A quick one for Friday Night, Saturday Morning… Just got in from having dinner with Ed & Janice & Mary after we all went to Rowan’s school to watch the senior directed one acts (Rowan directed one!)
Excellent evening, spent with wonderful young people performing and creating. I do believe that the ball is still rolling, and we will see wonders from this generation.
I contemplate often what defines the Bohemian Aesthetic… I saw it formulating tonight with these young ones… dedicated to their art, their joy in creating, and their beauty in motion. Heady stuff.
Anyway, enough of my meanderings…
More Tomorrow, or Sunday….
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Ray Soulard Jr.’s “Within Within”
Skateboarding in Eugene, “Saltarello”
Poetry of Perter Orlovsky
Medieval Music #1: “Rain Saltarello”
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Links:
This is fairly brilliant…!
It’s In the Blood…Amanda Feilding, Lady Neidpath
and in theme…
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Ray Soulard Jr.’s “Within Within” Show #272
Time: 31 May 2008 (Saturday) at
19:00 UTC | PST-11am | EST-2pm | UK- 7pm | NZ-8am
High speed listen at:
http://yage.net:9000/listen.pls
Dial-up listen at: [currently disabled]
Now Podcasting at: [currently disabled]
Duration: ~3h
On this week’s show:
New Rock Album: Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs (2008)…it’s
been three years since this Seattle-area band blew up the world with
*Plans*, and now they’re back with a decided turn for the
dark…musically adventurous, lyrically strange…a longer time in
finding its deep fine groove, but it’s there…
Classic Rock Album: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Pendulum
(1970)…this was the final album by CCR as a quartet…they pulled
out every stop for it…the rockers, the rants, the beautiful crazy
music only this band made, and for too short a time…
Storybook Time: Chapter Twenty of Breaking Open the Head: A
Psychedelic Journey into the Heart of Contemporary Shamanism by
Daniel Pinchbeck…
Readings from Labyrinthine fixtion & Many Musics poems…& this
week’s featured artist is Led Zeppelin, more cuts from their recently
remastered 1976 live album, *The Song Remains the Same*…moving along
in time, back and forth, keep an eye for the sun, for the best grove
of trees, for what music becks you near, for dreams that linger all
day…
Webcasting to the globe & beyond from the People’s Republic of
Portland, Oregon!
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Skateboarding in Eugene, “Saltarello”
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Poetry of Perter Orlovsky
First Poem
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mystery fills
the air.
I look for my shoes under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the table.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewriter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My first five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking “Do you have bigger tears
then I do?”
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfullest,
my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
—
Second Poem
Morning again, nothing has to be done,
maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I’ve done flick
the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But first of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
to clean the smelly mouth.
A knock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo’s baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations any more.
Time for another cigarette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
maybe or install an elevator from the bed to the floor,
maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of living if I cant make paradise in my own
room-land?
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigarette
makes me feel life splits faster than scissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
disappear forever.
The holes in my shoes are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isn’t?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Throw a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
table.
Before the mirror I look like a Sahara desert ghost,
or on the bed I resemble a crying mummy hollering for air,
or on the table I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day – wash my underwear –
two months abused – what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes – why I’d, I’d, I’d be a woman if I did
that.
No, I’d rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
a luncheonette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love – on a hill a butterfly
makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
flowers.
Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
—
My Bed is Covered Yellow
My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more –
Oh bed that took the weight of the world –
all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spilled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun where yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
lay on you at one time or another
1957, Paris
—
Peter Reading
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Snail Poem
Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
& handsome felt,
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
blown up cloud.
Ear turns close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound
of rain dribble thru this layer
down to the roots that will tickle my ear.
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away
in sound curve or
Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon
trickle in my ear –
no choice but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey
turned.
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor
between weel & track.
So kitten string & ball, jump over this mound so
gently & cutely
So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely
on its way.
1958 NYC 
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Medieval Music #1: “Rain Saltarello”
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