Ah… Suze Rotolo

Portland’s first sunny weekend, and I am typing away trying to get outside and enjoy the beauty that is Oregon in May. It was ungodly hot yesterday (97f well for me hot!), and may do the same today.. so hold onto your hats!
Lots on the weekend entry, and don’t forget Radio Free Earthrites! Much going on if you want to give it a listen.
Rowan has two weeks left in his High School Career. He is chuffed about it, but yet finds it hard to drag himself down to school every day. Off to college soon!
Have A Good Weekend!
Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:

Visions Of Frisco

Ah… Suze Rotolo

Suze Rotolo & Robert…

Apparitions from Fairyland

Poetry: Teixeira de Pascoaes-Portuguese Mystic…

A wee tip of the hat: Bertolt Brecht Collage


Visions Of Frisco

Walter Medeiros has released the long anticipated opus of Wilfred Satty, ‘Visions Of Frisco’… Walter has assembled after long years doing research, and raising funding to finally publish his friends Satty’s last work. This is an amazing book, and being a limited edition very desirable for the collector. We have included a handy ordering form for you to order it with, or check out Amazon at this time. Hopefully it will soon be in at Powell’s.
Walter did the wordsmithing on this, and it reads beautifully, and is visually stunning. (of course) It is a rich assemblage, and does honor to Satty’s final collage project.
Pickit up for beauties sake, and to explore the early history of San Francisco in a wonderful hallucinogenic visual portrayal.
Ah… Suze Rotolo. One of those iconic images from another time. Generally speaking I am not nostalgic for periods in my life. I mean, right now is pretty good, and I have much to be thankful for. Oh yeah, I ache in places where I used to party, and it does take me by surprise…
There are times I am nostalgic for, but they are generally removed from the period of our lifetime, or the moments I ponder are like this photo-shoot in New York, removed and so familiar.
I listen mostly to music that is very current. I abhor getting stuck in past periods, though I do dip into them on occasion. Edith Piaf, Bertolt Brecht, Bob Dylan, Moondog, Eric Satie… all visit the cd player. Yet, I sit now listening to Solar Fields, being transported to a place of bliss…. 80) Okay, I am rambling.
Suze Rotolo has a new book of interest, and this interview:Suze Rotolo on NPR
Check out the book:New York Times Review of Freewheelin’ Time…
and purchase it here: A Freewheelin’ TIme, by Suze Rotolo
I listened to the interview the other day, and I am considering buying the book… A wonderful time in our collective history.

Suze Rotolo & Robert…



Apparitions from Fairyland
[Note: This is taken from W.Y. Evans Wentz’s The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries.]
Our next witness is the Rev. Father – ‘a professor in a Catholic college in West Ireland, and most of his statements are based on events which happened among his own acquaintances and relatives, and his deductions are the result of careful investigation :-
Apparitions from Fairyland.- ‘Some twenty to thirty years ago, on the borders of County Roscommon near County Sligo, according to the firm belief of one of my own relatives, a sister of his was taken by the fairies on her wedding-night, and she appeared to her mother afterwards as an apparition. She seemed to want to speak, but her mother, who was in bed at the time, was thoroughly frightened, and turned her face to the wall. The mother is convinced that she saw this apparition of her daughter, and my relative thinks she might have saved her.
‘This same relative who gives it as his opinion that his sister was taken by the fairies, at a different time saw the apparition of another relative of mine who also, according to similar belief, had been taken by the fairies when only five years old. The child-apparition appeared beside its living sister one day while the sister was going from the yard into the house, and it followed her in. It is said the child was taken because she was such a good girl.’
Nature of the Belief in Fairies.-
‘As children we were always afraid of fairies, and were taught to say “ God bless them! God bless them!” whenever we heard them mentioned.
‘In our family we always made it a point to have clean water in the house at night for the fairies.
‘If anything like dirty water was thrown out of doors after dark it was necessary to say “ Hugga, hugga salach!” as a warning to the fairies not to get their clothes wet.
‘Untasted food, like milk, used to be left on the table at night for the fairies. If you were eating and food fell from you, it was not right to take it back, for the fairies wanted it. Many families are very serious about this even now. The luckiest thing to do in such cases is to pick up the food and eat just a speck of it and then throw the rest away to the fairies.
‘Ghosts and apparitions are commonly said to live in isolated thorn-bushes, or thorn-trees. Many lonely bushes of this kind have their ghosts. For example, there is Fanny’s Bush, Sally’s Bush, and another I know of in County Sligo near Boyle.’
Personal Opinions.- ‘ The fairies of any one race are the people of the preceding race-the Fomors for the Fir Boigs, the Fir Boigs for the Dananns, and the Dananns for us. The old races died. Where did they go? They became spirits – and fairies. Second-sight gave our race power to see the inner world. When Christianity came to Ireland the people had no definite heaven. Before, their ideas about the other world were vague. But the older ideas of a spirit world remained side by side with the Christian ones, and being preserved in a subconscious way gave rise to the fairy world.’
Our next place for investigation will be the ancient province of the great fairy-queen Meave, who made herself famous by leading against Cuchulainn the united armies of four of the five provinces of Ireland, and all on account of a bull which she coveted. And there could be no better part of it to visit than Roscommon, which Dr. Douglas Hyde has made popular in Irish folk-lore.
Dr. Hyde and the Leprechaun.-
One day while I was privileged to be at Ratra, Dr. Hyde invited me to walk with him in the country. After we had visited an old fort which belongs to the ‘good people’, and had noticed some other of their haunts in that part of Queen Meave’s realm, we entered a straw-thatched cottage on the roadside and found the good house-wife and her fine-looking daughter both at home. In response to Dr. Hyde’s inquiries, the mother stated that one day, in her girlhood, near a hedge from which she was gathering wild berries, she saw a leprechaun in a hole under a stone :- ‘He wasn’t much larger than a doll, and he was most perfectly formed, with a little mouth and eyes.’ Nothing was told about the little fellow having a money-bag, although the woman said people told her afterwards that she would have been rich if she had only had sense enough to catch him when she had so good a chance.
The Death Coach.-
The next tale the mother told was about the death coach which used to pass by the very house we were in. Every night until after her daughter was born she used to rise up on her elbow in bed to listen to the death coach passing by. It passed about midnight, and she could hear the rushing, the tramping of the horses, and most beautiful singing, just like fairy music, but she could not understand the words. Once or twice she was brave enough to open the door and look out as the coach passed, but she could never see a thing, though there was
the noise and singing. One time a man had to wait on the roadside to let the fairy horses go by, and he could hear their passing very clearly, and couldn’t see one of them.
When we got home, Dr. Hyde told me that the fairies of the region are rarely seen. The people usually say that they hear or feel them only.
The ‘Good People’ and Mr. Gilleran.-
After the mother had testified, the daughter, who is quite of the younger generation, gave her own opinion. She said that the ‘good people’ live in the forts and often take men and women or youths who pass by the forts after sunset; that Mr. Gilleran, who died not long ago, once saw certain dead friends and recognized among them those who were believed to have been taken and those who died naturally, and that he saw them again when he was on his death-bed.
We have here, as in so many other accounts, a clear connexion between the realm of the dead and Fairyland.

Neil Colton, seventy-three years old, who lives in Tamlach Towniand, on the shores of Lough Derg, County Donegal, has a local reputation for having seen the ‘gentle folk’, and so I called upon him. As we sat round his blazing turf fire, and in the midst of his family of three sturdy boys-for he married late in life-this is what he related :-
A Girl Recovered from Faerie.-‘ One day, just before sunset in midsummer, and I a boy then, my brother and cousin and myself were gathering bilberries (whortleberries) up by the rocks at the back of here, when all at once we heard music. We hurried round the rocks, and there we were within a few hundred feet of six or eight of the gentle folk, and they dancing. When they saw us, a little woman dressed all in red came running out from them towards us, and she struck my cousin across the face with what seemed to be a green rush. We ran for home as hard as we could, and when my cousin reached the house she fell dead. Father saddled a horse and went for Father Ryan. When Father Ryan arrived, he put a stole about his neck and began praying over my cousin and reading psalms and striking her with the stole; and in that way brought her back. He said if she had not caught hold of my brother, she would have been taken for ever.’
The ‘Gentle Folk ‘.- ‘ The gentle folk are not earthly people; they are a people with a nature of their own. Even in the water there are men and women of the same character. Others have caves in the rocks, and in them rooms and apartments. These races were terribly plentiful a hundred years ago, and they’ll come back again. My father lived two miles from here, where there were plenty of the gentle folk. In olden times they used to take young folks and keep them and draw all the life out of their bodies. Nobody could ever tell their nature exactly.’

Poetry: Teixeira de Pascoaes-Portuguese Mystic…

When the first tear welled up

In my eyes, divine clarity

Lit up my village homeland

With the sad light of longing.
How I glow, poor humble things,

As sorrow in your darkness. . .

I am, in the future, time past.

In me, old times are new ages.
I’m a mountain cliff, an astral

Mist, a figment in the morning,

The earthen image of a soul.
I’m man fleeing from himself,

A raving phantom, a living mystery,

God’s delirium, dreams, nothingness.

That living and unfettered light

Arriving from a distant, mysterious star

And reflecting off our face,

Making it shine with a strange glow. . .

That hidden lamp which turns our mask

Transparent and radiant

With joy, sorrow or despair

And still other feelings arisen

From an angel’s or a demon’s heart. . .

That true and ideal portrait composed

Of soul and body and whose frame

We are, aimlessly wandering. . .

That’s it, yes, our apparition, us,

Made of stars, shadows, raging winds

And countless centuries, finally emerging

Out here, on earth, in the light of the sun.


I felt a mysterious wind pass by

In a profound and cosmic whirl.

It took me in its arms; I avidly

Went; and I saw the Spirit of the World.
Earth’s solitary things, glowing

Like an unconscious gaze of night,

Like a tear’s dead light, felt none

Of that tragic gust, which ruffled
Only my soul! O lofty wind!

Wind of Prophecy and Exaltation!

Wind that blows in waves of mystery,

Stirring me up, making me ecstatic!
Strange wind, raging without touching

The tenderest flower! But it inflames

My entire being, causing it to give off

God’s light, love’s light, infinite light!
O wind that nothing resists except

An invisible shadow. . . A forest

Or rough stone is, for you, a wispy

Essence, and I am a rugged cliff.
At night, O crazy wind, you pound

My troubled soul, and a loud whoosh wraps it

And swoops it away; and so it passes

From life to life, and from death to death.
Wind that took me to I don’t know where. . .

But I know I went, and I saw close up,

Before my eyes, the burning mist that hides

God’s ghost, hovering over the desert!
And I also saw the hazy light

That loomed out of the darkness, enlightening

My heart, which soars beyond life,

Shedding its burden of tears.
That great wind overturned

My calm existence; and ancient sorrow

Drenched my mean and feeble body,

Like rain the tatters of a beggar woman.
In a great wind I went; I went and saw:

I saw God’s Shadow. And in that shadow

I lay down, ravished, and felt within me

The earth in bloom and the sky aglitter.


A wee tip of the hat: Bertolt Brecht Collage


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