Month: May 2007

Not so often, not so frequent. I think I am running out of juice, or need a bit of a break. Turfing has been going for over 2 years, and it has been pretty much an everyday event. I love working with it, don’t get me wrong… It is just that the format has to be simplified down, and I need to step back and rethink it all a bit.. There will still be poetry and the like; links, articles, art, but just not as frequently or so much.
Thanks for the support over the last 2 years…
Gwyllm

A Bit Of William Butler Yeats ….
The Harp of Aengus
Edain came out of Midhir’s hill, and lay

Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,

Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds

And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,

And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made

Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite

Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,

Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,

Because her hands had been made wild by love.

When Midhir’s wife had changed her to a fly,

He made a harp with Druid apple-wood

That she among her winds might know he wept;

And from that hour he has watched over none

But faithful lovers.

—
Towards Break Of Day
Was it the double of my dream

The woman that by me lay

Dreamed, or did we halve a dream

Under the first cold gleam of day?
I thought: “There is a waterfall

Upon Ben Bulben side

That all my childhood counted dear;

Were I to travel far and wide

I could not find a thing so dear.’

My memories had magnified

So many times childish delight.
I would have touched it like a child

But knew my finger could but have touched

Cold stone and water. I grew wild.

Even accusing Heaven because

It had set down among its laws:

Nothing that we love over-much

Is ponderable to our touch.
I dreamed towards break of day,

The cold blown spray in my nostril.

But she that beside me lay

Had watched in bitterer sleep

The marvellous stag of Arthur,

That lofty white stag, leap

From mountain steep to steep.

—

and…. ending with an old favourite which we ended the first entry with:
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.
~ Mike Crowley and Gwyllm ~

Gotta Hop, here it is for today!
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

The Quotes

Time Is Moving Really, Really Really Sloooowwww….

Coyote vs. Duck

The Poetry of Tobacco Indian….

Art: Aubrey Beardsley

_______________
The Quotes:

“Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions.”
“Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog. Sigh! There’s so little hope for advancement.”
“Golf and sex are about the only things you can enjoy without being good at.”
“All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind.”
“For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for Nature cannot be fooled.”

______________
Time Is Moving Really, Really Really Sloooowwww….

_______
Coyote vs. Duck

Coyote became disturbed because he had a sick daughter. He thought Duck had done something against his children in order to make them sick. So Coyote determined to bring harm to Duck. He met Duck at a certain place and ordered that Duck should run to a point with his eyes closed. This Duck did. When he opened them again, he found himself in the hole of a big rock, a little cave high on the face of a cliff. There was no way out for Duck.
Coyote took Duck’s wife and children, whom he treated badly. In time, Coyote had more children from this woman, and these he took good care of.
Duck tried constantly to get out of the cave, without success. At last Bat camped nearby, and every day, when he went to hunt rabbits, his children could hear someone crying. They told Bat, and he flew upward to look. On his way he killed rabbits and hung them on his belt. Finally he found Duck, who was very weak from lack of food.
“Who is there?” asked Bat. “I am Duck.” Bat asked, “How did you come up here?” Duck said, “Coyote caused me to lose my way with my eyes closed. He got rid of me in order to steal my wife.” Then Bat said “Throw yourself down.” Duck was afraid to try. So Bat told him, “Throw down a small rock.” This Duck did and Bat caught it on his back. He said, “That is exactly the way I will catch you. You will not be hurt.”
Duck still feared that Bat would not catch him. Bat continued to urge him to let himself fall. Several times Duck almost let himself go, but drew back. At least he thought, “Suppose I am killed; I shall die here anyway; I am as good as dead now.”
Duck closed his eyes as Bat commanded, and let himself fall. Bat caught him gently and put Duck safely on the ground. Bat then took Duck to his home and said, “Do not use the fire-sticks that are near my fireplace, but use those stuck behind the tent poles, at the sides of the tent.”
Then he entered, and Duck saw the sticks at the sides of the tent, but only thought them to be fine canes, too handsome for stirring the fire. He saw a number of sticks laying around that were charred on the ends. He took one of these and stirred the embers. Oh, how the sticks cried. All the other sticks called out, “Duck has burned our younger brother.”
These sticks were Bat’s children, and they all ran away. Duck became frightened at what he had done, and went out and hid in the brush. Bat came and called to him, “Come back! You have done no harm.”
For a long time Duck seemed afraid that Bat would punish him. Then he thought, “I’ve already been as good as dead, so I have nothing more to fear, even if they should kill me.” Duck went back into the tent. But Bat did not hurt him and gave him plenty of rabbit meat to eat. Soon Duck was strong again.
Duck said to Bat, “Coyote took my wife and children; I think I shall go and look for them.” Believing him to be strong enough, Bat encouraged him to go. Duck went to his old camp, but he found it deserted. He followed tracks leading from it, and after a while found some tracks other than his own children’s.
“I think Coyote has got children from my wife,” he thought, and he became very angry. Coyote came along with Duck’s wife. She was carrying a very large basket. Inside were Coyote’s children, well kept; but Duck’s children sat on the outer edge of the basket. Nearly falling off. These were dirty and miserable.
Duck caught the basket with a finger and pulled it back. “What are you doing, children?” the woman said. “Don’t do that; you must not catch hold of something and hold me back.” Duck continued to pull at the basket. At last she turned to look at the children and saw Duck. He said to her, “Why do you take care of Coyote’s children, while my children are dirty and uncared for? Why do you not treat my children properly?”
The woman was ashamed and did not answer. Then he asked her, “Where will you camp now?” When she told him, he said to her, “Go to the place where Coyote told you to camp, but when you put up the shelter, make the grass very thin on one side and very thick on the side on which you are, so I can reach Coyote.”
The woman arrived at the camping place. Coyote asked, “To whom have you been talking now?” She replied, “I have not met nor talked with anyone. Why do you always ask me that?” She then put up the shelter as Duck had directed her. Immediately Duck began to blow. He blew softly, but again, again, and again, until he made it freezing cold.
Coyote could not sleep. He thrust his spear through the sides of the shelter in all directions and nearly speared the Duck. Coyote said to his wife, “I knew that you met someone. It must have been Duck, who is making it so cold.” Duck continued to blow and blow. At last Coyote burrowed himself down into the fireplace ashes, hoping to warm himself there. But it was of no use. Coyote froze to death before morning.
Duck let all of Coyote’s children go free where they wished. Then he took his wife and his children back to their old home, where they had lived before all of the disruption began.

____________

The Poetry of Tobacco Indian….
Coyote Morning

Old men

and old coyote dogs

boil their dreams in the sun

served steaming within a bowl

filled with shadows

rolling sticks onto the ground

and making wild songs

while they smack their lips

and spit out the dust

blown in by the winds

nameless

and place-less

but hard to ignore.

—-

Carrying the Feather
On this side

a feather is carried

it is carried on the other side

when we are over there

they put a feather on my heart

and i was laid down there

like a drum

singing came down from the sky

and pounded my skin
i remembered who i was then

i remembered where i had been

—
Coyote Gulch
Coyote runs along the river

trees

offer their roots to the rhythm

which is deeper

quieter

moving with the sun

my memories are a 4-legged

song.

—
Water that is Stopped
Sitting in the waters

the old one tied a cord

tied it up with knots

singing his dreams as he sat there

there it is

somewhere in there

the medicine you were weeping for

yes

there is plenty of it

yes

many have cried thinking it was lost

the sky has followed itself

into his arms

he has allowed himself to depend upon the clear sky

it may be just as I have said

that he was there

gathered with the sky

counting his knots

each time that you wept

counting the medicine that is there
i know how to speak clearly

Catching Up With It All:

A busy week past for Rowan… he was accepted into a summer intensive program at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival with 64 other Juniors from around the US and Canada. He is very excited! He will be there for the first 2 weeks in August. He also landed his first job, doing something he loves: serving as a video camera man for a local video company for the summer… He is about to do his SAT test, (he is a bit tweaked on that one!) and has been taking Improv Classes on the weekend. Oh Yeah… He gets up at 5:30 a couple mornings or more a week to go practice with the Wasabi Krakens, a local Dragon Boat racing team. Rowan also has embarked on a new adventure in his personal life that has made him very happy.
The Magazine is doing well at this point, even with all the trouble with Bluehost.com and our static IP address. If you have trouble, please email me at: IC at-sign earthrites.org (substitute @ for at-sign and remove the spaces ). We are now moving earthrites.org away from bluehost.com. Just to much of a bumpy ride for us all….
Turfing may grow a bit intermittent for awhile, lots of stuff going on and the 2 hours or so for assemblage…. are needed elsewhere. We will shorten it down for a bit…
Hope this finds you well!
If you haven’t seen it yet (and I am sure you have heard of it…!)

Please check out the new Invisible College PDF Magazine! Free, or if you feel so inclined; by donation!

We Have Added 12 Hours Of New Music To The Radio Station!

Please Check It Out!

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-

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio

http://87.194.36.124:8001/radio-low

http://87.194.36.124:8002/spokenword
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

__
On The Menu:

The Links

The Origin Myth of Yaje

DMT EXPERIENCE

A visit with William Butler Yeats

Art: Main Pieces – Jesse M. King

________________
The Links:

007′s creator ‘was in plot to frame witch’

‘My stroke left me with foreign accent’

Impossible peaks under Antarctica’s ice

Ghost hunting serious business for locals

________________
The Origin Myth of Yaje

It was a woman. Her name was gaphi mahso/Yaje Woman. It happened in the

beginning of time. In the beginning of time, when the Anaconda-Canoe was

ascending into the rivers to settle mankind all over the land, there

appeared the Yaje Woman. The canoe had arrived at a place called dia vii,

the House of the Waters, and the men were sitting in the first maloca when

the Yaje Woman arrived. She stood in front of the maloca, and there she

gave birth to her child; yes, that was where she gave birth.
The Yaje Woman took a tooka plant and cleaned herself and the child. This

is a plant the leaves of which are red as blood on the underside, and she

took these leaves and with them she cleaned the child. The leaves were

shiny red, brilliant red, and so was the umbilical cord. It was red and

yellow and white, shining brightly. It was a long umbilical cord, a large

piece of it. She is the mother of the yaje vine.

_______

DMT EXPERIENCE – A composite essay of my first two DMT trips

Scott Fossel
disclaimer: This is a pale reflection of a bottomless mystery.

The things I say it is, it is now – these are but linguistic

shrouds I am able to cloak it in. Please don’t think you know DMT

from having read this, you don’t. But DO please go and try some,

go extract it from a plant – then you will KNOW. Oh, this is my

experience, you can ask me any questions you like. Everything

here is with closed eyes unless otherwise indicated – this is

really the only way to go DEEP.

The small wooden pipe was in my mouth and a match was coming to light it.

The scenario almost seemed like smoking pot except I knew the taste to be

very wrong as the complex, sweetly acrid smoke filled my lungs. Anyway, my

pulse never raced like this from the anticipation of getting stoned.
The first thing was a sense of dropping away, but to say downward would be

too simple. There were all sorts of frequency modulations and crescendoed

stacatto pops as the trip descended. This sound data was quiveringly

involved with these visual architectonic dream waters that were beginning

to emerge, dripping and slipping amongst themselves, and my being became

overwhelmed by vacuous, gravity-like suction experiences which impelled me

further in. Around me I felt a crowding in of beings as if the Celtic

Faerie land of Fay had become momentarily co-present with where I was. I

sensed them, but did not experience these creatures. The sucking experience

took over for a while then, driving the morphological acrobatics of

spacelove that lay before me. There was something about it that makes me

think of a voluptuous alien seductress with big, fat lips pulling me to her

body in the weirdest feeling embrace ever. It felt like I was being smeared

sensually and lustfully around the space in some sort of vacuum-tube

funhouse. At this point (maybe a minute into the experience) I started

picking up something like the Escher painting of all those sets of stairs

with figures descending by all manners of gravity, only its surfaces were

emerald isles of what I can only describe as fractal Medusa liquid,

serpentine and sexy. There was a thought that I was in a room full of

aliens and they were playing with me, but that somehow they had conspired

to make me this way – the alien carney music bar on the planet Tatooine in

the Star Wars trilogy seems relevant.
Then I had the thought (which just seems to pop up and not really pertain):

“What have I done! How did I get this way?” Meaning, how did I come to

enter something so foreign that my petty human ontological premises and

hopeful body of knowledge seem like a wrench trying to adjust a camel? At

that point I lost any touch with my body and was thrust forward into

complete and utter amazement. The world became so crammed full of intricacy

to the nth that it seemed every nook and cranny in my spacetime was

exfoliating little crystalline dancing worlds, bellowing ecstasy. It moved

like snakes move: all rippling of muscle and sun glinting scales. I cannot

emphasize enough the catapulting, titanic motions of this iridescent zigzag

bottlerocket, this nuanced, whittling circus of form, this Brobignagian

roller coaster safari across the jeweled plains of wonderland, straining

the limits of the knowable.
This is where I was when I felt a certain sort of shockwave across the dome

of the sky which gave me memory of the real world. I then entered this

whole journey that I would call extrication. Going in was “intrication” or

delving into intricacy, so coming back out was sensibly extrication. The

experience was very literally an incedible groping back out of this wild

wooly thing until I made it “out”, which afterwards I realized was only the

physical action of opening my eyes. The pipe was in my mouth – its touching

my lips had been the reality shockwave I’d felt. The woman who was handling

the pipe for me looked like a fractal Medusa as well, but incarnate – she

was buzzing all over with this really freaky energy. I said something like,

“You expect me to call this a mouth?”, a comment which was silenced by the

stem of the pipe. One toke and I was out of my body again, yanked back

through the scrim of the worlds into the blast furnaces of heaven.
I “came to” in some sense at this point and realized that I could do

anything in a space like this, could instantly unfold my richest possible

imaginings. “O.K.”, I said to myself, “What about trying to do what you

believe possible by your perceptual theory of higher dimensional

experience?” You see, I got the idea that there is no reason why, in an

inner experience, one has to have visions only in front of one. I began to

believe this was an imprint that years of bringing the external world into

construction of inner spaces had created, but was not necessary. I then

tried to imagine what it would be like to see in every direction at once,

i.e. what would a ball look like if you could see every side of it at once?

I could sense it but not imagine it in my mind. So this is the challenge I

set myself. It not only seemed to work (though with everything else going

on inside, it was a bit like trying to do a sensitive physics experiment in

the midst of a drunken bacchanal) but it did so immediately. I rushed

upwards into this superspace that was a spun galactic ecology of stars, a

swarming hive of dragonfly constellations . . . This was very profound, but

in doing it, it seemed I had reduced the alien quality of what had been

going on previous to this excursion.
I let my will go then and tumbled forward into elfland. Terence McKenna is

apt in calling these entities “elves”. They are elves/not-elves. They don’t

appear, they kind of ooze out of the woodwork seductively and before you

know it they’re there – the whole realm is infested with these creatures

like nothing else you could ever imagine. They do sing things that are like

“self-dribbling jeweled basketballs” or whatever you want to call them.

They make Faberge egg concoctions with ingredient lists like: 1) space, 2)

lust, 3) politics, 4) circus sideshows, 5) time, 6) gall bladders, 7)

existential notions of polyfidelity, cucumbers, 9) Beethoven’s 5th

symphony, 10) the smell of petunias, and so on. This is somewhat of an

arbitrary list, but the point is, all my categories of mind fell away

because they were being ceaselessly synthesized and re-synthesized into

these hyperdimensional objects, undulating, ululating along. It makes me

think of getting home from school when your mother says that she’s baked

you some treats, only these are like no treats Mom ever made, and when you

see them you almost want to say, “Aw, mom, you shouldn’t have. I mean you

really shouldn’t have”. What you do with these elves is some sort of a game

of catch, only the physics of the game has been replaced by the physics of

synesthesia. In catching the things they threw, in playing with them, I

participated in the ineffable mysteries that they were. This place is the

Joycean “Merry go raum”. Being there I came to understand the Heraclitus

fragment: “The Aeon is a child at play with colored balls”. It is this. As

well I understand, “Still the first day, All Fool’s Day, here at the

center.” It is this too.
So for what seemed like centuries I played with the trippy freaky elves and

they kept bringing me into atrium after atrium in the antics annex, and all

I could do was wonder when we would get to their front door. As far as I

know, we never did. Instead they said many things, though I can’t say they

used what we would call a voice to accomplish this communication. I

remember only parts of this. At first they said, “Build this”, indicating

hyperspace. Later they amended this by saying, “Build it. He will come.”

from the movie Field of Dreams. Very funny.
Then it was as though alarms started to go off, and the whole space was

going through these quivering emergency elaborations. I get the image of a

submarine movie sequence when I think back on this, just when it has been

discovered on the surface, the periscope retracts and the whole interior

goes into haywire, preparatory gymnastics as all the hatches are battened

down. There is a phenomenally high-energy dynamic associated with this

part, as they try to get you out and shut the great bronze dancing doors of

hyperspace. It is as if everything is charged with imponderable

electricities and is racing around because someone shouted: “Places

everyone!!” They start cramming your soul out of there with a million hands

at once, grabbing you by twelve dimensions you never knew your body had.

Finally, the thing shuts and there is a sense of finality to that, but just

as soon you are on to the next thing.
Slowly then it begins to make farewells and say its goodbyes. Ancient

mythos holds that the world is supported by turtles “all the way down”, but

as I came out of it, my sense was of jeweled great glass revolving

elevators all the way down. I remember thinking that I was passing back

through the 50,000 veils that the Sufis say the mystery has, one by one,

and I clearly remember the awe I felt that each one of them was closed,

sealed, and put away in a unique and voluptuous, succulent way. It was

without question the most beautiful goodbye I have known in this life.

There was no regret of leaving or longing not to leave, just an

overpowering acceptance of the imminent return. This went on and upon

opening my eyes I had this very zap experience and I was right back in this

world, amazingly enough, only ten minutes gone. Slight tracers on light and

then these gone too. I was amazed of the idea that one could go back there,

could in fact just go there, that where I had been felt entirely like it

was a whole hyperspace, raging right next door. I remember saying, and

being very sure of this as I still am now, “Those are the gods”. By which I

meant, of all the things I’ve experienced in life, they are the most like

real living gods, and should be called that. It was very interesting to me

that I didn’t need to process a whole lot, which I usually require after

the mushrooms. Instead, I think I was in a state of being so existentially

surpassed by the quality of what I had just been a part of, that I couldn’t

muster any sort of conceptual or descriptive response to it at all. By

default, I was left with just a purity of acceptance for it – I just simply

had nothing to put to it in any sense. Instead I resorted to looking wildly

and deeply into other peoples eyes and by some existential-perceptual

force, to impress upon them the utter beauty of what I had just been. This

seemed to work somewhat, though probably not. I definitely felt I had been

closer to the core of the real than ever before and that this mystery is

front and center to who we are as humans, who we really are. I felt very

connected to my universe, very sensitive and strong and in touch with

things. Because I apparently have the gift of being able to remember it

quite well (others do not), I have to live with memory of its being out

there somewhere: very real, very powerful, very alive. There has not been

an hour to pass since I did it that I haven’t thought of it and tried again

to reference it to this world, failing. I do feel it is a very important

experience to have as a human being, and in some sense a whole lot safer

than mushrooms or acid. I say this because I am aware that I usually have

time and opportunity in a traditional trip to come up with weird ideas and

believe them which can be hell to integrate when things return to normal.

DMT seems to be so awe-inspiring, one is just so floored by it, that there

is no chance for trying to figure it out.
This is left for when you return, spacecraft still steaming.

_____________

A visit with William Butler Yeats…

IN THE SEVEN WOODS
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods

Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees

Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away

The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness

That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile

Tara uprooted, and new commonness

Upon the throne and crying about the streets

And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,

Because it is alone of all things happy.

I am contented, for I know that Quiet

Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart

Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,

Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs

A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.
—
RED HANRAHAN’S SONG ABOUT IRELAND
The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,

Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;

Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,

But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes

Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea,

And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.

Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;

But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet

Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,

For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;

Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;

But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood

Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
—

THE SORROW OF LOVE
HE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,

The full round moon and the star-laden sky,

And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,

Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,

And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,

And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,

And all the burden of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,

The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,

And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves

Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

People say, “Don’t you think you ought to be able to do it by yourself?” And I love this question because the answer is: You can’t do it by yourself. That’s the entire message of the last 10,000 years of human history. The self is insufficient. The ego will not suffice…you must humble yourself to the point where you admit that you can’t do it unless you have help from someone whose idea of home is a cow flop.—Terence McKenna

If you haven’t seen it yet (and I am sure you have heard of it…!)

Please check out the new Invisible College PDF Magazine! Free, or if you feel so inclined; by donation!

The Site was having problems yesterday due to disc corruption problems at Bluehost, and the fact that my dedicated IP address, was down AGAIN…
Never the less, ’tis a Wizard of a Day here in Portland… Getting ready for the weekend etc.
Big changes for Rowan this last week, details later. Crossing that bridge into the adult world at a rapid clip.
Off to see friends, sell books and generally start on the next edition, dealing with Indesign etc…
Congratulations to Clark and his wife on 39 years of marriage!
Gwyllm

—–

On The Menu:

The Links

Koan: Mokusen’s Hand

Dimethyltryptamine Experience Description

Four From The Tao Te Ching

Wizard of Oz illustrations for some odd reason….

____________
The Links:

Weird Gravity in Canada Blamed on Hefty Glaciers

Tunnel open again at Silbury hill

OxyContin’s Deception Costs Firm $634M

Armless, One-Legged Driver Leads Chase

____________
Mokusen’s Hand
Mokusen Hiki was living in a temple in the province of Tamba. One of his adherents complained of the stinginess of his wife.

Mokusen visited the adherent’s wife and showed her his clenched fist before her face.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the surprised woman.

“Suppose my fist were always like that. What would you call it?” he asked.

“Deformed,” replied the woman.

Then he opened his hand flat in her face and asked: “Suppose it were always like that. What then?”

“Another kind of deformity,” said the wife.

“If you understand that much,” finished Mokusen, “you are a good wife.” Then he left.

After his visit, this wife helped her husband to distribute as well as to save.

_________
Dimethyltryptamine Experience Description

(from the old Disembodied Eye Site….)

Well, I finally got around to trying this stuff out. The first attempt was supposed to be about 30 mg, but problems with my smoking technique (the heat chased the liquid D up the stem of the glass pipe, where it sat-while I, unaware of this predicament, torched the hell out of the bowl to little effect). I took three hits-my guess is that I got about 15 mg total. It was very difficult for me to inhale (almost as soon as it hit my lungs it made me want to cough… but it wasn’t hard holding it in when I could get it in).
Now, I’ve trained my lungs to hold in large amounts of smoke for REALLY long periods of time (I amaze my friends and small animals). Due to the fact that I have heard that D effects start in about 30 to 60 seconds, I figured that I should only hold my hits in about 10 to 15 seconds each. I found it a bit hard to be calm/calculating while dealing with vaporizing the D and trying to make sure that it didn’t all go up in smoke out of the top of the bowl. Nevertheless, I got three small hits in.
The effects at this dosage seemed very similar to 5-MeO-DMT, except more colorful. Distinct tryptamine geometric visuals, a flattening and shifting of the visual plane. Most of the time I had my eyes closed. It was a pleasant experience, but I wasn’t transported to hyperspace. The effects lasted about ten minutes. I was (again) amazed at how quickly it wore off. I now am definitely sure that I didn’t get a big enough dose on my past two 5-MeO-DMT experiments as well. I determined that I didn’t get enough this time, after seeing what remained in the stem of the pipe.
A couple of hours later I decided to have another go at it. This second time I’m pretty sure that I got about 30 mg. The first hit went fine. The second hit (pretty big) I started to cough out, but I caught my cough and only about 1/4 of the smoke got out. My eyes started watering badly. For those unfamiliar with D, yes… it does smell/taste like burning plastic. It was REALLY hard on my throat. I held this hit in pretty long, but the physical reaction (cough/scratchy throat/watering eyes), and the onset of effects caused me to hand the pipe and lighter to my wife. Almost immediately after I did this, I motioned her to give them back to me. Fuck it… I was going to make damn sure that I had as much of the D in me as I could force in. I took a third hit-again torched the bowl in my impatience (causing a little bit of D to run up the stem… but remember, I still had the extra D that wasn’t used the time before in the pipe-I had liquified it and allowed it to drip back into the bowl). I closed my eyes and lay back.
Welcome to the FUN HOUSE. Let me say that this was unlike anything that I have ever experienced on psychedelics. I was transported to a completely different place. It is very hard for me to explain what it was like, but I’ll try. I can say that everything that I have read about this experience is true, but only as an analogy. It is hard for me to even think about D as a psychedelic or entheogen. It seemed like it is more like a window to a different dimension.
What didn’t happen. I didn’t really see the “chrysanthemum.” I didn’t hear the “ripping of cellophane/membrane buzz sound.” I didn’t “see” elves (but believe me they were there!). I now think that McKenna’s word “tykes” is more appropriate (but the romantic in me likes the “elves” concept).
What did happen. It took me a while to really figure out what was going on, and what I was viewing. Actually, I still haven’t really figured it out. The best (inadequate) way that I can explain it is that I was viewing a series of rapidly changing bright green hallways. They were like square tubing with variegated medium green and lighter brighter florescent green stripes. They seemed to be about five feet square, and while at first it seemed like I was just viewing them, shifting in front of me, it later seemed like I was actually traveling down them at a really rapid rate. The feeling was similar to being a pin-ball in a pin-ball machine, or being washed down a drain through pipes at a really fast rate, with lots of twists and turns.
And then I remembered the thoughts “pay attention” and “look for the elves.” Another reason that it reminded me of a pinball machine was the sounds. HIgh speed bouncing spring noises. Then I realized that this was the elves talking. They were like excited children who had inhaled helium. I didn’t see them, but boy did I hear them. They were bouncing off the walls. They were saying “C’m here, C’m here” over and over again. Behind me, to my side, in front of me. When I focused on looking at where the voice was coming from, my vision shifted to a different green tunnel. The voices were frantic, happy, silly. At one point I felt like one of them had hit me in the chest-knocking me flat, and then happily bounced out of me again.
Then, something really weird happened. In the lower left hand corner of my vision an object appeared. THhole time I was looking at it I kept thinking “What the fuck am I looking at?” My inadequate description: It looked like a flower, sort of. It was a white/cream color. It was shaped like a clam shell-hinged like two hands placed together at the wrists. Where the fingers would be, were thin white tendrils or filaments that looked like the plumes of ostrich feathers. At first it was a closed clam shell, but as I stared at it, it opened up.
Inside were very tiny creatures. I can’t decide if they were living or mechanical, but they moved like slow insects. Visually, they looked a lot like ants, except that the three sections weren’t connected (and I think perhaps there were only two sections per bug). They were very brightly colored-blue and red… sort of like a hard enamel paint-job. They were moving in the manner of ants, except much slower. And, they were moving in space (they weren’t necessarily walking on the flower). They were sort of circling the center of the “flower” which seemed to be an antenna, or some kind of robotic stamen. The movement made me think of an assembly line, or the inner workings of a mechanical watch. The creatures reminded me a lot of the tiny human figures in some of Salvador Dali’s paintings. Hell, the whole experience reminded me of a Dali painting.
Even as I made this connection, some of them looked more human. These creatures now seemed to be flowing into a tiny tube, each of them equidistant-inside the tube, slowly moving in a blue oily liquid. At this point what I was looking at seemed very tiny, and sort of started to fade. I opened my eyes, and my room was pulsing with the strange tryptamine visual distortions (but I could tell that it was my room). I closed my eyes again, and the vision was fading fast-now everything was a dark, subdued purple. I could hear the faint voices of the elves, bouncing around still… still saying “C’m here, C’m here,” although it felt/seemed like they were saying goodbye. I opened my eyes to some mild visual distortion. 15 minutes had past. The doorbell rang-my wife and I had ordered Chinese food. My wife has been sick, so I had to go to the door and deal with the mundane details of paying the delivery guy and getting the food.
When I described what had happened to my wife, she said she wished she had been video-taping me, due to the totally insane looks that I had on my face (ah, damn… a documentary moment lost). The thing is, I was trying to convince h
er that I had been to/seen a totally different dimension/world than this one. How do you convince someone who hasn’t been there? My overall impression of this D dimension/vision was that it was very futuristic… it reminded me of computer animation. Indeed, the whole experience seems like it could be replicated through computer animation (although you would lose the feeling of astonishment, the feeling of it being REAL, and the feeling of having been there).
Needless to say, this was very exciting for me, and has consumed much of my thoughts for the past two days (did the D on the 19th). Mainly, I am just astonished. I keep thinking “What the hell was I looking at?” Certainly, this D dimension is stranger than my mind could create-well maybe not stranger, but it certainly doesn’t remind me of anything that I would think of on my own.

———–

Four From The Tao Te Ching….
10. Harmony

Embracing the Way, you become embraced;

Breathing gently, you become newborn;

Clearing your mind, you become clear;

Nurturing your children, you become impartial;

Opening your heart, you become accepted;

Accepting the world, you embrace the Way.
Bearing and nurturing,

Creating but not owning,

Giving without demanding,

This is harmony.

—
11. Tools

Thirty spokes meet at a nave;

Because of the hole we may use the wheel.

Clay is moulded into a vessel;

Because of the hollow we may use the cup.

Walls are built around a hearth;

Because of the doors we may use the house.

Thus tools come from what exists,

But use from what does not.

—
12. Substance

Too much colour blinds the eye,

Too much music deafens the ear,

Too much taste dulls the palate,

Too much play maddens the mind,

Too much desire tears the heart.
In this manner the sage cares for people:

He provides for the belly, not for the senses;

He ignores abstraction and holds fast to substance.

—
13. Self

Both praise and blame cause concern,

For they bring people hope and fear.

The object of hope and fear is the self –

For, without self, to whom may fortune and disaster occur?
Therefore,

Who distinguishes himself from the world may be given the world,

But who regards himself as the world may accept the world.

If you haven’t seen it yet (and I am sure you have heard of it…!)

Please check out the new Invisible College PDF Magazine! Free, or if you feel so inclined; by donation!

The end of the week is looming, and the weather is beautiful here. My friend Morgan past through last night, and we got to hang for a bit. He took away my old G3 laptop that had been donated to Earthrites.org by friends, vowing to fix it up and to convert me to a MAC user. So, we will see what we will see…
Some nice stuff in this edition. I found the RAW article online, and could not resist. It is pretty funny, and it was published originally in Fortean Times back in 1977. We have some old lyrics/poetry of the hexing kind, and some interesting tile work as well.
Enjoy,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

The Links

The 23 Phenomenon Robert Anton Wilson

It Is All In The Chant: Songs of Power

Art: John Moyr Smith ~ From a set of twelve tiles illustrating the Idylls of the King designed by John Moyr Smith for Minton, c. 1875.
John Moyr Smith, (1839-1912) was one of the most original and idiosyncratic 19th Century designers. His quirky and fantastic designs creating a familiar and stimulating resonance within the viewer’s experience, but always retaining an edginess.

____________
The Links:

2,700-year-old fabric found in Greece

Inquring Minds Want To Know: Have you seen any nuclear material?

To Treat the Dead

Russian Scientist Blames Global Warming on Tunguska Meteorite?

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The 23 Phenomenon Robert Anton Wilson
I first heard of the 23 enigma from William S Burroughs, author of Naked Lunch, Nova Express, etc. According to Burroughs, he had known a certain Captain Clark, around 1960 in Tangier, who once bragged that he had been sailing 23 years without an accident. That very day, Clark’s ship had an accident that killed him and everybody else aboard. Furthermore, while Burroughs was thinking about this crude example of the irony of the gods that evening, a bulletin on the radio announced the crash of an airliner in Florida, USA. The pilot was another captain Clark and the flight was Flight 23.
Burroughs began collecting odd 23s after this gruesome synchronicity, and after 1965 I also began collecting them. Many of my weird 23s were incorporated into the trilogy Illuminatus! which I wrote in collaboration with Robert J Shea in 1969–1971. I will mention only a few of them here, to give a flavour to those benighted souls who haven’t read Illuminatus! yet:
In conception, Mom and Dad each contribute 23 chromosomes to the fœtus. DNA, the carrier of the genetic information, has bonding irregularities every 23rd Angstrom. Aleister Crowley, in his Cabalistic Dictionary, defines 23 as the number of “life” or “a thread”, hauntingly suggestive of the DNA life-script. On the other hand, 23 has many links with termination: in telegraphers’ code, 23 means “bust” or “break the line”, and Hexagram 23 in I Ching means “breaking apart”. Sidney Carton is the 23rd man guillotined in the old stage productions of A Tale of Two Cities. (A few lexicographers believe this is the origin of the mysterious slang expression “23 Skiddoo!”.)
Some people are clusters of bloody synchronicities in 23. Burroughs discovered that the bootlegger “Dutch Schultz” (real name: Arthur Flegenheimer) had Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll assassinated on 23rd Street in New York when Coll was 23 years old. Schultz himself was assassinated on 23 October. Looking further into the Dutch Schultz case, I found that Charlie Workman, the man convicted of shooting Schultz, served 23 years of a life sentence and was then paroled.
Prof. Hans Seisel of the University of Chicago passed the following along to Arthur Koestler, who published it in The Challenge of Chance. Seisel’s grandparents had a 23 in their address, his mother had 23 both as a street number and apartment number, Seisel himself once had 23 as both his home address and his law office address, etc. While visiting Monte Carlo, Seisel’s mother read a novel, Die Liebe der Jeannie Ney, in which the heroine wins a great deal by betting on 23 at roulette. Mother tried betting on 23 and it came up on the second try.
Adolf Hitler was initiated into the Vril Society (which many consider a front for the Illuminati) in 1923. The Morgan Bank (which is regarded as the financial backer of the Illuminati by the John Birch Society) is at 23 Wall Street in Manhattan. When Illuminatus! was turned into a play, it premiered in Liverpool on 23 November (which is also Harpo Marx’s birthday). Ken Campbell, producer of Illuminatus!, later found, on page 223 of Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections, a weird dream about Liverpool, which Campbell says describes the street intersection of the theatre where Illuminatus! opened (Jung, of course, was the first psychologist to study weird coincidences of this sort and to name them synchronicities). Campbell also claims that Hitler lived briefly in Liverpool when he was 23 years old, but I haven’t found the reference for that.
Recently, I was invited to join an expedition to the Bermuda Triangle. I declined because of other commitments, but “the crew that never rests” (Sir Walter Scott’s name for the Intelligence – or idiocies – who keep pestering us with this kind of phenomenon) refused to let me off the hook that easily. A few days after the expedition left, I turned on the television and caught an advertisement for the new film, Airport 77. The advertisement began with an actor shouting “Flight 23 is down in the Bermuda Triangle!”
A week later, Charles Berlitz, author of The Bermuda Triangle, claimed he had found a submerged pyramid “twice the size of the pyramids of Cheops” in the waters down there. You will find that monstrous edifice described in Illuminatus!, and it is specifically said to be “twice the size of the pyramid of Cheops” – but Shea and I thought we were writing fiction when we composed that passage in 1971. In 1977, Berlitz claims it is real.
I now have almost as many weird 23s in my files as Fort once had records of rains of fish, and people are always sending me new ones.
Euclid’s Geometry begins with 23 axioms.
As soon as I became seriously intrigued by collecting weird 23s, one of my best friends died – on 23 December.
My two oldest daughters were born on 23 August and 23 February respectively.
According to Omar Garrison’s Tantra: The Yoga of Sex, in addition to the well-known 28-day female sex cycle, there is also a male sex cycle of 23 days.
Burroughs, who tends to look at the dark side of things, sees 23 chiefly as the death number. In this connection, it is interesting that the 23rd Psalm is standard reading at funerals.
Heathcote Williams, editor of The Fanatic, met Burroughs when he (Williams) was 23 years old and living at an address with a 23 in it. When Burroughs told him, gloomily, “23 is the death number”, Williams was impressed; but he was more impressed when he discovered for the first time that the building across the street from his house was a morgue.
Bonnie and Clyde, the most popular bank-robbers of the 1930s, lived out most American underground myths quite consciously, and were shot to death by the Texas Rangers on 23 May, 1934. Their initials, B and C, have the Cabalistic values of 2–3.
W, the 23rd letter of the English alphabet, pops up continually in these matters. The physicist who collaborated with Carl Jung on the theory of synchronicity was Wolfgang Pauli. William Burroughs first called the 23 mystery to my attention. Dutch Schultz’s assassin was Charlie Workman. Adam Weishaupt and / or George Washington, the two (or one) chief source of 18th-century Illuminism, also come to mind. Will Shakespeare was born and died on 23 April.
(I have found some interesting 46s – 46 is 2 x 23 – but mostly regard them as irrelevant. Nonetheless, the 46th Psalm has a most peculiar structure. The 46th word from the beginning is shake and the 46th word from the end, counting back, is spear.)
Through various leads, I have become increasingly interested in Sir Francis Bacon as a possibly ringleader of the 17th-century Illuminati (Some evidence for this can be found in Francis Yates’s excellent The Rosicrucian Enlightenment). Bacon, in accord with custom, was allowed to pick the day for his own elevation to knighthood by Elizabeth I. He picked 23 July.
Dr John Lilly refers to “the crew that never rests” as Cosmic Coincidence Control Center and warns that they pay special attention to those who pay attention to them. I conclude this account with the most mind-boggling 23s to have intersected my own life.
On 23 July 1973, I had the impression that I was being contacted by some sort of advanced intellect from the system of the double star Sirius. I have had odd psychic experiences of that sort for many years, and I always record them carefully, but refuse to take any of them literally, until or unless supporting evidence of an objective nature turns up. This particular experience, however, was especially staggering, both intellectually and emotionally, so I spent the rest of the day at the nearest large library researching Sirius. I found, among other things, that 23 July is very closely associated with that star.
On 23 July, ancient Egyptian priests began a series of rituals to Sirius, continuing until 8 September. Since Sirius is known as the “Dog
Star”, being in the constellation Canis Major, the period 23 July – 8 September became known as “the dog days”.
My psychic “Contact” experience continued, off and on, for nearly two years, until October 1974, after which I forcibly terminated it by sheer stubborn willpower (I was getting tired of wondering whether I was specially selected for a Great Mission of interstellar import, or was just going crazy).
After two years of philosophic mulling on the subject (late 1974 – early 1976), I finally decided to tune in one more time to the Sirius–Earth transmissions, and try to produce something objective. On 23 July 1976, using a battery of yogic and shamanic techniques, I opened myself to another blast of Cosmic Wisdom and told the Transmitters that I wanted something objective this time around.
The next week, Time magazine published a full-page review of Robert KG Temple’s The Sirius Mystery, which claims that contact between Earth and Sirius occurred around 4500 BC in the Near East. The 23 July festivals in Egypt were part of Temple’s evidence, but I was more amused and impressed by his middle initials, K.G., since Kallisti Gold is the brand of very expensive marijuana smoked by the hero of Illuminatus!.
The same week as that issue of Time, i.e. still one week after my 23rd experiment, Rolling Stone published a full-page advertisement for a German Rock group called Ramses. One of the group was named Winifred, which is the name of one of the four German Rock musicians in Illuminatus!, and the advertisement included a large pyramid with an eye atop it, the symbol of the Illuminati.
Coincidence? Synchronicity? Higher Intelligence? Higher Idiocy?
Of course, the eye on the pyramid was a favourite symbol of Aleister Crowley, who called himself Epopt of the Illuminati, and subtitled his magazine, The Equinox, “A Review of Scientific Illuminism”. And 2/3 equals .66666666 etc. – Crowley’s magick number repeated endlessly. Readers of this piece might find it amusing to skim through The Magical Revival and Aleister Crowley and the Hidden God, two books by Kenneth Grant, a former student of Crowley’s (and note the initials K.G. again!). You will find numerous references, cloudy and occult, linking Crowley in some unspecified way with Sirius.
The actor who played Padre Pederastia in the National Theatre production of Illuminatus! informed me that he once met Crowley on a train. “Mere coincidence”, if you prefer. But the second night of the National Theatre run, the actors cajoled me into doing a walk-on as an extra in the Black Mass scene. And, dear brothers and sisters, that is how I found myself, stark naked, on the stage of the National Theatre, bawling Crowley’s slogan “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law”, under the patronage of Her Majesty the Queen.
As a fortean, I am, of course, an ontological agnostic and I never believe anything literally. But I will never cease to wonder how much of this was programmed by Uncle Aleister before I was ever born, and I’m sure that last bit, my one moment on the stage of the National Theatre, was entirely Crowley’s work.
If you look up Crowley’s Confessions, you’ll find that he began the study of magick in 1898, at the age of 23.

__________

It Is All In The Chant: Songs of Power

Mill Chant used by Witches in Devonshire
Air, wheel, Air blow,

Make the mill of magic go

Turn the power we send to you

Eman hetan, hau he hu!
Fire bright, Fire burn

Make the mill of magic turn.

Spin the power we send to you.

Eman hetan hau he hu!
Water bubble, water flow,

Turn the mill of magic so.

Grind the power we send to you,

Eman hetan, hau he hu!
Earth ye be our kith and kin,

Make the mill of magic spin.

Send the power we send to you,

Eman hetan, hau he hu!

—
17th Century Shapeshifting Song
Cunning and art he did not lack;

Aye, her whistle would fetch him back.
O, I shall go into a hare

With sorrow and sighing and mickle care,

And I shall do in the Devil’s name

Aye, till I be fetched hame.

-Hare, take heed of a bitch greyhound

Will harry thee all these fells around,

For here come I in Our Lady’s name

All but to fetch thee hame.
Cunning and art he did not lack;

Aye, her whistle would fetch him back.

Yet I shall go into a trout

With sorrow and sighing and mickle doubt,

And show thee many a merry game

Ere that I be fetched hame.

-Trout, take heed of an otter lank

Will harry thee close from bank to bank,

For here I come in Our Lady’s name

All but to fetch thee hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack;

Aye, her whistle would fetch him back.
Yet I shall go into a bee

With mickle horror and dread of thee,

And flit to hive in the Devil’s name

Ere that I be fetched hame.

-Bee, take head of a swallow hen

Will harry thee close, both butt and ben,

For here come I in Our Lady’s name

All for to fetch thee hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack;

Aye, her whistle would fetch him back.
Yet I shall go into a mouse

And haste me unto the miller’s house,

There in his corn to have good game

Ere that I be fetched hame.

-Mouse, take heed of a white tib-cat

That never was baulked of mouse or rat,

For I’ll crack thy bones in Our Lady’s name:

Thus shalt thou be fetched hame.
Cunning and art he did not lack;

Aye, her whistle would fetch him back.

—
Hind Horn
In Scotland there was a babie born,

And his name it was called young Hind Horn.

Lilie lal, etc. With a fal lal, etc.
He sent a letter to our king

That he was in love with his daughter Jean.
He’s gien to her a silver wand,

With seven living lavrocks sitting thereon.
She’s gien to him a diamond ring,

With seven bright diamonds set therein.
“When this ring grows pale and wan,

You may know by it my love is gane.
One day as he looked his ring upon,

He saw the diamonds pale and wan.
He left the sea and came to land,

And the first that he met was an old beggar man.
“What news, what news?” said young Hind Horn;

“No news, no news,” said the old beggar man.
“No news,” said the beggar, “no news at a’,

But there’s a wedding in the king’s ha.
“But there is a wedding in the king’s ha,

That has halden these forty days and twa.”
“Will ye lend me your begging coat?

And I’ll lend you my scarlet cloak.
“Will you lend me your beggar’s rung?

And I’ll gie you my steed to ride upon.
“Will you lend me your wig o hair,

To cover mine, because it is fair?”
The auld beggar man was bound for the mill,

But young Hind Horn for the king’s hall.
The auld beggar man was bound for to ride,

But young Hind Horn was bound for the bride.
When he came to the king’s gate,

He sought a drink for Hind Horn’s sake.
The bride came down with a glass of wine,

When he drank out of the glass, and dropt in the ring.
“O got ye this by sea or land?

Or got ye it off a dead man’s hand?”
“I got not it by sea, I got it by land,

And I got it, madam, out of your own hand.”
“O I’ll cast off my gowns of brown,

And beg wi you frae town to town.
“O I’ll cast off my gowns of red,

And I’ll beg wi you to win my bread.”
“Ye needna cast off your gowns of brown,

For I’ll make you lady o many a town.
“Ye needna cast off your gowns of red,

It’s only a sham, the begging o my bread.”
The bridegroom he had wedded the bride,

But young Hind Horn he took her to bed.
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On The Music Box: Shen – Outlines

It seems that my provider Bluehost.com had our dedicated IP number turned off, like forever… making it difficult for people to download the magazine… If you haven’t downloaded The new edition of The Invisible College yet… here is the link!

Beautiful here in Portland… Clouds fleeting overhead (well, starting to loom) coolish. I walked out this morning to the most astounding beauty… the garden almost roaring with delight, the robins flitting and the squirrels playing. We live in paradise, and yes the cup is half full.
On the Menu

Peters’ Picks – Tomorrow Never Knows (From The Las Vegas Cirque De Soliel show)

Fairy Help – The Phouka

Poetry: The Voice of Pierre de Ronsard
Have a beautiful one… if you cannot access the magazine, email: IC at earthrites.org change the at for a @ sign, take out the spaces.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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Peters’ Picks: Tomorrow Never Knows…

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Fairy Help – The Phouka

The Phouka is a friendly being, and often helps the farmer at his work if he is treated well and kindly. One day a farmer’s son was minding cattle in the field when something rushed past him like the wind; but he was not frightened, for he knew it was the Phouka on his way to the old mill by the moat where the fairies met every night. So he called out,” Phouka, Phouka! show me what you are like, and I’ll give you my big coat to keep you warm.” Then a young bull came to him lashing his tail like mad; but Phadrig threw the coat over him, and in a moment he was quiet as a lamb, and told the boy to come to the mill that night when the moon was up, and he would have good luck.
So Phadrig went, but saw nothing except sacks of corn all lying about on the ground, for the men had fallen asleep, and no work was done. Then he lay down also and slept, for he was very tired: and when he woke up early in time morning there was all the meal ground, though certainly the men had not done it, for they still slept. And this happened for three nights, after which Phadrig determined to keep awake and watch.
Now there was an old chest in the mill, and he crept into this to hide, and just looked through the keyhole to see what would happen. And exactly at midnight six little fellows came in, each, carrying a sack of corn upon his back; and after then came an old man in tattered rags of clothes, and he bade them turn the mill, and they turned and turned till all was ground.
Then Phadrig ran to tell his father, and the miller determined to watch, the next night with his son, and both together saw the same thing happen.
“Now,” said the farmer, “I see it is the Phouka’s work, and let him work if it pleases him, for the men are idle and lazy and only sleep. So I’ll pack the whole set off to-morrow, and leave the grinding of the corn to this excellent old Phouka.”
After this the farmer grew so rich that there was no end to his money, for he had no men to pay, and all his corn was ground without his spending a penny. Of course the people wondered much over his riches, but he never told them about the Phouka, or their curiosity would have spoiled the luck.
Now Phadrig went often to the mill and hid in the chest that he might watch the fairies at work; but he had great pity for the poor old Phouka in his tattered clothes, who yet directed everything and had hard work of it sometimes keeping the little Phoukas in order. So Phadrig, out of love and gratitude, bought a blue suit of cloth and silk and laid it one night on the floor of the mill just where the old Phouka always stood to give his orders to the little men, and then he crept into the chest to watch.
“How is this?” said the Phouka when he saw the clothes. “Are these for me? I shall be turned into a fine gentleman.”
And he put them on, and then began to walk up and down admiring himself. But suddenly he remembered the corn and went to grind as usual, then stopped and cried out–”No, no. No more work for me. Fine gentlemen don’t grind corn. I’ll go out and see a little of the world and show my fine clothes.” And he kicked away the old rags into a corner, and went out.
No corn was ground that night, nor the next, nor the next; all the little Phoukas ran away, and not a sound was heard in the mill. Then Phadrig grew very sorry for the loss of his old friend, and used to go out into the fields and call out, “Phouka, Phouka! come back to me. Let me see your face.” But the old Phouka never came back, and all his life long Phadrig never looked on the face of his friend again. However, the farmer had made so much money that he wanted no more help; and he sold the mill, and reared up Phadrig to be a great scholar and a gentleman, who had his own house and land and servants. And in time he married a beautiful lady, so beautiful that the people said she must be daughter to the king of the fairies.
A strange thing happened at the wedding, for when they all stood up to drink the bride’s health, Phadrig saw beside him a golden cup filled with wine. And no one knew how, the golden cup had come to his hand; but Phadrig guessed it was the Phouka’s gift, and he drank the wine without fear and made his bride drink also. And ever after their lives were happy and prosperous, and the golden cup was kept as a treasure in the family, and the descendants of Phadrig have it in their possession to this day.

________
The Voice of Pierre de Ronsard

ODE À CASSANDRE – ODE TO CASSANDRA
Sweetheart let us together go and see

If this morning’s rose which opened up

Her crimson robe to Father Sun,

Has not this even shed the folds

Of her crimson dress and her damask cheek

With its colour so like your own.
Alas! Look – in how short a space

Sweetheart she has upon this place

Alas! Alas! let drop her beauty!

Oh Mother Nature harsh and strong

Since such a flower lasts scarce so long

As from the dawn to eventide.
So hear my words my own sweetheart

While your young days are in full bloom,

Gather the rosebuds of youth today –

Its fresh green newness will not stay –

As with this flower will come old age

To tarnish all your beauty.

—

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose

Qui ce matin avait déclose

Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,

A point perdu cette vesprée

Les plis de sa robe pourprée,

Et son teint au votre pareil.
Las! Voyez comme en peu d’espace,

Mignonne, elle a dessus la place,

Las, las ses beautéz laissé cheoir!

O vrayment marastre Nature,

Puisqu’une telle fleur ne dure

Que du matin jusques au soir!
Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,

Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne

En sa plus verte nouveauté,

Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse:

Comme à ceste fleur, la vieillesse

Fera ternir vostre beauté.

——–
AVANT LE TEMPS TES TEMPES FLEURIRONT –

BEFORE ITS TIME YOUR BROW WILL BE IN BLOOM
‘Before its time your brow will be in bloom,

‘Your end will be defined by too few days,

‘Before the evening falls your day will fade,

‘Betrayed by hope your thoughts will perish soon.
‘Your lines will vanish – I shall not be moved,

‘In your collapse my destiny will hang.

‘For I was born to abuse the poets’ gang

‘And our descendants will but mock your mood.
‘You’ll be the laughing-stock of the common man,

‘You’ll build your castles on the shifting sands,

‘And useless are your paintings in the skies.’
Those were the words of the nymph who drives me mad,

When heaven, witness to the words she said,

With a well-aimed flash sent omens to my eyes.
–
‘Avant le temps tes tempes fleuriront,

‘De peu de jours ta fin sera bornée,

‘Avant le soir se clorra ta journée,

‘Trahis d’espoir tes pensers periront:
‘Sans me flechir tes escrits fletriront,

‘En ton desastre ira ma destinée,

‘Pour abuser les poètes je suis née,

‘De tes souspirs nos neveux se riront.
‘Tu seras fait du vulgaire la fable,

‘Tu bastiras sur l’incertain du sable,

‘Et vainement tu peindras dans les cieux.’
Ainsi disoit la Nymphe qui m’affolle,

Lorsque le ciel, tesmoin de sa parolle,

D’un dextre éclair fut presage à mes yeux.

——-
JE VOUS ENVOIE UN BOUQUET QUE MA MAIN –

I SEND YOU A BOUQUET THAT WITH MY HANDS
I send you a bouquet that with my hands

I have selected from these full-blown flowers:

If they had not been plucked in the evening hours,

Tomorrow they would all lie in the sand.
Let that be an example to you all:

Your charms, although they may be in full flower,

Will very soon be withered, dry and brown,

And like these blossoms, they will shortly fall.
For time speeds onward, time speeds on, my lady,

Alas! it’s we who must speed on, not time,

And soon we’ll be surrendered to the blade:
And these loves we are speaking of, so fine,

There’ll be no news of them when we are the past:

So love me now, so long your beauty lasts.

—
Je vous envoie un bouquet que ma main

Vient de trier de ces fleurs épanouies:

Qui ne les eut à ces vêpres cueillies,

Tombées à terre elles fussent demain.
Cela vous soit un exemple certain

Que vos beautés, bien qu’elles soient fleuries,

En peu de temps seront toutes flétries,

Et, comme fleurs, périront tout soudain.
Le temps s’en va, le temps s’en va ma Dame,

Las! le temps non, mais nous nous en allons,

Et tôt serons étendus sous la lame:
Et des amours desquelles nous parlons,

Quand serons morts, n’en sera plus nouvelle:

Donc, aimez-moi, cependant qu’êtes belle.
(Turner – Queen Mabs’ Cave)

If you haven’t downloaded The new edition of The Invisible College yet… here is the link!

Exciting times here at EarthRites.org. New Magazine, and loads of new music coming up on the radio… look to EarthRites in the next few weeks for tonnes of updates, new features, poetry and the like…
Hope this finds you well.
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
The Links

God Is God

Daniel O’ Rourke

A Visit With Verlaine….

Dania – Foug el nakal

Art: Henry Meynell Rheam
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The Links:

Rise of the Internet Police State

Myth of the Basque Witches

Vatican’s first drug trial

The Return Of Annie Sprinkles!: Dotty-Mouthed

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God Is God (may be a repeat, but I still loves it, I do)

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Daniel O’ Rourke
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, l8l3, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.
“I am often axed to tell it, sir,” said he, ” so that this is not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour’s presence They’d swear at a body a little, to be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end; – and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes ; – and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in the year; – but now it’s another thing: no matter for that, sir, for I’d better be telling you my story.
“Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and. we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen – a lovely young couple they were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can’t remember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did leave it, that’s certain. Well, I thought,. for all that, in myself, I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer what was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenough, and was looking up at the stars and blessing myself – for why? it was Lady-day – I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘ Death alive!’ thought I, ‘ I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.
“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog; – I could never find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my berrin place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagone – when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘ Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘ how do you do?’ ‘ Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I: ‘I hope you’re well ; ‘ wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘ What brings you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘ Nothing at all, sir, says I:’ only I wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘ ‘T is, sir,’ says I : so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. ‘ Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s thought, though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who ‘tends mass well, and never flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the fields – my life for yours,’ says he ; ‘ so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I am afraid,’ says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before ?’ ‘ ‘Pon the honour of a gentleman,’ says he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog – besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.’
It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance – ‘ I thank your honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up be flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up – up – up – God knows how far up he flew. ‘Why, then,’ said I to him – thinking he did not know the right road home – very civilly, because why? – I was in his power entirely;-’ sir,’ says I, ‘ please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.’
” ‘Arrah, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off of a could stone in a bog.’ ‘ Bother you,’ said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. Where in the world are you going,. sir?’ says I to him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘ Be quiet, Dan,’ says he: so I said no more.
“At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way, (drawing the figure thus O~ on the ground with the end of his stick).
“Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘ I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion ‘t was so far.’ ‘ And my lord, sir,’ said I,’ who in the world axed you to fly so far – was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?’
‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’ said he; ‘ I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘ Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I; ‘ is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall off in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits:
you are a vile deceiver, – so you are.’ Not at all, Dan,’ said he: ‘ you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t, then,’ said I. ‘ May be not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘ If you don’t, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ ever to have come along with the likes of you;’ and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.
“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, ‘ Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘ I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year,’ (’twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) ‘and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.’
” ‘Is that all; and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says I. ‘You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hook’d nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.’ ‘Twas all to no manner of use: he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this – sorrow fly away with him I You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing ‘em, and out there walks – who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush.
” ‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘ How do you do?’ ‘ Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’ ‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him told I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon.
” ‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, ‘ you must not stay here.’ ‘ Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘ ’tis much against my will I’m here at all ; but how am I to go back?’ ‘ That’s your business,’ said he, Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says I, ‘ only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘ That’s what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘ Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘ may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodging: I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ‘t is a long way. ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says he; ‘but you ‘d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘ Faith, and with your leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won’t let go ; – so I will.’ ‘ You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed), that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.
“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap.! it came in two. ‘ Good morning to you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand: ‘I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was turning over and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘ God help me,’ says I, ‘but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night: I am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my mouth, when whiz ! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how should they know me? the ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘ The same,’ said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment and, besides, I knew him of ould. ‘Good morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke: how are you in health this morning?’ ‘ Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘ I hope your honour’s the same. I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ says he. You may say that, sir,’ says I. ‘ And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew m&amp; up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. ‘ Dan,’ said he, ‘ I’ll save you: put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘ Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.
“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right’ hand, sticking up out of the water. ‘ Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘ fly to land if you please.’
‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘ for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia.’ To Arabia !’ said I; ‘ that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh I Mr. Goose : why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘ Whist, whist, you fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.’
“Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind: ‘ Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over it,’ said he. ‘We are,’ said I. ‘We are not,’ said he ‘If I dropped you now, you would go splash into the sea.’ ‘ I would not,’ says I: ‘ I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’
” ‘If you must, you must,’ said h
e. ‘ There, take your own way;’ and be opened his claw, and faith he was right – sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcass; and I heard somebody saying – ‘t was a voice I knew too – ‘ Getup, you drunken brute, off of that;’ and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me ; – for, rest her soul though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.
Get up,’ said she again: ‘and of all places in the parish, would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moon, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.”

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A Visit With Verlaine….

ART POÉTIQUE – POETIC ART

(À Charles Morice) (to Charles Morice)
Music: prefer it, everywhere,

And let the medley be uneven:

More vague, more soluble in air,

It strikes no pose, it needs no leaven.
Next, it’s important that you choose

Your words with Error’s benefice:

We love the blurred refrains that fuse

The Pointed with the Imprecise.
This is the veiled yet lovely eye,

This, the broad noonday light that trembles;

Or in less heated autumn sky,

Stars shining in cerulean jumbles.
For it is Nuance we esteem:

Away with colour, only nuance!

For only nuance can affiance

Woodwind to horn and dream to dream.
The cruel wit, the impure laugh,

The murderous barb, keep far from you:

That garlic of the vulgar chef

Brings tears to angels in the blue.
Take eloquence and wring its neck!

And while you’re throttling eloquence,

Knock into Rhyme a bit of sense:

Where will it stop, with none to check?
O who shall hymn the wrongs of Rhyme?

What cloth-eared child or ranting fellow

Forged us this gem not worth a dime,

That to the rasp rings false and hollow?
Music, more music! At all times!

Be yours the verse that soars above,

Descried when fleet-winged souls remove

To other loves, in other climes.
Be yours the verse that boldly scatters

Itself on fretful morning wind,

That smells of thyme and tamarind…

The rest is nothing but belles-lettres.

—

De la musique avant toute chose,

Et pour cela préfère l’Impair

Plus vague et plus soluble dans l’air,

Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.
Il faut aussi que tu n’ailles point

Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise:

Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise

Où l’Indécis au Précis se joint.
C’est des beaux yeux derrière des voiles,

C’est le grand jour tremblant de midi,

C’est, par un ciel d’automne attiédi,

Le bleu fouillis des claires étoiles!
Car nous voulons la Nuance encor,

Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance!

Oh! la nuance seule fiance

Le rêve au rêve et la flûte au cor!
Fuis du plus loin la Pointe assassine,

L’Esprit cruel et le Rire impur,

Qui font pleurer les yeux de l’Azur,

Et tout cet ail de basse cuisine!
Prends l’éloquence et tords-lui son cou!

Tu feras bien, en train d’énergie,

De rendre un peu la Rime assagie.

Si l’on n’y veille, elle ira jusqu’où?
Ô qui dira les torts de la Rime?

Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou

Nous a forgé ce bijou d’un sou

Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime?
De la musique encore et toujours!

Que ton vers soit la chose envolée

Qu’on sent qui fuit d’une âme en allée

Vers d’autres cieux à d’autres amours.
Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure

Éparse au vent crispé du matin

Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym

Et tout le reste est littérature.

_
MON RÊVE FAMILIER – RECURRENT DREAM
I often dream this penetrating dream:

A stranger, yet she is my lover.

She understands me, and each time

Is not the same, nor quite another.
She understands me and my heart,

Lucid for her alone, ceases to grieve.

For she alone can soothe the hurt

Her tears give to my soul relief.
What colour is her hair? I cannot tell.

Her name? Both resonant and gentle

Like those belovèd exiles in the grave.
Her gaze is like the sculpted stone.

Her voice is distant, calm, and grave,

Like those dear voices that have gone.

—

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant

D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,

Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même

Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.
Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur, transparent

Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d’être un problème

Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême

Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.
Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse? – Je l’ignore.

Son nom? Je me souviens qu’il est doux et sonore,

Comme ceux des aimés que la Vie exila.
Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,

Et pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a

L’inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

_
L’HEURE DU BERGER – EVENING STAR

The moon lies red

on fog-shrouded horizons;

under weaving mists

the plain falls in smoky sleep,

frogs cry in shivering reeds.
Waterlilies close

their corollas; far poplars

stand silhouetted,

stiff-close-set, uncertain ghosts;

fireflies seek the shrubberies;
owls wake, soundlessly

labour black air with heavy

pinions; the zenith

fills with hooded lamps. – White,

Venus appears. – It is night.

—

La lune est rouge au brumeux horizon;

Dans un brouillard qui danse la prairie

S’endort fumeuse, et la grenouille crie

Par les joncs verts où circule un frisson;
Les fleurs des eaux referment leurs corolles;

Des peupliers profilent aux lointains,

Droits et serrés, leurs spectres incertains;

Vers les buissons errent les lucioles;
Les chats-huants s’éveillent, et sans bruit

Rament l’air noir avec leurs ailes lourdes,

Et le zénith s’emplit de lueurs sourdes.

Blanche, Vénus émerge, et c’est la Nuit.

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Dania – Foug el nakal (the Music is great, the video a bit daft)

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Check this contributors out: Robert Venosa, Tim Daly, Dr. Con, Uncle Wyrdd, Diane Darling, Mike Crowley, Ovidio Cartagena , Bryan Ward , Rena Jones, Peter Webster, Wendell King,

Ennio Rambo, Kathleen Preising
Download it now!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Dania – Leily (Transglobal Underground Mix)

The Sex Life of the Psychedelic Toad

Poems Of Beauty….Stéphane Mallarmé

Artist: Tadema…. (again!)

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The Links:

Xenophobia: And the hatred that goes with it

Is this REALLY proof that man can see into the future?

US: Data Show War On Drugs Failing As Cocaine Gets Cheaper

DUUUDE…

Wales is also Land Of Our Mothers

Rare skeleton, jewels found in Bolivia pyramid

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Dania – Leily (Transglobal Underground Mix)

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The Sex Life of the Psychedelic Toad

by Paul Rydeen

Many of you are familiar with Bufo Alvarius, the infamous Psychedelic Toad of the Sonoran desert. Episodes of toad-licking teenagers occasionally show up in newspapers, as another generation of thrill-seekers learns of the powerful but short-lived effects of the toad’s venom. This toxin is secreted through glands located on the toad’s neck and feet when agitated; apparently the trait evolved as a deterrence to predators. Though quick acting, the psychedelic may not act fast enough for a coyote or snake to release its prey, but it seems clear enough that the ensuing “trip” would be sufficient warning against future predation. Thus the individual gives his life for the good of the species.
Readers of Wade Davis’ The Serpent and the Rainbow will remember that the venom of the Bufo Marinus, the Sea Toad, is used by Haitian houngans to make zombie poison. The toad is placed in a jar or suitable container with a stinging sea worm; the two battle each other, causing sufficient agitation the toad to produce plenty of the drug for the dark operation. When mixed with just a little venom from the poisonous blowfish – renown in Japanese sushi bars as fugu – the intended victim becomes so completely catatonic that he is usually pronounced dead and buried. One wonders how many unintentional overdoses of this mixture induced actual death in the potential zombie. After a few days, the drug wears off, the zombie is disinterred and rebaptized, and put to work. A steady diet of datura ensures his continued complacency.
Unlike its aquatic cousin, B. Alvarius seems to have only been used recreationaly. Discovered during the height of the hedonistic 1960′s, the venom of the toad was collected and smoked by hippies looking to expand their minds. The toad is easily caught by hand anywhere near the irrigation canals in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona or the Mexican state of Sonora. A little handling is all it takes for the toad to become sufficiently agitated to produce the venom. After carefully scraping the raw poison from its glands, the toad is gently released back into the wild. A few days is usually needed for it to recover from a thorough “milking” such as this.
Unknown to many, however, is the incredible role this toxin plays in the mating cycle of the toad. Though each toad is entirely immune to its own venom, slight enzymatic differences between the sexes means that they are susceptible to their partner’s. During the act of mating, the toads become just as agitated as they would escaping a predator, and release copious quantities of the hallucinogenic drug. The psychedelic is subsequently absorbed through the skin by the other partner, where it has immediate effect. The toads reach climax in a psychedelic frenzy, the libido of each inflamed with the power of the others drug. Intercourse for the toads results in the ultimate mind-blowing orgasm, excellent impetus for the successful propagation of the species. This is the true reason for the folktales of the toad’s aphrodisiac properties.
Tis a joke folks… a joke!

-G

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Poems Of Beauty….Stéphane Mallarmé

To The Sole Concern

To the sole concern in voyaging

Beyond an India dark and splendid

– Let it be time’s message, this greeting

Cape that your stern doubled
As on some low yard plunging

Along with the vessel riding

Skimmed in constant frolicking

A bird bringing fresh tidings
That without the helm flickering

Shrieked in pure monotones

An utterly useless bearing

Night, despair, and precious stones
Reflected by its singing so

To the smile of pale Vasco.

—-
All Summarised The Soul…

All summarised, the soul,

When slowly we breathe it out

In several rings of smoke

By other rings wiped out

Bears witness to some cigar

Burning skilfully while

The ash is separated far

From its bright kiss of fire

So does the choir of romantic art

Fly towards the lips

Exclude from it if you start

The real because it’s cheap

Meaning too precise is sure

To void your dreamy literature.

—
What Silk…
What silk of time’s sweet balm

Where the Chimera tired himself

Is worth the coils and natural cloud

You tend before the mirror’s calm?
The blanks of meditating flags

Stand high along our avenue:

But I’ve your naked tresses too

For burying my contented eyes.
No! The mouth cannot be sure

Of tasting anything in its bite

Unless your princely lover cares
In that mighty brush of hair

To breathe out, like a diamond,

The cry of Glory stifled there.

—-
To Introduce Myself…
To introduce myself to your story

It’s as the frightened hero

If he touched with naked toe

A blade of territory
Prejudicial to glaciers I

Know of no sin’s naivety

Whose loud laugh of victory

You won’t have then denied
Say if I’m not filled with joyousness

Thunder and rubies to the hubs no less

To see in the air this fire is piercing
With royal kingdoms far scattering

The wheel crimson, as if in dying,

Of my chariot’s single evening.

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“We are going to inherit the earth . There is not the slightest doubt about that. The bourgeoisie may blast and burn its own world before it finally leaves the stage of history. We Are not afraid of ruins. We who ploughed the prairies and built the cities can build again, only better next time. We carry a new world, here in our hearts. That world is growing this minute.” —-Durruti

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Just a heads up… The next edition of “The Invisible College” PDF magazine will be released this weekend… Check this contributors out:
Robert Venosa

Tim Daly

Dr. Con

Uncle Wyrdd

Diane Darling

Mike Crowley

Ovidio Cartagena

Bryan Ward

Rena Jones

Peter Webster

Wendell King

Ennio Rambo

Kathleen Preising

Kyle Hailey
Quite the line up, and between 80 &amp; 90 pages…(so far!) Stay Tuned to Turfing for the updates on release times and versions!

—

Radio Free EarthRites is pumping the tunes out… you owe it to yourself to hang and chill a bit with the best in Pirate Radio!

Turn On – Paste Into – Your Internet Radio Player!

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

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio

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http://87.194.36.124:8002/spokenword

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On The Menu:

Anarchist Quotes, Part 2

Mongolian Flying Reindeer

Bebel Gilberto – Winter

Making Magic

Shaman Climbs Up the Sky
Have A Good Evening!
Gwyllm

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Anarchist Quotes, Part 2:
I do not wish to remove from my present prison to a prison a little larger. I wish to break all prisons. –Ralph Waldo Emerson
In a word, we reject all legislation, all authority, and all privileged, licensed, official, and legal influence, even though arising from universal suffrage, convinced that it can turn only to the advantage of a dominant minority of exploiters against the interests of the immense majority in subjection to them. –Mikhail Bakunin, God and the State
Anarchists are opposed to violence; everyone knows that. The main plank of anarchism is the removal of violence from human relations. It is life based on freedom of the individual, without the intervention of the gendarme. For this reason we are the enemies of capitalism which depends on the protection of the gendarme to oblige workers to allow themselves to be exploited–or even to remain idle and go hungry when it is not in the interest of the bosses to exploit them. We are therefore enemies of the State which is the coercive violent organization of society. –Errico Malatesta
When I feed the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist. –Dom Helder Camara, Archbishop of Recife
Workers and their families may starve to death in the New World Order of economic rationality, but diamond necklaces are cheaper in elegant New York shops, thanks to the miracle of the market. –Noam Chomsky
Capitalism can no more be ‘persuaded’ to limit growth than a human being can be ‘persuaded’ to stop breathing. Attempts to ‘green’ capitalism, to make it ‘ecological’, are doomed by the very nature of the system as a system of endless growth. –Murray Bookchin
Only after the last tree has been cut down,

only after the last river has been poisoned,

only after the last fish has been caught,

only then will you realize that money cannot be eaten. –The Cree People

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…Mongolian Flying Reindeer Standing Stone…

Why haven’t the Ethnobotanist jumped on this one? Reindeer transforms into Bird… leaping into sky. Any takers?
CULTURAL HERITAGE OF MONGOLIA

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Bebel Gilberto – Winter

=en_US&fs=1&”>

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Making Magic

By Peter Gorman
from OMNI July 1993

The night air in the backwater lowlands of the Peruvian Amazon was thick with the incessant buzzing of insects. Overhead bats flew, their shapes silhoutted by a half moon rising behind the forest across the Rio Lobo. Though the rainy season had begun, the river was still near the low point of the year, and great gnarled tree trunks, swept from the banks during the last flood season, stood out against the water like monstrous sculptures in the pale light. From beyond the jungle clearing of the tiny Matses Indian puebla of San Juan came the howling of a distant band of monkeys and the melancholy cry of the pheasant-like paujil.
In the camp, a handful of Matses children played our flashlights into the village trees, while their fathers combed the branches and nearby brush, hunting for a dow-kietl, the frog that secretes sapo, a vital element in the Matses pharmacopoeia. (Although the word sapo means “toad” in Spanish, the extract comes from a frog) The Matses limited command of Spanish doesn’t draw a distinction between the two.) The men imitated the frog’s mating call, a low, guttural bark, as they moved, and the women nearby giggled at the sound. I was suprised that the dow-kiet!s didn’t respond.
The Matses are a small, seminomadic, hunting-gathering tribe who live in the remote jungle along the Rio Yavari, on the border of Peru and Brazil. Unlike other tribes in the region, they possess only rudimentary weaving and ceramics skills, they have no formal religion, no ceremony or dance, and they produce nothing for trade. What they do is hunt – with bows and arrows, spears, clubs, and occasionally shotguns when they can get shells. Theirs is the harsh world of the lowland forests and swamps, a world where malaria, yellow fever, and venomous snakes keep mortality rates high. To survive, the matses have become masters of the natural history of the flora and fauna of the region.
They know the habits and cycles of the animals that share their land, they’ve studied the plant life that surrounds them, and they’ve learned to see the jungle as their ally. For the Matses the earth is a benevolent ti-ta, or mother, who provides for all their needs. Neighboring tribes say the Matses can move like the wind and talk with the animals. They say the Matses know the jungle’s secrets. Sapo is one of them.
I had come to Peru to collect dow-kiet! Specimens for researchers at the American Museum of Natural History, for whom I’ve collected Matses artifacts – mostly throwaway things like used leaf baskets and broken arrows – and the Fidia Research Institute for the Neurosciences in Rome. My reports on the uses of sapo had sparked interest and curiosity among scientists who were eager to see a specimen of the frog that produces the unusual material, in part because of the extraodinary experience it produced in me and in part because of my description of it’s myriad of uses. I was eager to see the dow-kiet! As well, because although I’d seen sapo used and had myself, I had never actually seen the frog that produces it.
That Western science look an interest in sapo is encouraging: Until recently, most researchers have dismissed the natural medicines of indigenous groups like the Matses. Fortunately, that attitute is changing, but with the loss of an average of one tribe a year in Amazonia alone – to acculturation, disease, or loss of their forest homes – the plant and animal medicines of these peoples are disappearing faster than they can be studied.
The Matses are one of the tribes currently at risk. During the eight years I’ve been visiting their camps, both missionary and military contact have been steadily increasing, and they’re quickly acculturating to a new lifestyle. Camps that planted no more than two or three crops to supplement their diet of game and wild foods just a few years ago now plant a dozen or more. And where most Matses had only a handful of manufactured things when I first met them – some clothing, a few metal pots, a machete, and perhaps and old shotgun – in some caps the men now work for loggers, and the sound of chain saws fills the air. At San Juan, the most accessible camp on the Lobo, most of the Matses not only have new Western clothing, they have begun to refer to Matses who live deep in the jungle as animales.
This is a very different group from the first Matses I ran into in 1984. It was my second trip to Peruvian Amazonia – I’d fallen in love with the jungle on my first trip – and I was studying food gathering and plant identification with my guide, Moises, a former military man who specialized in jungle survival. We had been working on a small river called the Auchyako for about a week when we ran into local hunters who said they had seen signs that a family of Matses had moved into the area. Moises, excited by the news, said we should make an attempt to meet them.
I was easily sold on the idea: so, hoping they would make contact, we hiked three days into the jungle and made a camp. Two days later, a young Matses hunter carrying a bow and arrows, his mouth tattooed and his face adorned with what looked like cat whiskers, came into our camp and borrowed our gun.
When he returned later in the day, he was carrying two large wounded monkeys in palm-leaf baskets he carried from his forehead with templines. Clinging to his hair was a baby monkey the offspring of one of the adults. The hunter returned our gun, left one of the monkeys, and then disappeared into to forest. We followed him back to his camp and watched from a distance as he gave the remaining adult to a women who began to roast it over an open fire, oblivious to its cries. The baby monkey he brought to a young woman who was nursing a child of her own. Without hesitation, she took the monkey and allowed it to nurse at her free breast.
Those dual images represented a combination of cruelty and compassion I’d never imagined and taught me more about the reaslity of the jungle than anything I had previosuly experienced. More than that, those images compelled me to return to the Matses again and again.
I first met Pablo in 1986 on my third trip to the Amazon. Moises and I had flown over the dense Peruvian jungle from Iquitos to the Rio Lobo, borrowed a small boat, and made our way to his camp. Pablo was Moises closest friend among the Matses, an adept hunter who fiercely resisted acculturation. The villiage, several days upriver and much more remote than San Juan, was home to Pablo, his four wives, their 22 children, and his brother Alberto, who had two wives and six children. Each wife had her own hut, so there were several in the puebla. When we arrived, we were invited to climb the steep and muddy riverbank to the Puebla. There, Pablo’s main wife, Ma Shu, served us a meal of cold roast sloth and yucca.
After dinner, Pablo produced an old brown beer bottle and a hollow reed tube. From the bottle he poured a find green powder into his hand and worked it into one end of the tube. Alberto put the other end of the tube to his nose and Pablo blew the powder into his nostrils. They repeated the process several times. Moises explained that the powder was nu-nu and that Matses hunters used it to have visions
of where to hunt. He said that after the visions they would go to the place they had seen and wait for the animals in the vision to appear. I told Moises he was dreaming, but he insisted that was what happened and pressed Pablo to give me some. A few minutes later, the tube was put to my nose. When The nu-nu hit, it seemed to explode inside my face. It burnt my nose and I began to choke up a wretched green phlegm. But the pain quickly subsided and I closed my eyes. Out of the blackness I began to have visions of animals–tapir, monkey, wild boar–that I saw more clearly than my limited experience with them should have allowed. Then suddenly the boars stampeded in front of me. As I watched them thunder past my field of vision, several began to fall. Moments
later, the visions faded, and a pleasant spit of drunkenness washed over me.
Moises asked what I saw and whether I recognized the place where the vision happened. I told him it looked like the place where we’d eaten lunch earlier in the day. He asked what time it was in the vision, and I told him that the sun was shining but mist still hung from the trees. He put the time between 7 and 8 a.m. Despite my suspicion that I’d’ invented the entire vision, Moises told the Matses what I’d seen.
At dawn the next morning, several of us piled into our boat and headed toward the spot I’d described. As we neared it, I was astounded to hear the thunderous roar of dozens of boars charging across the river in front of us. We jumped out of the boat and chased them. Several ran into a hollow log and Pablo and Alberto blocked the ends with thick branches while me others made nooses out of vines. Holes were cut Into the top of the log with a machete, the nooses slipped through them, and the boars strangled. We returned with seven boars. enough meat for the entire village for four days.
Improbable as it seemed, the scene was close enough to what I’d described that there was no denying the veracity of the vision I later asked how nu-nu worked, and Pablo explained–in a mix of hand signals, Matses, and pigeon Spanish–that nu-nu put you in touch with the animals. He said the animals’ spirits also see the visions and know what awaits them. The morning after the hunt, I was with Pablo, sitting on the bark floor of Ma Shu’s hut, pointing to things and asking what the Matses words for them were. I made notes, writing down the phonetic spelling of things like bow, arrow, spear, and hammock. Pablo was utterly bored with the exercise until I pointed to a small leaf bag that hung over a cooking fire ‘Sapo.” he said, his eyes brightening.
From The bag he pulled a piece of split bamboo, roughly the size and shape of a doctor’s tongue depressor. It was covered with what looked like a thick coat of aging varnish. “Sapo.” He repeated, scraping a little of the material from the stick and mixing it with saliva. When he was finished, it had the consistency and color of green mustard. Then he pulled a smoldering twig from the fire, grabbed my left wrist, and burned the inside of my forearm. I pulled away, but he held my wrist tightly. The burn mark was about the size of a match head. I looked at Moises. “Una nueva medicinn,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ve never seen It.”
Remembering the extraordinary experience I’d had with nu-nu, I let Pablo burn my arm a second time He scraped away the burned skin, then dabbed a little of the sapo onto the exposed areas Instantly my body began to heat up. In seconds I was burning from the Inside and regretted allowing him to give me a medicine I know nothing about. I began to sweat. My blood began to race. My heart pounded. I became acutely aware of every vein and artery in my body and could feel them opening to allow for the fantastic pulse of my blood. My stomach cramped and I vomited violently. I lost control of my bodily functions and began to urinate and defecate. I fell to the ground. Then, unexpectedly, I found myself growling and moving about on all fours. I felt as though animals were passing through me, trying to express themselves through my body. It was a fantastic feeling but it passed quickly, and I could think of nothing but the rushing of my blood, a sensation so intense that I thought my heart would burst. The rushing got faster and faster. I was in agony. I gasped for breath. Slowly, the pounding became steady and rhythmic, and when it finally subsided altogether. I was overcome with exhaustion, I slept where I was. When I awoke a few hours later, I heard voices. But as I came to my senses.. I realized I was alone. I looked around and saw that I had been washed off and put into My hammock. I stood and walked to the edge of the hut’s unwalled platform floor and realized that the conversation I was over hearing was between two of Pablo’s wives who were standing nearly 20 yards away. I didn’t understand their dialect, of course, but I was surprised to even hear them from that distance. I walked to the other side of the platform and looked out into the jungle; its noises, too, were clearer than usual.
And it wasn’t just my hearing that had been improved. My vision, my sense of smell, everything about me felt larger than life, and my body felt immensely strong: That evening I explained what was feeling with hand gestures as much as language. Pablo smiled. “Bi-ram-bo sapo.” he said, “fuerte.” It was good sapo. Strong.
During the next few days, my feeling of strength didn’t diminish; I could go whole days without being hungry or thirsty and move through the jungle for hours without tiring Every sense I possessed was heightened and in tune with the environment, as though the sapo put the rhythm of the jungle into my blood.
I asked Pablo about sapo’s uses and discovered there were several. Among hunters; it was used both to sharpen the senses and as a way to increase stamina during long hunts when carrying food and water was difficult. In large doses, it could make a Matses hunter “invisible” to poor-sighted but acute smelling jungle animals by temporarily eliminating their human odor. As a medicine, sapo also had multiple uses, serving as a tonic to cleanse and strengthen the body and as a toxin purge for those with the grippe.
The women explained that they sometimes used sapo as well. In sparing doses applied to the inside of the wrist it could establish whether a woman was pregnant or not. And during the later stages of pregnancy, it was used to establish the sex and health of a fetus. Interpreting the information relied on an investigation of the urine a woman discharged following the application of the medicine: Cloudiness or other discoloration of the urine and the presence or absence of specks of blood were all evidently indicators of the fetus’s condition. In cases where an unhealthy fetus was discovered, a large dose of sapo applied to the vaginal area was used as an abortive. There was no way for me to verify what they said, though there was no reason to doubt them.
When I asked Pablo how the Matses learned about sapo, he said the dow-kiet! told them. Whether he meant the frog told them through their study of its behavior and habits or whether he believed he was in communication with it on some level, I don’t know.
When I returned to New York, I was surprised to find that my description of nu-nu was old hat to the anthropologists I spoke with at the American Museum of Natural History–several tribes evidently employed similar snuffs for shamanic purposes. What did surprise them, however, was my account of sapo. None of them had ever heard of it, and while several South American tribes have hunting myths about frogs, there were no records of the Matses or any other tribe utilizing a frog’s secretions in the way I described. But while my report was considered interesting, it was also inadequate, as I had no photographs of the frog and no samples of the medicine. The following year I returned to Pablo’s village and discovered that sapo was also used as a shamanic tool. It was spring and the lowlands were flooded. Game had retreated deep into the forest to seasonal lagoons, so hunting was difficult, and even nu-nu failed to produce hunting visions. When I arrived, the Matses hadn’t eaten meat for several days.
Pablo explained that when the river was so high, it was trapping season and that he was about to set a tem-po-te!, tapir trap. He had been giving himself five sapo burns each morning and night for three days in preparation for the task and would continue until the trap was successful. Pablo explained, as well as I could understand it, that sapo, used In such large doses, allowed a hunter to project his animas – his spirit &
#8211; to his trap while he slept. The animas would take the form of a tapir and lure real tapir to it.
The day after we arrived, Moises and I went into the jungle with Pablo and Alberto. We walked for almost two hours before Pablo found a suitable site and began to construct the trap, a simple spring device set between two trees. Pablo called to the tapir while he worked, telling it what a special path he was making. He called to the other animals as well, warning them to stay away, to leave this place for his friend. When he finished the trap, he chewed handfuls of leaves and spit them out across the trip vine, both to cover his human scent and as a signpost so that his animas could find it at night.
As we were returning to the puebla, Alberto explained that traps were only set when there was no other way to get meat, because once a trap was set, no other animals could be hunted. When I asked why, he explained that animals talk to each other and that killing them provokes their spirits, ruining the trap. Seeing that I didn’t understand, Pablo added that when he sent out his animas masquerading as a tapir, the provoked spirits would warn the prey that what they saw was not a real tapir but a Matses animas in disguise. Exceptions to the taboo were large river turtles and sloth-the turtle because it doesn’t bother to talk to other animals and the sloth because it speaks so slowly that by the time it says what’s on its mind, the river has fallen and trapping time is over.
During the next two days. Pablo never returned to the trap, although he continued using massive doses of sapo. But on the morning of the third day, he awakened us before dawn and said he had a nu-nu vision that the trap was about to be sprung. He was insistent that we hurry.
The Matses moved through the forest effortlessly, almost at a jog, and the women chided me for having to struggle to keep up. But as we neared the trap area, everyone stopped and grew absolutely quiet. Pablo’s eyes blazed. “Petro,” he whispered to me excitedly, “tian-te, tem-po-te” A tapir was about to be trapped.
We waited about ten minutes, then heard a sharp snap, followed by an agonizing animal scream. Suddenly, everyone began running toward the trap. The wounded and disoriented tapir crashed through the brush, bellowing in pain, then fell into a stream bed. The women caught up with it, killed it, and began to cut it up. While they did, Pablo brought me to the sprung trap and gave me the bloody spike.
Back in camp we feasted. Afterwards I asked Pablo for a sample of sapo, but he’d been using so much to prepare far the hunt that he had none to give me. So once again I returned to the states with no hard evidence of the existence. of the dow-kiet!
It took two more trips to Peru before finally managed to secure a small amount of sapo, and when I finally did, I gave half of the stick to Charles Myers. the curator of the museum’s Herpetology Department, who passed it on to John Daly at the National Institutes of Health. Having finally produced the material I’d frequently talked about, my reports began to circulate and prompted a letter from Vittorio Erspamer, a pharmacologist who worked with the Fidia Research Institute for the Neurosciences. He wondered whether sapo might not come from one of a number of frogs he’d randomly collected in Amazonia several years earlier. Research done by the chemicals found in their skin had shown that several produced peptides-protiens-that were similar to peptides produced by humans. If it could be shown, he wrote, that one of those frogs was already in use by humans, it would be an important scientific breakthrough. I wrote back and offered to provide him with a specimen if I ever managed to collect one.
A year after Erspamer’s letter reached me, I traveled back to the Lobo with Moises. We hiked across the jungle to Pablo’s, discovered his burned camp, and moved down the river where happily we found him at San Juan. “Malo casadores,” Moises snarled, after we’d been watching the men of San Juan trying to find a dow-kiet! for nearly an hour. “Bad hunters. Everything is changed with them. They’re finished.” He was still grumbling about the state of the Matses when I heard Pablo calling me. “Petro Dow-kiet! Petro?” He was standing on a hill at the back of the puebla with Pa Mi Shua and two of his children. “Bi-ram-bo, Pablo!” I laughed: “Bi-ram-ho dow-kiet!.” Yes, I would like a dow-kiet!
Pablo laughed and began to bark out the frog’s mating call. The other men in the camp stopped their hunting and watched him. Between the guttural barking noises he was making we could hear him berating the frogs for making the hunt so difficult. Pa Mi Shua and his children, walking along side him on the path toward the center of camp, roared his antics.
Suddenly Pablo stood and stiffened. From the grass on the side of the path came the sound Pablo was making. He barked again, and again his call was returned. Then a second frog joined the first, and a third, and suddenly the whole camp seemed to resound with the barking of dow-keit!s. Pablo bent down and picked one up. “Mas dow-kiet!, Petro?” More, Peter? I laughed and said yes. He bent down and picked up another. “Mas? Bastan-te sapo, Petro?” More? Did I want a lot of sapo?
I told him two were enough. and he came into the camp, a frog in each hand. He gave one of them to me. It was beautiful. A little smaller than my palm, it had an extraordinary electric green back, a lightly spotted white underside, and deep black eyes. It grasped my fingers tightly, and in secends could feel my blood begin to heat up as the sapo it was secreting began to seep into the small cuts that covered my hands. I quickly put it down. Pablo giggled with delight, then broke a small branch from a tree and placed both dow-kiet!s on it, hilariously imitating my reaction.
One of the Matses men collected four sticks and stood them in the ground, making a small square. Another pulled apart some palm leaves, stripped out the fibers and rolled them into strings against his leg. He handed four of them to Pablo. who tied one to each of one frog’s legs, then tied the free ends to the four posts, suspending the animal like some strange green trampoline. Once the frog was secure, Pa Mi Shua knelt and gently began to manipulate the frog’s elongated center toe between her fingers, stimulating it to secrete sapo. It was an unexpectedly sexual image, and the men joked about it. Pa Mi Shua blushed and told them to be quiet.
The man who had placed the sticks in the ground disappeared into his hut for a moment, then returned with a piece of split bamboo. He began to scrape the suspended frog’s sides and legs, collecting sapo. When the stick was covered, he dried out the secretions over our tiny kerosene lamp and then gave the stick to me.
That night, both frogs were tied by one leg to a low tree branch to keep them from escaping, and in the morning, the sapo from the second frog was collected. Neither was hurt by the process, and if I hadn’t been taking the two specimens back to the States, they would have been set free.
One of the frogs died shortly after I returned home, and I gave its skeleton along with part of the sapo sample and some photographs to the Natural History museum. The healthy dow-kiet! along with a second sapo sample and similar photos was sent to Erspamer in Rome. Six months later, I received his report. He was very excited.
He identified the dow-kiet! as a phyllomedusa bicolor, a rare arboreal tree frog. The sapo, he said, is a sort of fantastic chemical cocktail with potential medical applications. “No other amphibian skin can compete with it,” he wrote. “Up to seven percent of sapo’s weight is in potently active peptides, easily absorbed through burned, inflamed areas of the skin.” He explained that among the several dozen peptides found in sapo
, seven were bioactive- which meant that each has an affinity and selectivity for binding with receptor sites in humans. (A receptor is like a lock that when opened with the right key–the bioactive peptides-triggers chemical reactions in the body.) The peptide families represented in the dow-kiet! include bradykinins, tachykinins, caerulein, sauvagine, tryptophyllins, dermorphins. and bombesins.
Based on the concentrations and functions of the peptides found in and extracted from the sapo sample I sent, Erspamer was able to account for all of the physical symptoms I described as sapo intoxication. On the peripheral effects. Erspamer repoited, “Caerulein and the equiactive phyllocaerulein display a potent action on the gastrointestinal smooth muscle and gastric and pancreatic secretions. . . . Side effects observed (in volunteer patients with post operative intestinal atony) were nausea, vomiting, facial flush, mild tachycardia (heart palpitations), changes in blood pressure, sweating, abdominal discomfort, and urge for defecation.”
Phyllomedusin, a new peptide of the tachykinin family, strongly affects the salivary glands, tear ducts, intestines, and bowels: and contributed to the violent purging I experienced. Sauvagine causes a long-lasting fall in blood pressure, accompanied by severe tachycardia and stimulation of the adrenal cortex, which contributed to the satiety, heightened sensory perception, and increased stamina I described. Phyllokinin, a new peptide of the bradykinin family, is a potent blood-vessel dilator and accounted for the intense rushing in my blood during the initial phase of sapo intoxication.
“It may be reasonably concluded, Erspamer wrote. “that the intense peripheral cardiovascular and gastrointestinal symptoms observed in the early phase of sapo intoxication may be entirely ascribed to the known bioactive peptides occurring in large amounts in the frog material.”
As to sapo’s central effects, he wrote, “increase in physical strength, enhanced resistance to hunger and thirst, and more generally, increase in the capacity to face stress situations may be explained by the presence of caerulein and sauvagine in the drug. Caerulein in humans produces “an analgesic effect . . . possibly related to release of beta-endorphins .. . in patients suffering from renal colic, rest pain due to peripheral vascular insufficiency (limited circulation), and even cancer pain.” Additionally, “It caused in human volunteers a significant reduction in hunger and food intake.
The sauvagine extracted from sapo was given subcutaneously to rats and caused “release of corticotropin (a hormone that triggers the release of substances from the adrenal gland) from the pituitary with consequent activation of the pituitary-adrenal axis.” This axis is the chemical communication link between the pituitary and the adrenal glands, which controls our flight-or-fight mechanism. The effects on the pituitary-adrenal axis caused by the minimal doses given the laboratory rodents lasted several hours. Erspamer noted that the volume of sauvagine found in the large quantities of sapo I described the Matses using would potentially have a much longer lasting effect on humans and would explain why my feelings of strength and heightened sensory perception after sapo use lasted for several days.
But on the question of the “magical” effects I described in tapir trapping, Erspamer says that “no hallucinations, visions, or magic effects are produced by the known peptide components of sapo.” He added that “the question remains unsolved” whether those effects specifically, the feeling that animals were passing through me and Pablo’s description of animas projection were due to “the sniffing of other drugs having hallucinogenic effects, particularly nu-nu.
With regard to sapo’s uses relating to pregnancy, Erspamer did not address any of the issues but abortion: “Abortion ascribed to sapo may be due either to direct effect of the peptide cocktail on the uterine smooth muscle or, more likely, to the intense pelvic vase dilation and the general violent physical reaction to the drug.
From the medical-potential point of view, Erspamer said several aspects of sapo are of interest. He suggested that two of its peptide, phyllomedusin and phyllokinin have such a pronounced affect on the dilation of blood vessels that they “may increase the permeability of the blood-brain barrier. thus facilitating access to the brain not only of themselves, but also of the other active peptides.” Finding a key to unlocking the secret of passing that barrier is vital to the discovery of how to get medicines to the brain and could one day contribute to the development of treatments for AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and other disorders that threaten the brain.
There is also medicanal potential in dermorphin and deltrorphin, two other peptides found in sapo. Both are potent opioid peptides, almost identical to the beta-endorphins the human body produces to counter pain, and similar to the opiates found in morphine. Because they mirror beta-endorphins, however, sapo’s opioid peptides could potentially function in a more precise manner than opiates. Additionally, while dermorphin and deltorphin are considerably stronger than morphine (18 and 39 times, respectively), because of their similarities to the naturally produced beta-endorphin, the development of tolerance would be considerably lower and withdrawal less severe than to opiates.
Both phyllocaerulein and sauvagine possess medical potential as digestive aids to assist those receiving treatment for cancer. Other areas of potential medical interest in the peptides found in sapo include their possible use as anti-inflammatories, as blood-pressure regulators, and as stimulators of the pituitary gland.
The only report thus far on sapo from John Daly’s team at the National Institutes of Health (written with seven co-authors, including Katharine Mitten, who recently discovered the use of the phyllomedusa bicolor among several tribes closely related to the Matses) was recently published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (November 14, 1992) and concentrates exclusively on a newly discovered peptide found in sapo One of the chemical fractions Daly’s team isolated is a 33-amino-acid-long peptide he calls adenoregulin. which may provide a key to manipulating cellular receptors for adenosine, a fundamental component in all human cell fuel. “Peptides that either enhance or inhibit binding of adenosine analogs to brain adenosine receptors proved to be present in extracts of the dried skin secretion,” Daly wrote. According to an interpretive report on the Daly paper written by lvan Amato and published in Science (November 20. 1992), “Preliminary animal studies by researchers at Warner-Lambert have hinted that those receptors, which are distributed throughout the brains of mammals, could offer a target for treating depression, stroke, seizures, and cognitive loss in ailments such as Alzheimer’s disease.
Of course, medical potential only in frequently results directly in new medicines: Science may not be able to isolate or duplicate the peptides found in sapo or side effects may be discovered that would decrease their value as medicines. But even if sapo’s components do not eventually serve as prototypes for new drugs, sapo will become an important pharmacological tool in the study of receptors and the chemical reactions they trigger. Certainly the study of the unique activity of sapo’s bioactive peptides will advance our knowledge of the human body. Additionally, as possibly the first zoologically derived medicine used by tribals ever investigated for Western medical potential. Sapo will help open the door to a whole new field of investigation.
Unfortunately, while science catches up to the natural medicines of tribal peoples, time is running out. That Pablo was the only man at San
Juan still able to draw a response from the dow-kiet! is an indication that most Matses no longer rely on it. And we have no way of knowing how many other medicines the Matses–and others–once used but have abandoned, which might also have been valuable to us.
We do knew that nearly 80 percent of the world’s population relies on natural medicines for its primary health care. Investigations into a small portion of them have already provided us hundreds of drugs, from aspirin and atropine to digitalis and quinine. Fully 70 percent of the antitumor drugs used in the treatment of cancers are derived from traditional medicines as well. Yet our investigations have hardly begun. Obviously, there is much to learn from peoples like the Matses before acculturation strips them of their knowledge. It remains to be seen whether the discoveries that have begun to be made in connection with sapo spark the interest of investigators while there is still time to learn it.

_________________
Shaman Climbs Up the Sky

Altaic, Siberia

The Shaman mounts a scarecrow in the shape of a goose
above the white sky

beyond the white clouds

above the blue sky

beyond the blue clouds
this bird climbs the sky
. .
The Shaman offers horsemeat to the chief drummer
the master of the six-knob

drum he takes a small piece

then he draws closer he

brings it to me in his hand
when I say “go” he bends

first at the knees when I

say “scat” he takes it all
whatever I give him
. . .

The Shaman fumigates nine robes
gifts no horse can carry

that no man can lift &amp;

robes with triple necks
to look at &amp; to touch

three times: to use this

as a horse blanket:

sweet

prince ulgan
you are my prince

my treasure
you are my joy
. . . .

Invocation to Markut, the bird of heaven
this bird of heaven who keeps

five shapes &amp; powerful

brass claws (the moon
has copper claws the moon’s

beak is made of ice) whose
wings are powerful &amp;

strike the air whose tail
is power &amp; a heavy wind

markut whose left wing

hides the moon whose

right wing hides the sun
who never gets lost who flies

past that-place nothing tires her

who comes toward this-place
in my house I listen

for her singing I wait

the game begins
falling past my right eye landing

here

on my right shoulder
markut is the mother of five eagles

_____
The Shaman reaches the 1st sky
my shadow on the landing

I have climbed to (have reached

this place called sky

&amp; struggled with its summit)

I who stand here

higher than the moon
full moon my shadow

“I’ve concluded that genius is as common as dirt. We suppress our genius only because we haven’t yet figured out how to manage a population of educated men and women. The solution, I think, is simple and glorious. Let them manage themselves.”

– John Taylor Gatto

Here Is Todays’ Entry….
On The Menu:

Anarchy Quotes

William Shatner Remixed

The Appeal Of Anarchy

A Small Visit With Lewis Carroll
Blessings,
Gwyllm

_________
Anarchy Quotes:

It is not enough for a handful of experts to attempt the solution of a problem, to solve it and then to apply it. The restriction of knowledge to an elite group destroys the spirit of society and leads to its intellectual impoverishment.

– Albert Einstein
Anarchy is the true nature of all things. Monarchy, democracy, communism, all useless forms to control the human mind. But a mind cannot be control. It cannot be restrained. It has no boundaries. It has its will. Anarchy is the true nature of all things…

– Alex Battig
the Earth is not dying, it is being murdered and the people murdering it have names and addresses’

– British Ef!, Seen In Diy Culture: Party And Protest In Nineties Britain (Verso)
“You are not a beautiful, unique snowflake… This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

– Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
Anarchy is the basis for the anti-establishmentarian movement. Now it is a fad and a corporate logo. The fundamental basis for the anarchist movement is against everything it is now associated with. Corporations and mass profiterring on a political ideal. Would some body try this with Republicans or Democrats? Hell no! Anarchy appeals to the milk-fed, sheltered Hot-Topic shopping misguided children that shoot up our schools representing something they don’t understand.

– Disestablish This. Non-Commercial, Non-Profit, Just Free Speech.
If I can’t dance, I don’t want your revolution.

– Emma Goldman
People, if given the choice between anarchy and dictatorship, will always choose dictatorship because anarchy is the worst dictatorship of all.

– Eric Sevareid
The police are not here to create disorder, they’re here to preserve disorder”

– Former Chicago Mayor Daley During The Infamous 1968 Convention
If you have an apple, and I have an apple, and we exchange the apples, then you and I will still each have one apple. But if you have an idea, and I have an idea, and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas.

– George Bernard Shaw
If we can’t have revolution, we just might settle for revenge.

– George Oswall
Anyone in a free society where the laws are unjust has an obligation to break the law.

– Henry David Thoreau

_______
William Shatner Remixed

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_______
The Appeal Of Anarchy – John Moore

(gleaned from the writings of John Leland &amp; Starhawk)
Amidst ecstatic visions Anarchy appears. She says:
Whenever you need anything, once a month at the full moon, assemble in the wilderness—in the forest, on the heath, by the seashore—for the state of nature is a community of freedoms. Recognize the imminence of total liberation, and as a sign of your freedom be naked in your rites.
Dance and sing, laugh and play, feast on the fruits of the earth, the delights of my body, make music and love—for all acts of pleasure are my rituals. And I am that which you find in the fulfulment of desire.
Abolish all authority, root out coercion. Share all things in common and decide through consensus. Shake off the character armor which binds and constrains. Let the wilderness energies possess you.
Cast the magic circle, enter the trance of ecstasy, revel in the sorcery which dispels all power. But commit no sacrifices. Repudiate harmfulness, exploitation and slaughter. Rather venerate all creatures and respect them as different but equal to you.
Total transformation thus becomes possible.
This rite shall continue to be celebrated until Anarchy becomes universal.

_______

A Small Visit With Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodson)
HOW DOTH THE LITTLE CROCODILE
How doth the little crocodile

Improve his shining tail,

And pour the waters of the Nile

On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,

How neatly spreads his claws,

And welcomes little fishes in

With gently smiling jaws!”

—

SPEAK ROUGHLY TO YOUR LITTLE BOY
And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line:
Speak roughly to your little boy,

And beat him when he sneezes;

He only does it to annoy,

Because he knows it teases.”
CHORUS

(in which the cook and the baby joined): — –
“Wow! wow! wow!”
While the Duchess sang the second verse of

the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up

and down, and the poor little thing howled so,

that Alice could hardly hear the words: — –
“I speak severely to my boy,

I beat him when he sneezes;

For he can thoroughly enjoy

The pepper when he pleases!”
CHORUS
“Wow! wow! wow!”

—
A BOAT BENEATH A SUNNY SKY
A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July –
Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Pleased a simple tale to hear –
Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream –

Lingering in the golden dream –

Life, what is it but a dream?