Linda Perhacs…

In my usual way… I stumble on a treasure (?) that I missed over the years… Linda Perhacs perhaps is one of those… A chance visit to a website, a name mentioned… a video found. Anyway, it struck me this was a perfect place to feature her music, and this lyric:
Chimacum Rain
And it rains here

Everyday since I came,

and the linen covers rocks

And the green finds everything

Chimacum rain…
In the soar of leaves

And needle tufts and form,

in the grasses and the reeds,

and the spilling over stones

Chimacum rain…
I’m spacing out, I’m seeing silence between leaves,

I’m seeing down, I’m seeing silence that are his

He belongs here, can’t have him

He belongs here, can’t know him

He belongs here
It kinda gets inside you,

the silences I mean

They kinda wrap around you,

and loosen everything

Chimacum rain…

Nothing deep, but enjoyable. Take it for the moment it was, back in 1970. A mixture of psychedelia… a wistful pop. Tasty!

Life in the North West…
Working away on the magazine mostly this weekend, but we went to a nice party for Richard’s 60th birthday over at Trish & Kyles’ on Friday evening. Leanna, Richard’s wife and best friend threw a surprise for him… Kim (sans Victor who was wandering around Seattle for some reason)was there, Cymon of course showed up, and Mary n’ yours truly of course. It was a bit of fun, and we had a very, very pleasant evening. I think Richard had a good time, he had a very, large grin most of the evening…. 80)
In other news, Kyle is heading off to Europa for a month for some biz, and Trish is opening a new business this next week… (more details on this soon!)
Cymon looked great, as did Kim. We missed ya Vic!
Rowan, Ivy and one of their actors, Bailey edited the new film today over at Metro East. I got to sit in on the process for a few minutes. It looks great, and Ivy is a Wiz with Final Cut Pro…
Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:

The Links

Linda Perhacs-Parrallograms Deux

Zen Poetry…

Linda Perhacs – If You Were My Man (Daft Punk’s Electroma)

The Links:

‘Serious’ Pundits and the Death of Informed Democracy

Misreading the mind

Film Review: Jeremy Vaeni’s ‘No One’s Watching’

Practical Values: Works Well With Others

Linda Perhacs-Parrallograms Deux



Zen Poetry…
My daily activities are not unusual,

I’m just naturally in harmony with them.

Grasping nothing, discarding nothing…

Supernatural power and marvelous activity –

Drawing water and carrying firewood.

– Layman Pang-yun (740-808)

The wind has settled, the blossoms have fallen;

Birds sing, the mountains grow dark –

This is the wondrous power of Buddhism.

– Ryokan, (1758-1831)

Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf

The mind of the past is ungraspable;

the mind of the future is ungraspable;

the mind of the present is ungraspable.

– Diamond Sutra

Nothing in the cry

of cicadas suggests they

are about to die

– Basho

Unfettered at last, a traveling monk,

I pass the old Zen barrier.

Mine is a traceless stream-and-cloud life,

Of these mountains, which shall be my home?

– Manan (1591-1654)

My legacy –

What will it be?

Flowers in spring,

The cuckoo in summer,

And the crimson maples

Of autumn …

– Ryokan (1758-1831)

Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water.

The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.

Although its light is wide and great,

The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide.

The whole moon and the entire sky

Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

– Dogen

Those who see worldly life as an obstacle to Dharma

see no Dharma in everyday actions.

They have not yet discovered that

there are no everyday actions outside of Dharma.

– Dogen

It is as though you have an eye

That sees all forms

But does not see itself.

This is how your mind is.

Its light penetrates everywhere

And engulfs everything,

So why does it not know itself?


Who is hearing?

Your physical being doesn’t hear,

Nor does the void.

Then what does?

Strive to find out.

Put aside your rational Intellect,

Give up all techniques.

Just get rid of the notion of self.

– Bassui

What is this mind?

Who is hearing these sounds?

Do not mistake any state for

Self-realization, but continue

To ask yourself even more intensely,

What is it that hears?

– Bassui

Linda Perhacs – If You Were My Man (Daft Punk’s Electroma)


Moments Of Beauty…

Well, isn’t Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else – and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?

-Djuna Barnes

Young Film Makers: Ivy & Rowan

Here is a picture of Ivy & Rowan, heading out to film this past Saturday. Ivy has been partnering with Rowan on the filming and production of his current 5 film schedule… She is well versed in editing, camera work, and production. It has been quite fun watching their assembled cast and crew working as a unit. A pleasure to see new ideas coming to fruition, and with so much energy. They have people working on music, costuming, props, all of the elements. Of course, I serve as a driver, who woulda known? Anyway, we will run trailers as the films come up if I get the go ahead from this dynamic duo…
Lots going on in this entry… a return to form some might say… 8o)

On The Menu:

Return of the Links!


The Maya Creation Story

FALLEN ART feat. Fanfare Ciocarlia – Surrealism with a Gypsy Soundtrack…

Rilke: Winter Afternoons…

Tom Middleton – “Shinkansen” from his most excellent album….
Here is to the high novelty value of the emerging culture, blending with the recent and ancient…
Bright Blessings!

Return Of The Links!:

Guess Which Drug Is Illegal?

From John…. Free Hugs!

Teleportation? Yeah Baby!

Well, like Duh!:72% say church is full of hypocrites

A bit of Greek Beauty… the music of:



The Maya Creation Story

By Gene Fernandez
People of all times and places have sought to understand how the universe came into being and how humanity developed. Each culture provides its own account, unique in detail but embodying universal themes. This similarity of thought among remote civilizations may indicate a form of archetypal intelligence available to any human being with the spiritual capacity to access it, as well as the existence of a very ancient worldwide civilization. The Popol Vuh records one branch of the ancient Central American heritage. Written shortly after the Spanish conquest by a Quiche Indian in his native language but using the Roman alphabet, it was transcribed and translated into Spanish by a Dominican priest in Guatemala at the end of the 17th century. His manuscript, housed in the library of the University of San Carlos, Guatemala City, was brought to the attention of European scholars in 1854, making Maya cosmogony and history available outside Central America. Today researchers can also draw on other documents, inscriptions, and the traditions kept alive by the Maya’s descendants.
Considered from a theosophic perspective, the Maya story of creation reveals its kinship with the worldwide wisdom tradition. It begins with the emptiness of the primordial waters of space, in a darkness which contains no manifested thing. There Hunab Ku, the divine one, the first cause, eternal, unborn, undying, all that was, is, and will be, uncontained, boundless, absolute, awakened from the dreamless sleep of thirteen eternities and emanated out of his own will the Heart of Heaven. A one-dimensional emanation of Hunab Ku’s own divinity, the Heart of Heaven was the recipient of all potentialities. Its only dimension, length, disappeared into the nonexistent breadth and height, and set in motion the process of cosmic evolution in planes of existence so spiritual that only the eye of the mystic could conceive it. Space was not, since there was nothing to contain it. Time was not, since there were no events to divide it. There was only the incomprehensible divinity of Hunab Ku, permeating the Heart of Heaven which slumbered for seven eternities. Then by the power of his word Hunab Ku thrilled the Heart of Heaven. Awakening from its dreamless sleep, Heart of Heaven emanated the God Seven, the cosmic Demiurgus, the creator, one in essence, seven in manifestation. This interpretation of the Maya story brings out its similarities with other ancient accounts, such as the Stanzas of Dzyan, the Kabbala, and the Biblical Genesis. The sacred numbers seven and thirteen relate to the Maya cycles of evolution and to their lunar calendar of 819 days (7 x 13 x 9).
The manifestations of God Seven — Itzamna Kauil, Tzacol, Bitol, Tepeu, Gucumatz, Alom, and Caholom — each had dominion over and were identified with a cosmic dimension, and later with a cardinal direction and color. The seven had the innate compulsion to create, so they took counsel and unanimously decided to say the word that would create the new dimension of breadth. Manifesting through the Heart of Heaven, breadth extended infinitely through the four quarters. Itzamna Kauil, Tepeu, and Gucumatz marked the cosmic center with three green stones. Tzacol sat on a black stone in the west quarter, Bitol on a red stone in the east. Alom sat on a white stone in the north, and Caholom sat on a yellow stone in the south. Each tried in vain to create progeny to help organize and administer his dominion. But not even the three in the center, acting together, could create, and after many independent attempts the seven still remained alone, floating like sparks of darkness in the homogenous chaos of the Heart of Heaven.
Taking counsel at the center, God Seven marveled that each had independently attempted to take the same course of action and failed. They agreed that creating progeny to populate their dominions was the right thing to do. Together they said the word once again: the blue-green light of differentiation filled the chaos and their progeny — the seeds of heaven, matter (earth), and the waters of the underworld — became manifest. All things were confounded within the two-dimensional universe, the Cha-Chan (low-down heavens), where generation after generation of denizens, the seeds of worlds-to-be, lived and had their being.
At that moment of creation, God Seven knew that any act of creation could be realized only if the seven were together with absolute concordance of all parts. This creative act of God Seven started cosmic evolution: the ethereal differentiated into substances, each attracted to and attracting its opposite, merging into each other and modifying its own essence into a duality that completely transformed its forces into something new which balanced its own innate characteristic. Each was akin to its own substance, the spiritual never changing its divinity, the ethereal becoming ether, the material becoming matter. The Cha-Chan was then a two-dimensional ethereal world. Generation after generation of denizens populated the intermingled two worlds whose opened portals linked them in a harmonious duality: at one end the spiritual world of the creators, and at the other the dark waters of Xibalba, the Underworld.
Human evolution in the Popol Vuh stems from the Regents Ixpiyacoc and Ixmucane, the Supreme Pair, grandparents of the Maya as well as of humanity as a whole. Ixmucane was the mother of the Ahpu twins, One Hunahpu and Seven Hunahpu, who were each one and seven: three male/female duads and one unity. Together the twins represented the highest qualities and aspirations of their world. They had all the knowledge accumulated by their race, but were devoid of malice and unaware of their own powers. Not knowing evil, their actions were completely innocent and their pleasure was to play ball, the ancient Maya Game. On one level the ball game is an allegory for the movements of the celestial bodies. Perhaps this is why they could play the game in any combination of seven, up to three on one side and four on the other, representing the five closest planets plus the sun and moon, depending on their position in the night sky.
Xibalba, the Underworld, was ruled by Lords who embodied very different knowledge and values. They were upset with the noise of the ball game, so they issued an invitation to the boys to play a game against them in the bowels of the Underworld, with the intention of killing them. The boys politely accepted. After an arduous trip to Xibalba, the twins were asked their names, which they politely gave the Lords. The Maya believe that once someone knows your name, he knows you and your thoughts. This allowed the Lords to victimize the boys with many trials and humiliations before the ball game itself which, of course, was rigged in favor of the Lords. After losing the game, the twins were decapitated and their bodies buried under the surface of the ball court, except for the head of One Hunahpu which was hung on a calabash tree at the entrance of Xibalba as a warning. The story of these first twins reveals the failure of purely spiritual beings to bring their evolution to more material levels. They would need a sphere full of desires and free will to continue their slow descent on the downward arc of evolution, as the next story in the Popol Vuh, concerning the hero twins Hunahpu and Ixbalamque, seems to indicate.
After the head of One Hunahpu was hung on the calabash tree, Blood Woman, the virgin daughter of one of the Lords of Xibalba, heard the story and was curious about the skull. One day she wandered around the tree and tried to touch the skull, which spat on her hand. Thus, without her knowledge, she became pregnant. As time went by, her pregnancy became obvious, so her father questioned her angrily, fearing dishonor for him and his family. She truthfully answered that she had been with no man and cried her innocence in vain. Maya social customs were very strict in regard to sexual conduct; her father ordered two of his servants to take her into the woods and bring back her heart in a container. The
servants took her to the edge of Xibalba, but decided to let her go. They put a red fruit and red sap in the container and took it to their master instead.
Blood Woman now knew that One Hunahpu was the father of her children, and she went to his home and pleaded with his mother Ixmucane, explaining that she was carrying her grandchildren. Ixmucane did not believe her, but finally accepted her as the household servant, giving her the most miserable tasks to do until she bore male twins, Hunahpu and Ixbalamque. The grandmother rejoiced in the twins and tried to protect them as they grew into youngsters with exceptional powers. She hid the ballgame gear that had belonged to their father and uncle because she blamed the game for their early demise.
The hero twins, however, were not as innocent as their father. They had acquired some of the cunning qualities of the Underworld through their mother’s line, while retaining their father’s and uncle’s power and knowledge, somewhat magnified by curiosity. Known for their intelligence and heroic virtues, they performed many acts for the benefit of the Cha-Chan, their imperfect world of chaos. For example, they separated the future humanity from the monkeys by sending their own half-brothers into the trees. They punished Itzam Ye (Venus), a boisterous bird with bright plumage who committed the sin of pride by boasting that he was the Sun. They killed Itzam Ye’s two sons who were wreaking havoc in the world of matter by “moving and squashing mountains.” They revived the 400 boys and set them in the sky as the Pleiades. Finally they discovered their father’s ballgame gear and played noisily, moving celestial bodies to their proper places, the ball game being an allegory for these movements.

Hunahpu shoots Itzam-Yeh (from a Maya vase painting)
The Lords of Xibalba were disturbed by the noise, as they had been before, and invited the hero twins to the Underworld for a game in which the winners would take all and the losers would lose their lives. But these were not the innocent creatures who had gone before them; they were successful in avoiding all the traps that the Xibalbans prepared for them before the game. During the game itself, after solving many schemes and enduring the Lords’ bad calls, they seemed to give up. Convincing the Lords that the only way to kill them was by grinding their bones and throwing the powder into the river, they held hands and jumped into a fire. The Lords pulled out their bones, ground them up, and threw the fine grains into the river. From the powdered bone emerged a pair of catfish — perhaps a suggestion that all life on earth started in water. Following the path of evolution, eventually the catfish were transformed into two small boys who became performing magicians.
The Lords of Xibalba heard about the tricks performed by the youngsters and invited them to the Underworld for their entertainment. They urged the youngsters to perform their most difficult feats: after a house was burned with one of them inside, it suddenly appeared as if nothing had happened. Then the youngsters, seeming eager to please the Lords, did the following: one of them cut the other in pieces and threw the parts into the air, where they disappeared. After a long pause the twin materialized unharmed, to the amazement of the Lords. The principal Lord, wishing to show off his daring in front of his vassals, begged the twins to perform the trick on him. The twins agreed most willingly. After dismembering the Lord, they did the same with the other Lords, but none returned alive after their limbs and bodies were thrown into the air. After thus defeating them, the twins put several conditions on the return of the Lords, which were irrevocably accepted. The twins returned the Lords unharmed, and all agreed to many restrictions, such as no longer intentionally harming other beings, although they were allowed random acts such as storms, famine, and floods, but only impersonally and when absolutely necessary. The Lords also promised to live in the Underworld without ever stepping on the earth’s surface.
The twins ordered the Lords to reveal the burial site of their father and uncle so that they could bring them back to life. The Lords revealed that they were buried under the floor of the ball court, which by extension represents the earth’s surface. The boys exhumed the corpses and prepared a magic ritual that brought both of them back to life. At this point there is a significant event: the twins asked their father and uncle the names of various parts of the body, and they could not identify some of them. This passage seems to indicate that they were from a former race and that even their physical forms were different, perhaps lacking some of the physical or mental capacities that had evolved since their demise. At this point the hero twins decided that their ancestors were not fit to live in the current world, but being deities of their own race, they were reburied with great respect, and the twins built a temple so they could be properly worshipped.
As soon as the temple was completed on the floor of the ball court, the Tree of the World erupted from the bowels of Xibalba, breaking through the ball court floor, pushing Xibalba down with its roots, pushing the sky above the world of matter with its branches, and leaving the world of matter between the Underworld and the Heavens. Cha-Chan, the flat heavens, was no more, as the third dimension was born from that creation. Now there were different regions — spiritual, material, and underworld — connected only through the World Tree whose roots are in the Underworld, its branches in the world of matter, and its crown in the spiritual realm of the Heavens. The ancestral twin One Hunahpu ascended to become the Sun, while his brother Seven Hunahpu became the Moon.

FALLEN ART feat. Fanfare Ciocarlia


Rilke: Winter Afternoons…

Going Blind
She sat just like the others at the table.

But on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup

a little differently as she picked it up.

She smiled once. It was almost painful.
And when they finished and it was time to stand

and slowly, as chance selected them, they left

and moved through many rooms (they talked and laughed),

I saw her. She was moving far behind
the others, absorbed, like someone who will soon

have to sing before a large assembly;

upon her eyes, which were radiant with joy,

light played as on the surface of a pool.
She followed slowly, taking a long time,

as though there were some obstacle in the way;

and yet: as though, once it was overcome,

she would be beyond all walking, and would fly.


Night. O you whose countenance, dissolved

in deepness, hovers above my face.

You who are the heaviest counterweight

to my astounding contemplation.
Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes,

but in itself strong;

inexhaustible creation, dominant,

enduring beyond the earth’s endurance;
Night, full of newly created stars that leave

trails of fire streaming from their seams

as they soar in inaudible adventure

through interstellar space:
how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness,

I appear minute!—

Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth,

I dare to be in you.

How my body blooms from every vein

more fragrantly, since you appeard to me;

look, I walk slimmer now and straighter,

and all you do is wait-:who are you then?
Look: I feel how I’m moving away,

how I’m shedding my old life, leaf by leaf.

Only your smile spreads like sheer stars

over you and, soon now, over me.
Whatever shines through my childhood years

still nameless and gleaming like water,

I will name after you at the altar,

which is blazing brightly from your hair

and braided gently with your breasts.

What Survives
Who says that all must vanish?

Who knows, perhaps the flight

of the bird you wound remains,

and perhaps flowers survive

caresses in us, in their ground.
It isn’t the gesture that lasts,

but it dresses you again in gold

armor -from breast to knees-

and the battle was so pure

an Angel wears it after you.

Tom Middleton – “Shinkansen”



“The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared most, to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn’t see, to be high, live low, stay young forever — in short, to be the bohemian.”

-Thomas Wolfe

One Small Act – For Milton….

Venis desde muy lejos mas esta lejania

que es para vuestra sangre que canta sin fronteras?

La necesaria muerte os nombra cada dia

no importa en que ciudades, campos o carreteras.
De este pais, del otro, del grande, del pequenyo

del que apenas se el mapa da un color desvaido

con las mismas raices que tiene un mismo suenyo

sencillamente anonimos y hablando habeis venido
No conoceis siquiera ni el color de los muros

que vuestra infranqueable compromiso amuralla

La tierra que os entierra la defendeis, seguros

a tiros con la muerte vestida de batalla.
Quedad que asi lo quieren los arboles, los llanos

las minimas partidas de luz que reanima

un solo sentimiento que el mar sacude: Hermanos!

Madrid con vuestro nombre se agranda y se ilumina.

-Rafael Alberti
In Translation:
You come from very far away.. But this distance,

What is it for you blood which sings without borders?

Necessary death names you each day,

no matter in which cities, fields, or highways.
From this country, from the other, from the large one, from the small one,

from the country to which the map barely gives its faded color,

with the same roots, sharing the same dream,

so simply anonymous and speaking out you have come.
You do not even know the color of the wall

that your insurmountable commitment fortifies

You defend the earth that buries you, secure

in a shoot out with death, dressed for battle.
Stay; this is how the trees, the plains,

and the smallest particles of light would want it – reviving

a single feeling that the sea tosses forth:Brothers!

Madrid, with your name, shines with greatness.
Rafael Alberti (trans. by V Waddick)

Milton Wolff died this week. You probably have no idea who he was, or what he did… If there was ever a heroic personality, I think Milton might qualify…
From Brooklyn, at the age of 22, he went to Spain to fight for the Republic, and was the last commander of The Lincoln Brigade… at the age of 23. Milton claimed he only got the job because of two causes… Everyone above him had rotten luck and ended up being killed by the fascist. He also had a bull horn of a voice, that when he was shouting, could be heard over the din of battle. A commander was made. He led the brigade to their final battles before disbandment in 1938.
He was hounded for many years after by the right wing and the red hunters of the 40′s-50′s along with the other members of the Brigade that had come out of Spain, but he survived, and died at the age of 92 this week.
There is going to be a statue dedicated to the American Brigades at the end of March 2008 in San Francisco. Milton knew before he died that he would not be there. I pray some of you who are in the Bay Area would attend, and lay flowers to his memory, and for the others who gave so much to preserve liberty. One small act….
Here is to Milton, and to all the members of the Foreign Brigades….
Bright Blessings,

(Milton Wolff – Center)

(These are excerpts from Milton’s writings about the Spanish Civil War)
Excerpts from Another Hill
THEY CAME OFF THE SLOPE onto a dirt road, white in the light of the stars and level, and after the hours of climbing, it was like flying. The stars were close and moved with them, and Mitch thought they looked bigger and softer than he had ever seen them. Bigger than they had seemed in the night skies of the Alleghenies, where they had bristled like spikes of blue ice. He silently thanked President Roosevelt for the CCC’s where forestry in the Allegheny Mountains had conditioned him for the Pyrenees, though in 1933 he hadn’t known it would. Neither had FDR, who along with France’s Leon Blum and England’s Neville Chamberlain had closed the border and embargoed Republican Spain. Mitch’s passport, like those of all the others, was stamped NOT VALID FOR TRAVEL IN SPAIN. (p. 5)

Leo was conscious of the wetness between his legs and the warm lumps there. He had shitted himself and this gave him comfort. It took him back to his childhood, to his mama, to a warm bed in a warm room full of warm smells and the comforting warmth of shit between his legs.

He began to relax, the sun on his back easing the tension of his muscles. He heard the bullets whip overhead, but now he listened easily to the sounds around him. He heard a machine gun firing from behind, and every so often Murray would fire a round and then he heard the pull and slam of the bolt. He thought he heard the spent cartridges fall into the stubble. He was so close to the ground, almost part of it; his muscles, nerves, brain all gone limp and washed into the bittersweet smell of earth. (pp. 46-7)

Milton & Ernest Hemingway

“Something’s afoot,” Rolfe announced. He nodded toward the open door of the bathroom. “Who’s in there?”

“Eulalia, the gal who was with you and those other guys at Chicote the other night. It’s all right. She can’t hear and she doesn’t understand a word – well, not quite – of English.”

“Hemingway’s girl. He let you walk away with her.”

“He did?” Well, if he did, thank him for me; tell him it’s the best thing he’s done for La Causa as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’ll tell him,” Eddie laughed. “But there’s nothing else I can tell you except to get down to the Plaza de los Torres and grab a truck.”

“How much time?”

“You’re late now. Kiss her goodbye for me.” As he was leaving, he called over his shoulder, “The rent’s been taken care of.” (p. 59)

“Comrade Rogin.” He began slowly and calmly, but his tone sharpened and became more penetrating as he ticked off his points. “The penalty for desertion under fire is death. The penalty for dealing in the black market is death. The penalty for aiding and abetting in desertion is death. The penalty for buying and selling forged passports is death.” He had reached the extreme range of intensity in his voice before he paused. He let it sink in.

Leo stared at him, at the handsome face with planes that went slightly flat under the cheekbones, flat lips under a strong nose that also tended to flatten out, the elongated brown eyes staring intently at him.

Leo was incredulous. “Death?”

“Firing squad,” Serrota snapped.

Leo winced. “Oh, no. No, I’m a volunteer… a … a Communist. That’s ridiculous. No, you can’t. You don’t have to stare at me like that. I said I’m willing – What do you mean? What do you want?”

“We want you to realize the seriousness of your actions,” the man in the middle said.

“I do. I said I did. What more -”

He stopped as one of the men got up and went to the door. The man opened it and beckoned, and in came Sebastian, smiling, between two guards. A well-dressed civilian followed behind.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Leo forced a smile. “I’m in a little trouble -”

“I can see,” Sebastian used the English he had picked up from his customers. “I can see. And you want me in it for company, no?” (pp. 135-6)

“Hey Mitch! Hey, what happened?”

“Fuckin’ mud!” Mitch bent to scan his face. “Leo! What the hell are you doing here? Let me in out of this fuckin’ rain. When’d you get back? How the hell are you? This your hole?”

Mitch squirmed, fishing under his cape, and came out with a pipe which he stuffed from a Bull Durham sack and lit with a machero, sparks spraying in every direction.

“Goddamned dehydrated horseshit!” he cursed, pulling in sunken cheeks, the white of his teeth flashing as he drew his lips back with each puff.

Good Christ, the kid from Bensonhurst, Leo though, looks like a cadaver, a pirate, a roaring, fire-spouting dragon. But Leo was glad to see one of the men he had known from the bucolic days in Capestan here on this muddy plain somewhere near Huesca, wherever that was. He avoided Mitch’s questions and repeated his own instead: “What happened to Lyons? I saw you put him in the ambulance -”

“He had an accident, but – Oh, hell, everyone will know by morning if they don’t already. The stupid bastard was cleaning his pistol… a little bit of a thing… it went off… and powie! a neat little hole in his foot.”

In the dark Leo thought he saw a smile on Mitch’s face. “Powie!” Mitch repeated. “That sonofabitch has more bad luck than anyone I know.”

“Bad luck, what bad luck?”

“Aaagh!” Mitch said. “He’s been bucking for battalion commander ever since Tarazona. He finally gets it when Amlie chickens out at Belchite, and before he can take us into action, powie! Tough shit.”

Crowded and huddled as they were, they warmed the space under the poncho. The stink of mud that Castle had brought in combined with the smell of wet wool and the sharp reek of burning tobacco. They were silent for a moment and then Mitch asked again, “When’d you get back?”

“As soon as I got out of the hospital.” Leo wanted to bring the talk back to Lyons, away from himself. …

“Just back, huh?” Mitch leaned back. Leo could feel the wetness coming through the poncho where his humped shoulders pushed against it. “You got a ride out of Bruneté, didn’t you? That was in July. This is September or October, shit, I don’t know which. So where’ve you been all this time? What in hell’d you come back for?”

“What d’you mean? I was in the hospital. I was sick. You’re not spreading that rumor too?”

“No, I ain’t spreading nothing. I just listen.” Mitch twisted to a crouch in order to crawl out of the pup tent. “They sent me to a hospital too, only I didn’t go until the shooting was over. I came back the next day.” (pp. 104-5)

Poetry Of The Spanish Civil War:

Load upon load of bomb and shell

Shakes down the brick and stone and dust,

But what does all this ruin spell

When only brick and stone are crushed?

Beneath your storm of steel the town

Shivers, and sinks slowly down,

And you believe that hearts lie deep

With homes under the rubble heap!

Your loss is greater than your gain;

Men whose homes are here no longer

Spread the fever of their anger

Through the length and breadth of Spain.

A million hearts you have made stronger,

You have armed a million men.

What you destroy, shatter burn,

Are not the things that in their turn

Will strike you and your cannons dumb,

Is not the spirit in whose name

We built an army, and defied

Your steel, your thunder and your flame:

These cannot die till we have died.

You understand so little. You

Have more than walls to batter through –


Such as your brutish heroes never knew

the way to overcome.
Miles Tomalin

Instructions From England
Note nothing of why or how, enquire

no deeper than you need

into what set these veins on fire,

note simply that they bleed.
Spain fought before and fights again,

better no question why;

note churches burned and popes in pain

but not the men who die.
Valentine Ackland

Bombing Casualties: Spain
Dolls’ faces are rosier but these were children

their eyes not glass but gleaming gristle

dark lenses in whose quicksilvery glances

the sunlight quivered. These blenched lips

were warm once and bright with blood

but blood

held in a moist bleb of flesh

not spilt and spatter’d in touseled hair.
In these shadowy tresses

red petals did not always

thus clot and blacken to a scar.
These are dead faces:

wasps’ nests are not more wanly waxen

wood embers not so grely ashen.
They are laid out in ranks

like paper lanterns that have fallen

after a night of riot

extinct in the dry morning air.
Herbert Read

A Song for the Spanish Anarchists
The golden lemon is not made

but grows on a green tree:

A strong man and his crystal eyes

is a man born free.
The oxen pass under the yoke

and the blind are led at will:

But a man born free has a path of his own

and a house on the hill
And man are men who till the land

and women are women who veave:

Fity men own the lemon grove

and no man is a slave.
Herbert Read


A Winter’s Afternoon…

In any circumstance good or bad, abandon

All hope from Buddhas and give up

All fears of suffering in Samsara.

Recognize that hope and fear are the

Magical display of your own mind

Of Primordial Purity.

Remain in the state where there is neither

Perceiver nor object of perception.

Let go into the immaculate space

Of Great Perfection beyond

Meditation or distractive disturbance.

– Tibetan Scroll
In Memory of Anna Marly…..

Leonard Cohen – Performing Anna Marlys’ ‘The Partisan”


I came in from working all day in the cold, ear-ache and throat working overtime, but it was glorious, Beautiful Sun, and a gentle North West breeze… I will take the physical bs for the beauty…
Morgan stopped by our work-site, he was in a fine mood, back from visiting his lady friend back in Vermont and Maine….
This edition was brought about by Lo talking about Leonard Cohen the other day…. So without further ado….
On The Menu:

Zen Quotes

Leonard Cohen – The Gypsy Wife

Poetry: Leonard Cohen…

Assorted Images… Songs… Poems…

Zen Quotes:
The clouds of sunset

Gather in the western sky,

And over the silent silvery Han

Rises a white jade moon.

Not often does life

Bring such beauty.

Where shall I see the moon

Next year?

– Su T’ung-Po (1037-1101)

The Way is vast and without favor.

The all-empty Tao is profound.

With an empty heart,

Its nature is easily learned,

Though its power encompasses the cosmos.

With its wisdom one may discern

Life’s great mysteries,

So that the heart may becomes pure

As the throne of the immortals.

– Loy Ching-Yuen (1873-1960)

The wind is the breath of heaven and earth.

Into every corner it unfolds and reaches;

Without choosing between high or low,

Exalted or humble, it touches everywhere.

– Song Yu (290-223 BCE)

Listening to Snow

Cold night, no wind, bamboo making noises,

Noises far apart, now bunched together,

Filtering the pine-flanked lattice.

Listening with ears is less fine

Than listening with the mind.

Beside the lamp I lay

Aside the half scroll of sutra

– Daito

Where subject and object are realized

As a single sphere

Happiness and sorrow mingle as one

Whatever circumstances I encounter,

I am free in the blissful realm

Of self-awakening Wisdom

– Milarepa

There is no help in changing

Your environment.

The obstacle is the mind,

Which must be overcome,

Whether at home or in the forest.

If you can do it in the forest,

Why not in the home?

Therefore, why change the environment?

– Ramana Maharshi

Evening mountains veiled in somber mist,

One path entering the wooded hill:

The monk has gone off, locking his pine door.

From a bamboo pipe a lonely trickle of water flows.

– Ishikawa Jozan (1583-1672)

Leonard Cohen – The Gypsy Wife


Poetry: Leonard Cohen

Waiting for Marianne from “Flowers for Hitler”
I have lost a telephone

with your smell in it
I am living beside the radio

all the stations at once

but I pick out a Polish lullaby

I pick it out of the static

it fades I wait I keep the beat

it comes back almost alseep
Did you take the telephone

knowing I’d sniff it immoderately

maybe heat up the plastic

to get all the crumbs of your breath
and if you won’t come back

how will you phone to say

you won’t come back

so that I could at least argue

Leonard Cohen – A Thousand kisses deep


Millennium from “Flowers for Hitler”
This could be my little

book about love

if I wrote it–

but my good demon said:

‘Lay off documents!’

Everybody was watching me

burn my books–

I swung my liberty torch

happy as a gestapo brute;

the only thing I wanted to save

was a scar

a burn or two–

but my good demon said:

‘Lay off documents!

The fire’s not important!’

The pile was safely blazing.

I went home to take a bath.

I phoned my grandmother.

She is suffering from arthritis.

‘Keep well,’ I said, ‘don’t mind the pain.’

‘You neither,’ she said.

Hours later I wondered

did she mean

don’t mind my pain

or don’t mind her pain?

Whereupon my good demon said:

‘Is that all you can do?’

Well was it?

Was it all I could do?

There was the old lady

eating alone, thinking about

Prince Albert, Flanders Field,

Kishenev, her fingers too sore

for TV knobs;

but how could I get there ?

The books were gone

my address lists–

My good demon said again:

‘Lay off documents!

You know how to get there!’

And suddenly I did!

I remembered it from memory!

I found her

pouring over the royal family tree,


I almost said,

‘you’ve got it upside down–’

‘Take a look,’ she said,

‘it only goes to George V.’

‘That’s far enough

you sweet old blood!’

‘You’re right!’ she sang

and burned the

London Illustrated Souvenir

I did not understand

the day it was

till I looked outside

and saw a fire in every

window on the street

and crowds of humans

crazy to talk

and cats and dogs and birds

smiling at each other!

Leonard Cohen – If it be your will


Story Of Isaac
The door it opened slowly,

my father he came in,

I was nine years old.

And he stood so tall above me,

his blue eyes they were shining

and his voice was very cold.

He said, “I’ve had a vision

and you know I’m strong and holy,

I must do what I’ve been told.”

So he started up the mountain,

I was running, he was walking,

and his axe was made of gold.

Well, the trees they got much smaller,

the lake a lady’s mirror,

we stopped to drink some wine.

Then he threw the bottle over.

Broke a minute later

and he put his hand on mine.

Thought I saw an eagle

but it might have been a vulture,

I never could decide.

Then my father built an altar,

he looked once behind his shoulder,

he knew I would not hide.

You who build these altars now

to sacrifice these children,

you must not do it anymore.

A scheme is not a vision

and you never have been tempted

by a demon or a god.

You who stand above them now,

your hatchets blunt and bloody,

you were not there before,

when I lay upon a mountain

and my father’s hand was trembling

with the beauty of the word.

And if you call me brother now,

forgive me if I inquire,

“Just according to whose plan?”

When it all comes down to dust

I will kill you if I must,

I will help you if I can.

When it all comes down to dust

I will help you if I must,

I will kill you if I can.

And mercy on our uniform,

man of peace or man of war,

the peacock spreads his fan.


When Helen Lived…

The problem is, if god is dead, then you lose the most important word in your language and you will need a substitute. God was one end, one extreme, and when one extreme disappears from your mental vision the necessary and inevitable is that you will fall to the other extreme, and that is what has happened… Instead of god, fuck has become the most important word in our language.—Osho, Strange Consequences

I awoke this morning at 4:20… 80) I know, I know…) wrapped in a dream, no a vision. Ever woken up to find yourself in a natural altered state? Hard to describe, this many hours on, but it was in the middle of a toss of I-Ching coins, with the universe spinning around within a chamber filled with beings. I woke up, promised myself I would remember everything, and I did, until I awoke from another dream where I was in a hotel in Northern Pakistan, holding a conversation with a Sufi master disguised as an inn-keeper one moment, and then various other characters following.. Ah… sleeping… not as safe or somber as one would expect. I found that a couple of hours having such altered mindscapes reveals the multiplicity of accessible states. You don’t need drugs, meditation, or any technique except what is already there inside awaiting to be revealed…
Editing the next issue of The Invisible College at this point, and getting closer, yes…. closer.
Warm Regards,
On The Menu:

Quotes: Osho…

The MaryJane Links…

Michael Stearns – Planetary Unfolding

Coyote A Chippewa Legend

Poetry: William Butler Yeats For A Mid-Week Read…

Art: Helen Of Troy…

The MaryJane Links…
Landlords Of Medical Cannabis Centers Threatened With Real Estate Forfeiture

Woman’s creative cannabis concealment causes concern during arrest

Minneapolis officers raid innocent family’s home, trade fire with frightened dad; no injuries



“Experience life in all possible ways –

good-bad, bitter-sweet, dark-light,

summer-winter. Experience all the dualities.

Don’t be afraid of experience, because

the more experience you have, the more

mature you become.”



Coyote A Chippewa Legend
Coyote was walking along a lake and saw a flock of ducks, which put him in the mood for a good duck dinner. So he stuffed a bag full of grass and walked past the ducks, stepping lively and singing a catchy tune.
“Where are you going?” asked one of the ducks.
“I am going to a circle,” replied Coyote.
“What’s in the bag?” asked the duck.
“Songs that I am bringing to the circle,” replied Coyote.
“Oh, please sing your songs for us,” the ducks all said.
“I’m very busy”
“Please, please, please, please ….”
“I’m running late …”
“Please, please, please, please….”
“Oh, alright. I’ll sing a song for you, but I need your help. All of you stand in three lines. The fattest ones in the front, those in the middle who are neither fat nor thin, and the thin ones in back. All of you close your eyes and dance and sing as loud as you can. Don’t anyone open your eyes or stop singing, because my songs are very powerful and if you do that you may go blind! Is everyone ready?”
“We are!” replied the ducks, and they fell into lines and began dancing and singing along with Coyote’s tune.
Coyote moved up and down the line, thumping the ducks on the head and stuffing them into his bag. The ducks were singing and dancing so hard that no one could hear the thumps or know what was happening.
This would have gone on till none were left, if not for one scraggly duck in the back who opened his eyes and saw what was going on. “Hey, he’s going to get us all!” cried the scraggly one.
At this, the other surviving ducks opened their eyes and made their getaway.
Coyote wasn’t too upset; he already had a lot of ducks in his bag. He went home and ate good for a good while.
The ducks went home and mourned their dead, and gave thanks to The Great Duck that one of them had been wise enough to open his eyes, and that the rest of them had been wise enough to listen to the one who gave warning.

“Infinite emptiness will be mirrored

: two mirrors facing each other . But

if you have some idea, then you will

see your own idea in me.”

– Osho


Poetry: William Butler Yeats For A Mid-Week Read…

Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind.

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

We have cried in our despair

That men desert,

For some trivial affair

Or noisy, insolent sport,

Beauty that we have won

From bitterest hours;

Yet we, had we walked within

Those topless towers

Where Helen walked with her boy,

Had given but as the rest

Of the men and women of Troy,

A word and a jest.

The 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.

The heart knows nothing of the past,

nothing of the future; it knows only of the

present. The heart has no time concept.”



One Year…

On The Menu:

One Year!

The Story Of The Sage of Herat

Yunus Emre Poetry…

Art: Gustave Moreau

One Year!
Andrew, Catherine, & Eildon

This time last year, Catherine had delivered Eildon to the wide and wandering world…
We went to his first Birthday party tonight, and he was having quite a bit of fun. He had two lively playmates, Kelrith, and Ivy… sweet little ones!
He tore open some packages, had some cake, and generally charmed everyone.
It is truly amazing to see how much children grow from their first day to their first year. Here is to the little Guy! Happy B-day Eildon!
— —- — —- — —- — —-
The Story Of The Sage of Herat:

It has been told, that during the reign of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna, there lived a certain Haidar Ali Jan. His father, Iskandar Khan, wanted to gain the patronage of the Sultan, so he sent Haidar Ali away to study spirituality under the guidance of a well known sage.
After Haidar Ali had mastered various exercises and spiritual recitals, taught in the Sufi schools, his father took him before Sultan Mahmud.
“Mighty Sultan Mahmud,” said Iskandar Khan, “I have had my eldest and most intelligent son specially trained in the ways of the Sufi, so that he might be given a good position in your court, knowing that you are a patron of learning!”
Sultan Mahmud did not look up, but just said, “Bring him back in a year!”
Slightly disappointed, but maintaining high hopes, Iskandar Khan sent Haidar Ali to study the works of the great Sufis of the past and to visit the shrines of the ancient masters, so that he would be better prepared the following year.
The next year, when he took Haidar Ali back to Sultan Mahmud’s court, he said, “Your Majesty, my son has covered long and difficult journeys and is now more knowledgeable in Sufi history and classical spiritual exercises. Please have him tested, so it can be proven that he will be a wonderful asset to your court.”
“Let him,” said Sultan Mahmud without hesitation, “return after another year!”
Over the next twelve months, Haidar Ali crossed the Amu Darya river and visited Bukhara and Samarqand, Qasr-i-Arifin and Tashkent, Dushambe and the turbats of the Sufi saints of Turkestan.
When he returned to the court, Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna took one look at him and said, “He may care to come back after a year!”
Haidar Ali made the pilgrimage to Mecca that year. He then traveled to India and in Persia he consulted rare books and never missed an opportunity to seek out and pay his respects to the great dervishes of the time.
When he returned to Ghazna, Sultan Mahmud said to him, “Now select a sheikh (teacher) if he will have you, and come back in a year!”
Another year was over and Iskandar Khan prepared to take his son to the court, however, this time Haidar Ali showed no interest in going before the Sultan. He sat at the feet of his sheikh in Herat and nothing that his father could say would move him.
“I have wasted my time and money, and my son has failed the tests imposed by Sultan Mahmud,” Iskandar Khan cried to his family and friends. He decided to abandoned his great plans for Haidar Ali and left him alone with his sheikh.
The day preset day for Haidar Ali to present himself at the court came and went. Sultan Mahmud said to his courtiers, “Prepare for a journey to Herat, for there is someone in that city I have to meet.”
When Sultan Mahmud’s entourage entered Herat to the sound of drums and trumpets, Haidar Ali and his sheikh were sitting in a garden sanctuary near by. Sultan Mahmud and his courtier Ayaz, approached the sanctuary and took off their shoes in respect.
“Welcome, Sultan Mahmud,” said the Sufi sheikh, and he pointed to Haidar Ali and said, “Here is the man who was nothing while he was a visitor at your court, but now, he is worthy of a visit from a king. Take him as your Sufi counselor, for he is ready!”


Yunus Emre Poetry…

Dervishood tells me, you cannot become a dervish

So what can I tell you? You cannot become a dervish.
A dervish needs a wounded heart and eyes full of tears.

He needs to be as easy going as a sheep.

You can’t be a dervish.
He must be without hands when someone hits him.

He must be tongueless when cursed.

A dervish needs to be without any desire.

You can’t be a dervish.
You make a lot of sounds with your tongue, meaningful things.

You get angry about this and that.

You can’t be a dervish.
If it were all right to be angry on this path,

Muhammad himself would have gotten angry.

Because of your anger, you can’t be a dervish.
Unless you find a real path, unless you find a guide,

unless Truth grants you your portion,

you can’t be a dervish.
Therefore, dervish Yunus, come,

dive into the ocean now and then.

Unless you dive in the ocean, you cannot be a dervish.

The drink sent down from Truth,

we drank it, glory be to God.

And we sailed over the Ocean of Power,

glory be to God.
Beyond those hills and oak woods,

beyond those vineyards and gardens,

we passed in health and joy, glory be to God.
We were dry, but we moistened,

We grew wings and became birds,

we married one another and flew,

glory be to God.
To whatever lands we came,

in whatever hearts, in all humanity,

we planted the meanings Taptuk taught us,

glory be to God.
Come here, let’s make peace,

let’s not be strangers to one another.

We have saddled the horse

and trained it, glory be to God.
We became a trickle that grew into a river.

We took flight and dove into the sea,

and then we overflowed, glory be to God.
We came down to the valley for winter,

we did some good and some bad things.

Now it’s spring and we’ll return, glory be to God.
We became servants at Taptuk’s door.

Poor Yunus, raw and tasteless,

finally got cooked, glory be to God.

A single word can brighten the face
A single word can brighten the face

of one who knows the value of words.

Ripened in silence, a single word

acquires a great energy for work.
War is cut short by a word,

and a word heals the wounds,

and there’s a word that changes

poison into butter and honey.
Let a word mature inside yourself.

Withhold the unripened thought.

Come and understand the kind of word

that reduces money and riches to dust.
Know when to speak a word

and when not to speak at all.

A single word turns the universe of hell

into eight paradises.
Follow the Way. Don’t be fooled

by what you already know. Be watchful.

Reflect before you speak.

A foolish mouth can brand your soul.
Yunus, say one last thing

about the power of words –

Only the word “I”

divides me from God.

The drink sent down from Truth
The drink sent down from Truth,

we drank it, glory be to God.

And we sailed over the Ocean of Power,

glory be to God.
Beyond those hills and oak woods,

beyond those vineyards and gardens,

we passed in health and joy, glory be to God.
We were dry, but we moistened.

We grew wings and became birds,

we married one another and flew,

glory be to God.
To whatever lands we came,

in whatever hearts, in all humanity,

we planted the meanings Taptuk taught us,

glory be to God.
Come here, let’s make peace,

let’s not be strangers to one another.

We have saddled the horse

and trained it, glory be to God.
We became a trickle that grew into a river.

We took flight and drove into the sea,

and then we overflowed, glory be to God.
We became servants at Taptuk’s door.

Poor Yunus, raw and tasteless,

finally got cooked, glory be to God.

The lover is outcast and idle
My soul,

the way of the masters

is thinner than the thinnest.

What blocked Solomon’s way was an ant.
Night and day the lover’s

tears never end,

tears of blood,

remembering the Beloved.
“The lover is outcast and idle,”

they used to tell me.

It’s true.

It happened to me.
I tried to make sense of the Four Books,

until love arrived,

and it all became a single syllable.
You who claim to be dervishes

and to never do what God forbids –

the only time you’re free of sin

is when you’re in His hands.
Two people wer talking.

One said, “I wish I could see this Yunus.”

“I’ve seen him,” the other says,

“He’s just another old lover.”

Dreams For The Future

“Truth is more in the process than in the result.” – Krishnamurti

On The Music Box: Gaudi – Bass, Drum and Tears

In The Reading Room: Baba Ram Dass – Be Here Now

In The Glass – Absinthe (of course…..)
(Photo – Irina Sharkova)

Well, the New Year has come, and it found me in bed, trying to sleep as I had to get Morgan to the Airport at 5:00 or so in the morning. The alarm went off about 4:15 and I had been awake already, that internal clock really works when you give it a chance.
We had family and friends by last night, but I had to punk out around 10:30, which was a first is some 20 or more years. I am a bit unfocused, but I would like to make some observations/points:
I would like to say that I have high hopes for this coming year on many levels. Hope is something I have not had an abundance of in the last several years. 2007 was a pretty neat year for Caer Llwydd, and with many of our friends. I started the year with guarded hope, and it has proved out to have been a good one. I will make the same investment on 2008… Yes, we can turn the tides and many are working to make it a better place, we need to coordinate a bit on efforts, and the world view will shift.
This is where I make some observations on media items…..

(they may or may not have been released this year, I just had to like them) 8o)
Picks Of The Year: Movies

Monsieur Ibrahim

Renegade (Blueberry)

The Fountain….

The Brothers Grimm
Picks Of the Year: Music

Raising Sand – Allison Krause & Robert Plant

We Create -Maps


Fahrenheit Volume 6

All The Roadrunning – Mark Knopfler & Emmylou Harris
Picks of the Year: Books

Supernatural – Graham Hancock

The Gifts of Burning Man – Dale Pendell

The Hidden World – Ruck, Staple, Celdran, Hoffman

Orgies Of The Hemp Eaters – Hakim Bey & Abel Zug
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm Llwydd

On The Menu
Krishnamurti Quotes

Arcade Fire – No Car Go

Formless Creation

Poetry: The Immortal Friend

The Quotes: Krishnamurti

“A consistent thinker is a thoughtless person, because he conforms to a pattern; he repeats phrases and thinks in a groove.”
” …In our relationship with children and young people, we are not dealing with mechanical devices that can be quickly repaired, but with living beings who are impressionable, volatile, sensitive, afraid, affectionate; and to deal with them we have to have great understanding, the strength of patience and love… “

“Insight is not an act of remembrance, the continuation of memory. Insight is like a flash of light. You see with absolute clarity, all the complications, the consequences, the intricacies. Then this very insight is action, complete. In that there are no regrets, no looking back, no sense of being weighed down, no discrimination. This is pure, clear insight – perception without any shadow of doubt. Most of us begin with certainty and as we grow older the certainty changes to uncertainty and we die with uncertainty. But if one begins with uncertainty, doubting, questioning, asking demanding, with real doubt about man’s behaviour, about all the religious rituals and their images and their symbols, then out of that doubt comes the clarity of certainty.”


Arcade Fire – No Car Go


Formless Creation -Krishnamurti

[This is the closing speech of one of the Camp K held in 1928]
From this Camp you will go away to all parts of the world, carrying with you, alas, also that which you have not understood. If that which you have not understood be the stronger, because of its strength it will pervert that which you have understood.
I would give you the flower of understanding which shall know no decay, so that you may keep it ever with you.
Truth is like a flame without definite form, it varies from moment to moment. No man can describe it, but by the light of Truth alone you must walk, if you would keep that flower of understanding with you always.
Because you will go away with phrases, with words, with half ideas, the full beauty of manifestation will escape you. I have heard people say, “I must give up music. I must no longer admire painting. I must no longer enjoy the shade of a tree and the glory of sunset, nor the reflection of the swallow of a still evening on the face of the waters.” If that is what you understand when I say that life is more important than its expressions, you will destroy the beauty of the expression, and then you will have to create that beauty again. Do you think that there is so much beauty around us in expression, in manifestation, only to be destroyed, to be put aside and not be admired?
As the water is necessary for the beauty of the lotus, and as the lotus makes the waters beautiful, so, when the expression of life is destroyed, when it is made hideous and horrible to behold, then life itself, which is in duke each one, becomes perverted, mutilated and ugly. So , friend, do not cease to admire beauty. Do not hold back the laughter that awakens in your heart when you see a dancing leaf. Do not thwart the expressions of life by misunderstanding the purpose of life. To bring that expression to perfection, to its fulfilment, life must be free, life must not be bound by traditions, by your stagnating moralities and beliefs. The expressions of life will then be naturally beautiful.
There have been many thousand people at these Camps and what could they not do in the world if they all understood! They could change the face of the world tomorrow. Its expression would become different because new life had been brought to it.
That is what I long to do. That is the only desire that burns in my heart. Because I see sadness and corruption, pain and suffering, passing ecstasies and passing fantasies, I would awaken life and bring it to its perfect fulfilment. You who are going away must realize your responsibility. Truth is not to be played with, nor to be corrupted by misunderstanding, but to be developed with full understanding of the purpose of life. If you have caught a glimpse of Truth, if you are walking on the path of understanding, you can change the thought and feeling of the world; but before you can change the world, you must change your own heart and mind. For this reason you have gathered together; for this reason you have been shaken to the very foundation – as I hope – of your structure. You have come to discover, in the light of the Truth, that which is lasting, that which shall stand against the storm, and distinguish it from that which is unimportant, trivial and to be set aside.
For that reason I have urged you to invite doubt, and to examine with understanding all that you have gathered through the ages. Adversity is a furnace through which everyone must pass. Great struggles , great sorrows, and great ecstasies unfold the Truth in its sublimity, in its simplicity. To welcome adversity – not thrust upon you by another – you must invite doubt. If doubt unconsciously insinuates itself into your heart, it will not purify it. You can only purify it by deliberately inviting doubt.
Those who would attain greatly, who would understand truly, must invite the future and let that future come into conflict with the fruit of the past, which is the present. But you do not want to do that. All your questions, all your thoughts and feelings have been about the past. You have judged everything that I have put before you by the past; but friend, Truth is neither bound by the past nor the present nor the future. To understand Truth, you must put aside all things that you have accumulated and not cling with fear o the past. However beautiful it may be. If the past seems so fruitful to you, if the past in its decay is so dear to you, if the past holds such sway over you, why are you here? You are here because you are faced with the future. To understand the future you must put aside the past and take the future to your heart and mind and cling to it desperately as a drowning man desires air. Not merely to dwell in some distant future, but to bring that future to the immediate present is the glory of man.
I tell you, friend, One greater than your books, your rites, your religions and your beliefs, is here, and if you would learn to understand the Truth you must put aside the past, however, comfortable, however pleasing, however delightful it may have been, and welcome the future. If you worship and cling to the past, you will be like the dead stumps of yesterday – no waters can revive their green shoots.
As you have to build greatly, you must bring that future, Truth, and life in its fulfilment, to the present. To create greatly, to create lastingly, you must understand, and so I say: Do not follow, do not obey, do not be loyal to any person except to yourself, and then you will be loyal to every passer-by.
Do not repeat after me words that you do not understand. Do not merely put on a mask of my ideas, for it will be an illusion and you will thereby deceive yourself.
I would build in your heart and mind that Truth which is of no form and hence eternal. I would change your heart and mind in the shadow of eternity. When you change and build on the love of life and its understanding, what you build will be everlasting.
I do not want to concern myself with the moulding of a door, which is but an expression of life. You can always change the expression of life, but if you would build eternally in the light of the Truth, you must ever give love to life, with new ideas and understanding to nourish it. The only eternal creation is that which is without form, with life itself and not with the expressions of life. You want me to create your expressions,to lay down disciplines for you to follow; you want me, who am the Life, to deal with the mouldings of the door. Because I do not concern myself with the expressions and manifestations of life, you are not satisfied; You want me to deal with the transitory instead of with the eternal.
Friend, I want to lay the foundation of Truth in your mind and heart. That is the work of life and therefore of the eternal. You have not so far been concerned with that foundation, you have not taken to heart and pondered over that Truth; you have all the time occupied yourself with the past, with small misunderstandings, with the corruption from obedience, with petty loyalties to individuals, with the adoration of passing mediators and gurus. Is it not better to seek the life eternal that shall nourish you always, than to seek shelters that vary from moment to moment, inviting you to their decay and stagnation?
Friend, believe me, I am saying all this out of the fullness of my heart. Because I am in love with that life which is in everyone, I would free that life; but you do not want that, you want the passing love, the fleeting comfort and the balm that shall heal your momentary pain. You desire what you perceive, but if your perception is limited and conditioned, your desire will be cause of your sorrow. But if your perception has no limitation, it it is beyond all beliefs and traditions, then your desire will have no limitations; it will be life itself. You are not in love with life: you are in love with the past, and life is not concerned with the past. Li
fe, like the swift-running waters, is always going forward and is never still and stagnant.
Because One greater than all these is with you, I hold it dear and precious that you should understand in the fullness of your heart and mind, and so create the light which shall be your guide, which is not the light of another, but your own. Go away with the mirror of Truth which shall reflect your life, with the love that is detached, and with the understanding of the Truth.


Poetry:The Immortal Friend

Krishnamurti 1928
Oh! Listen,

I will sing to thee the song of my Beloved.
Where the soft green slopes of the still mountains

Meet the blue shimmering waters of the noisy sea,

Where the bubbling brook shouts in ecstasy,

Where the still pools reflect the calm heavens,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the vale where the cloud hangs in loneliness

Searching the mountain for rest,

In the still smoke climbing heavenwards,

In the hamlet toward the setting sun,

In the thin wreaths of the fast disappearing clouds,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
Among the dancing tops of the tall cypress,

Among the gnarled trees of great age,

Among the frightened bushes that cling to the earth,

Among the long creepers that hang lazily,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the ploughed fields where noisy birds are feeding,

On the shaded path that winds along the full, motionless river,

Beside the banks where the waters lap,

Amidst the tall poplars that play ceaselessly with the winds,

In the dead tree of last summer’s lightning,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the still blue skies,

Where heaven and earth meet

In the breathless air,

In the morn burdened with incense,

Among the rich shadows of a noon-day,

Among the long shadows of an evening,

Amidst the gay and radiant clouds of the setting sun,

On the path on the waters at the close of the day,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the shadows of the stars,

In the deep tranquility of dark nights,

In the reflection of the moon on still waters,

In the great silence before the dawn,

Among the whispering of waking trees,

In the cry of the bird at morn,

Amidst the wakening of shadows,

Amidst the sunlit tops of the far mountains,

In the sleepy face of the world,

There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
Keep still, O dancing waters,

And listen to the voice of my Beloved.
In the happy laughter of children

Thou canst hear Him.

The music of the flute

Is His voice.

The startled cry of a lonely bird

Moves thy heart to tears,

For thou hearest His voice.

The roar of the age-old sea

Awakens the memories

That have been lulled to sleep

By His voice.

The soft breeze that stirs

The tree-tops lazily

Brings to thee the sound

Of His voice.
The thunder among the mountains

fills thy soul

With the strength

Of His voice.

In the roar of a vast city,

through the voices of the night,

The cry of sorrow,

The shout of joy,

Through the ugliness of anger,

Comes the voice of my Beloved.
In the distant blue isles,

On the soft dewdrop,

On the breaking wave,

On the sheen of waters,

On the wing of the flying bird,

On the tender leaf of the spring,

Thou wilt see the face of my Beloved.
In the sacred temple,

In the halls of dancing,

On the holy face of the sannyasi,

In the lurches of the drunkard,

With the harlot and with the chaste,

Thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
On the fields of flowers,

In the towns of squalor and dirt,

With the pure and the unholy,

In the flower that hides divinity,

There is my well-Beloved.
Oh! the sea

Has entered my heart,

In a day,

I am living an hundred summers.

O, friend,

I behold my face in thee,

The face of my well-Beloved.
This is the song of my love.