Psychedelic Heroines…

“An artist is somebody who enters into competition with God.” – Patti Smith

I would like to dedicate this edition to all the wonderful Women in the Entheogen Movement….

Here is to our brave sisters who have harrowed both heaven and hell, survived 2000 years or persecution, and still carry on.

Here is to those that went before, and those who are with us now: Laura Huxley, Ro Woodruff Leary, Ann Shulgin, Sacha Delia , Diane Darling, Kat Harrison, Maria of Oaxaca, and all the other Women who have been in the forefront for all these years and have held onto the High Ideal…

This Entry is for you….

Bright Blessings,


On The Menu

The Links

Danielle Dax: Tomorrow Never Knows

Scottish Legends and Traditions: The Pechs

Danielle Dax – Cathouse

Poetry: Patti Smith


The Links:

Research Links ‘Ecstasy’ to Survival of Key Movement-Related Cells in Brain –

Celebrity haunt in drugs raid

Designer Drug Studies In Japan

New York City Is Hell for Pot Smokers


Danielle was flying the Psychedelic Flag when nobody else was stepping up to the plate. Her music had a wonderful footing in Surrealism. She now makes her living as a gardener in London….

Danielle Dax – Tomorrow Never Knows…


Scottish Legends and Traditions: The Pechs

“Long ago there were people in this country called the Pechs; short wee men they were, wi’ red hair, and long arms, and feet sae braid, that when it rained they could turn them up owre their heads, and then they served for umbrellas. The Pechs were great builders; they built a’ the auld castles in the kintry; and do ye ken the way they built them?—I’ll tell ye. They stood all in a row from the quarry to the place where they were building, and ilk ane handed forward the stanes to his neebor, till the hale was biggit. The Pechs were also a great people for ale, which they brewed frae heather; sae, ye ken, it bood (was bound) to be an extraornar cheap kind of drink; for heather, I’se warrant, was as plenty then as it’s now. This art o’ theirs was muckle sought after by the other folk that lived in the kintry; but they never would let out the secret, but handed it down frae father to son among themselves, wi’ strict injunctions frae ane to another never to let onybody ken about it.

“At last the Pechs had great wars, and mony o’ them were killed, and indeed they soon came to be a mere handfu’ o’ people, and were like to perish aft’ the face o’ the earth. Still they held fast by their secret of the heather yill, determined that their enemies should never wring it frae them. Weel, it came at last to a great battle between them and the Scots, in which they clean lost the day, and were killed a’ to tway, a father and a son. And sae the king o’ the Scots had these men brought before him, that he might try to frighten them into telling him the secret. He plainly told them that, if they would not disclose it peaceably, he must torture them till they should confess, and therefore it would be better for them to yield in time. ‘Weel,’ says the auld man to the king, ‘I see it is of no use to resist. But there is ae condition ye maun agree to before ye learn the secret.’ ‘And what is that?’ said the king. ‘Will ye promise to fulfil it, if it be na anything against your ain interests?’ said the man. ‘Yes,’ said the king, ‘I will and do promise so.’ Then said the Pech ‘You must know that I wish for my son’s death, though I dinna like to take his life myself.

My son ye maun kill,

Before I will you tell

How we brew the yill

Frae the heather bell!’

The king was dootless greatly astonished at sic a request; but, as he had promised, he caused the lad to be immediately put to death. When the auld man saw his son was dead, he started up wi’ a great stend,’ and cried, ‘Now, do wi’ me as you like. My son ye might have forced, for he was but a weak youth; but me you never can force.

And though you may me kill,

I will not you tell

How we brew the yill

Frae the heather bell!’

“The king was now mair astonished than before, but it was at his being sae far outwitted by a mere wild man. Hooever, he saw it was needless to kill the Pech, and that his greatest punishment might now be his being allowed to live. So he was taken away as a prisoner, and he lived for mony a year after that, till he became a very, very auld man, baith bedrid and blind. Maist folk had forgotten there was sic a man in life; but ae night, some young men being in the house where he was, and making great boasts about their feats o’ strength, he leaned owre the bed and said he would like to feel ane o’ their wrists, that he might compare it wi’ the arms of men wha had lived in former times. And they, for sport, held out a thick gaud o’ em’ to him to feel. He just snappit it in tway wi’ his fingers as ye wad do a pipe stapple. ‘It’s a bit gey gristle,’ he said; ‘but naething to the shackle-banes o’ my days.’ That was the last o’ the Pechs.”


One more from Danielle. Wonderful Stuff!

Danielle Dax – Cathouse


Poetry: Patti Smith

“I don’t consider writing a quiet, closet act.

I consider it a real physical act.

When I’m home writing on the typewriter, I go crazy.

I move like a monkey.

I’ve wet myself, I’ve come in my pants writing.”

–Patti Smith

Poem for Jim Morrison & Bumblebee

Dream of life

Na na na na na

Na na na na na

I’m with you always

You’re ever on my mind

In a light to last a whole life through

Each way I turn

the sense of you surrounds

in every step I take

In all I do

Your thoughts your schemes

captivate my dreams

Everlasting, ever new

Sea returns to sea

And sky to sky

In a life of dream am I

When I’m with you

Deep in my heart

How the presence of you shines

In a light to last a whole life through

I recall the wonder of it all

Each dream of life I’ll share with you

Sea returns to sea

And sky to sky

In a life of dream am I

When I’m with you

I’m with you always

You’re ever on my mind

In a light to last a whole life through

The hand above

turns those leaves of love

All and all a timeless view

Each dream of life

Flung from paradise

Everlasting, ever new

Dream of Life

Dream Of Life

Na na na na na



great human wild animal


an outlaw

keep watch over her

I was born in Illinois…mainline of America…

beat to shit…Chicago tenement

big red eyed rats in the night…dead rats to tease at night

Morning…I waited for the organ grinder

with my nickel for the monkeys tin cup

gingerbread man…cotton candy man

bad girl setting fire to the oil cans

run like hell escape on the icemans truck

I was a limping ugly duck

but I had good luck

Mama filled me with fantasy…my bears danced at midnight

even my toybox had a soul

Mama called me her goat girl…little black sheep

I loved my brother and sister: Todd and Linda

we drank each others blood…we were double blood brothers

we rolled in fields…three white wolves…we practised telepathy

no one could separate us…our minds were one

One, little one eye…I had an eyepatch…I walked like a duck

In the years the nursery children cried Quack Quack

I didn’t care and didn’t fight back

I floated off…fantasy gave me fire…I was made of water

the moon caused tidal waves and I’d cry like a coyote

I learned to drift…magik…tarot pack

I paraded in thirty disguises

and when people laughed at my carnival family

We didn’t care…We had armor:

Daddy was a tap dancer…acrobat…wild horse

tracing pornography through the bible.

Mama was the dream of every sailor…bootlegged whiskey

called spirits from evenings half moon…dream weaver

We braved hurricanes…a new baby came…I named her Kim

the neighbors were suspicious…they called us witches

we didn’t care…we were laughing and dancing and damned

and there was always music

Hank Williams crying off the lonesomes

funny valentine…Patty Waters

beat of the drum…bartok

song of the swamp rat

rock and roll music

rock and roll music


On my own…my own rythums:

rythum of the railroad

steamheat of the factory

Alabama blues on a migrant bus

but as a blueberry picker I failed…I dreamed too much

the berry crop died…my mother smiled.

I ran off…I traveled…I broke down

kept running…TB trapped in the lung…spitting on the railroad track

I shook…I drank…rythum of one too many rhums

Drunk and broke down I slinked home…grabbed my sisters hand

and away we run…We took a freighter to Iceland

railway to Paris…Pigalle and wine in a black dress

I joined the fire eaters and sang in the streets…using all I learned

from Lotte Lenya…Bob Dylan…and motorcycle rock n’ roll

We lived near a wishing well…milked goats…capture snails

and crawled back to New York.

New York my greatest love:

Rise of the building

flash of 42nd street…the pool halls…the hustlers

the trucks along tenth avenue

the helicopter yards

ghost of Jackson Pollock

human shit and dead dog floating on the Hudson River

moving…I kept moving


Panama…heart of adventure

the hot life of Mexico

the drunkard…the dock worker

Rythum…flash of white hair…winter

the Jesters…the Paragons

rise of the blue heron

breathe through the great rythum

scream through the Shepard

sing through that rock n’ roll music

rock n’ roll music

rock n’ roll music

rock n’ roll

Where duty calls

In a room in Lebanon

they silently slept

They were dreaming crazy dreams

in foreign alphabet

Lucky young boys

cross on the main

The driver was approaching

the American zone

The waving of hands

The tiniest train

They never dreamed

they’d never wake again

Voice of the Swarm

We follow we fall

Some kneel for priests

Some wail at walls

Flag on a match head

God or the law

And they’ll all go together

Where duty calls

United children

Child of Iran

Parallel prayers

Baseball Koran

I’ll protect Mama

I’ll lie awake

I’ll die for Allah

In a holy war

I’ll be a ranger

I’ll guard the streams

I’ll be a soldier

A sleeping Marine

In the heart of the ancient

Ali smiles

In the soul of the desert

the sun blooms


into the glare of all out little wars

Who pray to return to salute

the coming and dying of the moon

Oh sleeping sun

Assassin in prayer

laid a compass deep

Exploding dawn

and himself as well

Their eyes for his eyes

Their breath for his breath

All to his end

And a room in Lebanon

Dust of scenes

Erase and blend

May the blanket of Kings

Cover them and him

Forgive them Father

They know not what they do

From the vast portals

of their consciousness

they’re calling to you

star fever

[from a copy of Todd Rundgren’s 1973 album A Wizard, A True Star, which includes a Patti “Band-Aid” poem. It’s 3-1/4″ by 12-1/2″, the background is a pinkish bandaid, and the poem is printed in green ink, in her handwriting.]

They can not harm me

They can not harm me

They can only

burn out my eyes

beat my limbs

black and blue

legs cant run

hands cant play

face cant sing

cant sing cant say

They can not harm me

They can only

turn in my eyes

rip out my teeth

spit pure ivory

carve my face like a clock

alarm me clock clock me

bleed me scape goat me

chain me to a rock me

rock me rock me

clever as a fox me

brand a star on/my left shoulder

a star on my left

clever as a fox

my spirit lights

behind the boulder

holding to my name forever

Knowing I’ll go on forever

Spirit laughing free as water

in a ring of fire

with its hair aflame

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