coyote’s eyes.”

“Aren’t you afraid to be here alone!” Coyote asked. “Isn’t there anything that you fear?”

“I am afraid of nothing but the stet-chee-hunt (stinging-bush),” she said.

Laughing to himself, Coyote went out to find a stinging-bush. In a swamp not far away he found several bushes of that kind. He broke off one of those nettle bushes and carried it back to the tepee. Seeing it, Pheasant cried, “Do not touch me with the stet-chee-hunt! Do not touch me! It will kill me!”

But Coyote had no mercy in his heart, no pity. He whipped poor Pheasant with the stinging-bush until she died. Then, with his nint knife, he skinned her, and dressed himself in her skin. He looked almost exactly like the old woman. He hid her body and began to pound meat in the stone mortar. He was doing that when the granddaughters came home. They were laughing. They told how they had danced over Coyote’s eyes. They did not recognize Coyote in their grandmother’s skin, but Coyote knew them. One was little Bluebird and the other was Bluejay. Coyote smiled. “Take me with you to the Sun-dance, granddaughters,” he said in his best old-woman’s voice.

The sisters looked at each other in surprise, and Bluejay answered: “Why, you did not want to go with us when the morning was young.”

“Grandmother, how strange you talk!” said Bluebird.

“That is because I burned my mouth with hot soup,” said Coyote.

“And, Grandmother, how odd your eyes look!” Bluejay exclaimed. “One eye is longer than the other!”

“My grandchild, I hurt that eye with my cane,” explained Coyote.

The sisters did not find anything else wrong with their grandmother, and the next morning the three of them started for the Sun-dance camp. The sisters had to carry their supposed grandmother. They took turns. They had gone part way when Coyote made himself an awkward burden and almost caused Bluejay to fall.

That made Bluejay angry, and she threw Coyote to the ground. Bluebird then picked him up and carried him. As they reached the edge of the Sun-dance camp, Coyote again made himself an awkward burden, and Bluebird let him fall. Many of the people in the camp saw that happen. They thought the sisters were cruel, and the women scolded Bluebird and Bluejay for treating such an old person so badly.

Some of the people came over and lifted Coyote to his feet and helped him into the Sun-dance lodge. There the people were dancing over Coyote’s eyes, and the medicine-men were passing the eyes to one another and holding the eyes up high for everyone to see. After a little Coyote asked to hold the eyes, and they were handed to him.

He ran out of the lodge, threw his eyes into the air, and said: “I throw you up and you come down in!”

His eyes returned to their places, and Coyote ran to the top of a hill.

There he looked back and shouted: “Where are the maidens who had Coyote for a grandmother?”

Bluejay and Bluebird were full of shame. They went home, carrying Pheasant’s skin, which Coyote had thrown aside. They searched and found their grandmother’s body and put it back in the skin, and Pheasant’s life was restored. She told them how Coyote had killed her with the stinging-bush.

(Declan McCaullagh Photography)


Koan:The First Principle

When one goes to Obaku temple in Kyoto he sees carved over the gate the words “The First Principle”. The letters are unusually large, and those who appreciate calligraphy always admire them as being a mastepiece. They were drawn by Kosen two hundred years ago.

When the master drew them he did so on paper, from which the workmen made the large carving in wood. As Kosen sketched the letters a bold pupil was with him who had made several gallons of ink for the calligraphy and who never failed to criticise his master’s work.

“That is not good,” he told Kosen after his first effort.

“How is this one?”

“Poor. Worse than before,” pronounced the pupil.

Kosen patiently wrote one sheet after another until eighty-four First Principles had accumulated, still without the approval of the pupil.

Then when the young man stepped outside for a few moments, Kosen thought: “Now this is my chance to escape his keen eye,” and he wrote hurriedly, with a mind free from distraction: “The First Principle.”

“A masterpiece,” pronounced the pupil.


Wu Men: Poetry of the Way…

The Great Way

The Great Way has no gate;

there are a thousand paths to it.

If you pass through the barrier,

you walk the universe alone.

A Monk Asked

A monk asked Chao-chou Ts’ung shen (777-897) (Joshu), “Has the oak tree Buddha nature?”

Chao-chou said, “Yes, it has.”

The monk said, “When does the oak tree attain Buddhahood?”

Chao-Chou said, “Wait until the great universe collapses.”

The monk said, “When does the universe collapse?”

Chao-chou said, “Wait until the oak tree attains Buddhahood.


Ten thousand flowers in spring,

the moon in autumn,

a cool breeze in summer,

snow in winter.

If your mind isn’t clouded

by unnecessary things,

this is the best season of your life.

One Instant

One Instant is eternity;

eternity is the now.

When you see through this one instant,

you see through the one who sees.

Moon And Clouds Are The Same

Moon and clouds are the same;

mountain and valley are different.

All are blessed; all are blessed.

Is this one? Is this two?


Wu Men (Hui-k’ai)

(1183 – 1260)

There are two primary collections of koans in Zen/Chan Buddhism: the Blue Cliff Records, and the Wu Men Kuan, also known as the Mumonkan. The Mumonkan, first published in 1228, consists of 48 koans compiled by Wu Men Hui-k’ai with his commentary and poetic verse.

Wu Men (also called Mumon) was a head monk of the Lung-hsiang monastery in China.

Russian Tales…

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Today’s Entry is for our friend Irina. She moved to the US about 16 years ago from Russia. A gem in our life, a truly wonderful being…

Spring is coming rapidly to the Northwest… even with the freezes the Snow-Bells are pushing up the earth, and the buds are rapidly forming. Sunlight is not the exception, but mixed with the passing clouds.

Time to think of the spring plantings!

Talk Later,


On The Menu:

The Links

Russian Proverbs

From Russia: The Wonderful Birch

The Poetic Beauty of Bulleh Shah

Bulleh Shah:Biography

Art: Sundry Illustrations – Ivan Bilibin


The Links

Freeze ‘condemned Neanderthals’

Extra-special cat has 26 toes

Feeding your brain: new benefits found in chocolate

Practice of farming reaches back farther than thought


Russian Proverbs:

A cat always knows whose meat it eats.

A drop hollows out a stone.

A fly cannot enter a closed mouth.

A guest has not to thank the host, but the host the guest.

A kind word is like a Spring day.

A lonely person is at home everywhere.

A long pull and a strong pull and a pull altogether.

A man is judged by his deeds, not by his words.

A mile walk with a friend has only one hundred steps.


From Russia: The Wonderful Birch

Once upon a time there were a man and a woman, who had an only daughter. Now it happened that one of their sheep went astray, and they set out to look for it, and searched and searched, each in n different part of the wood. Then the good wife met a witch, who said to her:

`If you spit, you miserable creature, if you spit into the sheath of my knife, or if you run between my legs, I shall change you into a black sheep.’

The woman neither spat, nor did she run between her legs, but yet the witch changed her into a sheep. Then she made herself look exactly like the woman, and called out to the good man:

`Ho, old man, halloa! I have found the sheep already!’

The man thought the witch was really his wife, and he did not know that his wife was the sheep; so he went home with her, glad at heart because his sheep was found. When they were safe at home the witch said to the man:

`Look here, old man, we must really kill that sheep lest it run away to the wood again.’

The man, who was a peaceable quiet sort of fellow, made no objections, but simply said:

`Good, let us do so.’

The daughter, however, had overheard their talk, and she ran to the flock and lamented aloud:

`Oh, dear little mother, they are going to slaughter you!’

`Well, then, if they do slaughter me,’ was the black sheep’s answer, `eat you neither the meat nor the broth that is made of me, but gather all my bones, and bury them by the edge of the field.’

Shortly after this they took the black sheep from the flock and slaughtered it. The witch made pease-soup of it, and set it before the daughter. But the girl remembered her mother’s warning. She did not touch the soup, but she carried the bones to the edge of the field and buried them there; and there sprang up on the spot a birch tree–a very lovely birch tree.

Some time had passed away–who can tell how long they might have been living there?–when the witch, to whom a child had been born in the meantime, began to take an ill-will to the man’s daughter, and to torment her in all sorts of ways.

Now it happened that a great festival was to be held at the palace, and the King had commanded that all the people should be invited, and that this proclamation should be made:

`Come, people all! Poor and wretched, one and all! Blind and crippled though ye be, Mount your steeds or come by sea.’

And so they drove into the King’s feast all the outcasts, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind. In the good man’s house, too, preparations were made to go to the palace. The witch said to the man:

`Go you on in front, old man, with our youngest; I will give the elder girl work to keep her from being dull in our absence.’

So the man took the child and set out. But the witch kindled a fire on the hearth, threw a potful of barleycorns among the cinders, and said to the girl:

`If you have not picked the barley out of the ashes, and put it all back in the pot before nightfall, I shall eat you up!’

Then she hastened after the others, and the poor girl stayed at home and wept. She tried to be sure to pick up the grains of barley, but she soon saw how useless her labour was; and so she went in her sore trouble to the birch tree on her mother’s grave, and cried and cried, because her mother lay dead beneath the sod and could help her no longer. In the midst of her grief she suddenly heard her mother’s voice speak from the grave, and say to her:

`Why do you weep, little daughter?’

`The witch has scattered barleycorns on the hearth, and bid me pick them out of the ashes,’ said the girl; `that is why I weep, dear little mother.’

`Do not weep,’ said her mother consolingly. `Break off one of my branches, and strike the hearth with it crosswise, and all will be put right.’ The girl did so. She struck the hearth with the birchen branch, and lo! the barleycorns flew into the pot, and the hearth was clean. Then she went back to the birch tree and laid the branch upon the grave. Then her mother bade her bathe on one side of the stem, dry herself on another, and dress on the third. When the girl had done all that, she had grown so lovely that no one on earth could rival her. Splendid clothing was given to her, and a horse, with hair partly of gold, partly of silver, and partly of something more precious still. The girl sprang into the saddle, and rode as swift as an arrow to the palace. As she turned into the courtyard of the castle the King’s son came out to meet her, tied her steed to a pillar, and led her in. He never left her side as they passed through the castle rooms; and all the people gazed at her, and wondered who the lovely maiden was, and from what castle she came; but no one knew her–no one knew anything about her. At the banquet the Prince invited her to sit next him in the place of honour; but the witch’s daughter gnawed the bones under the table. The Prince did not see her, and thinking it was a dog, he gave her such a push with his foot that her arm was broken. Are you not sorry for the witch’s daughter? It was not her fault that her mother was a witch.

Towards evening the good man’s daughter thought it was time to go home; but as she went, her ring caught on the latch of the door, for the King’s son had had it smeared with tar. She did not take time to pull it off, but, hastily unfastening her horse from the pillar, she rode away beyond the castle walls as swift as an arrow. Arrived at home, she took off her clothes by the birch tree, left her horse standing there, and hastened to her place behind the stove. In a short time the man and the woman came home again too, and the witch said to the girl:

`Ah! you poor thing, there you are to be sure! You don’t know what fine times we have had at the palace! The King’s son carried my daughter about, but the poor thing fell and broke her arm.’

The girl knew well how matters really stood, but she pretended to know nothing about it, and sat dumb behind the stove.

The next day they were invited again to the King’s banquet.

`Hey! old man,’ said the witch, `get on your clothes as quick as you can; we are bidden to the feast. Take you the child; I will give the other one work, lest she weary.’

She kindled the fire, threw a potful of hemp seed among the ashes, and said to the girl:

`If you do not get this sorted, and all the seed back into the pot, I shall kill you!’

The girl wept bitterly; then she went to the birch tree, washed herself on one side of it and dried herself on the other; and this time still finer clothes were given to her, and a very beautiful steed. She broke off a branch of the birch tree, struck the hearth with it, so that the seeds flew into the pot, and then hastened to the castle.

Again the King’s son came out to meet her, tied her horse to a pillar, and led her into the banqueting hall. At the feast the girl sat next him in the place of honour, as she had done the day before. But the witch’s daughter gnawed bones under the table, and the Prince gave her a push by mistake, which broke her leg–he had never noticed her crawling about among the people’s feet. She was VERY unlucky!

The good man’s daughter hastened home again betimes, but the King’s son had smeared the door-posts with tar, and the girl’s golden circlet stuck to it. She had not time to look for it, but sprang to the saddle and rode like an arrow to the birch tree. There she left her horse and her fine clothes, and said to her mother:

`I have lost my circlet at the castle; the door-post was tarred, and it stuck fast.’

`And even had you lost two of them,’ answered her mother, `I would give you finer ones.’

Then the girl hastened home, and when her father came home from the feast with the witch, she was in her usual place behind the stove. Then the witch said to her:

`You poor thing! what is there to see here compared with what WE have seen at the palace? The King’s son carried my daughter from one room to another; he let her fall, ’tis true, and my child’s foot was broken.’

The man’s daughter held her peace all the time, and busied herself about the hearth.

The night passed, and when the day began to dawn, the witch awakened her husband, crying:

`Hi! get up, old man! We are bidden to the royal banquet.’

So the old man got up. Then the witch gave him the child, saying:

`Take you the little one; I will give the other girl work to do, else she will weary at home alone.’

She did as usual. This time it was a dish of milk she poured upon the ashes, saying:

`If you do not get all the milk into the dish again before I come home, you will suffer for it.’

How frightened the girl was this time! She ran to the birch tree, and by its magic power her task was accomplished; and then she rode away to the palace as before. When she got to the courtyard she found the Prince waiting for her. He led her into the hall, where she was highly honoured; but the witch’s daughter sucked the bones under the table, and crouching at the people’s feet she got an eye knocked out, poor thing! Now no one knew any more than before about the good man’s daughter, no one knew whence she came; but the Prince had had the threshold smeared with tar, and as she fled her gold slippers stuck to it. She reached the birch tree, and laying aside her finery, she said:

`Alas I dear little mother, I have lost my gold slippers!’

`Let them be,’ was her mother’s reply; `if you need them I shall give you finer ones.’

Scarcely was she in her usual place behind the stove when her father came home with the witch. Immediately the witch began to mock her, saying:

`Ah! you poor thing, there is nothing for you to see here, and WE–ah: what great things we have seen at the palace! My little girl was carried about again, but had the ill-luck to fall and get her eye knocked out. You stupid thing, you, what do you know about anything?’

`Yes, indeed, what can I know?’ replied the girl; `I had enough to do to get the hearth clean.’

Now the Prince had kept all the things the girl had lost, and he soon set about finding the owner of them. For this purpose a great banquet was given on the fourth day, and all the people were invited to the palace. The witch got ready to go too. She tied a wooden beetle on where her child’s foot should have been, a log of wood instead of an arm, and stuck a bit of dirt in the empty socket for an eye, and took the child with her to the castle. When all the people were gathered together, the King’s son stepped in among the crowd and cried:

`The maiden whose finger this ring slips over, whose head this golden hoop encircles, and whose foot this shoe fits, shall be my bride.’

What a great trying on there was now among them all! The things would fit no one, however.

`The cinder wench is not here,’ said the Prince at last; `go and fetch her, and let her try on the things.’

So the girl was fetched, and the Prince was just going to hand the ornaments to her, when the witch held him back, saying:

`Don’t give them to her; she soils everything with cinders; give them to my daughter rather.’

Well, then the Prince gave the witch’s daughter the ring, and the woman filed and pared away at her daughter’s finger till the ring fitted. It was the same with the circlet and the shoes of gold. The witch would not allow them to be handed to the cinder wench; she worked at her own daughter’s head and feet till she got the things forced on. What was to be done now? The Prince had to take the witch’s daughter for his bride whether he would or no; he sneaked away to her father’s house with her, however, for he was ashamed to hold the wedding festivities at the palace with so strange a bride. Some days passed, and at last he had to take his bride home to the palace, and he got ready to do so. Just as they were taking leave, the kitchen wench sprang down from her place by the stove, on the pretext of fetching something from the cowhouse, and in going by she whispered in the Prince’s ear as he stood in the yard:

`Alas! dear Prince, do not rob me of my silver and my gold.’

Thereupon the King’s son recognised the cinder wench; so he took both the girls with him, and set out. After they had gone some little way they came to the bank of a river, and the Prince threw the witch’s daughter across to serve as a bridge, and so got over with the cinder wench. There lay the witch’s daughter then, like a bridge over the river, and could not stir, though her heart was consumed with grief. No help was near, so she cried at last in her anguish:

`May there grow a golden hemlock out of my body! perhaps my mother will know me by that token.’

Scarcely had she spoken when a golden hemlock sprang up from her, and stood upon the bridge.

Now, as soon as the Prince had got rid of the witch’s daughter he greeted the cinder wench as his bride, and they wandered together to the birch tree which grew upon the mother’s grave. There they received all sorts of treasures and riches, three sacks full of gold, and as much silver, and a splendid steed, which bore them home to the palace. There they lived a long time together, and the young wife bore a son to the Prince. Immediately word was brought to the witch that her daughter had borne a son–for they all believed the young King’s wife to be the witch’s daughter.

`So, so,’ said the witch to herself; `I had better away with my gift for the infant, then.’

And so saying she set out. Thus it happened that she came to the bank of the river, and there she saw the beautiful golden hemlock growing in the middle of the bridge, and when she began to cut it down to take to her grandchild, she heard a voice moaning:

`Alas! dear mother, do not cut me so!’

`Are you here?’ demanded the witch.

`Indeed I am, dear little mother,’ answered the daughter `They threw me across the river to make a bridge of me.’

In a moment the witch had the bridge shivered to atoms, and then she hastened away to the palace. Stepping up to the young Queen’s bed, she began to try her magic arts upon her, saying:

`Spit, you wretch, on the blade of my knife; bewitch my knife’s blade for me, and I shall change you into a reindeer of the forest.’

`Are you there again to bring trouble upon me?’ said the young woman.

She neither spat nor did anything else, but still the witch changed her into a reindeer, and smuggled her own daughter into her place as the Prince’s wife. But now the child grew restless and cried, because it missed its mother’s care. They took it to the court, and tried to pacify it in every conceivable way, but its crying never ceased.

`What makes the child so restless?’ asked the Prince, and he went to a wise widow woman to ask her advice.

`Ay, ay, your own wife is not at home,’ said the widow woman; `she is living like a reindeer in the wood; you have the witch’s daughter for a wife now, and the witch herself for a mother-in- law.’

`Is there any way of getting my own wife back from the wood again?’ asked the Prince.

`Give me the child,’ answered the widow woman. `I’ll take it with me to-morrow when I go to drive the cows to the wood. I’ll make a rustling among the birch leaves and a trembling among the aspens–perhaps the boy will grow quiet when he hears it.’

`Yes, take the child away, take it to the wood with you to quiet it,’ said the Prince, and led the widow woman into the castle.

`How now? you are going to send the child away to the wood?’ said the witch in a suspicious tone, and tried to interfere.

But the King’s son stood firm by what he had commanded, and said:

`Carry the child about the wood; perhaps that will pacify it.’

So the widow woman took the child to the wood. She came to the edge of a marsh, and seeing a herd of reindeer there, she began all at once to sing–

`Little Bright-eyes, little Redskin, Come nurse the child you bore! That bloodthirsty monster, That man-eater grim, Shall nurse him, shall tend him no more. They may threaten and force as they will, He turns from her, shrinks from her still,’

and immediately the reindeer drew near, and nursed and tended the child the whole day long; but at nightfall it had to follow the herd, and said to the widow woman:

`Bring me the child to-morrow, and again the following day; after that I must wander with the herd far away to other lands.’

The following morning the widow woman went back to the castle to fetch the child. The witch interfered, of course, but the Prince said:

`Take it, and carry it about in the open air; the boy is quieter at night, to be sure, when he has been in the wood all day.’

So the widow took the child in her arms, and carried it to the marsh in the forest. There she sang as on the preceding day–

`Little Bright-eyes, little Redskin, Come nurse the child you bore! That bloodthirsty monster, That man-eater grim, Shall nurse him, shall tend him no more. They may threaten and force as they will, He turns from her, shrinks from her still,’

and immediately the reindeer left the herd and came to the child, and tended it as on the day before. And so it was that the child throve, till not a finer boy was to be seen anywhere. But the King’s son had been pondering over all these things, and he said to the widow woman:

`Is there no way of changing the reindeer into a human being again?’

`I don’t rightly know,’ was her answer. `Come to the wood with me, however; when the woman puts off her reindeer skin I shall comb her head for her; whilst I am doing so you must burn the skin.’

Thereupon they both went to the wood with the child; scarcely were they there when the reindeer appeared and nursed the child as before. Then the widow woman said to the reindeer:

`Since you are going far away to-morrow, and I shall not see you again, let me comb your head for the last time, as a remembrance of you.’

Good; the young woman stript off the reindeer skin, and let the widow woman do as she wished. In the meantime the King’s son threw the reindeer skin into the fire unobserved.

`What smells of singeing here?’ asked the young woman, and looking round she saw her own husband. `Woe is me! you have burnt my skin. Why did you do that?’

`To give you back your human form again.’

`Alack-a-day! I have nothing to cover me now, poor creature that I am!’ cried the young woman, and transformed herself first into a distaff, then into a wooden beetle, then into a spindle, and into all imaginable shapes. But all these shapes the King’s son went on destroying till she stood before him in human form again.

Alas! wherefore take me home with you again,’ cried the young woman, `since the witch is sure to eat me up?’

`She will not eat you up,’ answered her husband; and they started for home with the child.

But when the witch wife saw them she ran away with her daughter, and if she has not stopped she is running still, though at a great age. And the Prince, and his wife, and the baby lived happy ever afterwards.


The Poetic Beauty of Bulleh Shah

I Have been Pierced by the Arrow of Love

I have been pierced by the arrow of love,

what shall I do ?

I can neither live, nor can I die.

Listen ye to my ceaseless outpourings,

I have peace neither by night, nor by day.

I cannot do without my Beloved even for a moment.

I have been pierced by the arrow of love,

what shall I do ?

The fire of separation is unceasing !

Let someone take care of my love.

How can I be saved without seeing him?

I have been pierced by the arrow of love,

what shall I do ?

My Eyes Pour Out Tears

He left me, and himself he departed;

What fault was there in me ?

Neither at night nor in the day do I sleep in peace;

My eyes pour out tears !

Sharper than swords and spears are the arrows of love !

There is no one as cruel as love ;

This malady no physician can cure.

There is no peace, not for a moment,

So intense is the pain of separation !

O Bullah, if the Lord were to shower

His grace, My days would radically change !

He left me, and himself he departed.

What fault was there in me ?

You Alone exist

You alone exist; I do not, O Beloved!

You alone exist, I do not!

Like the shadow of a house in ruins,

I revolve in my own mind.

If I speak, you speak with me:

If I am silent, you are in my mind.

If I sleep, you sleep with me:

If I walk, you are along my path.

Oh Bulleh, the spouse has come to my house:

My life is a sacrifice unto Him.

You alone exist; I do not, O Beloved!


Bulleh Shah

” Alif -He who meditates on Allah

His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot.

He who suffers pangs of separation,

No longer he longs his life ~ last.

Say -Soulful is my love for you,

Whom shall I go and tell?

In the swelling waters of a river at midnight

A wailing swallow fell. “

Bulleh Shah (Punjabi: ਬੁੱਲੇ ਸ਼ਾਹ) was a Punjabi Sufi poet, believed to have lived from 1680 to 1758. As is a common practice in South Asian poetry, his poems include a signature line which contains his name. Bulleh Shah was settled in Kasur, now in Pakistan. His spiritual master was Shah Inayat Qadiri of Lahore.

The ancestral village of Bulleh Shah was Uch Gilaniyan in Bahawalpur, now a part of Pakistan, though his ancestors had migrated from Bukhara in modern day Uzbekistan. From there his family first shifted to Malakwal (Multan District, Pakistan) and then to Pandoke, which is about 14 miles southeast of Kasur, Pakistan. Bulleh’s real name was Abdullah Shah, but Bulleh was his nickname at home, and that is the name he chose to use as a poet. His family background was religious, his father being a highly religious person. Bulleh wrote primarily in Punjabi, but also in the locally spoken language, Siraiki, which is often considered a dialect of Punjabi. His style of poetry is called Kafi, which was already an established style with Sufis who preceded him. Several of his songs are regarded as an integral part of the traditional repertoire of Qawwali, the musical genre which represents the devotional music of the Sufis. The tomb of Bulleh Shah is in Kasur, and he is held in reverence by all Sufis of India and Pakistan.


Miss Rossetti

We have arrived at Tuesday…

Hope you enjoy this small entry…

Have a good day!



On The Menu

Psychedelic Furs

The Links

Finding God in the network – by James Kent

The Poetry of Christina Rossetti

Art:Dante Gabriel Rossetti


One of my favourite bands and perhaps a special song of theirs as well….

The Psychedelic Furs: My Time…


The Links:

The mysterious case of Columbus’s silver ore

Security measures at Prague airport not provoked by psychic, says Langer

The Second Coming and all that…

Universe offers ‘eternal feast,’ cosmologist says

Detached foot gets ‘big’ scrutiny


Finding God in the network

by James Kent

The field of neurotheology got a jolt last summer when researchers at Johns Hopkins demonstrated that psilocybe mushrooms could readily elicit full-blown mystical experiences in clinical settings. Add this to recent findings that targeted transcranial magnetic stimulation can also produce mystical experiences, and it seems that God is finding it more and more difficult to hide these days. In fact, pioneering scientists have nailed him down to a fairly distinct region in the medial temporal lobe, a region quaintly dubbed the God module.

While the God module sounds like a neat little brain gizmo, it is actually right at the center of many of the brain’s most complex associative functions. To be precise, the God module sits behind the amygdala (emotional response center) and adjacent to the entorhinal cortex (pattern compression and recall center), and just in front of Wernicke’s area, where language syntax and grammar is processed. Is it any wonder that when this area is stimulated (or interrupted) that we may begin to feel strange familiar feelings or hear “voices” that we recognize as coming from a higher power? I don’t think so. I think if you look at the manufacturer’s schematics it would indicate that tinkering in this area is likely to elicit all sorts of profound emotional and mystical responses.

I predict that these studies, though just beginning to scratch the surface, will stand as tipping points between the eras of archaic faith and modern neurotheology. No longer will our understanding of God be mediated by prophets, priests, and dusty tomes. The people will finally have access to the one true religion, and the institutions of dogma and spiritual artifice will come crumbling down.

Don’t believe me? Let’s look at the trends.

Humans have always associated the forces of fate, nature, and “that which cannot be explained” to personified deities. Temples, shrines, and alters have been built to the timeless wizened caricatures of Gaia, Yaweh, Sol, Poseidon, Zeus, Odin, and their ilk. Even the human prophets among us — saints with the gift of “true vision” and “true speech” like Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, L. Ron Hubbard — have been anointed to the level of deity, worshipped with cult fanaticism, and are held as perfect above all other faiths, symbols, or creeds.

But why?

To a strict Darwinian behaviorist the answer is obvious: Religion and the belief in a higher power is a tribal unifier, and one that makes a religious tribe stronger than a tribe with no central unifying belief system. Cunning leaders from the age of the Egyptian Pharaohs forward have known that a populous sworn to one central God was easier to control than a populous divided by tribal cults. Thus, the tribal cult leaders and tribal cult totems were destroyed, and monotheism became the rule of the land. One god, one people, one ruler. Under strict monotheism, religious and political power fused and became centralized, and true fascism could be deployed over large populations with no internal checks and balances to restrain it.

But there was one problem. The sacrament which allowed the individual to bypass centralized dogma and connect with the mind of God directly was still out in plain sight, growing in the fields where the cows graze, and sprinkled along the forested tracks of the migrating reindeer. Surely cults of purist would discover the secret sacrament and challenge central authority and dogma. Surely clever alchemists would decode the secret symbols and might pose a threat, but they were few and could be persecuted and marginalized. The power of Central Authority would be absolute, and could not be challenged, that is the way of things. When the Church rules the State the Dark Age shall see no end. Control of intelligence will be complete.

And now there is a new problem: The secret is loose, and it is spreading. The secret has spread into a human intelligence network called the internet, and continues to spread worldwide. And though the secret continues to be ridiculed and diluted with media hype and nonsense, the research is all there, staring us right in the face. If you tickle your brain in just the right way, God appears. It is pretty much a done deal. The central dogma is not about the word of one man or one text, it is a neural spike ratio formula applied to a specific region you can point to on any anatomical chart of the human brain.

You’re busted God. You cannot hide from us any longer.

This essay was adapted from Cartoon Gods and Chaos Geniuses a lecuture present by James Kent at the Sacred Elixirs conference, 2005.


The Poetry of Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)


A fool I was to sleep at noon,

And wake when night is chilly

Beneath the comfortless cold moon;

A fool to pluck my rose too soon,

A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;

Faded and all-forsaken,

I weep as I have never wept:

Oh it was summer when I slept,

It’s winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring

And sun-warm’d sweet to-morrow:–

Stripp’d bare of hope and everything,

No more to laugh, no more to sing,

I sit alone with sorrow.


Oh why is heaven built so far,

Oh why is earth set so remote?

I cannot reach the nearest star

That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,

One round monotonous of change;

Yet even she repeats her tune

Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter’d fire

Of stars, or sun’s far-trailing train,

But all my heart is one desire,

And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,

Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;

I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,

And catch at hope.


A Blue Eyed phantom far before

Is laughing, leaping toward the sun:

Like lead I chase it evermore,

I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound:

Goes singing as it leaps along

To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound

A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;

It is so far before, I weep:

I hope I shall lie down some day,

Lie down and sleep.


Too late for love, too late for joy,

Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,

You trifled at the gate:

The enchanted dove upon her branch

Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower

Slept, died, behind the grate;

Her heart was starving all this while

You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,

Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face

Which now you cannot know:

The frozen fountain would have leaped,

The buds gone on to blow,

The warm south wind would have awaked

To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?

Once she was fair;

Meet queen for any kingly king,

With gold-dust on her hair,

Now these are poppies in her locks,

White poppies she must wear;

Must wear a veil to shroud her face

And the want graven there:

Or is the hunger fed at length,

Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile

Or with a frown;

Her bed seemed never soft to her,

Though tossed of down;

She little heeded what she wore,

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;

We think her white brows often ached

Beneath her crown,

Till silvery hairs showed in her locks

That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste;

Her tones were sweet,

And modulated just so much

As it was meet:

Her heart sat silent through the noise

And concourse of the street.

There was no hurry in her hands,

No hurry in her feet;

There was no bliss drew nigh to her,

That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,

Wasting upon her bed:

But wherefore should you weep today

That she is dead?

Lo we who love weep not today,

But crown her royal head.

Let be these poppies that we strew,

Your roses are too red:

Let be these poppies, not for you

Cut down and spread.

For Rik & Christel

For our good friends Rik & Christel who are visiting the US:

I’ve known Rik since I tumbled into Mt. Shasta many years ago. I decided that maybe I should finish up High School… I met Rik the first day, and we have been friends since. There will be years where we don’t see each other, or even talk, but when we do reconnect, it is as if there wasn’t any time of separation.

I long worried over his path, as he didn’t seem to settle into anything for long… (being quite the gypsy and all)

I shouldn’t have worried, he always had a wondrous sense of luck and grace. (I have stories!)

He met Christel several years back, they became friends, then lovers, then life partners a year and a half back. We were thrilled to watch this all unfold; and we fell in love with Christel as well. Over visits, and drinks, laughter and conversation over a couple of years we saw the joyous combination that they had forged.

In September 2005 they got married at their home in Ashland (where this picture is from) with guest from all over the country, and friends spanning many, many years. Rowan was the videographer for the event, and it was indeed a culmination of their time in the US. The next month they moved overseas to France.

They have a house in a lovely small village in the Languedoc. (Christel was European born) They have made a good life with each other there, and now are back visiting a new grandchild in DC, Rik’s parents and family in California, and clearing up possessions left in Ashland.

Sadly, we won’t get to see them this time around, but we will be heading to France soon to spend a couple of weeks with them as we can.

I spoke to Rik this morning via the phone, as I sat with my first cup of coffee. It was like old times, we laughed and talked about changing the world.

This edition is for the both of you whom we love very much…

Bright Blessings,



On the Menu

The Links

An Extract: James Stephens’ “The Crock of Gold”

Poems of Gary Snyder


The Links:

Exotic science may help researchers regrow human fingers

Man Grabs Shark With Hands; Blames Vodka

Paraglider survives after soaring to 32,000 feet

Tiny frog in amber may be 25M years old


An Extract: James Stephens’ “The Crock of Gold”

(another suggestion from Derek!)

… In a short time he came

to the rough, heather-clumped field wherein the children

had found Pan, and as he was proceeding up the hill, he

saw Caitilin Ni Murrachu walking a little way in front

with a small vessel in her hand. The she-goat which she

had just milked was bending again to the herbage, and

as Caitilin trod lightly in front of him the Philosopher

closed his eyes in virtuous anger and opened them again

in a not unnatural curiosity, for the girl had no clothes

on. He watched her going behind the brush and dis-

appearing in the cleft of the rock, and his anger, both

with her and Pan, mastering him he forsook the path of

prudence which soared to the mountain top, and followed

that leading to the cave. The sound of his feet brought

Caitilin out hastily, but he pushed her by with a harsh

word. “Hussy,” said he, and he went into the cave

where Pan was.

As he went in he already repented of his harshness and

said –

“The human body is an aggregation of flesh and sinew,

around a central bony structure. The use of clothing is

primarily to protect this organism from rain and cold,

and it may not be regarded as the banner of morality

without danger to this fundamental premise. If a per-

son does not desire to be so protected who will quarrel

with an honourable liberty? Decency is not clothing but

Mind. Morality is behaviour. Virtue is thought –

“I have often fancied,” he continued to Pan, whom he

was now confronting, “that the effect of clothing on mind

must be very considerable, and that it must have a modi-

fying rather than an expanding effect, or, even, an in-

tensifying as against an exuberant effect. With clothing

the whole environment is immediately affected. The air,

which is our proper medium, is only filtered to our bodies

in an abated and niggardly fashion which can scarcely be

as beneficial as the generous and unintermitted elemental

play. The question naturally arises whether clothing is

as unknown to nature as we have fancied? Viewed as a

protective measure against atmospheric rigour we find

that many creatures grow, by their own central impulse,

some kind of exterior panoply which may be regarded as

their proper clothing. Bears, cats, dogs, mice, sheep and

beavers are wrapped in fur, hair, fell, fleece or pelt, so

these creatures cannot by any means be regarded as be-

ing naked. Crabs, cockroaches, snails and cockles have

ordered around them a crusty habiliment, wherein their

original nakedness is only to be discovered by force, and

other creatures have similarly provided themselves with

some species of covering. Clothing, therefore, is not

an art, but an instinct, and the fact that man is born

naked and does not grow his clothing upon himself from

within but collects it from various distant and haphazard

sources is not any reason to call this necessity an instinct

for decency. These, you will admit, are weighty reHec-

tions and worthy of consideration before we proceed to

the wide and thorny subject of moral and immoral ac-

tion. Now, what is virtue?” –

Pan, who had listened with great courtesy to these

Remarks, here broke in on the Philosopher.

“Virtue,” said he, “is the performance of pleasant


The Philosopher held the statement far a moment on

his forefinger.

“And what, then, is vice?” said he.

“It is vicious,” said Pan, “to neglect the performance

of pleasant actions.”

“If this be so,” the other commented, “philosophy has

up to the present been on the wrong track.”

“That is so,” said Pan. “Philosophy is an immoral

practice because it suggests a standard of practice im-

possible of being followed, and which, if it could be fol-

lowed, would lead to the great sin of sterility.”

“The idea of virtue,” said the Philosopher, with some

indignation, “has animated the noblest intellects of the


“It has not animated them,” replied Pan; “it has hyp-

notised them so that they have conceived virtue as re-

pression and self-sacrifice as an honourable thing instead

of the suicide which it is.”

“Indeed,” said the Philosopher; “this is very interest-

ing, and if it is true the whole conduct of life will have

to be very much simplified.”

“Life is already very simple,” said Pan; “it is to

be born and to die, and in the interval to eat and drink,

to dance and sing, to marry and beget children.”

“But it is simply materialism,” cried the Philosopher.

“Why do you say ‘but’?” replied Pan.

“It is sheer, unredeemed animalism,” continued his


“It is any name you please to call it,” replied Pan.

“You have proved nothing,” the Philosopher shouted.

“What can be sensed requires no proof.”

“You leave out the new thing,” said the Philosopher.

“You leave out brains. I believe in mind above matter.

Thought above emotion. Spirit above flesh.”

“Of course you do,” said Pan, and he reached for his

oaten pipe.

The Philosopher ran to the opening of the passage and

thrust Caitilin aside. “Hussy,” said he fiercely to her,

and he darted out.

As he went up the rugged path he could hear the pipes

of Pan, calling and sobbing and making high merriment

on the air.


“SHE does not deserve to be rescued,” said the Philoso-

pher, “but I will rescue her. Indeed,” he thought a mo-

ment later, “she does not want to be rescued, and, there-

fore, I will rescue her.”

As he went down the road her shapely figure floated

before his eyes as beautiful and simple as an old statue.

He wagged his head angrily at the apparition, but it

would not go away. He tried to concentrate his mind on

a deep, philosophical maxim, but her disturbing image

came between him and his thought, blotting out the lat-

ter so completely that a moment after he had stated his

aphorism he could not remember what it had been. Such

a condition of mind was so unusual that it bewildered


“Is a mind, then, so unstable,” said he, “that a mere

figure, an animated geometrical arrangement can shake

it from its foundations?”

The idea horrified him: he saw civilisation building

its temples over a volcano. . .

“A puff,” said he, “and it is gone. Beneath all is

chaos and red anarchy, over all a devouring and insistent

appetite. Our eyes tell us what to think about, and our

wisdom is no more than a catalogue of sensual stimuli.”

He would have been in a state of deep dejection were

it not that through his perturbation there bubbled a

stream of such amazing well-being as he had not felt

since childhood. Years had toppled from his shoulders.

He left one pound of solid matter behind at every stride.

His very skin grew flexuous, and he found a pleasure in

taking long steps such as he could not have accounted

for by thought. Indeed, thought was the one thing he

felt unequal to, and it was not precisely that he could

not think but that he did not want to. All the importance

and authority of his mind seemed to have faded away,

and the activity which had once belonged to that organ

was now transferred to his eyes. He saw, amazedly, the

sunshine bathing the hills and the valleys. A bird in the

hedge held him — beak, head, eyes, legs, and the wings

that tapered widely at angles to the wind. For the first

time in his life he really saw a bird, and one minute after

it had flown away he could have reproduced its strident

note. With every step along the curving road the land-

scape was changing. He saw and noted it almost in an

ecstasy. A sharp hill jutted out into the road, it dis-

solved into a sloping meadow, rolled down into a valley

and then climbed easily and peacefully into a hill again.

On this side a clump of trees nodded together in the

friendliest fashion. Yonder a solitary tree, well-grown

and clean, was contented with its own bright company.

A bush crouched tightly on the ground as though, at a

word, it would scamper from its place and chase rabbits

across the sward with shouts and laughter. Great spaces

of sunshine were everywhere, and everywhere there were

deep wells of shadow; and the one did not seem more

beautiful than the other. That sunshine! Oh, the glory

of it, the goodness and bravery of it, how broadly and

grandly it shone, without stint, without care; he saw its

measureless generosity and gloried in it as though him-

self had been the flinger of that largesse. And was he

not? Did the sunlight not stream from his head and

life from his finger-tips? Surely the well-being that was

in him did bubble out to an activity beyond the universe.

Thought! Oh! the petty thing! but motion! emotion!

these were the realities. To feel, to do, to stride for-

ward in elation chanting a paean of triumphant life!


Poems of Gary Snyder

How Poetry Comes to Me

It comes blundering over the

Boulders at night, it stays

Frightened outside the

Range of my campfire

I go to meet it at the

Edge of the light


On Top

All this new stuff goes on top

turn it over, turn it over

wait and water down

from the dark bottom

turn it inside out

let it spread through

Sift down even.

Watch it sprout.

A mind like compost.


Old Bones

Out there walking round, looking out for food,

a rootstock, a birdcall, a seed that you can crack

plucking, digging, snaring, snagging,

barely getting by,

no food out there on dusty slopes of scree—

carry some—look for some,

go for a hungry dream.

Deer bone, Dall sheep,

bones hunger home.

Out there somewhere

a shrine for the old ones,

the dust of the old bones,

old songs and tales.

What we ate—who ate what—

how we all prevailed.


At Tower Peak

Every tan rolling meadow will turn into housing

Freeways are clogged all day

Academies packed with scholars writing papers

City people lean and dark

This land most real

As its western-tending golden slopes

And bird-entangled central valley swamps

Sea-lion, urchin coasts

Southerly salmon-probes

Into the aromatic almost-Mexican hills

Along a range of granite peaks

The names forgotten,

An eastward running river that ends out in desert

The chipping ground-squirrels in the tumbled blocks

The gloss of glacier ghost on slab

Where we wake refreshed from ten hours sleep

After a long day’s walking

Packing burdens to the snow

Wake to the same old world of no names,

No things, new as ever, rock and water,

Cool dawn birdcalls, high jet contrails.

A day or two or million, breathing

A few steps back from what goes down

In the current realm.

A kind of ice age, spreading, filling valleys

Shaving soils, paving fields, you can walk in it

Live in it, drive through it then

It melts away

For whatever sprouts

After the age of

Frozen hearts. Flesh-carved rock

And gusts on the summit,

Smoke from forest fires is white,

The haze above the distant valley like a dusk.

It’s just one world, this spine of rock and streams

And snow, and the wash of gravels, silts

Sands, bunchgrasses, saltbrush, bee-fields,

Twenty million human people, downstream, here below.

Sentient Molecules…

Best Viewed In Mozilla Firefox

On The Music Box- Digital Mystery Tour:DMT Express

Sunday Morning… Doug Fraser has been visiting from the UK. Pics tomorrow (hopefully) He is here for a client, out Tuesday back to the UK. It is nice to catch up with friends, and to have the time to talk and hang out.

Prepping for the next ‘The Invisible College’ magazine. If you have articles, poetry, art… reviews, drop me a line.

Our entry today is dedicated to that Sentient Molecule, N,N-dimethyltryptamine (DMT). It courses through us, and it is one of those wonders, found both in plants and animals. Our endogenous DMT is said to help with the dream state, and supposedly at our service during the twin transitions: birth and death. This of course may be pure speculation… but it does have a nice feel to the concept. I first experienced the DMT state several decades (or what seems millennia ago) during my first foray in the exploration of consciousness with entheogens. I often have dreams where I am ingesting it… does this count? It makes me wonder… I wake up with the taste, or what I imagine is the taste of it after a bout of deep, lucid dreaming. The taste lingers for quite awhile. Is there anyone out there who have had this experience? I find it curious…

For the ancients, some would see DMT as a deity in its own right, or as some would say it, a ‘God’… I think this concept would seem alien to some of us in the industrial west, but for many peoples throughout the world, this substance is exactly that. This molecule my friends, is not a placebo. It does deliver the goods.

Our article today is culled from the Erowid Vaults in the DMT section. I find it interesting, I hope you do as well…

Our art work today is from that brilliant young painter from Canada, Luke Brown. Give this young man a few years, and we may see some real miracles on canvas. As it is, his works are quite wonderful.

Have a pleasant day,



On The Menu:

The Links


Infinity of the Now -DMT

Poetry: Goethe (Thank You Derek!)

Art: Luke Brown


The Links:

BollyWeird Clip

Strange Attractors…

Conservatives lose latest Darwin battle in Kansas

‘Sparks fly from Jesus artwork’

MPAA Borrowing code




Infinity of the Now -DMT

by Synchrojet

I first tried this years ago, and misfired because the smoke was too harsh. The following is a very ineadequate accounting of my second attempt–and first experience–with DMT.

I had done a great deal of LSD and mushrooms, and considered myself experienced in terms of psychedelia. Having taken over ten grams of mushrooms more than once I felt that I could always remind myself that I, as the observer, had made a choice.

This is ridiculous.

My partner, and so called trip guide, was an intelligent man in his fifties (I was thirty), and had also introduced me to peyote. We had agreed that the experience would occur at his place, and all of the usual pre-trip steps were taken…i.e., the fasting, the meditation, and so on.

At this point I must interject that my meditations were, up to the experience, a facade, although I was not yet aware of this fact. I simply thought about myself. Real hard. Even some of the more difficult mushroom experiences that I had undergone up until then had not purged me of my buried feelings of inadequacy, and this is important to mention here, because I did not understand something very VERY crucial, and that is that I was not trying DMT to learn, but rather, to PROVE something to myself. This is very unwise.

The crystals were smoked from a pipe, and among a few tobacco grounds. I was able to draw a good amount from the end of the pipe, and yet again, and I tried to hold the smoke but again, I could not. I exhaled, halfway expecting that I would get the so-called ‘museum dose’ of the compound.

I have read much literature about DMT. I cannot say that anything has come close to adequately describing even the most minuscule element of the experience. I did not notice anything at all in terms of distortions before my mind went.

The feeling is very difficult to relate with words. Imagine understanding your own mind to be a map, a very small representation of a very large idea, and suddenly discovering that it was, in fact, foldable, and that it had been folded for all time.

I sensed my mind was flat, and very inadequate, and that I had been folded up and put away, so to speak, centuries ago, forever ago, because I was discarded. I was effluent. I was a remnant of a grand theme, once possible, but now ruined and shattered, and as a conscious entity I could not be destroyed, but only amused. The amusement ended when the occlusion to its purpose ended, and I became aware of my SOLITUDE. This was immediate and powerful.

I cannot recall the transition to the void, there were no colors, or visions in the traditional sense. I realized immediately that I had actually poisoned myself, and this was not a DMT trip at all, this was death.

This period of time is impossible to relate. Try to understand that there was no sensation of time at all. Nothing was linear, and my ideas seemed to come to me at impossible intervals. My brain had been killed, I could tell, because I could not think. I could only sense the overwhelming loneliness and shame. I had actually believed at some point, somewhere, that I was alive, but this was not possible, because I was a scrap of discarded thought, not worthy of keeping. It was a foregone conclusion that I would destroy myself.

This seemed to be forever.

There appeared in the vastness a tiny point of light. I remember realizing that I had not died at all, but that I had been dead. Then, not dead, but dormant. DORMANT. I was about to be born.

The feeling of flying is not an accurate description of the sensation that accompanied my movement toward the point, which was gold, and, to my surprise, was actually metallic. I came immediately upon the source, which was a DNA scarab, a construct, an insect of impossible dimensions, miles in diameter and circumference.

The skin of the carapace was polished to a high sheen and thin to the point of transparency. I could see tiny, endless arrangements of gears and pinions just beneath the gold wing, tiny points of alien light darted from what were molecular points of cognitive energy, impossible in color and detail, billions and billions of precision gears meshing quietly and generating consciousness, which was traversing a planned route, terrifying in its complexity, but beautiful in its exactitude.

I followed a point, there was warmth, to the top of the scarab’s enormous body. It had a tiny human head, the size of a marble, attached via a series of DNA strands that had been transformed into a clear metal. The head was unaware of my presence and it had a small mouth, which opened to speak.

From the mouth came forth the matured beam of thought, which had started from a cog (Cognitive) in the belly of the insect, years ago, and had grown as it rose to the head, morphing into a form of concentrated phosphene light. the beam poured from the tiny mouth, and became stacatto at once, and conical, in sections that grew, as ideas, and hypnotized me into allowing myself to be enveloped by a punctuated green, now a geometry of raw cognition without ego, and with a destination.

I rode in the singular idea, aware of its purity and clarity, and above all, its sense of purpose, as it was not aware of my presence, and fell to a violet montage of heads which were dislocated and ethereal, but awaiting its arrival.

I was, suddenly, inside of a brain. I became instantly aware of the physicality of the idea, which was A NOTE OF MUSIC.

It was then revealed to me on a large screen, attached to a gleaming wall, that the brain was the brain of Bach, and the idea was one in a stream of many, and fell to his shaking hand in a dimly lit room, flickering with candlelight and heavy curtains, to the end of the point of his pen, where it was transcribed, in ink, and solidified forever.

This, I realized, happened concurrently with the HEARING of that exact note, in that exact piece of music, namely, the second of Six Motets, and that I had, in some elusive past, cued that CD to play while I tripped, and I was now revisiting that precise moment, which occured exactly then, and only then, and required of the universe the creation of cognition and the receiving thereof, just to hear the one note, exactly there, in exactly that fashion.

I watched the transcription through a telescope from a starship, and realized that it was diminished only by my yearning to beccome a stenographer of music (I am a musician). My own music seemed like noise.

I saw the fatigue in the wrinkled forhead of the great master, Johann Sebastian Bach, as he received the beams of knowledge, and his music was living.

From there I was told by a small man sitting in a plant that I was mediocre, and that in and of itself, my mediocrity had a function, which was to define what is great, and what is not, because how can the great be great if it is commonplace?

I, in my mediocrity, was a necessary element of greatness, then, and this eased my spirit.

I found myself at that point laying on a couch, and had a fleeting sensation of having taken a drug, and I realized that my heart was not beating, and that I was trying to enter my own body. I saw clearly the fear in my own eyes, and was saddened by my weakness.

I became preoccupied with my lying. Everything I was, was lies. I was a liar. Even lying down, I was lying, always lying. My existence was a tangled cluster of lies, cancelling themselves out, struggling to make sense, surviving only on the energy that others gave when they turned to see the freak who could not tell the truth. And so I had lied to myself about DMT, and it was not a hallucinogen, it was a poison, used by all liars, to destroy themselves. I watched lies come out of my mouth. They were giant, glistening centipedes, hideously related in a mutant way to the glorious insects of cognition, but bastardized and diminished. I saw broken gears in their grotesque bodies, and they came from my own mouth while I lay there, motionless.

I then realized that they were being driven from me. I was undergoing a type of exorcism, and I was immediately aware of a ram on a hill of purple grasses, beyond a rushing stream of beautiful microscopic geometries. The ram had eyes all over its head, and beside was a horse that was ten feet tall at the shoulder, and breathing heavily. The horse watched, and then ran towards a greying horizon, while overhead a silver sun was spinning soundlessly.

The ram had driven the lies from me, and I approached the stream. There were machines in the stream, and I was told not to touch the water, but to find the crossing, and I realized that the cross of Christ was not a cross, but a crossing, from judgment into salvation, and that the stories of religion were allegories, forming themselves again and again until they could be superimposed over the framework of machinery that was my own personal syntax.

I realized the glory, the importance, of TRUTH.

The truth was that my fear ruled my existence.

Could salvation be truth?

I was guided to my soft, pink brain by a dragonfly, which was piloted by a man with no eyes.

It is impossible to adequately relate to those reading this that all of the above was occurring simultaneously, and yet, in right angles, and even moreover, in a corner of what I was to discover was a pile of powder on a floor, into which my eyeballs fell, and the dust did adhere.

I got up, yet I did not move.

My arm was hanging of the side of the couch, I remember, and there was my friend, watching a ball of regurgitated and spoiled silliness (television?), and he was unaware of my fear and astonishment, but turned his head to look at me.

His head was flat, and it scrolled as it turned, because there was no depth, and he himself was devoid of depth, and there was a pool of idea between I an he, and in the pool, an unfathomable depth, and in that depth, a monster.

How do I tell someone, anyone, that nothing so far related amounts to even one iota of the simultaneous aspect of dimensional revelation, and the absence of space time, and the simplicity of observation in the only-then-and-thereness of that particular embodiment of who I was and who I have become?

The experience cannot be shared, and as I read over what I have typed, I understand that I have only served to diminish the experience, and turn it into an absurdly inadequate written version of a cinematic version of a non-cinematic event.

What do I say from here?

Writing this seems like a wisp of a tentacle that remains, and seems like punishment, because it involves the re-integration of an ego so shattered, and yet necessary for day to day function, and I am acutely aware of my lies, insofar as I cannot tell what happened to any audience, no matter how hard I try.

There was, in the ‘comedown’, a moment of such beauty, when I became aware of the Motets, playing, still playing, perfectly and crisply, while I lay on the couch, being born.

A lot of people talk about the tragedy of one’s life if their most profound experiences were those occurring under the influence of a drug.

Those people are unwatered seeds.

I have done DMT two other times. Each was more fantastic than the preceding. Indescribable, every second. I find that a part of me is convinced that this drug, this molecule, is of itself, alive, and was once married to us, and has since been divorced, and we are therefore in a state of bereavement and mourning.

And then I realize that we are longing, as humans, for contact, any contact, with ourselves and those whom we love, and that contact is so elusive, and seemingly inadequate, and yet, even every touch and word from another is a precious singularity, never to be repeated, but only diminished by retelling, and remembering, and finally, fading away.

I cannot communicate how my DMT experience altered everything forever. It was after this experience that I stopped all cocaine and crack, for good, never to visit them again. They are my enemy. I was taught this on, and by, DMT.

For those of you who are considering trying DMT, I would say, do not consider this to be even a shred of what to expect, there is NOTHING that can prepare you, there is no comparison to LSD, and while there may be some allegorical connection to the mushroom, the mushroom is like a movie of the actual life of DMT.

Anyway, I have talked incessantly to many people about the experiences I have had, and I wanted to share these aspects of this infinity here, if for no other reason, just to stimulate thought and curiosity.

DMT is bigger than me.



(On the suggestion of Derek Robinson….)

The Poetry Of Goethe

The Gods Give Everything

The gods give everything, the infinite ones,

To their beloved, completely,

Every pleasure, the infinite ones,

Every suffering, the infinite ones, completely.

My Goddess

Say, which Immortal

Merits the highest reward?

With none contend I,

But I will give it

To the ay-changing,


Wondrous daughter of Jove,

His best-beloved offspring,

Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her

Hath he granted

All the fancies which erst

To none allowed he

Saving himself;

Now he takes his pleasure

In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses,

With staff twined round with lilies

Roam through flowery valleys

Rule the butterfly people,

And soft-nourishing dew

With bee-like lips

Drink from the blossom:

Or else she may,

With fluttering hair

And gloomy looks,

Sigh in the wind

Round rocky cliffs,

And thousand-hued,

Like morn and even,

Ever changing,

Like moonbeam’s light,

To mortals appear.

Let us all, then,

Adore the Father!

The old, the mighty,

Who such a beauteous

Ne’er-fading spouse

Deigns to accord

To perishing mortals!

To us alone

Doth he unite her,

With heavenly bonds,

While he commands her

In joy and sorrow,

As a true spouse

Never try to fly us.

All the remaining

Races so poor

Of life-teeming earth,

In children so rich,

Wander and feed

In vacant enjoyment,

And ‘mid the dark sorrows

Of evanescent

Restricted life, –

Bowed by the heavy

Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he

Hath his most versatile,

Most cherished daughter

Granted, — what joy!

Lovingly greet her

As a beloved one!

Give her the woman’s

Place in our home!

And, oh, may the aged

Stepmother Wisdom

Her gentle spirit

Ne’er seek to harm?

Yet know I her sister,

The older, sedater,

Mine own silent friend;

Oh, may she never,

Till life’s lamp is quenched,

Turn away from me, –

That noble inciter,

Comforter, — Hope!



The Muses, maiden sisters, chose

To teach poor Psyche arts poetic;

But, spite of all their rules aesthetic,

She never could emerge from prose.

No dulcet sounds escaped her lyre,

E’en when the summer nights were nigh;

Till Cupid came, with glance of fire,

And taught her all the mystery.


To Luna

Sister of the earliest light,

Type of loveliness in sorrow,

Silver mists thy radiance borrow,

Even as they cross thy sight.

When thou comest to the sky,

In their dusky hollows waken,

Spirits that are sad, forsaken,

Birds that shun the day, and I.

Looking downward far and wide.

Hidden things thou dost discover,

Luna! help a hapless lover,

Lift him kindly to thy side!

Aided by thy friendly beams,

Let him, through the lattice peeping,

Look into the room where, sleeping,

Lies the maiden of his dreams.

Ah, I see her! Now I gaze,

Bending in a trance Elysian,

And I strain my inmost vision,

And I gather all thy rays.

Bright and brighter yet I see

Charms no envious robes encumber;

And she draws me to her slumber

As Endymion once drew thee.