Andalusia II

An entry for Wednesday. Some of this has been floating around in my files for awhile…

anyway, if you are free this Saturday, come down to 2nd and SE Washington for the Muralist show blow-out! 5 bands, live painting, closed off block party, the works. I will be there putting together a new piece with spray cans and brush. Come on down, from 12:00 noon on. It is bound to be hot, but we’ll have some fun!
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:

Tlemcen de Tetma le doux chant Andalou

The Apocalypse Of Hasheesh

Poetry: Up For A Bit Of Dogen?

Sérénades de Grenade

Tlemcen de Tetma le doux chant Andalou

The Apocalypse Of Hasheesh

by Fitz Hugh Ludlow

In returning from the world of hasheesh, I bring with me many and diverse memories. The echoes of a sublime rapture which thrilled and vibrated on the very edge of pain; of Promethean agonies which wrapt the soul like a mantle of fire; of voluptuous delirium which suffused the body with a blush of exquisite languor — all are mine. But in value far exceeding these, is the remembrance of my spell-bound life as an apocalyptic experience.
Not, indeed, valuable, when all things are considered. Ah no! The slave of the lamp who comes at the summons of the hasheesh Aladdin will not always cringe in the presence of his master. Presently he grows bold and for his service demands a guerdon as tremendous as the treasures he unlocked. Dismiss him, hurl your lamp into the jaws of some fathomless abyss, or take his place while he reigns over you, a tyrant of Gehenna!
The value of this experience to me consists in its having thrown open to my gaze many of those sublime avenues in the spiritual life, at whose gates the soul in its ordinary state is forever blindly groping, mystified, perplexed, yet earnest to the last in its search for that secret spring which, being touched, shall swing back the colossal barrier. In a single instant I have seen the vexed question of a lifetime settled, the mystery of some grand recondite process of mind laid bare, the last grim doubt that hung persistently on the sky of a sublime truth blown away.
How few facts can we trace up to their original reason! In all human speculations how inevitable is the recurrence of the ultimate “Why?” Our discoveries in this latter age but surpass the old-world philosophy in fanning this impenetrable mist but a few steps further up the path of thought, and deferring the distance of a few syllogisms the unanswerable question.
How is it that all the million drops of memory preserve their insulation, and do not run together in the brain into one fluid chaos of impression? How does the great hand of central force stretch on invisibly through ether till it grasps the last sphere that rolls on the boundaries of light-quickened space? How does spirit communicate with matter, and where is their point of tangency? Such are the mysteries which bristle like a harvest far and wide over the grand field of thought.
Problems like these, which had been the perplexity of all my previous life, have I seen unraveled by hasheesh, as in one breathless moment the rationale of inexplicable phenomena has burst upon me in a torrent of light. It may have puzzled me to account for some strange fact of mind; taking hypothesis after hypothesis, I have labored for a demonstration; at last I have given up the attempt in despair. During the progress of the next fantasia of hasheesh, the subject has again unexpectedly presented itself, and in an instant the solution has lain before me as an intuition, compelling my assent to its truth as imperatively as a mathematical axiom. At such a time I have stood trembling with awe at the sublimity of the apocalypse; for though this be not the legitimate way of reaching the explications of riddles which, if of any true utility at all, are intended to strengthen the argumentative faculty, there is still an unutterable sense of majesty in the view one thus discovers of the unimagined scope of the intuitive, which surpasses the loftiest emotions aroused by material grandeur.
I was once walking in the broad daylight of a summer afternoon in the full possession of hasheesh delirium. For an hour the tremendous expansion of all visible things had been growing toward its height; it now reached it, and to the fullest extent I realized the infinity of space. Vistas no longer converged, sight met no barrier; the world was horizonless, for earth and sky stretched endlessly onward in parallel planes. Above me the heavens were terrible with the glory of a fathomless depth. I looked up, but my eyes, unopposed, every moment penetrated further and further into the immensity, and I turned them downward lest they should presently intrude into the fatal splendors of the Great Presence. Joy itself became terrific, for it seemed the ecstasy of a soul stretching its cords and waiting in intense silence to hear them snap and free it from the enthrallment of the body. Unable to bear visible objects, I shut my eyes. In one moment a colossal music filled the whole hemisphere above me, and I thrilled upward through its environment on visionless wings. It was not song, it was not instruments, but the inexpressible spirit of sublime sound — like nothing I had ever heard-impossible to be symbolized; intense, yet not loud; the ideal of harmony, yet distinguishable into a multiplicity of exquisite parts. I opened my eyes, yet it still continued. I sought around me to detect some natural sound which might be exaggerated into such a semblance, but no, it was of unearthly generation, and it thrilled through the universe an inexplicable, a beautiful yet an awful symphony.
Suddenly my mind grew solemn with the consciousness of a quickened perception. I looked abroad on fields, and water, and sky, and read in them all a most startling meaning. I wondered how I had ever regarded them in the light of dead matter, at the furthest only suggesting lessons. They were now grand symbols of the sublimest spiritual truths, truths never before even feebly grasped, utterly unsuspected.
Like a map, the arcana of the universe lay bare before me. I saw how every created thing not only typifies but springs forth from some mighty spiritual law as its offsping, its necessary external development; not the mere clothing of the essence, but the essence incarnate.
Nor did the view stop here. While that music from horizon to horizon was still filling the concave above me, I became conscious of a numerical order which ran through it, and in marking this order I beheld it transferred from the music to every movement of the universe. Every sphere wheeled on in its orbit, every emotion of the soul rose and fell, every smallest moss and fungus germinated and grew, according to some peculiar property of numbers which severally governed them and which was most admirably typified by them in return. An exquisite harmony of proportion reigned through space, and I seemed to realize that the music which I heard was but this numerical harmony making itself objective through the development of a grand harmony of tones.
The vividness with which this conception revealed itself to me made it a thing terrible to bear alone. An unutterable ecstasy was carrying me away, but I dared not abandon myself to it. I was no seer who could look on the unveiling of such glories face to face.
An irrepressible yearning came over me to impart what I beheld, to share with another soul the weight of this colossal revelation. With this purpose I scrutinized the vision; I sought in it for some characteristic which might make it translatable to another mind. There was none! In absolute incommunicableness it stood apart, a thought, a system of thought which as yet had no symbol in spoken language.
For a time, how long, a hasheesh-eater alone can know, I was in an agony. I searched every pocket for my pencil and note-book, that I might at least set down some representative mark which would afterwards recall to me the lineaments of my apocalypse. They were not with me. Jutting into the water of the brook along which I wandered lay a broad flat stone. “Glory in the Highest!” I shouted exultingly, “I will at least grave on this tablet some hieroglyph of what I feel!” Tremblingly I sought for my knife. That, too, was gone! It was then that in a frensy I threw myself prostrate on the stone, and with my nails sought to make some memorial scratch upon it. Hard, hard as flint! In despair I stood up.
Suddenly there came a sense as of some invisible presence walking the dread paths of the vision with me, yet at a
distance as if separated from my side by a long flow of time. Taking courage, I cried, “Who has ever been here before me, who in years past has shared with me this unutterable view?” In tones which linger in my soul to this day, a grand, audible voice responded, “Pythagoras!” In an instant I was calm. I heard the footsteps of that sublime sage echoing upward through the ages, and in celestial light I read my vision unterrified, since it had burst upon his sight before me. For years previous I had been perplexed with his mysterious philosophy. I saw in him an isolation from universal contemporary mind for which I could not account. When the Ionic school was at the height of its dominance, he stood forth alone, the originator of a system as distinct from it as the antipodes of mind. The doctrine of Thales was built up by the uncertain processes of an obscure logic, that of Pythagoras seemed informed by intuition. In his assertions there had always appeared to me a grave conviction of truth, a consciousness of sincerity, which gave them a great weight with me, though seeing them through the dim refracting medium of tradition and grasping their meaning imperfectly. I now saw the truths which he set forth, in their own light. I also saw, as to this day I firmly believe, the source whence their revelation flowed. Tell me not that from Phoenicia he received the wand at whose signal the cohorts of the spheres came trooping up before him in review, unveiling the eternal law and itineracy of their evolutions, and pouring on his spiritual ear that tremendous music to which they marched through space. No! During half a lifetime spent in Egypt and in India, both motherlands of this nepenths, doubt not that he quaffed its apocalyptic draught, and awoke, through its terrific quickening, into the consciousness of that ever-present and all-pervading harmony “which we hear not always, because the coarseness of the daily life hath dulled our ear.” The dim penetralia of the Theban Memnonium, or the silent spice groves of the upper Indua may have been the gymnasium of his wrestling with the mighty revealer; a priest or a gymnospohist may have been the first to annoint him with the palæstric oil, but he conquered alone. On the strange intuitive characteristics of his system, on the spheral music, on the government of all created things and their development according to the laws of number, yes, on the very use of symbols which could alone have force to the esoteric disciple, (and a terrible significancy, indeed, has the simplest form, to a mind hasheesh-quickened to read its meaning) — on all these is the legible stamp of the hasheesh inspiration.
It would be no hard task to prove, to a strong probability, at least, that the initiation into the Pythagorean mysteries and the progressive instruction that succeeded it, to a considerable extent, consisted in the employment, judiciously, if we may use the word, of hasheesh, as giving a critical and analytic power to the mind which enabled the neophyte to roll up the murk and mist from beclouded truths, till they stood distinctly seen in the splendor of their own harmonious beauty as an intuition.
One thing related of Pythagoras and his friends has seemed very striking to me. There is a legend that, as he was passing over a river, its waters called up to him, in the presence of his followers, “Hail, Pythagoras!” Frequently, while in the power of the hasheesh delirium, have I heard inanimate things sonorous with such voices. On every side they have saluted me; from rocks, and trees, and waters, and sky; in my happiness, filling me with intense exultation, as I heard them welcoming their master; in my agony, heaping nameless curses on my head, as I went away into an eternal exile from all sympathy. Of this tradition on Iamblichus, I feel an appreciation which almost convinces me that the voice of the river was, indeed, heard, though only in the quickened mind of some hasheesh-glorified esoteric. Again, it may be that the doctrine of the Metempsychosis was first communicated to Pythagoras by Theban priests; but the astonishing illustration, which hasheesh would contribute to this tenet, should not be overlooked in our attempt to assign its first suggestion and succeeding spread to their proper causes.
A modern critic, in defending the hypothesis, that Pythagoras was an impostor, has triumphantly asked, “Why did he assume the character of Apollo at the Olympic games? why did he boast that his soul had lived in former bodies, and that he had been first Acthalides, the son of Mercury, then Euphorbus, then Pyrrhus of Delos, and at last Pythagoras, but that he might more easily impose upon the credulity of an ignorant and superstitious people!” To us these facts seem rather an evidence of his sincerity. Had he made these assertions without proof, it is difficult to see how they would not have had a precisely contrary effect from that of paving the way to a more complete imposition upon the credulity of the people. Upon our hypothesis, it may be easily shown, not only how he could fully have believed these assertions himself, but, also, have given them a deep significance to the minds of his disciples.
Let us see. We will consider, for example, his assumption of the character of Phoebus at the Olympic games. Let us suppose that Pythagoras, animated with a desire of alluring to the study of his philosophy a choice and enthusiastic number out of that host who, along all the radii of the civilized world, had come up to the solemn festival at Elis, had, by the talisman of hasheesh, called to his aid the magic of a preternatural eloquence; that, while he addressed the throng whoin he had charmed into breathless attention by the weird brilliancy of his eyes, the unearthly imagery of his style, and the oracular insight of his thought, the grand impression flashed upon him from the very honor he was receiving, that he was the incarnation of some sublime deity. What wonder that he burst into the acknowledgment of his godship as a secret too majestic to be hoarded up; what wonder that this sudden revelation of himself, darting forth in burning words and amid such colossal surroundings, wend down with the accessories of time and place along the stream of perpetual tradition?
If I may illustrate great things by small, I well remember many hallucinations of my own which would be exactly parallel to such a fancy in the mind of Pythagoras. There is no impression more deeply stamped upon my past life than one of a walk along the brook which had frequently witnessed my wrestlings with the hasheesh-afreet, and which now beheld me, the immortal Zeus, descended among men to grant them the sublime benediction of renovated life. For this cause I had abandoned the serene seats of Olympus, the convocation of the gods, and the glory of an immortal kingship, while, by my side, Hermes trod the earth with radiant feet, the companion and dispenser of the beneficence of deity. Across lakes and seas, from continent to continent, we strode; the snows of Hæimus and the Himmalehs crunched beneath our sandals; our foreheads were bathed with the upper light, our breasts glowed with the exultant inspiration of the golden ether. Now resting on Chimborazo, I poured forth a majestic blessing upon all my creatures, and in an instant, with one omniscient glance, I beheld every human dwelling-place on the whole sphere irradiated with an unspeakable joy.
I saw the king rule more wisely, the laborer return from his toil to a happier home, the park grow green with an intenser culture, the harvest-field groan under the sheaves of a more prudent and prosperous husbandry; adown blue slopes came new and more populous flocks, led by unvexed and gladsome shepherds, a thousand healthy vineyards sprang up above their new-raised sunny terraces, every smallest heart glowed with an added thrill of exaltation, and the universal rebound of joy came pouring up into my own spirit with an intensity that lit my deity with rapture.
And this was only a poor hasheesh – eater, who, with his friend, walked out into the fields to enjoy his delirium among the beauties of a clear summer afternoon! What, then, of Pythagoras?
The tendency of the hasheesh – hallucination is almost always toward the supernatural or the sublimest forms of the natural. As the millennial Christ, I have put an end to all the jars of the world; by a word I have bound all humanity in etern alligaments of brotherhood; from the depths of the grand untrodden forest I have called the tiger, and with bloodless jaws he came mildly forth to fawn upon his king, a partaker in the universal amnesty. As Rienzi hurling fiery invective against the usurpations of Colonna, I have seen the broad space below the tribune grow populous with a multitude of intense faces, and within myself felt a sense of towering into sublimity, with the consciousness that it was my eloquence which swayed that great host with a storm of indignation, like the sirocco passing over reeds. Or, uplifted mightily by an irresistible impulse, I have risen through the ethereal infinitudes till I stood on the very cope of heaven, with the spheres below me. Suddenly, by an instantaneous revealing, I became aware of a mighty harp, which lay athwart the celestial hemisphere, and filled the whole sweep of vision before me. The lambent flame of myriad stars was burning in the azure spaces between its string, and glorious suns gemmed with unimaginable lustre all its colossal frame-work. While I stood overwhelmed by the visions, a voice spoke clearly from the depths of the surrounding ether, “Behold the harp of the universe!” Again I realized the typefaction of the same grand harmony of creation, which glorified the former vision to which I have referred; for every influence, from that which nerves the wing of Ithuriel down to the humblest force of growth, had there its beautiful and peculiar representative string. As yet the music slept, when the voice spake to me again — “Stretch forth thine hand and wake the harmonies!” Trembling yet daring, I swept the harp, and in an instant all heaven thrilled with an unutterable music. My arm strangely lengthened, I grew bolder, and my hand took a wider range. The symphony grew more intense; overpowered, I ceased, and heard tremendous echoes coming back from the infinitudes. Again I smote the chords; but, unable to endure the sublimity of the sound, I sank into an ecstatic trance, and was thus borne off unconsciously to the portals of some new vision.
But, if I found the supernatural an element of happiness, I also found it many times an agent of most bitter pain. If I once exulted in the thought that I was the millennial Christ, so, also, through a long agony, have I felt myself the crucified. In dim horror, I perceived the nails piercing my hands and feet; but it was not that which seemed the burden of my suffering. Upon my head, in a tremendous and ever-thickening cloud, came slowly down the guilt of all the ages past, and all the world to come; by a dreadful quickening, I beheld every atrocity and nameless crime coming up from all time on lines that centred in myself. The thorns clung to my brow, and bloody drops stood like dew upon my hair, yet, these were not the instruments of my agony. I was withered like a leaf in the breath of a righteous vengeance. The curtain of a lurid blackness hung between me and heaven, mercy was dumb forever, and I bore the anger of Omnipotence alone. Out of a fiery distance, demon chants of triumphant blasphemy came surging on my ear, and whispers of ferocious wickedness ruffled the leaden air about my cross. How long I bore this vicarious agony, I have never known; hours are no measure of time in hasheesh. I only know that, during the whole period, I sat perfectly awake among objects which I recognized as familiar; friends were passing and repassing before me, yet. I sat in speechless horror, convinced that to supplicate their pity, to ask their help in the tortures of my dual existence, would be a demand that men in time should reach out and grasp one in eternity, that mortality should succor immortality.
In my experience of hasheesh there has been one pervading characteristic — the conviction that, encumbered with a mortal body, I was suffering that which the untrammeled immortal soul could alone endure. The spirit seemed to be learning its franchise and, whether in joy or pain, shook the bars of flesh mightily, as if determined to escape from its cage. Many a time, in my sublimest ecstasy, have I asked myself, “Is this experience happiness or torture?” for soul and body gave different verdicts.
Hasheesh is no thing to be played with as a bauble. At its revealing, too-dread paths of spiritual life are flung open, too tremendous views disclosed of what the soul is capable of doing, and being, and suffering, for that soul to contemplate, till, relieved of the body, it can behold them alone.
Up to the time that I read in the September number of this Magazine the paper entitled “The Hasheesh-eater,” I had long walked among the visions of “the weed of insanity.” The recital given there seemed written out of my own soul. In outline and detail it was the counterpart of my own suffering. From that day, I shut the book of hasheesh experience, warned with a warning for which I cannot express myself sufficiently grateful. And now, as utterly escaped, I look back upon the world of visionary yet awful realities, and see the fountains of its Elysium and the flames of its Tartarus growing dimmer and still dimmer in the mists of distance, I hold the remembrance of its apocalypse as something which I shall behold again, when the spirit, looking no longer through windows of sense, shall realize its majesty unterrified, and face to face gaze on its infinite though now unseen surroundings.

Up For A Bit Of Dogen?

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.

Mountain Seclusion
I won’t even stop

at the valley’s brook

for fear that

my shadow

may flow into the world.

Viewing Peach Blossoms and Realizing the Way
In spring wind

peach blossoms

begin to come apart.

Doubts do not grow

branches and leaves.

On Nondependence of Mind
Water birds

going and coming

their traces disappear

but they never

forget their path.

Joyful in this mountain retreat yet still feeling melancholy,

Studying the Lotus Sutra every day,

Practicing zazen singlemindedly;

What do love and hate matter

When I’m here alone,

Listening to the sound of the rain

late in this autumn evening.

Drifting pitifully in the whirlwind of birth and death,

As if wandering in a dream,

In the midst of illusion I awaken to the true path;

There is one more matter I must not neglect,

But I need not bother now,

As I listen to the sound of the evening rain

Falling on the roof of my temple retreat

In the deep grass of Fukakusa.

Sérénades de Grenade



Andalusia plays strongly in my dreamscapes over the years… Imaginations of what the glories were, with the poetry, philosophy and arts. I am sure I romanticize it all a bit, but looking at what has come down through the ages, it looks damn good from my 21st century perch.
This edition celebrates some of the arts, philosophy, music, and poetry of a gone by period. If you are new to it, just sit back, read and maybe listen to some music from the time period… (yes I know it is Catalan Sephardic, but you’ll get the drift.) 8o)
A kingdom built on the shifting sands of time, a mirage maybe of a time made beautiful by the patina of ages…
Still dealing with the back. People have had some great suggestions, and I am following the advice as I can.
Hope Your Weekend is Sweet!
Bright Blessings, Gwyllm

On The Menu:

Portland Muralist Show Closing Party!

The Links

Mara Aranda (3)

From My Friend Walt in Ohio…A Plea

From The History Of Philosophy In Islam… The Matter of Andalusia

Mara Aranda (2)

Poets of Andalusia…

Mara Aranda (1)

The Closing Of The Portland Mural Show Party!
When: Noon Until 6:00 – Saturday, June 28th 2008

Where: Olympic Mills Commerce Center

107 SE Washington Street, PDX
Live Painting (including yours truly) Bands, Beer, You Name It!
See ya there!~

The Links:

The Flying Shields of the Hopi Kachinas

Nut Case:The Teacher That Brands Students For Creationism…

Democrats Have Legalized Bush’s Crimes

Secret of the ‘lost’ tribe that wasn’t


From Aman Aman:

Mara Aranda (3)

From My Friend Walt in Ohio…A Plea
Slightly Modified from his email to ER…

I know that some of Turfings readers are fond of animals. So I’m posting this here. Maybe someone will be interested in helping a horse.
If anyone is interested in a really nice horse, free to a good home, PLEASE write me at pantheist @ mac.c o m (join the letters together!)
The horse in question is a 23 year old, quite beautiful, Palomino Quarter-Horse gelding, named “CB”, He is well trained, and has been ridden both Western and English, and he had dressage training.
Due to a stiffle problem (medial collateral ligament calcification) for which there is no cure, he is no longer rideable, except at a walk. His athletic days clearly are over, but he may still be able to handle some easy trail riding. And he would make a very attractive ‘pasture ornament’ . He is very friendly to people although does not get along well with some other horses. He is regularly de-wormed, and is current on his shots.
I’m trying to find a ‘forever home’ for him. I can’t keep him at home and it is too expensive for me to indefinitely pay for boarding him. Yet I don’t want to have him killed.
So if you might want him, or know someone who would, please contact me.


From The History Of Philosophy In Islam…

On The Matter of Andalusia: Philosophy In The West/Beginnings

1. Western North-Africa, Spain and Sicily are reckoned as forming the Muslim West. North-Africa, to begin with, is of subordinate importance: Sicily is regulated by Spain, and is soon overthrown by the Normans of Lower Italy. For our purpose Muslim Spain or Andalusia first falls to be considered.
The drama of culture in the East passes here through a second representation. Just as Arabs there intermarried with Persians, so in the West they intermarry with Spaniards. And instead of Turks and Mongols we have here the Berbers of North-Africa, whose rude force is flung into the play of more refined civilization with a blighting influence ever on the increase.
After the fall of the Omayyads in Syria (750), a member of that House, Abderrakhman ibn Moawiya, betook himself to Spain, where he contrived to work his way up to the dignity of Emir of Cordova and all Andalusia. This Omayyad overlordship lasted for more than 250 years, and after a passing system of petty States, it attained its greatest brilliancy under Abderrakhman III (912-961), the first who assumed the title of Caliph, and his son al-Hakam II (961-976). The tenth century was for Spain, what the ninth was for the East,–the time of highest material and intellectual civilization. If possible, it was more fresh and native here than in the East, and, if it be true that all theorizing betokens either a lack or a stagnation of the power of production, it was more productive also: The sciences, and Philosophy in particular, had far fewer representatives in Spain. Speaking generally, we may say that the relations of intellectual life took a simpler form. There was a smaller number of strata in the new culture than in the old. No doubt there were, besides Muslims, Jews and Christians in Spain, who in the time of Abderrakhman III played their part in this cultivated life, of the Arabic stamp, in common with the rest. But of adherents of Zoroaster, atheists and such like, there were none. Even the sects of Eastern Islam were almost unknown. Only one school of Law, that of Malik, was admitted. No Mutazilite dialectic troubled the peace of the Faith. True enough the Andalusian poets glorified the trinity of Wine, Woman and Song; but flippant freethinking on the one hand, and gloomy theosophy and renunciation of the world on the other, rarely found expression.
On the whole, intellectual culture was dependent upon the East. From the tenth century onwards many journeys in search of knowledge were undertaken thither from Spain, by way of Egypt and as far as Eastern Persia, for the purpose of attending the prelections of scholars of renown. And farther, educational requirements in Andalusia attracted to it many a learned Eastern who found no occupation in his own home. Besides, al-Hakam II caused books to be

copied, all over the East, for his library, which is said to have contained 400,000 volumes.
The West was mainly interested in Mathematics, Natural Science, Astrology and Medicine, precisely as was the case at first in the East. Poetry, History and Geography were cultivated with ardour. But the mind was not yet “sicklied o‘er with the pale cast of thought”, for when Abdallah ibn Masarra of Cordova, under Abderrakhman III, brought home with him from the East a system of Natural Philosophy, he had to submit to see his writings consigned to the flames.

2. In the year 1013 Cordova, “the Gem of the World”, was laid waste by the Berbers, and the kingdom of the Omayyads was split up into a number of minor States. Its second bloom fills up the eleventh century,–the Medicean age of Spain, in which Art and Poetry still flourish in luxuriant growth at the courts of the various cities, upon the ruins of ancient splendour. Art grows refined; poetry becomes sage, and scientific thought subtle. Intellectual nutriment continues to be fetched from the East; and Natural Philosophy, the writings of the Faithful Brethren, and Logic from the school of Abu Sulaiman al-Sidjistani find admission one after the other. Towards the close of the century it is possible to trace the influence even of the writings of Farabi, and the “Medicine” of Ibn Sina becomes known.
The beginnings of philosophical reflection are found chiefly with the numerous men of culture among the Jews. Eastern Natural Philosophy produces a powerful and quite singular impression upon the mind of Ibn Gebirol, the Avencebrol of Christian authors; and Bakhya ibn Pakuda is influenced by the Faithful Brethren. Even the religious poetry of the Jews is affected by the philosophical movement; and what speaks therein is not the Jewish Congregation seeking after God, but the Soul rising towards the Supreme Spirit.
Among the Muslims, however, the number of those who addressed themselves to a thorough study of Philosophy was very limited. No master gathered about him a numerous band of disciples; and meetings of the learned, for the discussion of philosophical subjects, were scarcely ever held. The individual thinker must have felt very lonely in these circumstances. In the West, just as in the East, Philosophy was developed subjectively; but here it was more the concern of a few isolated individuals; and, besides, it stood more apart from the faith of the mass of the people. In the East there were countless intermediary agencies between faith and knowledge,–between the philosophers and the believing community. The problem of the individual thinker, confronted by political society and the faith of narrow-minded fanatical multitudes, was accordingly realized more acutely in the West.

Mara Aranda (2)


Poets of Andalusia…

Look at the beautiful sun.

As it rises, it shows one golden eyebrow,

plays miser with the other one,

but we know that soon

it will spread out a radiant veil

over all.
A marvelous mirror that appears in the East

only to hide again at dusk.
The sky is saddened

when the sun leaves

and puts on mourning robes.
I believe that falling stars

are nothing more

than sky’s gem-hard tears.
– Ibn Abi I-Haytham, Andalusia

This beautiful pool,

a brimming eye,

has thick eyelashes of flowers.
Turtles cavort

in their capes of green algae.
Now they squabble on the bank

but when winter comes

they’ll dive below and hide.
At play they resemble

Christian soldiers

wearing on their backs

their leather shield.
Ibn Sarah (d. 1123, Santarem)

Look at the ripe wheat

bending before the wind

like squadrons of horsemen

fleeing in defeat, bleeding

from the wounds of the poppies.
Ibn ‘Iyad (1083-1149, Central Andalusia)

Sparks shooting from his eyes

and wearing a poppy on his head

he arises to announce the death of night.
when he crows he himself listens

to his call to prayer

then hurriedly beats his great wings

against his body.
It seems the king of Persia

gave him his crown

and Maria the Copt, sister of Moses,

hung the pendant around his neck.
He snitched the peacock’s dressiest coat

and to top it off

his strutting walk

he stole from a duck.

Al-As’ad Ibrahim ibn Billitah (11th century Toledo)

The sky darkens:

flowers open their mouths

and search for their udders

of the nurturing rain

as battalions of black

water-laden clouds

parade majestically past

flashing their golden swords.

Ibn Shahayd (992-1034, Cordoba)

If white is the colour

of mourning in Andalusia,

it is a proper custom.

Look at me,

I dress myself in the white

of white hair

in mourning for youth.

Abu l-Hasan al-Husri (d. 1095)

On the morning they left

we said goodbye

filled with sadness

for the absence to come.
Inside the palanquins

on the camels’ backs

I saw their faces beautiful as moons

behind veils of golden cloth.
Beneath the veils

tears crept like scorpions

over the fragrant roses

of their cheeks.
These scorpions do not harm

the cheek they mark.
They save their sting

for the heart of the sorrowful lover.
Ibn Jakh (11th century)

(Poems translated by Emilio Garcia Gomez & Cola Franzen)

Mara Aranda (1)


A Bit Of Cosmic Therapy…

Friday finally… I have been laid up for a couple of days, with probably the worse back I have had in maybe 20 years since I broke my pelvis and twisted my lower spine. Unmovable yesterday, slightly mobile today. I am not complaining as much as informing. Through it all I have been removed mostly from the system and making a living… Well, I have made a nuisance of myself with having to have hot/cold packs brought to me where-ever I have been immobile at.
It is getting better, and those who I owe emails, phone calls and time to, I will be back in the game soonish I hope.
Here we are at Solstice already! Rowan is having a gathering of Thespians from his past school, and is generally generating a new life post High School. He is full of energy, and that is good.
Mary and Rowan got our Bee-Box mounted outside in the garden, all we need now is the bees to go with. Mary is in her element this time of year; she loves the garden.
Anyway, lots on this one (started a week ago, sorry!) It is a bit of Cosmic Therapy for yours truly, getting aligned once more to that ol’ Cozmic Flow…

On The Menu:

The Links

Quotes: Meditations Upon Peace

From Raymond Soulard: Within Within Radio Show

Enzo Avitabile & Bottari – ‘Omunnosemove”

Excerpt from “Psychedelic Psychotherapy and the Shadow”, a talk given by Anne Shulgin

Chuang Tzu Poems…

Chuang Tzu – Bio

Enzo Avitabile – Nuje e ll’acqua

The Links:

The Christian Gene

Joe’s Back!

Does ball lightning have a sense of humour?

When worldviews collide


Quotes: Meditations Upon Peace
Agatha Christie: One is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as to lose one.
Alex Noble: If I have been of service, if I have glimpsed more of the nature and essence of ultimate good, if I am inspired to reach wider horizons of thought and action, if I am at peace with myself, it has been a successful day.
Andre Trocme: All who affirm the use of violence admit it is only a means to achieve justice and peace. But peace and justice are nonviolence…the final end of history. Those who abandon nonviolence have no sense of history. Rather they are bypassing history, freezing history, betraying history.
Anton Chekov: We shall find peace. We shall hear angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
Benjamin Franklin: There never was a good war or a bad peace.
Carl Sandburg:


The single clenched fist lifted and ready,

Or the open hand held out and waiting.


For we meet by one or the other.
Croesus: In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons.

From Raymond Soulard: Within Within Radio Show

Show #275

Time: 21 June 2008 (Saturday) at

19:00 UTC | PST-11am | EST-2pm | UK- 7pm | NZ-8am
High speed listen at:

Dial-up listen at: [currently disabled]

Now Podcasting at: [currently disabled]

Duration: ~3h
On this week’s show:
New Rock Album: Coldplay Viva La Vida (2008)…Last heard from in

2005, this great, sometimes maligned British band collaborated with

meister producer Brian Eno to push their boundaries, find new places

within and those out there in the troubled world…let their passions,

anger and hope, come out new and exciting…
Classic Rock Album: Harry Chapin, Heads & Tales (1972)…every so

often I indulge among the shadows of my past, I let myself remember

some other time through songs…how Harry comforted me in my youth,

singing in my head on the streets of then, before Walkmen and

iPods…there is warmth and melancholy and much strength in these

beautiful songs…
Storybook Time: Continuing Chapter Twenty-one 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 Elvis Costello, a handful of jittery,

glittery songs from his early years…summer solstice upon us, the year

nutty as a fruitcake, nuttier still…follow the squirrels, maybe they

know the way…
Webcasting to the globe & beyond from the People’s Republic of

Portland, Oregon!

We have two entries from Enzo. Thanks to Peter for revealing this wonderful musician! Peter always has a bit of sonic beauty ready for Turfing. He has turned me on to so much good stuff!

Enzo Avitabile & Bottari – ‘Omunnosemove”

Thanks To Dr. Con for the pointer…

Excerpt from “Psychedelic Psychotherapy and the Shadow”, a talk given by Anne Shulgin

I’ve come to realize that the most important part of the process, was working with the Shadow. I think you’ve all, um, of what Carl Jung calls, the Shadow. The term most often used in the society at large is the dark-side. I think it’s safe to say that this Shadow aspect of the human psyche, while it remains unconscious, can be blamed for all wars, from tribal conflicts to battles between great nations, it causes racial prejudice, it underlies jealousy and resentment. You see the Shadow in every vampire and werewolf movie. And its face is the face of a very popular figure called the Devil, or Satan. In our present time we have Darth Vader. However there is a difference between Darth Vader and the earlier demonic figures, in that Darth Vader was created by a film-maker who understood what he represented. After all George Lucas was a student of Joseph Campbell.
However, when work on the Shadow is underway, when it begins to drift towards conscious awareness, it carries with it gifts. To give you a brief clue to what I mean, think about the great works of art in painting and music for instance, and recognize that pure light and beauty, sweetness and gentleness, by themselves, will give pleasure only for a short time. For what we experience as greatness, fullness and authenticity, there needs to be an edge – a touch of darkness, a bitter-sweetness, even a shade of sadness or pain contained in the work. If you want an illustration, I hope I don’t offend too many people, but if you want an illustration of too much sweetness in light, um, becoming cloying to say the least, you may have seen the paintings of a very famous and very wealthy called Thomas Kincaid. That sort of illustrates what I mean.
The Shadow, made conscious, becomes an ally for us – a fearless, brash, not quite housebroken ally and friend. I want to go back to the beginning: a newborn baby has no Shadow, he has only a survival function. All those instincts that are hardwired into him to maximize his chances of survival, but he has no Shadow.
At the risk of oversimplifying a somewhat complex matter, I think the best way to understand how the Shadow is created is to remember that it is the part of that we have learned, we are taught, to reject. We have learned from our parents, our teachers, our rabbis and priests, and our neighbors, what part of ourselves are not loveable, not acceptable, not okay. Certain actions were punished or at least disproved of, so we came to feel that whatever was inside us that made us want to do those forbidden things must be “bad” or “wrong”. Every society and every community has to socialize it’s young. In different countries there are different rules to be obeyed. In some societies boys and girls are treated very differently. Just think of Muslim societies, for instance. But in all cases there are certain words and actions that are not acceptable and the children are gradually molded into what their particular community regards as citizens. In some places, and at certain times in history, the desires and the urges and the inclinations which led children, and even some adults, to act in certain ways their society found inappropriate, and wrong, were blamed not on simple human nature, but on demonic forces. The Devil, in other words, made them do it. In fact, in some societies like what we call the Puritans, human nature was equated with pure evil, with what is still referred to in certain religions as Original Sin. In such communities, both kinds of nature, the natural world around us, and human nature were regarded with suspicion and distrust. This attitude, it is sad to say, is still alive and well in the world. If you’re brought up in such a community, the general attitude toward the natural world is one of taming and controlling it – not letting the natural forces in the world have their way. And the attitude towards human nature is the same.
In a very restrictive society it is inevitable that most of its citizens will develop very big, ugly Shadow-monsters because so many of their natural instincts have been labeled wicked and bad. In such places the most artistic and creative people will run into the most trouble, because creativity springs from forces in the unconscious, that they don’t easily allow themselves to be controlled and shackled. In order to be loved and accepted, to be smiled at by our parents, we learned gradually to control certain urges, and to speak and act in the right ways. So, what happened to those bad desires and unacceptable urges? They got sucked down into the basement of ourselves, pushed into a dark corner, and the door to that secret room was locked with an iron key. If you hear echoes of some fairy tales, you’re absolutely right.
One of the reasons that the classic fairy tales have lasted hundreds of years, is that they contain spiritual truths which were disguised, I think, as tales for children. And these continue to resonate for the child and the adult. Beauty and the Beast, for instance, is a tale of the encounter of a Soul, called Beauty, and it’s Shadow, called the Beast. And the lesson couldn’t be more clear: Not until you can embrace and love your Shadow, as a part of who you are, not until then can the rejected, feared, horrendous monster transform into a prince, and join you in making a whole human being. Which, of course, the part that goes, “And they lived happily ever after.”
So, what’s wrong with having the difficult and unacceptable parts of your self be banished into the cellar, where they can be kept chained in the dark and eventually forgotten? Well, the first problem your faced with is the philosophical one which I’m not going to pursue at the moment, namely, “Who is defining what is acceptable and what is not? Whose standards are to be followed? Whose philosophy and view of the universe, and their place in it, are to be regarded as the one and only truth, which all citizens will accept, believe, and follow?” As I said we’re not going to step into that morass right now. But going back to the original question, “what’s wrong with suppressing and then forgetting the more bothersome parts of yourself? Wouldn’t it make for a much more peaceful life, and a happy society?” Uh, well, it doesn’t work out that way. The problem is, those suppressed parts of you not only include destructive impulses, they include creative ones. And above all the Shadow beast does not remain quiet and docile. The longer it remains in the dark, the longer it remains in the unconscious, the more powerful it becomes. In fact, the name of the Shadow’s game is Power.
I’ll give the most obvious and well known example: the gentle and sweet-natured man who changes when he drinks alcohol. Suddenly everybody’s best friend becomes a sarcastic, mean spirited, even vicious enemy or destroyer. And by the way, this applies to women, of course. It is just easier to stick with one gender. Usually we refer to therapists as female and patients as male, but that’s simply a matter of convenience, and I assume you realize that. Alcohol is in our society the most commonly used way by which the Shadow gets released from its chains once in awhile. But it’s certainly not the only way. Some people under extreme stress, or in situations involving emotions, might burst out words that shock with their hate and malice. Others with even less control over themselves will even become physically abusive and destructive. Certain drugs will allow the same kind of things to happen for some people in some situations. Neither the drugs nor the alcohol are responsible. What is responsible is the unconsciousness of the Shadow.
Just to make things more complicated, let me remind you that while I’m talking about the most common kind of Shadow, common to our society anyway, a Shadow composed of repressed and forbidden anger, resentment, destructive impulses, malice and jealousy, among other nice things, there are multitudes of Shadow mons
ters. For instance, let’s take a family in which the father is a Korean military man. The mother is a daughter of a military family, and most friends are in the military. Very often there is a family tradition of military service. And the male children are expected to follow in their father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Let’s take the boy child because the girls in this family we treat differently. As he grows up, the scorned aspects will be soft ones. They will often be referred to as “woman’s feelings”, and the word “woman” will be said with contempt. Inclinations toward gentleness and empathy, trying to understand other people, will be squashed. Professions such as social work, psychology and psychiatry will be talked off with sarcasm. People who follow such professions will be either dismissed or laughed at. I’m sure you’ve met some of those kind of people. The boy’s Shadow will be composed of all those feelings and ideas that tend toward compassion, sympathy, and the feminine. Aggressive acts, as long as they are not directed at authority figures, will be tolerated or shrugged at. Any signs of artistic ability will be either ignored or discouraged. Since acceptance and affection depend on the boy’s acting like a warrior, his Shadow will be made of artistic impulses, whimsicality, offbeat humor, empathetic feelings, and all desires to nurture small wild animals instead of shooting them. Um, I exaggerate but not much.
One of my best friends was the son of two physicians, his siblings were doctors, and he was expected to go to medical school, too, which he did. He had a gift for intricate drawing, and he made absolutely delightful pictures, which I first saw in the margins of an autopsy report which he’d put on my desk. When I made a fuss over the exquisite art work he was really taken aback. He explained that nobody in his family had ever commented, or even noticed, his drawings, and so he’d come to think of them as doodles of no importance. And when I expressed some outrage at his family treating his gift that way, he said “You can understand their attitude because their entire world was medicine, and only medicine, and art simply didn’t matter to them.” So, alright, back to the point, which is that the Shadow is not in itself evil or bad, it is only whatever is repressed – whatever has been forbidden and treated with contempt by the authority figures surrounding the child. It is those aspects of the person which he has come to think of as unacceptable, awful, terrible, unlovable, and even dangerous. And all of those so-called bad aspects of himself have become unconscious, gradually gathering power in the dark.
Now, power to do what? If the Shadow aspects of a person remain unconscious, they get projected! One of the best illustrations of how this works is something like this:
Let’s say that you go to a party, and you see a person that you haven’t met before. Now, if you in this case are a woman, you dress well, you’re always well-groomed, you’re finger nails are clean and so is your hair. This stranger is also a woman, but she appears to be just a little slobby. Her movements are aloof and unguarded, and her voice is just a fraction too high for your comfort. You find yourself watching her with increasing dislike. After awhile you’re feeling more than dislike, it’s closer to hostility, and you don’t seem to be able to look away or focus on anybody else. You leave the party early, disturbed by your own feelings of antipathy toward a stranger. You think to yourself, “All she was doing was enjoying herself, why do I feel such dislike? It doesn’t make sense!”
What you’ve just experienced is a projection. The stranger reminded your unconscious of certain aspects of your repressed self, your Shadow. But since your Shadow has been buried in the unconscious, the dark, for years, you’re unaware of its existence or what it contains. Certain traits have projected themselves onto this woman, where you have been able to see them and react to them with revulsion. And any time you find yourself reacting with strong negativity to a person or a certain group of people, you should suspect that you’re experiencing a projection of your Shadow. This applies to racial prejudice as this is where it originates.
Now, under the influence of a psychedelic drug, projections are common. We’ve all seen the faces of friends, or lovers, distorted, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not. And the first inclination is that you assume that what you are seeing is some hidden aspect of the person. After awhile most of learn that what we’re seeing is a projection of a part of ourselves. As long as the Shadow remains unavailable to conscious awareness it can determine a lot of how we live our lives and respond to others around us. It erupts unexpectedly with malicious words, and do damage to a really valuable relationship. We are not in control of ourselves as much as we’d like to be because this other inside us can take charge suddenly, leaving emotional or physical wreckage behind it.
Now, most of us don’t have to be afraid a hidden axe murderer lurking in our psychic basement. There are actually more of us who are afraid of something equivalent to that than you would expect. I suspect that’s one of the reasons that people are very afraid of psychedelic drugs, people who haven’t taken them. But there are people whose parents were so dysfunctional and hostile, that by the time they reach young adulthood their Shadows are murderers. The eruptions of these Shadows will truly cause death and destruction around them. Our society is presently in the dark ages when it comes to understanding, much less knowing, how to handle such traumatized and ruined people. And part of our Shadow as a nation is that we don’t really want to understand them.
It’s not only individual human beings that have Shadow identities, but nations do, too. Again, it’s easy to over-simplify but our own country can serve as an illustration of this! Our consciously accepted identity is one of generosity, tolerance, kindness, lawfulness, and respect for the individual citizens rights. Yet to give just one example, the instant that a person is placed under arrest, he becomes a victim of the societies projection of its own Shadow. Our press, without which I think our country would be a huge, nuclear armed, totalitarian menace on the world scene, this valuable press of ours give voice to our national Shadow by trying, convicting, and all but executing the arrested person before he ever sees the inside of a courtroom! All of us has seen it happen over and over again. Adopting the British system, which forbids discussion in the press of any criminal manner before the accused has been tried in court, which I think is just wonderful, simply cannot be suggested to this country. We need our bad guys, too much, as scapegoats for our unconscious desires and our hidden Shadow selves. How the British ever got that thought I don’t know but it would be a great thing for our country if the press could just be persuaded to leave alone anybody who was arrested for anything, until they’ve been tried and found guilty or innocent.
So, what is our Shadow, our individual Shadow? If we manage to bring it up to the light, it transforms, it changes. It’s still there, but no longer as a monster. When you allow yourself to acknowledge without fear, without hatred, the part of you that wants to punish, or even kill, the guy cuts you off on the highway. When you can accept the fact that along with the love for your grandmother, there exists a purely selfish hope that she will leave you some of her money when she dies. When you can allow yourself to have those darker thoughts or feelings, along with the more admirable ones, then you’ve become free. You’ve become authentic, or at least you’re on your way to authenticity.
Now how does one go about bringing the hidden beast out of the cellar, and into consciousness? In other words how do we turn that nasty monster into a prince? Well, it takes work. It also takes a therapist who has undergo
ne her own confrontation with her Shadow. Only someone who has done this kind of work on herself, can understand the overwhelming fear that can threaten to take over a patient at certain stages of this process. (Ed. Note: Personal experience has shown that when the presence of a trained therapist is not available, one CAN do this work on their own, although it is tricky work, and sometimes even dangerous territory. Caution is advised, but education is the lamp that will guide you through the woods.) After all, he is being asked to go down a long stairway to a place inside where there is no light, or barely enough. To allow himself to see a figure of darkness which is the embodiment of everything he hates or fears about himself, everything he’s ashamed of, everything he wants to reject or forget. Not only is he being urged to face this thing which, by the way, often takes the form of a huge, dark, sometimes vicious animal. But after he’s faced it, he has to go deliberately up to it, and step into it, and turn around and look out it’s eyes! This is something my hypnotherapist friend and I developed, which is one step further beyond what the Jungian therapists will have you do. The Jungians encourage the patient to first see this figure, this animal, or whatever form it’s taken, and then with a lot of help from the therapist they begin to understand where this evolved from – what was the beginning, what words were said at what times, if that’s possible. We took it one step further and had the person step inside the skin of his own Shadow, and then feel what its like inside, and look out at the world through the Shadow’s eyes. It’s quite an experience. And remember that all this time, the person believes that this Shadow monster, this horrid, putrid, evil beast, is actually the bedrock identity, the very essence of who and what he is.
So I believe that this process takes more courage then just about anything else anyone could expect to be asked to do in his life. That’s why his therapist must have undergone this experience herself. Only someone who has undergone this journey can be believed when she tells her patient, you know, “What you’ll see is not your true self. It is part of you, certainly, but it’s not what you truly are. Once you’re inside it, you’ll discover there is no more fear. The only thing your Shadow is afraid of, is being discovered. It prefers to stay in the dark where it can keep its power. Once you’ve found it, and stepped inside, you’ll feel only power and total lack of fear.” Or she’ll say something like that, and that’s actually what happens. There’s no more fear inside there, it’s just this great power!
So, when does the princely transformation take place? It begins at the point where you begin to look out the monsters eyes. Which is also the point which you forget to be afraid. When you have reached that place, and step outside of the beast, and go back up the stairs, because you have nothing to be afraid of anymore, what more is there to fear?
This confrontation with the Shadow usually takes a long time. And of course, it isn’t finished until you’ve gone back, and gone back in again, to look at the Shadow monster who will be shrinking in size – no longer quite hairy and probably without it’s sharp teeth, so to speak. And the process is not truly finished until you’ve learned to have compassion, then affection, for your Shadow beast. The compassion is not so terribly difficult once your therapist helps to point out that all of this Shadow form took place because of things that were told to you, done to you, that you are not responsible for this, that you dealt with all of this rejection and repression the only way that you could. It is important, as the patient, to look back on the completely vulnerable child your were, and how helpless you felt, and how completely lacking in understanding you were about these things you were told were bad. So, after awhile you can begin to feel a bit of compassion for this horrid, self-thing. Feeling love for it takes a little longer, but eventually it will happen.
Now, how and it what way does the transformed Shadow become your ally? Well if you face aspects of yourself that you used to be ashamed of, and tried to deny, you will be able to deliberately decide whether or not to make use of any of these aspects at certain times in your life. To give a relatively minor example, when I sit down at a chess board, I can give myself permission to turn on my aggressive side, no more Mrs. Nice Guy, and if my partner doesn’t like it then to hell with him! Just tough! Or more seriously, if I find myself walking a dark street in a strange city and I hear footsteps walking behind me, I don’t have to hesitate before I become my growling, big cat, killer self. It’s okay, my killer is there to be used if he’s needed. The difference is that I am not in danger of being taken over by one of these aspects of my Shadow, without my consent, and perhaps under the wrong circumstances which is what happens when it remains unconscious. I can make conscious choices about whether to use my dark, or ally, or not.
Insight into your darker side, without self-hatred, without shame, is what you have begin with to do Shadow work – very hard to manage for most of us. Acceptance of all the things you are with love and compassion.
The Buddhists teach that the soul, immediately after death, the soul will encounter demonic figures known as Guardians of the Gate, and that one must keep in mind that they are aspects of himself, and he cannot move forth into the spiritual world until he has acknowledged and embraced them – until he has owned them. Which is another way of reminding us that spiritual wholeness requires that we accept and own all parts of our self, and that we must find a way to love all that we are, and eventually, to love all that other living things are, rejecting none. I don’t know if it was Oscar Wilde, or who it was, that made that wonderful statement, “Nothing human is alien to me.” That’s what we have to get to. The closest people come to looking in the eye’s of God are when we look at the face of a newborn baby. Looking in the eyes of a newborn is quite an experience. And what does a newborn baby show us? All the possibilities for light and dark, good and evil, love and hate – the potential is there for anything and everything that a human being can be. Now those of us who have used psychedelics to achieve greater consciousness have sometimes managed to understand just a little bit, that the great mind of God, if you believe such a thing, contains all things, all dualities, all opposites, all light and all darkness. The difficult part of that is that some psychedelic travelers, like some non-psychedelic travelers in these realms, also come back and state that everything that exists is contained in love, which makes no sense whatsoever but it seems to be part of the truth. In doing work to bring our own Shadow selves into awareness, and find that we can feel compassion for our dark twisted ugly aspects, thereby transforming them, we might come a little closer to understanding, not with the mind, but with the heart, what is meant by that otherwise incomprehensible phrase: “God is Love!”


Chuang Tzu Poems…

The Giant Peng Bird
In the Northern Sea there is a fish

Its name is Kun

The great size of Kun

We know not how many thousand leagues
Its name is Peng

The wingspan of Peng

We know not how many thousand leagues

It surges into flight.
Its wings are like the clouds that hang from the sky

This bird, when the ocean begins to heave

Will travel to the Southern Sea

The Southern Sea – the heavenly pond

Distinguishing Ego from Self
All that is limited by form, semblance, sound, color is called object.

Among them all, man alone is more than an object.

Though, like objects, he has form and semblance,

He is not limited to form.

He is more.

He can attain to formlessness.
When he is beyond form and semblance, beyond “this” and “that,”

where is the comparison with another object?

Where is the conflict?

What can stand in his way?

He will rest in his eternal place which is no-place.

He will be hidden in his own unfathomable secret.

His nature sinks to its root in the One.

His vitality, his power hide in secret Tao.

Letting go of thoughts
The mind remains undetermined in the great Void.

Here the highest knowledge is unbounded.

That which gives things their thusness cannot be delimited by things.

So when we speak of ‘limits’, we remain confined to limited things.

The limit of the unlimited is called ‘fullness.’

The limitlessness of the limited is called ‘emptiness.’

Tao is the source of both.

But it is itself neither fullness nor emptiness.

Creation and Destruction
When you break something up, you create things.

When you create something, you destroy things.

Material things have no creation or destruction.

Ultimately these concepts connect as one.
Only the enlightened know that they connect as one,

So instead of debating this with your preconceptions,

Approach it in an ordinary way.
Those with this ordinary approach, simply apply the idea.

Those who apply it, connect with it.

Those who connect with it, attain it.

This easily attained understanding is not far off.

Goods and Possessions
Goods and possessions are no gain in his eyes.

He stays far from wealth and honor.

Long life is no ground for joy, nor early death for sorrow.

Success is not for him to be pround of, failure is no shame.

Had he all the world’s power he would not hold it as his own.

If he conquered everything he would not take it to himself.

His glory is in knowing that all things come together in One and life and death are equal.


Bio: Chuang Tzu was a leading thinker representing the Taoist strain in Chinese thought. Using parable and anecdote, allegory and paradox, he set forth the early ideas of what was to become the Taoist school. Central in these is the belief that only by understanding Tao (the Way of Nature) and dwelling in unity can man achieve true happiness and be truly free, in both life and death. Witty and imaginative, enriched by brilliant imagery, making sportive use of both mythological and historical personages (including even Confucius), the book which bears Chuang Tzu’s name has for centuries been savored by Chinese readers.”
When Chuang Tzu was about to die, his disciples signified their wish to give him a grand burial. `I shall have heaven and earth for my coffin and its shell; the sun and moon for my two round symbols of jade, the stars and constellations for my pearls and jewels; and all things assisting as he mourners. Will not the provisions for my funeral be complete? What could you add to them?’

Enzo Avitabile – ‘Nuje e ll’acqua’


A Pentangle For Your Thoughts…

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

It has been a busy week. I have had this entry ready pretty much since last Thursday, but havoc has been the rule for days. I got a new system, which is unfortunately dead in the water… (God I dislike VISTA!) I am awaiting some assistance, out of my element on this one!
Lots of work, and good events. Bowling with friends, hanging out, working in the garden (lots) putting together boxes for veg and herbs, etc.
Anyway, enough.
Hope This finds you well!
Bright Blessings,
One Of My Favourite Bands…

On The Menu:

Rowan Gets A Scholarship!

The Links

A Pentangle For Your Thoughts…

The Story of Deidre

In Between Worlds: Rumi Poetry

Rowan Gets A Scholarship!

So on this past Thursday, we went down to the facility that manages the Outdoor School Program with Rowan. If you don’t know what the Outdoor School is, it is a program that takes all Portland/Metro area 6th grade kids out to the country for a week to learn the natural sciences, and to have a break from middle school… This program deeply affected Rowan when he was a 6th grader, and he vowed he would be a student counselor at Outdoor School when he hit High School. Well, he did become one, and went back repeatedly, becoming an integral part of Camp Namanu student leader staff in the fall and Spring. He taught animal studies, and became an all around asset to the camp.
A few weeks back he was called upon to come testify at Metro Council (The Tri-Counties Gov’t Agency) where funding discussions were going on regarding the Outdoor School. Rowan was the last person in (out of 5 student leaders), and according to the head of Outdoor School, (if I understood correctly) Rowan’s testimony swayed the one vote that enabled Outdoor School to get additional funding of 1.5 million dollars that would allow all 6th grade students to attend… (some schools were asking parents to pay $100. per child as there was a shortage of funding)
Rowan was recognized with a scholarship for his work at Namanu and his presentation at Metro this past Thursday, along with 7 other outstanding student leaders.
We are pretty proud of him! The Outdoor School concept should be spread… check out their link, and think how you can bring this worthy program to the children of your community…

M.E.S.D. Outdoor School!

The Links:

Backyard Hive… This site shows an illustration of our new beehive!


And Two Entries From Doctor Con!

The Neural Buddhists

James Kent…sheds new light on music and psychedelics


A Pentangle For Your Thoughts…
I was turned on to Pentangle by students of Sufi Sam Lewis back in San Anselmo many years ago (1969 or so) I have had years where I didn’t listen to them, but, I always come back again. I am a fan of the solo work of Bert Jansch and John Renbourn in particular. I hear they have reunited with the delightful Jackie McShea. I’d love to see them.
These video entries are from a presentation by the Beeb (BBC) back in 1970.
4 songs in all, I hope You enjoy!

Pentangle – Light Flight

Pentangle – The Hunting Song

Pentangle – Train Song

Pentangle – House Carpenter


The Story of Deidre

There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. The man was a right good man, and he had a goodly share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a soothsayer had come home to the place, and as the man was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.
“Are you doing any soothsaying?” says Malcolm.
“Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?”
“Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it.”
“Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you want?”
“Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge o it.”
“Well, I am going out, and when I return, I will tell you.”
And the soothsayer went forth out of the house and he was not long outside when he returned.
“Well,” said the soothsayer, “I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their heads on her account.”
After a time a daughter was born to Malcolm, he did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, “Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?”
The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach, without the knowledge or notice of any one. He caused there a hillock, round and green, to be dug out of the middle, and the hole thus made to be covered carefully over so that a little company could dwell there together. This was done.
Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy mid the hills without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland-whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.
The woman that had charge of her, gave Deirdre every information and skill of which she herself had knowledge and skill. There was not a blade of grass growing from root, nor a bird singing in the wood, nor a star shining from heaven but Deirdre had a name for it. But one thing, she did not wish her to have either part or parley with any single living man of the rest of the world. But on a gloomy winter night, with black, scowling clouds, a hunter of game was wearily travelling the hills, and what happened but that he missed the trail of the hunt, and lost his course and companions. A drowsiness came upon the man as he wearily wandered over the hills, and he lay down by the side of the beautiful green knoll in which Deirdre lived, and he slept. The man was faint from hunger and wandering, and benumbed with cold, and a deep sleep fell upon him. When he lay down beside the green hill where Deirdre was, a troubled dream came to the man, and he thought that he enjoyed the warmth of a fairy broch, the fairies being inside playing music. The hunter shouted out in his dream, if there was any one in the broch, to let him in for the Holy One’s sake. Deirdre heard the voice and said to her foster-mother: “O foster-mother, what cry is that?” “It is nothing at all, Deirdre–merely the birds of the air astray and seeking each other. But let them go past to the bosky glade. There is no shelter or house for them here.” “Oh, foster-mother, the bird asked to get inside for the sake of the God of the Elements, and you yourself tell me that anything that is asked in His name we ought to do. If you will not allow the bird that is being benumbed with cold, and done to death with hunger, to be let in, I do not think much of your language or your faith. But since I give credence to your language and to your faith, which you taught me, I will myself let in the bird.” And Deirdre arose and drew the bolt from the leaf of the door, and she let in the hunter. She placed a seat in the place for sitting, food in the place for eating, and drink in the place for drinking for the man who came to the house. ” Oh, for this life and raiment, you man that came in, keep restraint on your tongue!” said the old woman. “It is not a great thing for you to keep your mouth shut and your tongue quiet when you get a home and shelter of a hearth on a gloomy winter’s night.” “Well,” said the hunter, “I may do that–keep my mouth shut and my tongue quiet, since I came to the house and received hospitality from you; but by the hand of thy father and grandfather, and by your own two hands, if some other of the people of the world saw this beauteous creature you have here hid away, they would not long leave her with you, I swear.”
“What men are these you refer to?” said Deirdre.
“Well, I will tell you, young woman, said the hunter.

“They are Naois, son of Uisnech, and Allen and Arden his two brothers.”
“What like are these men when seen, if we were to see them?” said Deirdre.
“Why, the aspect and form of the men when seen are these,” said the hunter: “they have the colour of the raven on their hair, their skin like swan on the wave in whiteness, and their cheeks as the blood of the brindled red calf, and their speed and their leap are those of the salmon of the torrent and the deer of the grey mountain side. And Naois is head and shoulders over the rest of the people of Erin.”
“However they are,” said the nurse, “be you off from here and take another road. And, King of Light and Sun! in good sooth and certainty, little are my thanks for yourself or for her that let you in! “
The hunter went away, and went straight to’ the palace of King Connachar. He sent word in to the king that he wished to speak to him if he pleased. The king answered the message and came out to speak to the man. “What is the reason of your journey? ” said the king to the hunter.
“I have only to tell you, O king,” said the hunter, “that I saw the fairest creature that ever was born in Erin, and I came to tell you of it.”
“Who is this beauty and where is she to be seen, when she was not seen before till you saw her, if you did see her?”
“Well, I did see her,” said the hunter. ” But, if I did, no man else can see her unless he get directions from me as to where she is dwelling.”
“And will you direct me to where she dwells? and the reward of your directing me will be as good as the reward of your message,” said the king.
“Well, I will direct you, O king, although it is likely that this will not be what they want,” said the hunter.
Connachar, King of Ulster, sent for his nearest kinsmen, and he told them of his intent. Though early rose the song of the birds mid the rocky caves and the music of the birds in the grove, earlier than that did Connachar, King of Ulster, arise, with his little troop of dear friends, in the delightful twilight of the fres
h and gentle May; the dew was heavy on each bush and flower and stem, as they went to bring Deirdre forth from the green knoll where she stayed. Many a youth was there who had a lithe leaping and lissom step when they started whose step was faint, failing, and faltering when they reached the bothy on account of the length of the way and roughness of the road. “Yonder, now, down in the bottom of the glen is the bothy where the woman dwells, but I will not go nearer than this to the old woman,” said the hunter.
Connachar with his band of kinsfolk went down to the green knoll where Deirdre dwelt and he knocked at the door of the bothy. The nurse replied, “No less than a king’s command and a king’s army could put me out of my bothy tonight. And I should be obliged to you, were you to tell who it is that wants me to open my bothy door.” “It is I, Connachar, King of Ulster.” When the poor woman heard who was at the door, she rose with haste and let in the king and all that could get in of his retinue.
When the king saw the woman that was before him that he had been in quest of, he thought he never saw in the course of the day nor in the dream of night a creature so fair as Deirdre and he gave his full heart’s weight of love to her. Deirdre was raised on the topmost of the heroes’ shoulders and she and her foster-mother were brought to the Court of King Connachar of Ulster.
With the love that Connachar had for her, he wanted to marry Deirdre right off there and then, will she nill she marry him. But she said to him, “I would be obliged to you if you will give me the respite of a year and a day.” He said “I will grant you that, hard though it is, if you will give me your unfailing promise that you will marry me at the year’s end.” And she gave the promise. Connachar got for her a woman-teacher and merry modest maidens fair that would lie down and rise with her, that would play and speak with her. Deirdre was clever in maidenly duties and wifely understanding, and Connachar thought he never saw with bodily eye a creature that pleased him more.
Deirdre and her women companions were one day out on the hillock behind the house enjoying the scene, and drinking in the sun’s heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying. Deirdre was looking at the men that were coming, and wondering at them. When the men neared them, Deirdre remembered the language of the huntsman, and she said to herself that these were the three sons of Uisnech, and that this was Naois, he having what was above the bend of the two shoulders above the men of Erin all. The three brothers went past without taking any notice of them, without even glancing at the young girls on the hillock. What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She girded up her raiment and went after the men that went past the base of the knoll, leaving her women attendants there. Allen and Arden had heard of the woman that Connachar, King of Ulster, had with him, and they thought that, if Naois, their brother, saw her, he would have her himself, more especially as she was not married to the King. They perceived the woman coming, and called on one another to hasten their step as they had a long distance to travel, and the dusk of night was coming on. They did so. She cried “Naois, son of Uisnech, will you leave me?” “What piercing, shrill cry is that-the most melodious my ear ever heard, and the shrillest that ever struck my heart of all the cries I ever heard?” “It is anything else but the wail of the wave-swans of Connachar,” said his brothers. “No! yonder is a woman’s cry of distress,” said Naois, and he swore he would not go further until he saw from whom the cry came, and Naois turned back. Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times, and a kiss each to his brothers. With the confusion that she was in, Deirdre went into a crimson blaze of fire, and her colour came and went as rapidly as the movement of the aspen by the stream side. Naois thought he never saw a fairer creature, and Naois gave Deirdre the love that he never gave to thing, to vision, or to creature but to herself.
Then Naois placed Deirdre on the topmost height of his shoulder, and told his brothers to keep up their pace, and they kept up their pace. Naois thought that it would not be well for him to remain in Erin on account of the way in which Connachar, King of Ulster, his uncle’s son, had gone against him because of the woman, though he had not married her; and he turned back to Alba, that is, Scotland. He reached the side of Loch-Ness and made his habitation there. He could kill the salmon of the torrent from out his own door, and the deer of the grey gorge from out his window. Naois and Deirdre and Allen and Arden dwelt in a tower, and they were happy so long a time as they were there.
By this time the end of the period came at which Deirdre had to marry Connachar, King of Ulster. Connachar made up his mind to take Deirdre away by the sword whether she was married to Naois or not. So he prepared a great and gleeful feast. He sent word far and wide through Erin all to his kinspeople to come to the feast. Connachar thought to himself that Naois would not come though he should bid him; and the scheme that arose in his mind was to send for his father’s brother, Ferchar Mac Ro, and to send him on an embassy to Naois. He did so; and Connachar said to Ferchar, ” Tell Naois, son of Uisnech, that I am setting forth a great and gleeful feast to my friends and kinspeople throughout the wide extent of Erin all, and that I shall not have rest by day nor sleep by night if he and Allen and Arden be not partakers of the feast.”
Ferchar Mac Ro and his three sons went on their journey, and reached the tower where Naois was dwelling by the side of Loch Etive. The sons of Uisnech gave a cordial kindly welcome to Ferchar Mac Ro and his three sons, and asked of him the news of Erin. “The best news that I have for you,” said the hardy hero, “is that Connachar, King of Ulster, is setting forth a great sumptuous feast to his friends and kinspeople throughout the wide extent of Erin all, and he has vowed by the earth beneath him, by the high heaven above him, and by the sun that wends to the west, that he will have no rest by day nor sleep by night if the sons of Uisnech, the sons of his own father’s brother, will not come back to the land of their home and the Soil of their nativity, and to the feast likewise, and he has sent us on embassy to invite you.”
“We will go with you,” said Naois.
“We will,” said his brothers.
But Deirdre did not wish to go with Ferchar Mac Ro, and she tried every prayer to turn Naois from going with him-she said:
“I saw a vision, Naois, and do you interpret it to me,” said Deirdre–then she sang:
O Naois, son of Uisnech, hear

What was shown in a dream to me.
There came three white doves out of the South

Flying over the sea,

And drops of honey were in their mouth

From the hive of the honey-bee.
O Naois, son of Uisnech, hear,

What was shown in a dream to me.
I saw three grey hawks out of the south

Come flying over the sea,

And the red red drops they bare in their mouth

They were dearer than life to me.
Said Naois:–
It is nought but the fear of woman’s heart,

And a dream of the night, Deirdre.
“The day that Connachar sent the invitation to his feast will be unlucky for us if we don’t go, O Deirdre.”
“You will go there,” said Ferchar Mac Ro; “and if Connachar show kindness to you, show ye kindness to him; and if he will display wrath towards you display ye wrath towards him, and I and my three sons will be with you.”
“We will,” said Daring Drop. “We will,” said Hardy Holly. “We will,” said Fiallan the Fair.
“I have three sons, and they are three heroes, and in any harm or danger that may befall you, they will be with you, and I myself will be along with them.” And Ferchar Mac Ro gave his vow and his word in presence of his arms that, in any harm or danger that came in the way of the sons of Uisnech, he and his three sons would not leave head on live body in Erin, despite sword or helmet, spear or shield, blade or mail, be they ever so good.
Deirdre was unwilling to leave Alba, but she went with Naois. Deirdre wept tears in showers and she sang:
Dear is the land, the land over there,

Alba full of woods and lakes;

Bitter to my heart is leaving thee,

But I go away with Naois.
Ferchar Mac Ro did not stop till he got the sons of Uisnech away with him, despite the suspicion of Deirdre.
The coracle was put to sea,

The sail was hoisted to it;

And the second morrow they arrived

On the white shores of Erin.
As soon as the sons of Uisnech landed in Erin, Ferchar Mac Ro sent word to Connachar, king of Ulster, that the men whom he wanted were come, and let him now show kindness to them. “Well,” said Connachar, “I did not expect that the sons of Uisnech would come, though I sent for them, and I am not quite ready to receive them. But there is a house down yonder where I keep strangers, and let them go down to it to-day, and my house will be ready before them to-morrow.”
But he that was up in the palace felt it long that he was not getting word as to how matters were going on for those down in the house of the strangers. “Go you, Gelban Grednach, son of Lochlin’s King, go you down and bring me information as to whether her former hue and complexion are on Deirdre. If they be, I will take her out with edge of blade and point of sword, and if not, let Naois, son of Uisnech, have her for himself,” said Connachar.
Gelban, the cheering and charming son of Lochlin’s King, went down to the place of the strangers, where the sons of Uisnech and Deirdre were staying. He looked in through the bicker-hole on the door-leaf. Now she that he gazed upon used to go into a crimson blaze of blushes when any one looked at her. Naois looked at Deirdre and knew that some one was looking at her from the back of the door-leaf. He seized one of the dice on the table before him and fired it through the bicker-hole, and knocked the eye out of Gelban Grednach the Cheerful and Charming, right through the back of his head. Gelban returned back to the palace of King Connachar.
“You were cheerful, charming, going away, but you are cheerless, charmless, returning. What has happened to you, Gelban? But have you seen her, and are Deirdre’s hue and complexion as before?” said Connachar.
“Well, I have seen Deirdre, and I saw her also truly, and while I was looking at her through the bicker-hole on the door, Naois, son of Uisnech, knocked out my eye with one of the dice in his hand. But of a truth and verity, although he put out even my eye, it were my desire still to remain looking at her with the other eye, were it not for the hurry you told me to be in,” said Gelban.
“That is true,” said Connachar; “let three hundred brave heroes go down to the abode of the strangers, and let them bring hither to me Deirdre, and kill the rest.”
Connachar ordered three hundred active heroes to go down to the abode of the strangers and to take Deirdre up with them and kill the rest. “The pursuit is coming,” said Deirdre.
Yes, but I will myself go out and stop the pursuit,” said Naois.
“It is not you, but we that will go,” said Daring Drop, and Hardy Holly, and Fiallan the Fair; “it is to us that our father entrusted your defence from harm and danger when he himself left for home.” And the gallant youths, full noble, full manly, full handsome, with beauteous brown locks, went forth girt with battle arms fit for fierce fight and clothed with combat dress for fierce contest fit, which was burnished, bright, brilliant, bladed, blazing, on which were many pictures of beasts and birds and creeping things, lions and lithe-limbed tigers, brown eagle and harrying hawk and adder fierce; and the young heroes laid low three-thirds of the company.
Connachar came out in haste and cried with wrath: “Who is there on the floor of fight, slaughtering my men?”
“We, the three sons of Ferchar Mac Ro.”
“Well,” said the king, “I will give a free bridge to your grandfather, a free bridge to your father, and a free bridge each to you three brothers, if you come over to my side tonight.”
“Well, Connachar, we will not accept that offer from you nor thank you for it. Greater by far do we prefer to go home to our father and tell the deeds of heroism we have done, than accept anything on these terms from you. Naois, son of Uisnech, and Allen and Arden are as nearly related to yourself as they are to us, though you are so keen to shed their blood, and you would shed our blood also, Connachar.” And the noble, manly, handsome youths with beauteous, brown locks returned inside. “We are now,” said they, “going home to tell our father that you are now safe from the hands of the king.” And the youths all fresh and tall and lithe and beautiful, went home to their father to tell that the sons of Uisnech were safe. This happened at the parting of the day and night in the morning twilight time, and Naois said they must go away, leave that house, and return to Alba.
Naois and Deirdre, Allan and Arden started to return to Alba. Word came to the king that the company he was in pursuit of were gone. The king then sent for Duanan Gacha Druid, the best magician he had, and he spoke to him as follows:–”Much wealth have I expended on you, Duanan Gacha Druid, to give schooling and learning and magic mystery to you, if these people get away from me to-day without care, without consideration or regard for me, without chance of overtaking them, and without power to stop them.”
“Well, I will stop them,” said the magician, “until the company you send in pursuit return.” And the magician placed a wood before them through which no man could go, but the sons of Uisnech marched through the wood without halt or hesitation, and Deirdre held on to Naois’s hand.
“What is the good of that? that will not do yet,” said Connachar. “They are off without bending of their feet or stopping of their step, without heed or respect to me, and I am without power to keep up to them or opportunity to turn them back this night.”
“I will try another plan on them,” said the druid; and he placed before them a grey sea instead of a green plain. The three heroes stripped and tied their clothes behind their heads, and Naois placed Deirdre on the top of his shoulder.
They stretched their sides to the stream,

And sea and land were to them the same,

The rough grey ocean was the same

As meadow-land green and plain.
“Though that be good, O Duanan, it will not make the heroes return,” said Connachar; “they are gone without regard for me, and without honour to me, and without power on my part to pursue them or to force them to return this night.”
“We shall try another method on them, since yon one did not stop them,” said the druid. And the druid froze the grey ridged sea into hard rocky knobs, the sharpness of sword being on the one edge and the poison power of adders on the other. Then Arden cried that he was getting tired, and nearly giving over. “Come you, Arden, and sit on my right shoulder,” said Naois. Arden came and sat on Naois’s shoulder. Arden was long in this posture when he died; but though he was dead Naois would not let him go. Allen then cried out that he was getting faint and nigh-well giving up. When Naois heard his prayer, he gave forth the piercing sigh of death, and asked Allen to lay hold of him and he would bring him to land. Allen was not long when the weakness of death came on him and his hold failed. Naois looked round, and when he saw his two well-beloved brothers dead, he cared not whether he lived or died, and he gave forth the bitter sigh of death and his heart burst.
“They are gone,” said Duanan Gacha Druid to the king, “and I have done what you desired me. The sons of Uisnech are dead and they will trouble you no more; and you have your wife hale and whole to yourself.”

“Blessings for that upon you and may the good results accrue to me, Duanan. I count it no loss what I spent in the schooling and teaching of you. Now dry up the flood, and let me see if I can behold Deirdre,” said Connachar. And Duanan Gacha Druid dried up the flood from the plain and the three sons of Uisnech were lying together dead, without breath of life, side by side on the green meadow plain and Deirdre bending above showering down her tears.
Then Deirdre said this lament: “Fair one, loved one, flower of beauty; beloved upright and strong; beloved noble and modest warrior. Fair one, blue-eyed, beloved of thy wife; lovely to me at the trysting-place came thy clear voice through the woods of Ireland. I cannot eat or smile henceforth. Break not today, my heart: soon enough shall I lie within my grave. Strong are the waves of sorrow, but stronger is sorrow’s self, Connachar.”
The people then gathered round the heroes’ bodies and asked Connachar what was to be done with the bodies.The order that he gave was that they should dig a pit and put the three brothers in it side by side.
Deirdre kept sitting on the brink of the grave, constantly asking the gravediggers to dig the pit wide and free. When the bodies of the brothers were put in the grave, Deirdre said:–
Come over hither, Naois, my love,

Let Arden close to Allen lie;

If the dead had any sense to feel.

Ye would have made a place for Deirdre.
The men did as she told them. She jumped into the grave and lay down by Naois, and she was dead by his side.
The king ordered the body to be raised from out the grave and to be buried on the other side of the loch. It was done as the king bade, and the pit closed. Thereupon a fir shoot grew out of the grave of Deirdre and a fir shoot from the grave of Naois. and the two shoots united in a knot above the loch. The king ordered the shoots to be cut down, and this was done twice, until, at the third time, the wife whom the king had married caused him to stop this work of evil and his vengeance on the remains of the dead.


In Between Worlds: Rumi Poetry

The Dream That Must Be Interpreted
This place is a dream.

Only a sleeper considers it real.
Then death comes like dawn,

and you wake up laughing

at what you thought was your grief.
But there’s a difference with this dream.

Everything cruel and unconscious

done in the illusion of the present world,

all that does not fade away at the death-waking.
It stays,

and it must be interpreted.
All the mean laughing,

all the quick, sexual wanting,

those torn coats of Joseph,

they change into powerful wolves

that you must face.
The retaliation that sometimes comes now,

the swift, payback hit,

is just a boy’s game

to what the other will be.
You know about circumcision here.

It’s full castration there!
And this groggy time we live,

this is what it’s like:
A man goes to sleep in the town

where he has always lived, and he dreams he’s living

in another town.
In the dream, he doesn’t remember

the town he’s sleeping in his bed in. He believes

the reality of the dream town.
The world is that kind of sleep.
The dust of many crumbled cities

settles over us like a forgetful doze,
but we are older than those cities.

We began

as a mineral. We emerged into plant life

and into the animal state, and then into being human,

and always we have forgotten our former states,

except in early spring when we slightly recall

being green again.

That’s how a young person turns

toward a teacher. That’s how a baby leans

toward the breast, without knowing the secret

of its desire, yet turning instinctively.
Humankind is being led along an evolving course,

through this migration of intelligences,

and though we seem to be sleeping,

there is an inner wakefulness

that directs the dream,
and that will eventually startle us back

to the truth of who we are.

Shadow and Light Source Both
How does a part of the world leave the world?

How does wetness leave water? Dont’ try to
put out fire by throwing on more fire! Don’t

wash a wound with blood. No matter how fast
you run, your shadow keeps up. Sometimes it’s

in front! Only full overhead sun diminishes
your shadow. But that shadow has been serving

you. What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is
your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.

I could explain this, but it will break the
glass cover on your heart, and there’s no

fixing that. You must have shadow and light
source both. Listen, and lay your head under

the tree of awe. When from that tree feathers
and wings sprout on you, be quieter than

a dove. Don’t even open your mouth for even a coo.

Who Says Words With My Mouth?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,

and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,

I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Out of your love the fire of youth will rise.

In the chest, visions of the soul will rise.

If you are going to kill me, kill me, it is alright.

When the friend kills, a new life will rise.

Any lifetime that is spent without seeing the master

Is either death in disguise or a deep sleep.

The water that pollutes you is poison;

The poison that purifies you is water.

Out of your love the fire of youth will rise.

In the chest, visions of the soul will rise.

If you are going to kill me, kill me, it is alright.

When the friend kills, a new life will rise.

I am blasphemy and religion, pure and impure;

Old, young, and a small child.

If I die, don’t say that he died.

Say he was dead, became alive, and was taken by the


A Smile and A Gentleness
There is a smile and a gentleness

inside. When I learned the name
and address of that, I went to where

you sell perfume. I begged you not
to trouble me so with longing. Come

out and play! Flirt more naturally.
Teach me how to kiss. On the ground

a spread blanket, flame that’s caught
and burning well, cumin seeds browning,

I am inside all of this with my soul.

Some Kiss We Want
There is some kiss we want with

our whole lives, the touch of
spirit on the body. Seawater

begs the pearl to break its shell.
And the lily, how passionately

it needs some wild darling! At
night, I open the window and ask

the moon to come and press its
face against mine. Breathe into

me. Close the language- door and
open the love window. The moon

won’t use the door, only the window.

It’s Political…

Leonel Rugama was 20 years old.

Of friends, he preferred chess players.

Of chess players, those who lose because of the girl happening by.

Of those that pass by, the one who remains.

Of those who stay, the one who has yet to come.

Of heroes, he preferred those who don’t say they are dying for their mother country.

Of countries, the one born of his death.

The times are always changing, but I have felt a quickening in the last couple of weeks. Moving in to what Alvin Toffler once referred to as “Future Shock”, the boundaries of the world and the current event horizon are in upheaval.
To address this, I have ventured forth bringing disparate elements together, from the past, and what is current… to bring this period into focus… (IMPOV)
So with that said, may I present: It’s Political…
Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:

Honoré Daumier – Bio

Bob Marley & The Wailers – Get Up, Stand Up

Dan Rather Slams Press Coverage Of War And Corporate News

Links: Does This Rise To Criminal Neglect By The Current Administration?

Vandana Shiva: Why We Face Both Food and Water Crises

I’m Voting Republican!

Poet Of The Revolution: Leonel Rugama

A Poem about Leonel Rugama

Pieces Of A Biography: Leonel Rugama

Art:Honoré Daumier
Born in Marseille on February 26, 1808, Honoré Daumier showed in his youth an irresistible inclination towards the artistic profession, which his father vainly tried to check by placing him first with a huissier and subsequently with a bookseller. Having mastered the techniques of lithography, Daumier started his artistic career by producing plates for music publishers, and illustrations for advertisements; followed by anonymous work for publishers, in which he followed the style of Charlet and displayed considerable enthusiasm for the Napoleonic legend.
When, during the reign of Louis Philippe, Charles Philipon launched the comic journal, La Caricature, Daumier joined its staff, which included such powerful artists as Devéria, Raffet and Grandville, and started upon his pictorial campaign of scathing satire upon the foibles of the bourgeoisie, the corruption of the law and the incompetence of a blundering government. His caricature of the king as Gargantua led to Daumier’s imprisonment for six months at Ste Pelagic in 1832. Soon after, the publication of La Caricature was discontinued, but Philipon provided a new field for Daumier’s activity when he founded the Le Charivari.
Daumier produced his social caricatures for Le Charivari, in which he holds bourgeois society up to ridicule in the figure of Robert Macaire, hero of a popular melodrama. In another series, L’histoire ancienne, he took aim at a pseudo-classicism which held the art of the period in fetters. In 1848 Daumier embarked again on his political campaign, still in the service of Le Charivari, which he left in 1860 and rejoined in 1864.
In spite of his prodigious activity in the field of caricature — the list of Daumier’s lithographed plates compiled in 1904 numbers no fewer than 3,958 — he also painted. Except for the searching truthfulness of his vision and the powerful directness of his brushwork, it would be difficult to recognize the creator of Robert Macaire, of Les Bas bleus, Les Bohémiens de Paris, and the Masques, in the paintings of Christ and His Apostles (Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam), or in his Good Samaritan, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Christ Mocked, or even in the sketches in the Ionides Collection at South Kensington.
But as a painter, Daumier, one of the pioneers of naturalism, did not meet with success until a year before his death in 1878, when M. Durand Ruel collected his works for exhibition at his galleries and demonstrated the range of the talent of the man who has been called the “Michelangelo of caricature”. At the time of the exhibition, Daumier was blind and living in a cottage at Valmondois, which Corot placed at his disposal. It was there that he died on February 10, 1879.

Bob Marley & The Wailers – Get Up, Stand Up

Dan Rather Slams Press Coverage Of War And Corporate News


Links:Does This Rise To Criminal Neglect By The Current Administration?
This IMNSHO is criminal. Line them up against the wall. (the administration of course)
The Accusations…

The Stats…


Vandana Shiva: Why We Face Both Food and Water Crises
By Maria Armoudian and Ankine Aghassian, AlterNet. Posted May 15, 2008.
Policy-makers are finally grappling with the growing global food and water crises that are upon us. While they grope for answers, Vandana Shiva reminds them that it was their wild economic schemes that created these crises in the first place.
The globalized economic structure is simply incompatible with the basic physics of the planet and the principles of democratic governance, she says. And until we align the economic system with those of the ecological system, the problems will only get worse. While many of Shiva’s books address some aspect of this fundamental problem, one title captures it most succinctly, Earth Democracy, Justice, Sustainability and Peace.
Shiva is a physicist, author, director of the Research Foundation on Science, Technology and Ecology and the founder of Navdanya.
AlterNet: Much of your writing and speaking has focused on our economic structure’s incompatibility with the ecological functioning of the earth. Talk about that incompatibility.
Vandana Shiva: One aspect of the inconsistency is between the principles of Gaia, the principles of soil, the ecology, renewability, how the atmosphere cleans itself and the laws of the global marketplace. The global marketplace is driven by the World Bank and the World Trade Organization (WTO) and the illogic of so-called “free trade,” which is totally not free. [The result of this incompatibility] is the current food crisis: The more agriculture is “liberalized,” the greater the food scarcity, the higher the food prices and the more people will go hungry.
Never has there been this rate of escalation in food prices worldwide as we witness now with the global integration of the food economies under the coercive and bullying force of the WTO.
AlterNet: You have said, in the past, that these activities are done in the name of improving human welfare. But instead, poverty and dispossession have increased. Where do we see this the most?
VS: We see the worst dispossession in the countries of the South — tragically — those countries that could feed themselves. India, for example, was food self-sufficient. We were able to feed our people with a universal distribution system, affordable food for all, and agriculture policies that put food first. Small farmers could make a living.
But a decade and a half of globalization’s perverse rules have led to 200,000 farmers committing suicide because they can’t make a living anymore — all their money goes to make profit for Monsanto or Cargill. Meanwhile, with the economy’s so-called growth, people are starving. Per capita entitlement to food has dropped in a decade and half from 177 kg to 152 kg per year.
This contradicts the false propaganda being spread about the reason prices are rising. They say it is because Indians are getting richer and Indians are eating more. Well, some Indians are getting richer, but they’re not eating more. There’s a limit to how much you can eat. And the handful of billionaires buys a few more private jet planes and builds a few more private mansions. [But in reality], the average Indian is eating less. The average child has a bigger chance today of dying of hunger. The Cargill’s of the world have a stranglehold of the world’s economy; they’re harvesting super-profits while people die of hunger.
AlterNet: You talk about India being worse off, but many economists — including those on the political left — say that places like China and India are, overall, actually improving. But you say that is not true.
VS: It’s not true. India, under the perverse growth of globalization, has beaten out Africa in the number of hungry people. While we have 9.2 percent growth measured by GNP and GDP, 50 percent of our children have very severe malnutrition. Fifty percent of deaths for children under five are due to lack of food. That’s about a million kids per year.
AlterNet: That is a considerable change that I don’t think the world is seeing.
VS: That’s because the media orchestrates every analysis and interpretation. They would like this crisis to look like a success of globalization, and they would like to offer more globalization as a solution. In fact, the World Bank has said there should be more liberalized trade. Before the WTO was formed, we had protests with 500,000 farmers on the streets of Bangalore in 1993 to say that this is a recipe for starvation, for destroying agriculture, self-reliance and food security. And the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs — before the WTO was born — had a press conference to say that globalization will make food affordable for all.
They forget that food ultimately is not produced in the speculation and commodity exchanges controlled by Cargill in Chicago. It is produced by hard working women and men working with the soil and sun. And if you destroy the capacity of the people to work the land and the capacity of soil to produce, you’re going to have hunger. The tragedy is that the hunger of today and the rise of food [prices] is the result of globalization policies, and it is being implemented on a global scale. Unless we bring local food sovereignty and “food democracy” back into the picture, we will not have a solution to this.
AlterNet: You’re talking about basic ecological principles here. But there are two other aspects about food shortages that are being discussed. One of them is that among some societies, such as China, the diet is changing, which contributes to food shortage. Reportedly, after being exposed to western diets, they are eating more meat which requires an enormous amount of grain — normally fed to people — to instead be fed to cattle. Do you see this as part of the problem?
VS: Well, I can definitely say that is not true for India. Vegetarian India will stay vegetarian India — rich or poor, integrated globally or not integrated globally. And the Chinese have always eaten meat. The difference is that now they are integrated into the global production system: It is factory farming that feeds grain to chicken and pigs and cows.
No indigenous culture — not China or India — has fed grain to animals. Animals have fed on what humans could not eat. Global agribusiness, which makes huge money out of the feed industry, is creating this pressure while destroying what I would call the “real free economy” — the free-range cattle, the free range chicken — and replacing it with prison factories for animals. In fact, in my interpretation, even the Avian flu is being used to violently shut down small economies, the free economies of Asian peasants, and turning them into Tyson and Cargill factory farming systems.
AlterNet: What about the role of climate change in this global food crisis?
VS: Climate change and agricultural food crises do have a connection. In fact, my next book is precisely about this connection. Industrial farming — driven by agribusiness in order to sell more chemicals, pesticides, and costly seeds to farmers — is heavily responsible for emissions of greenhouse gases such as methane from factory farms nitrogen oxide from chemically fertilized soil and fossil fuels from mechanized farming systems.
Further, the long distance trade is responsible for adding food miles, which adds more carbon emissions. Taken together, more than 25 percent of climate instability is being caused by unsustainable farming that [simultaneously] displaces small peasants, creates poverty and bad food. So, tomorrow we could solve 25 percent of the planet’s climate instability if we returned to ecological agriculture as the earth wants
it, farming according to 10,000 years of wisdom that evolved from the third world.
Research that we are undertaking now shows a 200 percent higher level of carbon return and 10 times higher level of moisture retention. So if increased drought is one consequence of climate change, what you need is sorted organic matter, not more chemical fertilizers. We have two issues pertaining to climate change: We need to get rid of emissions from agriculture and long-distance transport.
This means ecological farming, localization of the food system and only importing what can’t be grown locally — not forcing imports as the U.S has done on India. It has forced us to buy wheat, give up our mustard and coconut oil and to live on soya. These trade factors are “forcings” that are causing more damage to our climate and destroying our food culture, nutrition and access to food.
Finally, biodiverse systems actually produce more food. It is an illusion that because there’s a food crisis, we must have [genetically modified food] spread around the world. First, genetically-engineered crops don’t produce more food. And secondly, they make the soil more vulnerable to climate change. They are herbicide resistant and toxin traps. That is not a yield increase.
AlterNet: So the genetic altering of food ultimately exacerbates the already difficult circumstances with food shortages.
VS: Absolutely. I think any recipe today offered in agriculture should be measured against the test of whether it will enhance the food production capacity of the poor and if it will reduce the pressure on the planet.
AlterNet: Let’s also incorporate another concept that you feature in your writing — “biopiracy.”
VS: Biopiracy is the strange phenomenon whereby the richest and biggest of corporations steal genetic resources and traditional knowledge from poor little women and peasants who have shared it for free for over a millennium. The first case I had to fight was against the United States government with W.R. Grace, which became infamous in the film A Civil Action, when it polluted the groundwater outside of Boston.
They stole Neem, which is a tree that gives us [natural] pest and fungal control through its oil. The USDA along with Grace claim to have invented Neem. Of course, my grandmother and my mother used it. Then, I popularized it after Bopal with a campaign called “No more Bopal. Plant a Neem.” When I saw this patent, I had to fight it. We fought for 11 years, and eventually the biggest governmental powers and one of the biggest chemical companies were beaten out by a coalition of civic society groups and movements.
Another case of biopiracy is the famous Basmati rice that comes from my valley. A company in Texas claims to have invented it. The third case was Monsanto, which claimed to have invented an ancient wheat variety, which is very low in gluten. The problem with biopiracy is not simply that they’re taking genetic material and knowledge for free, but that they are claiming an exclusive right to it and then demanding royalty, claim and fame from the very communities and societies [from which they have taken it], communities that have had this biodiversity and this knowledge for years.
AlterNet: Speaking of Monsanto, you have done considerable research on this company and published a report, “Peddling Life Sciences or Death Sciences.”
VS: If I had to rank criminality of corporations, Monsanto will easily walk away with the highest award. Monsanto has taken over the control of world’s seed supply. It has bought up every small seed company in India, Brazil and the United States and become the biggest seed corporation. But its entire model of functioning is through corruption. They corrupted the United States decision-making such that U.S. citizens no longer have a right to know what they are eating, whether milk has bovine growth hormone in it or if soybeans and corn are genetically engineered. They are spreading this corruption worldwide.
I am fighting them through three cases in our supreme court. And we’ve managed to hold them at the level of Bt cotton. They have not yet managed to invade into our food economy with genetically modified food crop. But the worst thing Monsanto is doing is buying Delta and Pine Land, a company that has the patent for terminator technology that designs seeds to be sterilized. It is genetically engineering life for life’s extinction.
AlterNet: We should also talk about water scarcity. There are major water wars occurring and considerable concern about the future of water. Do you think that water scarcity is being created largely by the phenomenon of privatization or is it resulting from climate change and other such phenomena?
VS: Water scarcity [is] being created by non-sustainable systems of production for both food and textile. Every industrial activity has huge water demands. Industrial agriculture requires ten times more water to produce the same amount of food than ecological farming does. And the “green revolution” was not so green because it created demand for large dams and mining of groundwater.
Industrial agriculture has depleted water resources. In addition, as water has become polluted and depleted, a handful of industry saw water as a way of making super-profits by privatizing it. They are privatizing it in two ways. The first is through buying up entire civic, municipal distribution. The big players in this are Bechtel, Suez and Vivendi.
And interestingly, wherever they go, they face protests. Bechtel was thrown out of Bolivia. Suez wanted to take Delhi’s water supply, but we had a movement for water democracy and did not allow them to take over. But there’s a second kind of privatization, which is more insidious — and that is the plastic water bottle. Coca-Cola and Pepsi are leading in this privatization. But in India where Coca-Cola was stealing water, I worked with a small group of village women, and they shut their plant down. Across India, these giant corporations are taking between 1.5 to 2 million liters of water a day and leaving behind a water famine.
AlterNet: Given what is happening as a result of climate change, would we still face a water crisis without these practices?
VS: We would not be facing water problems if people have been allowed to have their economies, to practice sustainability and to live their lives. Every step in the water crisis is due to greed. As the water becomes increasingly scarce, the corporations who control the water become richer. It is the same with food. As food becomes scarce, the corporations controlling food become richer. That is the paradox of the global economy. Growth shows up in the profits of corporations while in the real world, the resources from which they make their profits, shrink.
AlterNet: You have also suggested that these same economic principles are incompatible with the sustenance of democratic governance.
VS: There are many levels at which a market economy called corporate globalization has to kill democracy in order to survive. Take the birth of World Trade Organization (WTO), an undemocratic institution. There are no negotiations on the rules it imposes. These rules are created undemocratically. Then, every time these rules are implemented, there are protests. Normally in democracy, if the will of people say change this policy, governments change. Unfortunately, governance today is run by corporations not the people. Every step of deepening the market economy is a depletion of democracy. Our very governments have been stolen from us, and we have to use democracy to counter these rules, this paradigm, and the absolute destruction [it causes].
AlterNet: Describe your alternative vision that could replace what we currently have.
VS: I try to articulate an alternative vision in terms of a democracy. Global market economy makes the first citizen the corporation. The rest of us are slaves, second class citizens. Secondly, it cre
ates an identity for the human species as consumers in a global supermarket. We are no longer creators and producers. We are just consumers of goods that corporations bring to us from the place where they can manufacture them — at the highest cost to the environment and workers.
What we need is a reclaiming of who we are as human beings. We are first and foremost citizens of this beautiful planet. Our first duty is to protect this planet. And out of that flows the rights to the earth, air, water and food that the earth gives us. Those gifts are common resources, not commodities, private property or intellectual property. They are the commons of the earth and all of us have equal access to it. Nobody can interfere in the access of a person to their share of water, land and air. That interference is a violation of the rules of Gaia and the rules of democracy.
But the polluting industry has privatized even the air by first putting their pollutants into it and then by the carbon trade. They’re basically are saying that because we polluted the atmosphere, we own it. So we can pollute as much as we want and then buy up clean credits from someone else who is not polluting. The commons and the recovery of commons is vital to earth democracy. It’s at the heart of sustainability of the earth and democratic functioning of society.
AlterNet: Do property rights fit into this vision of the commons?
VS: Most private property rights have been carved out of the shared resources of the earth. In India we say “land belongs to creation.” We can use it and have “use rights,” but that is different from ownership and tradable rights. It is British colonialism that created private property in land the way it is now practiced.
Now, the World Bank is trying to create private property in land among indigenous communities. Water was never property either, but today, they are trying to change that. Seeds were meant to be shared and distributed, not treated as property. Intellectual property rights are as recent as the World Trade Organization and need to be eliminated because they are inconsistent with life [principles]. A world of the future governed by intellectual property rights over seed in Monsanto’s hands is a future where biodiversity will be destroyed, farmers will be wiped out and there will be no food worth eating.
AlterNet: You’ve also been involved in the “slow food” movement and organic farming.
VS: I was just elected Vice President of Slow Food [International], and I chair an international commission on the future of food, a commission started by the region of Tuscany in Italy. I convinced the [founder], Carlo Petrini, to recognize that food does not begin in the kitchen or in the chef’s hands. It begins in the farmers’ fields. One of the contributions that I and my colleagues have made in the seed-saving and organic farming movements is the recognition that biodiversity, organic farming and small-scale agriculture produces more food. It is a myth created by industrial agriculture and agribusiness that monocultures and chemical farming produce more food. They use more energy and chemicals, and do not produce more nutrition per acre. In fact, they use ten times more energy inputs than they produce as food. So with the food crisis, it is vital that we move to efficient food systems that also give us better quality food.
AlterNet: How would we carry your vision and language into actual political and farming structure?
VS: In countries like India, it’s not a case of vision being translated into practice. It’s defending a practice that’s being destroyed by a perverse vision. For us, it is defending the rights of small peasants. That’s where lot of my energy goes. An India of the villages was Gandhi’s dream and is my dream. But I do not see India surviving if her villages and her food capacity are wiped out. In the Northern countries like the United States farmers have already been uprooted. We need more farms producing more locally-grown foods. This country that can subsidize biofuel and chemicals should instead subsidize the return of small farmers to the land. This would solve much of the unemployment problem too.

I’m Voting Republican!


Poet Of The Revolution: Leonel Rugama

His name was never written

on the old walls of the school john.

When he left the classroom for good

nobody noticed he was gone.

The sirens of the world kept silent,

never detecting his blood on fire.

His fiery intensity

became more and more unbearable,

until the shadow of the mountains

embraced the sound of his footsteps.

That virgin land nurtured him with its mystery.

Each breeze cleansed his ideal

and left him like a child, naked and white

trembling, newly bathed.

The whole world was deaf, and where

the battle began to be born

no one listened.

El “Che”
“Ni un tanque

ni una bomba de hidrógeno

ni todas las bolitas del mundo”

lucha en todas partes

y en todas partes

florecen las higueras

del río bajan montones de guerrilleros

en Higueras del Río dicen que lo mataron

“CHE” comandante

nosotros somos el camino

y vos el caminante.

The Earth Is A Satellite Of The Moon
Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 4 cost more than Apollo 3

Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 8 cost a fortune, but no one minded

because the astronauts were Protestant

they read the Bible from the moon

astounding and delighting every Christian

and on their return Pope Paul VI gave them his blessing.
Apollo 9 cost more than all these put together

including Apollo 1 which cost plenty.
The great-grandparents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the grandparents.

The great-grandparents died of hunger.

The grandparents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the parents.

The grandparents died of hunger.

The parents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the children of the people there.

The parents died of hunger.
The people of Acahualinca are less hungry than the children

of the people there.

The children of the people of Acahualinca, because of hunger,

are not born

they hunger to be born, only to die of hunger.

Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the moon.

“Había un nica de Niquinohomo

que no era ni político

ni soldado”

luchó en Las Segovias

y una vez que le escribió a Froylán Turcios

le decía que si los yanquis

por ironía del destino

le mataban a todos su guerrilleros

en el corazón de ellos

encontraría el tesoro más grande de patriotismo

y que eso humillaría a la gallina

que en forma de águila

ostenta el escudo de los norteamericanos

y más adelante le decía

que por su parte al verse solo (cosa que no creía)

se pondría en el centro de cien quintales de dinamita

que tenía en su botín de guerra

y que con su propia mano daría fuego

y que dijeran a cuatrocientos kilómetros a la redonda:

Take out all the skeletons

(Fragment of “Como los santos”)
To all the skeletons that may die

in Los Cauces (in The River Bottoms)

in Miralagos

in the Valle Maldito (in the Damned Valley)

in Acahualinca

in La Fortaleza (in the Fortress)

in El Fanguito (in The Little Mud)

in the Calles del Pecado (in the Streets of Sin)

in La Zona (in The Zone)

in La Perla (in The Pearl)

in the neighborhood of Altavista

in the neighborhood of Lopez Mateos

in La Salinera (in The Salt Mine)

in Cabo Haitiano (in Haitian Cape)

in La Fossette

all of them bringing their kids

kids who aren´t born because of hunger

and who are hungry to be born

only to die of hunger

Let all the women come

the greengrocer with the big buttocks

and the asthmatic old lady with the basket

the black woman selling “vigoron”

the one in hat selling “baho”

the one selling iced “chicha”

and the one selling barley

the one selling orange juice

and the one who washes clothes with her whitish hands because of soap

the ones serving “ponche” at the fiesta

and the ones selling spotted rooster and roast meat

the ones selling innards

and the greasy “nacatamaleras”

the maids

the ones carrying “picheles”

the procuresses

with their bitches

and that gorgeous girl who sells bread and butter

and the young girl

who is just blossoming with breasts

and the one selling cakes

and all the kids who sell “guineos”


and tangerines

at one peso

per bag

Also, let the pickpockets

the cantina chicks

and the whores

and the old whores with big tits

and the brand new whores come

Call the spiritualists

and the mediums

and the evil-possessed ones

and the ones chased by gnomes

and by the evil spirits

and the witches

and the bewitched

and the ones selling filters

and the ones buying filters.

Now that you are all here

that you are all together in here

together and listening to me

now I want to talk to you all

or in other words

now that I am speaking to you

I want to start a conversation

and I want you to have a conversation

with all the ones that did not come

and that you speak loud to them when you be alone with them

and that you talk to them on the streets

in the houses

on the buses

in the movie theaters

in the parks

in the churches

in the billiard halls

in all weeded yards

in the neighborhoods without electricity

and from every edge of the fences

which are falling down

and from the river banks

sitting on the pavement

standing tight at the doors

and gazing through the windows

and, finally,


and that you speak quietly

when you are not alone with them

or in other words when there´s a rich man near

or when a rich man´s guard is around.
I wanted to tell you

that now I am living in the catacombs

and that I have decided to kill the hunger that is killing us

when you talk about this

say it hard

when one of those who spreads the hunger be absent

or “one of their ears ” be

or one of their guards be.
Everybody shut up

and keep listening to what I am saying

in the catacombs

late in the evening when there´s less work

I paint on the walls

on the catacomb walls

the images of the saints

the saints who have died killing the hunger

and in the morning I imitate the saints.

Now I want to tell you about the saints. […]

A Poem about Leonel Rugama…
R.I.P. Leonel L Rugama
One afternoon Leonel recommended

– to improve my vitality, strength — that I exercise

going on to say that by this he did not mean

“spiritual exercises.”

We talked also about the girls

who passed on their way from work or school

about others that went into and came out of a certain

shoe store

about another on the corner selling fried pork

then he read me a poem about a young girl

who had died in Vietnam.

Today, another afternoon,

I see on the front page of a daily

the photo of his body riddled by the G.N.

and recall how José Coronel Urtecho

once said to me,

“Poets? They’re good for nothing.”

R.I.P. Leonel L Rugama
Una tarde Leonel me recomendó

– para la flacura — hacer ejercicios

aclarándome que no se trataba de

“ejercicios espirituales”

Hablamos acerca de las muchachas

que iban o venían del trabajo o del colegio

de las que entraban o salían de una tienda

de zapatos

de otra que pasaba vendiendo chancho

también me leyó un poema sobre una guerrillera


Ahora — otra tarde que veo su cuerpo acribillado

por la G.N. en la foto de un diario

recuerdo que José Coronel Urtecho

una vez me dijo: “Los poetas no sirven para nada.”

– Francisco Santos

Pieces Of A Biography: Leonel Rugama
Leonel Rugama is Nicaragua’s most famous guerrilla poet. His poems in praise of liberation appeared as graffiti on walls in Nicaragua during his life and after his tragically early death at the age of 20. He was killed holding off an entire battalion of Army regulars, refusing to surrender.
From this Blog: Sherman’s Centroamerica Travel Journal “Leonel Rugama Rugama was a university student studying (and writing) poetry when he joined the Sandinistas in the 60s. He was eventually became the bodyguard for the Sandinista “architect,” Carlos Fonseca. In January 1970, Rugama and Fonseca were caught in a trap set by the National Guard. They were both chased into an abandoned building in Managua. Outside, the Guardia had about 300 soldiers with a couple of (American) helicopters providing support. Rugama single handedly held off an attack while Fonseca slipped into the sewer system and escaped to safety. The commander of the Guardia reportedly yelled “Surrender Sandinista.”
Rugama replied with words that will probably outlive his beautiful poetry. He said “Surrender your mother!”
The Guardia then stormed the building and shot him. A lot, I would presume.

Bob Marley- One Love


Cé HÍ? ~ Who Is She?

“To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.” -Robert Graves


Well, Mary got ill late yesterday, and the Rose Parade is off now for us. I do love wandering through the crowds on the way to the hotel to party with friends and watch the floats and bands go by. What is it about the parade that captures our attention? Humans seem to love getting dressed up, and trooping together in celebration. We seem to enjoy the movement and sounds. Wonderful really. A pleasure!
Rowan is in and out of the house, on his non-stop social whirl. It is kinda fun watching him go through this transition period. He is starting work soon, so more power to him for making the most of it.
Tomorrow has an event here in Portland, Gary Ewing Memorial Bash At The Crystal Ballroom I attended one of Gary’s LightShows back in 1969 at the student union at Reed College. It was pretty cool. All the lights were focused on a large inflatable dome, which you could wander into sit, or dance… This is a benefit for the family, so if you are in Portland, this promises to be a sweet event, originally organized by Gary for the 40th anniversary of the Portland Zoo Electric Band. I hope to be there, with Morgan and maybe others if I can be persuasive…
Tha is it for today, hope your life is sweet! Working today on the next issue of The Invisible College, and programming Radio Free EarthRites!
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:

Loreena McKennitt – The Stolen Child (William Butler Yeats Poem)

Robert Graves Quotes

The Links

Two Countries

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet: To Any Would-Be Terrorist

From The Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock Poems…

Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai

Art: Lawrence Alma-Tadema

Loreena McKennitt – The Stolen Child

Robert Graves Quotes:
“There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.”
“Intuition is the supra-logic that cuts out all the routine processes of thought and leaps straight from the problem to the answer.”
“If I were a girl, I’d despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.”
“I believe that every English poet should read the English classics, master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them, travel abroad, experience the horror of sordid passion and-if he is lucky enough-know the love of an honest woman.”
“Love is a universal migraine / A bright stain on the vision / Blotting out reason.”
“We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall”
“Poetry is no more a narcotic than a stimulant; it is a universal bittersweet mixture for all possible household emergencies and its action varies accordingly as it is taken in a wineglass or a tablespoon, inhaled, gargled or rubbed on the chest . . .”

The Links:

New Club Drug…

Shallal Brings ‘Poets’ Vision to EMU

Israeli peace activist wounded during a protest against roadblocks in Hebron

Preview of the Republican Convention…

Hope For The Future?


Two Countries

Skin remembers how long the years grow

when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel

of singleness, feather lost from the tail

of a bird, swirling onto a step,

swept away by someone who never saw

it was a feather. Skin ate, walked,

slept by itself, knew how to raise a

see-you-later hand. But skin felt

it was never seen, never known as

a land on the map, nose like a city,

hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque

and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.
Skin had hope, that’s what skin does.

Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.

Love means you breathe in two countries.

And skin remembers–silk, spiny grass,

deep in the pocket that is skin’s secret own.

Even now, when skin is not alone,

it remembers being alone and thanks something larger

that there are travelers, that people go places

larger than themselves.
Naomi Shihab Nye

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet: To Any Would-Be Terrorists
I am sorry I have to call you that, but I don’t know how else to get your attention. I hate that word. Do you know how hard some of us have worked to get rid of that word, to deny its instant connection to the Middle East? And now look. Look what extra work we have. Not only did your colleagues kill thousands of innocent, international people in those buildings and scar their families forever, they wounded a huge community of people in the Middle East, in the United States and all over the world. If that’s what they wanted to do, please know the mission was a terrible success, and you can stop now.
Because I feel a little closer to you than many Americans could possibly feel, or ever want to feel, I insist that you listen to me. Sit down and listen. I know what kinds of foods you like. I would feed them to you if you were right here, because it is very very important that you listen. I am humble in my country’s pain and I am furious.
My Palestinian father became a refugee in 1948. He came to the United States as a college student. He is 74 years old now and still homesick. He has planted fig trees. He has invited all the Ethiopians in his neighborhood to fill their little paper sacks with his figs. He has written columns and stories saying the Arabs are not terrorists, he has worked all his life to defy that word. Arabs are businessmen and students and kind neighbors. There is no one like him and there are thousands like him – gentle Arab daddies who make everyone laugh around the dinner table, who have a hard time with headlines, who stand outside in the evenings with their hands in their pockets staring toward the far horizon.
I am sorry if you did not have a father like that. I wish everyone could have a father like that.
My hard-working American mother has spent 50 years trying to convince her fellow teachers and choir mates not to believe stereotypes about the Middle East. She always told them, there is a much larger story. If you knew the story, you would not jump to conclusions from what you see in the news. But now look at the news. What a mess has been made. Sometimes I wish everyone could have parents from different countries or ethnic groups so they would be forced to cross boundaries, to believe in mixtures, every day of their lives. Because this is what the world calls us to do. WAKE UP!
The Palestinian grocer in my Mexican-American neighborhood paints pictures of the Palestinian flag on his empty cartons. He paints trees and rivers. He gives his paintings away. He says, “Don’t insult me” when I try to pay him for a lemonade. Arabs have always been famous for their generosity. Remember? My half-Arab brother with an Arabic name looks more like an Arab than many full-blooded Arabs do and he has to fly every week.
My Palestinian cousins in Texas have beautiful brown little boys. Many of them haven’t gone to school yet. And now they have this heavy word to carry in their backpacks along with the weight of their papers and books. I repeat, the mission was a terrible success. But it was also a complete, total tragedy and I want you to think about a few things.
1. Many people, thousands of people, perhaps even millions of people, in the United States are very aware of the long unfairness of our country’s policies regarding Israel and Palestine. We talk about this all the time. It exhausts us and we keep talking. We write letters to newspapers, to politicians, to each other. We speak out in public even when it is uncomfortable to do so, because that is our responsibility. Many of these people aren’t even Arabs. Many happen to be Jews who are equally troubled by the inequity. I promise you this is true. Because I am Arab-American, people always express these views to me and I am amazed how many understand the intricate situation and have strong, caring feelings for Arabs and Palestinians even when they don’t have to. Think of them, please: All those people who have been standing up for Arabs when they didn’t have to. But as ordinary citizens we don’t run the government and don’t get to make all our government’s policies, which makes us sad sometimes. We believe in the power of the word and we keep using it, even when it seems no one large enough is listening. That is one of the best things about this country: the free power of free words. Maybe we take it for granted too much. Many of the people killed in the World Trade Center probably believed in a free Palestine and were probably talking about it all the time.
But this tragedy could never help the Palestinians. Somehow, miraculously, if other people won’t help them more, they are going to have to help themselves. And it will be peace, not violence, that fixes things. You could ask any one of the kids in the Seeds of Peace organization and they would tell you that. Do you ever talk to kids? Please, please, talk to more kids.
2. Have you noticed how many roads there are? Sure you have. You must check out maps and highways and small alternate routes just like anyone else. There is no way everyone on earth could travel on the same road, or believe in exactly the same religion. It would be too crowded, it would be dumb. I don’t believe you want us all to be Muslims. My Palestinian grandmother lived to be 106 years old, and did not read or write, but even she was much smarter than that. The only place she ever went beyond Palestine and Jordan was to Mecca, by bus, and she was very proud to be called a Hajji and to wear white clothes afterwards. She worked very hard to get stains out of everyone’s dresses — scrubbing them with a stone. I think she would consider the recent tragedies a terrible stain on her religion and her whole part of the world. She would weep. She was scared of airplanes anyway. She wanted people to worship God in whatever ways they felt comfortable. Just worship. Just remember God in every single day and doing. It didn’t matter what they called it. When people asked her how she felt about the peace talks that were happening right before she died, she puffed up like a proud little bird and said, in Arabic, “I never lost my peace inside.” To her, Islam was a welcoming religion. After her home in Jerusalem was stolen from her, she lived in a small village that contained a Christian shrine. She felt very tender toward the people who would visit it. A Jewish professor tracked me down a few years ago in Jerusalem to tell me she changed his life after he went to her village to do an oral history project on Arabs. “Don’t think she only mattered to you!” he said. “She gave me a whole different reality to imagine – yet it was amazing how close we became. Arabs could never be just a “project” after that.”
Did you have a grandmother or two? Mine never wanted people to be pushed around. What did yours want? Reading about Islam since my grandmother died, I note the “tolerance” that was “typical of Islam” even in the old days. The Muslim leader Khalid ibn al-Walid signed a Jerusalem treaty which declared, “in the name of God, you have complete security for your churches which shall not be occupied by the Muslims or destroyed.” It is the new millenium in which we should be even smarter than we used to be, right? But I think we have fallen behind.
3. Many Americans do not want to kill any more innocent people anywhere in the world. We are extremely worried about military actions killing innocent people. We didn’t like this in Iraq, we never liked it anywhere. We would like no more violence, from us as well as from you. HEAR US! We would like to stop the terrifying wheel of violence, just stop it, right on the road, and find something more creative to do to fix these huge problems we have. Violence is not creative, it is stupid and scary and many of us hate all those terrible movies and TV shows ma
de in our own country that try to pretend otherwise. Don’t watch them. Everyone should stop watching them. An appetite for explosive sounds and toppling buildings is not a healthy thing for anyone in any country. The USA should apologize to the whole world for sending this trash out into the air and for paying people to make it.
But here’s something good you may not know – one of the best-selling books of poetry in the United States in recent years is the Coleman Barks translation of Rumi, a mystical Sufi poet of the 13th century, and Sufism is Islam and doesn’t that make you glad?
Everyone is talking about the suffering that ethnic Americans are going through. Many will no doubt go through more of it, but I would like to thank everyone who has sent me a consolation card. Americans are usually very kind people. Didn’t your colleagues find that out during their time living here? It is hard to imagine they missed it. How could they do what they did, knowing that?
4. We will all die soon enough. Why not take the short time we have on this delicate planet and figure out some really interesting things we might do together? I promise you, God would be happier. So many people are always trying to speak for God – I know it is a very dangerous thing to do. I tried my whole life not to do it. But this one time is an exception. Because there are so many people crying and scarred and confused and complicated and exhausted right now – it is as if we have all had a giant simultaneous break-down. I beg you, as your distant Arab cousin, as your American neighbor, listen to me. Our hearts are broken, as yours may also feel broken in some ways we can’t understand, unless you tell us in words. Killing people won’t tell us. We can’t read that message. Find another way to live. Don’t expect others to be like you. Read Rumi. Read Arabic poetry. Poetry humanizes us in a way that news, or even religion, has a harder time doing. A great Arab scholar, Dr. Salma Jayyusi, said, “If we read one another, we won’t kill one another.” Read American poetry. Plant mint. Find a friend who is so different from you, you can’t believe how much you have in common. Love them. Let them love you. Surprise people in gentle ways, as friends do. The rest of us will try harder too. Make our family proud.

From The Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock Poems…

Cé HÍ?………………………………. Who Is She?
‘Cé hí an bandia seo agat? ‘……………Who is this goddess of yours?

Cé hí? …………………………………………Who is she?

Fantaisíocht, cuirfidh me geall.’………..‘Pure fantasy, I wager.’
‘An é nach léir duit í?’……………………..‘Is she not clear to you?’

‘Ní léir!’…………………………………………‘No, she is not.’
‘Is léire ná an lá í……………………………’Clearer than day is she’

‘is léire ná an oíche…’………………………’clearer than night …’
‘Ní léir domsa í …’ …………………………….‘Not clear to me …’
‘Sí an lá san oíche í……………………………‘Day in night is she

an oíche sa lá …’ ………………………………’night in day …’
‘Ní fheicim í …’ …………………………………. ‘I see her not …’

‘Féach ionat féinig!’ ………………………….. ‘Look inside yourself!’
‘Deacair …’ ………………………………………..‘Difficult …’
‘Féach mar sin…………………………………….‘Then look

ar shioc an bhandé………………………………at her frost

ar an bhféar.’………………………………………covering the grass.’
A Daisy Picked

Nóinín a phiocas
Nóinín a phiocas Duit

Agus ba ghrian chomh millteach sin é

Gur dalladh mé

Ach chneasaigh na piotail

I gceann na haimsire mé

Do ghéaga áthasacha

Ina gceann is ina gceann
A daisy picked
A daisy picked for You

Such a massive sun

I was blinded

But the petals healed me

In time

Your joyous limbs

One by one

For More Than A Thousand Years
Le Breis is Míle Bliain
Mo ghrá Thú!

Gach soicind.

Nuair a chorraíonn an ghaoth an féar

Lingim Chugat ionam

Id bharróg dhorcha soilsím

Is mé Aimhirghin – cé eile? –

Mholas T’ainm thar chách
For More than a Thousand Years
I love You!

Every second

When wind rustles the grass –

Now and tomorrow –

I leap to You in me

In your dark embrace I shine

I am Amergin – who else –

I have praised Your name over all.


You Are In Me
Taoi ionam
A bhé luisneach

A ghrian gan choinne i mí Feabhra

A bhláth roimh am

Soilsíonn Tú an oíche

Titeann Tú Id réalta reatha

Sprais i ndiaidh spraise

Is tá mo spéirse anois lom
Taoi ionam
You are in me
Brightest of beings

In sun-surprised February

Flower out of season

You illuminate the night

A falling star

Shower after shower

My sky is empty now
You are in me


Gabriel Rosenstock
Born in Kilfinane, Co. Limerick in 1949, he studied at University College Cork, where he associated with the Innti group of poets. He has written or translated more than 100 books, principally in Irish. Rogha Rosenstock, a selection from 10 different volumes of his poetry, appeared in 1994, and a selection of his children’s poetry, Dánta Duitse, was published in 1998. More recently, he published another volume of poetry, Syójó, and A Treasury of Irish Love, a compilation. A former chairman of Poetry Ireland, he is a member of several international haiku associations, and holds an honorary life membership of the Irish Translators’ and Interpreters’ Society. He is assistant editor with An Gúm, an Irish language publisher. He lives in Dublin.

From: Arts Council of Ireland

Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai


Vuja De

First Friday: A quick one… I just got back from my friend Christa Grimm’s opening down at 537 SE Ash. She has some great art, you should pop in and check it out. Great Landscapes! Her kids were there, Bonnie, Autumn & Sam. They are all in their 20′s now, in their teens when we first met them. Christa comes from an artistic background, her father and mother are well known Portland artist…
I stopped in at the Muralist Show, saw several of the artist, and saw the new pieces that have been put up. Talked with Joanne, and we are making plans for some new murals… so stay tuned!!
Lots on this entry, and we may as well delve into it on this wonderful evening in Portland… Tomorrow is the Rose Parade, and we are going down town to a hotel to hang with friends watching the parade pass below… good fun!
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:

The Fairy Thorn – An Ulster Ballad

Within’s Within: Scenes from the Psychedelic Revolution: 6/7/2008 Broadcast

The Orb: Vuja De (thanks Peter!)

A Few Words From Idries Shah

The Piper And The Puca

For Winter Rose & Mimi…. William Butler Yeats

The Orb – Fluffy Clouds (an oldie but goldie!)

Art: Edmund Dulac

The Fairy Thorn – An Ulster Ballad
“Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;

For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep;

Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland-reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep.”
At Anna Grace’s door ’twas thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.
They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air:
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head grey and dim

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,

Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,

And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,

Oh, never caroll’d bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,

And dreamily the evening has still’d the haunted braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky

When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,

Are hush’d the maiden’s voices, as cowering down they he

In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, the grassy ground beneath,

And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,

A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,

They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasp’d and prostrate all, with their heads together bow’d,

Soft o’er their bosom’s beating–the only human sound–

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three–

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,

By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold

And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they may not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll’d her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,

The maidens’ trance dissolveth go.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain–

They pined away and died within the year and day,

And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.

– Sir Samuel Ferguson


Within’s Within: Scenes from the Psychedelic Revolution: 6/7/2008 Broadcast

Show #273

Time: 07 June 2008 (Saturday) at

19:00 UTC | PST-11am | EST-2pm | UK- 7pm | NZ-8am
High speed listen at:

Dial-up listen at: [currently disabled]

Now Podcasting at: [currently disabled]

Duration: ~3h
On this week’s show:
New Rock Album: Elbow, The Seldom Seen Kid (2008)…been since 2005

that this UK band has been on this show…they’re back with a strange,

sometimes pretty, sometimes hauntingly melodic new record, full of

love songs and weirdness…very tasty…
Classic Rock Album: Brainticket, Cottonwoodhill (1971)…this band

formed in 1968 with Swiss, German, and Italian members, and in the

early ’70s released three amazing lysergic journeys…this was the

first of them…turn on…tune in…
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 The Rolling Stones, music from their

fantastic 1970 live album, *Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!*…they say all sorts

of excitement is gathering together, all kinds of hope wiggling

through the door, hurry, don’t miss it! Don’t…miss…it…
Webcasting to the globe & beyond from the People’s Republic of

Portland, Oregon!


Thanks To Peter For This!

The Orb: Vuja De

A Few Words From Idries Shah

A quote from: ‘A Perfumed Scorpion’
Hindsight shows how often yesterday’s so-called truth may become today’s absurdity. Real ability is to respect relative truth without damaging oneself by refusing to realize that it will be superseded. When you observe that today’s controversies often reveal not relevance but the clash of the untaught with the wrongly taught, and when you can endure this knowledge without cynicism, as a lover of humankind, greater compensations will be open to you than a sense of your own importance or satisfaction in thinking about the unreliability of others.

Quotes from: ‘The Commanding Self ‘
Nowadays, few people contest the importance of knowing about conditioning in order to examine belief-systems. Why, therefore, is it so difficult to communicate with so many people along these lines? The answer is very simple. We are at a stage in understanding human behaviour analogous to that which obtained when people began to try to talk of chemistry to those who were fixated upon the hope of untold wealth (or, sometimes, spiritual enlightenment) through alchemy. Like the alchemist or those who want easy riches, people want dramatic inputs (emotional stimuli, excitement, reassurance, authority-figures and the rest) rather than knowledge.
It is only when the desire for knowledge and understanding becomes as effective as the craving for emotional stimulus that the individual becomes accessible to change, to knowledge, to more than a very little understanding.
So learning must be preceded by the capacity to learn. THAT, in turn, comes about at least in part by right attitude. And THAT, again, is where the would-be learner has to exercise effort.
Surely there is not, cannot be, any better proof of imagination confused with real experience, than something which happened to me during a tour of holy places in the Middle East.
I was with a party of very devout people belonging to a certain faith, we need not say which one. They were visiting places reputed for their spiritual history and atmosphere, mostly belonging to another religious tradition.
Their guide was new to the job. To help matters, he read in detail from a Michelin guide as we went from place to place. ‘Here martyrs were killed …. Here is the site of the cell of a certain holy monk …. Here such-and-such a person had a holy vision ….’
Every single time the devotees stood respectfully, showing every sign of appreciating the deep spiritual feelings which suffused the places ….
Then, one day, we were taken to a site where the guide read out about the horrors which had been perpetrated there, how a certain tyrant had murdered scores of good men of God, and how the whole area was reputed to be cursed. All shivered and eagerly discussed how they felt the ‘very essence of evil’ surrounding them.
They were still exchanging accounts of their own bloodcurdling experiences at the hotel that evening when the guide shamefacedly called us together in the foyer and admitted that he had been mistakenly reading from the wrong page. In spite of the ‘very essence of evil’ which all had experienced, we had in fact been standing in the middle of a burial-place of saints ….


The Piper And The Puca

Douglas Hyde
Translated literally from the Irish of the Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta.
In the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the “Black Rogue.” He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother’s house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the “Black Rogue” (an rógaire dubh). The Púca came behind him, and flung him up on his own back. There were long horns on the Púca, and the piper got a good grip of them, and then he said–
“Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I have a ten-penny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.”
“Never mind your mother,” said the Púca, “but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes.” Then the Púca said to him, “Play up for me the ‘Shan Van Vocht’ (an t-seann-bhean bhocht).”
“I don’t know it,” said the piper.
“Never mind whether you do or you don’t,” said the Púca. “Play up, and I’ll make you know.”
The piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder.
“Upon my word, you’re a fine music-master,” says the piper then; “but tell me where you’re for bringing me.”
“There’s a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric tonight,” says the Púca, “and I’m for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you’ll get the price of your trouble.”
“By my word, you’ll save me a journey, then,” says the piper, “for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me, because I stole the white gander from him last Martinmas.”
The Púca rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric. Then the Púca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they passed in together, into a fine room.
The piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women (cailleacha) sitting round about it. The old woman rose up, and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you Púca of November (na Samhna). Who is this you have brought with you?”
“The best piper in Ireland,” says the Púca.
One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William.
“By my conscience, then,” says the piper, “myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Moy-rua (Red Mary), and it’s she told the priest I stole his gander.”
The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Púca said, “Play up music for these ladies.”
The piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the Púca said to pay the piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece, and gave it to him.
“By the tooth of Patric,” said he, “I’m as rich as the son of a lord.”
“Come with me,” says the Púca, “and I’ll bring you home.”
They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Púca, the gander came up to him, and gave him a new set of pipes. The Púca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to him, “You have two things now that you never had before–you have sense and music (ciall agus ceól). The piper went home, and he knocked at his mother’s door, saying, “Let me in, I’m as rich as a lord, and I’m the best piper in Ireland.”
“You’re drunk,” said the mother.
“No, indeed,” says the piper, “I haven’t drunk a drop.”
The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, “Wait now,” says he, “till you hear the music, I’ll play.”
He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music, there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He awakened the neighbours and they all were mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after that he told them all he had gone through that night.
The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.
The piper went to the priest, and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and geese began.
“Leave my sight, you thief,” said the priest.
But nothing would do the piper till he would put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.
He buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death, there was never a piper in the county Galway was as good as he was.

For Winter Rose & Mimi…. William Butler Yeats

The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water-rats;

There we’ve hid our faery vats,

Full of berries

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim grey sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances,

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight;

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And is anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car,.

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To to waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For to world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Away with us he’s going,

The solemn-eyed:

He’ll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal-chest.

For be comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

from a world more full of weeping than you.

To A Child Dancing In The Wind
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?

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.

The Cap And Bells

The jester walked in the garden:

The garden had fallen still;

He bade his soul rise upward

And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,

When owls began to call:

It had grown wise-tongued by thinking

Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;

She rose in her pale night-gown;

She drew in the heavy casement

And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,

When the owls called out no more;

In a red and quivering garment

It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming

Of a flutter of flower-like hair;

But she took up her fan from the table

And waved it off on the air.

‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,

‘I will send them to her and die’;

And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,

Under a cloud of her hair,

And her red lips sang them a love-song

Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,

And the heart and the soul came through,

To her right hand came the red one,

To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,

A chattering wise and sweet,

And her hair was a folded flower

And the quiet of love in her feet.

The Delphic Oracle Upon Plotinus
Behold that great Plotinus swim,

Buffeted by such seas;

Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,

But the Golden Race looks dim,

Salt blood blocks his eyes.

Scattered on the level grass

Or winding through the grove

plato there and Minos pass,

There stately Pythagoras

And all the choir of Love.

The Orb – Fluffy Clouds


June Blessings…

“Love becomes perfect only when it transcends itself –Becoming One with its object; Producing Unity of Being.” -Hakim Jami
If any project is worth doing, it should be done in beauty, and with thoughtfulness. A hard lesson for someone who was once always in a hurry, but an apt lesson as well. Sloooow down. Take your time, create it with love, thoroughness and patience. We are about to start to prepare at long last to release Issues 1 and 2 of The Invisible College in print… followed by Issue 5. Can I say…. Submissions? Let me know!
We have uploaded new music to the radio station, and have begun to start to eliminate older tracks… If you get a chance give it a listen. The spoken word channel has been hopping as well, so take some time, relax and check the different streams out.

Radio Free EarthRites!
I just want to wish my sister Rebecca a happy birthday… a day late, but my thoughts go out to her. It has been a couple of years since we last saw her, and with the cost of fuel and all the attending circus of capitalism’s collapse, we may have to get down to Cali via hopping freights, or bicycle….
Anyway, Rebecca if you see this, drop us a line!

On The Menu:

Brian Eno & Nitin Sawhney – Prophesy

Commercial Break: The Hymn to Ninkasi

The Sorceress (La Sorcière) Part One – Death of the Gods

Poetry: Maulana Jami on the Path

Sunset – Nitin Sawhney
Bright Blessings,


Brian Eno & Nitin Sawhney – Prophesy



Commercial Break: At the celebration for Rowan’s graduation, our friend Morgan (who reps beer locally brought over some excellent samples from a brewery in Eugene – Ninkasi-
He brought 3 samples…

Total Domination IPA

Tricerahops Double IPA

Quantum Pale Ale
The Tricerahops Double IPA is to die for, and the others are excellent… so in honor of the Beery goodness of Ninkasi, I have included a little ditty from Sumeria about the deity herself!

The Hymn to Ninkasi – Making Beer

The Hymn to Ninkasi, inscribed on a nineteenth-century B.C. tablet, contains a recipe for Sumerian beer.)
Translation by Miguel Civil

Borne of the flowing water (…)

Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Borne of the flowing water (…)

Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Having founded your town by the sacred lake,

She finished its great walls for you,

Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,

She finished its great walls for you

Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,

Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake,

Ninkasi, Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,

Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.

You are the one who handles the dough,

[and] with a big shovel,

Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,

Ninkasi, You are the one who handles

the dough, [and] with a big shovel,

Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date]-honey.

You are the one who bakes the bappir

in the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes

the bappir in the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

You are the one who waters the malt

set on the ground,

The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,

Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt

set on the ground,

The noble dogs keep away even the potentates.

You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar

The waves rise, the waves fall.

Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks

the malt in a jar

The waves rise, the waves fall.

You are the one who spreads the cooked

mash on large reed mats,

Coolness overcomes.

Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads

the cooked mash on large reed mats,

Coolness overcomes.

You are the one who holds with both hands

the great sweet wort,

Brewing [it] with honey and wine

(You the sweet wort to the vessel)

Ninkasi, (…)

(You the sweet wort to the vessel)

The filtering vat, which makes

a pleasant sound,

You place appropriately on [top of]

a large collector vat.

Ninkasi, the filtering vat,

which makes a pleasant sound,

You place appropriately on [top of]

a large collector vat.

When you pour out the filtered beer

of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of

Tigris and Euphrates.

Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the

filtered beer of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of

Tigris and Euphrates.

The Sorceress (La Sorcière)

by Jules Michelet

Part One – Death of the Gods
There are authors who assure us that a little while before the final victory of Christianity a mysterious voice was heard along the shores of the Ægean Sea, proclaiming: “Great Pan is dead!”
The old universal god of Nature is no more. Great the jubilation; it was fancied that, Nature being defunct, Temptation was dead too. Storm-tossed for so many years, the human soul was to enjoy peace at last.
Was it simply a question of the termination of the ancient worship, the defeat of the old faith, the eclipse of time-honoured religious forms? No! it was more than this. Consulting the earliest Christian monuments, we find in every line the hope expressed, that Nature is to disappear and life die out—in a word, that the end of the world is at hand.
The game is up for the gods of life, who have so long kept up a vain simulacrum of vitality. Their world is falling round them in crumbling ruin. All is swallowed up in nothingness: “Great Pan is dead!”

It was no new evangel that the gods must die. More than one ancient cult is based on this very notion of the death of the gods. Osiris dies, Adonis dies—it is true, in this case, to rise again. Æschylus, on the stage itself, in those dramas that were played only on the feast-days of the gods, expressly warns them, by the voice of Prometheus, that one day they must die. Die! but how?—vanquished, subjugated to the Titans, the antique powers of Nature.
Here it is an entirely different matter. The early Christians, as a whole and individually, in the past and in the future, hold Nature herself accursed. They condemn her as a whole and in every part, going so far as to see Evil incarnate, the Demon himself, in a flower. 1 So, welcome—and the sooner the better—the angel-hosts that of old destroyed the Cities of the Plain. Let them destroy, fold away like a veil, the empty image of the world, and at length deliver the saints from the long-drawn ordeal of temptation.
The Gospel says: “The day is at hand.” The Fathers say: “Soon, very soon.” The disintegration of the Roman Empire and the inroads of the barbarian invaders raise hopes in St. Augustine’s breast, that soon there will be no city left but the City of God.
Yet how long a-dying the world is, how obstinately determined to live on! Like Hezekiah, it craves a respite, a going backward of the dial. So be it then, till the year One Thousand,—but not a day longer.
Is it so certain, as we have been told over and over again, that the old gods were exhausted, sick of themselves and weary of existence? that out of sheer discouragement they as good as gave in their own abdication? that Christianity was able with a breath to blow away these empty phantoms?
They point to the gods at Rome, the gods of the Capitol, where they were only admitted in virtue of an anticipatory death, I mean on condition of resigning all they had of local sap, of renouncing their home and country, of ceasing to be deities representative of such and such a nation. Indeed, in order to receive them, Rome had had to submit them to a cruel operation, that left them poor, enervated, bloodless creatures. These great centralised Divinities had become, in their official life, mere dismal functionaries of the Roman Empire. But, though fallen from its high estate, this Aristocracy of Olympus had in nowise involved in its own decay the host of indigenous gods, the crowd of deities still holding possession of the boundless plains, of woods and hills and springs, inextricably blended with the life of the countryside. These divinities, enshrined in the heart of oaks, lurking in rushing streams and deep pools, could not be driven out.
Who says so? The Church herself, contradicting herself flatly. She first proclaims them dead, then waxes indignant because they are still alive. From century to century, by the threatening voice of her Councils, 2 she orders them to die. . . . And lo! they are as much alive as ever!
“They are demons . . .”—and therefore alive. Unable to kill them, the Church suffers the innocent-hearted countryfolk to dress them up and disguise their true nature. Legends grow round them, they are baptised, actually admitted into the Christian hierarchy. But are they converted? Not yet by any means. We catch them still on the sly continuing their old heathen ways and Pagan nature.
Where are they to be found? In the desert, on lonely heaths, in wild forests? Certainly, but above all in the house. They cling to the most domestic of domestic habits; women guard and hide them at board and even bed. They still possess the best stronghold in the world—better than the temple, to wit the hearth.

History knows of no other revolution so violent and unsparing as that of Theodosius. There is no trace elsewhere in antiquity of so wholesale a proscription of a religion. The Persian fire-worship, in its high-wrought purity, might outrage the visible gods of other creeds; but at any rate it suffered them to remain. Under it the Jews were treated with great clemency, and were protected and employed. Greece, daughter of the light, made merry over the gods of darkness, the grotesque pot-bellied Cabiri; but still she tolerated them, and even adopted them as working gnomes, making her own Vulcan in their likeness. Rome, in the pride of her might, welcomed not only Etruria, but the rustic gods as well of the old Italian husbandman. The Druids she persecuted only as embodying a national resistance dangerous to her dominion.
Victorious Christianity, on the contrary, was fain to slaughter the enemy outright, and thought to do so. She abolished the Schools of Philosophy by her proscription of Logic and the physical extermination of the philosophers, who were massacred under the Emperor Valens. She destroyed or stripped the temples, and broke up the sacred images. Quite conceivably the new legend might have proved favourable to family life, if only the father had not been humiliated and annulled in St. Joseph, if the mother had been given prominence as the trainer, the moral parent of the child Jesus. But this path, so full of rich promise, was from the first abandoned for the barren ambition of a high, immaculate purity.
Thus Christianity deliberately entered on the lonely road of celibacy, one the then world was making for of its own impulse—a tendency the imperial rescripts fought against in vain. And Monasticism helped it on the downward slope.
Men fled to the desert; but they were not alone. The Devil went with them, ready with every form of temptation. They must needs revolutionise society, found cities of solitaries,—it was of no avail. Everyone has heard of the gloomy cities of anchorites that grew up in the Thebaïd, of the turbulent, savage spirit that animated them, and of their murderous descents upon Alexandria. They declared they were possessed of the Devil, impelled by demons,—and they told only the truth.
There was an enormous void arisen in Nature’s plan. Who or what should fill it? The Christian Church is ready with an answer: The Demon, everywhere the Demon—Ubique Dæmon. 3
Greece no doubt, like all other countries, had had its energumens, men tormented, possessed by spirits. But the similarity is purely external and accidental, the resemblance more apparent than real. In the Thebaïd it is no case of spirits either good or bad, but of the gloomy children of the pit, wilfully perverse and malignant. Everywhere, for years to come, these unhappy hypochondriacs are to be seen roaming the desert, full of self-loathing and self-horror. Try to realise, indeed, what it means,—to be conscious of a double personality, to really believe in this second self, this cruel indweller that comes and goes and expiates within you, and drives you to wander forth in desert places and over precipices. Thinner and weaker grows the sufferer; and the feebler his wretched body, the more fiercely the demon harries it. Women in particular are filled, distended, inflated by these tyrants, who impregnate them with the infernal aura, stir up internal storm and tempest, make them the sport and plaything of their every caprice, force them into sin and despair.
Nor is it human beings only that are demoniac. Alas! all Nature is tainted with the horror. If the devil is in a flower, how much more in the gloomy forest! The light that seemed so clear and pure is full of the creatures of night. The Heavens full of Hell,—what blasphemy! The divine morning star, that has shed its sparkling beam on Socrates, Archimedes, Plato, and once and again inspired them to sublimer effort, what is it now?—a devil, the great devil Lucifer. At eve, it is the devil Venus, whose soft and gentle light leads mortals into temptation.
I am not surprised at such a society turning mad and savage. Furious to feel itself so weak against the demons, it pursues them everywhere, in the temples and altars of the old faith to begin with, later in the heathen martyrs. Festivals are abolished; for may they not be assemblages for idolatrous worship? Even the family is suspect; for might not the force of habit draw the household together round the old classic Lares? And why a family at all? The empire is an empire of monks.
Yet the individual man, isolated and struck silent as he is, still gazes at the skies, and in the heavenly host finds once more the old gods of his adoration. “This is what causes the famines,” the Emperor Theodosius declares, “and all the other scourges of the Empire,”—a terrible dictum that lets loose the blind rage of the fanatic populace on the heads of their inoffensive Pagan fellow-citizens. The Law blindly unchains all the savagery of mob-law.
Old gods of Heathendom, the grave gapes for you! Gods of Love, of Life, of Light, darkness waits to engulf you! The cowl is the only wear. Maidens must turn nuns; wives leave their husbands, or if they still keep the domestic hearth, be cold and continent as sisters.
But is all this possible? Who shall be strong enough with one breath to blow out the glowing lamp of God? So reckless an enterprise of impious piety may well bring about strange, monstrous, and astounding results. . . . Let the guilty tremble!
Repeatedly in the Middle Ages shall we find the gloomy story recurring of the Bride of Corinth. First told in quite early days by Phlegon, the Emperor Hadrian’s freedman, it reappears in the twelfth century, and again in the sixteenth,—the deep reproach, as it were, the irrepressible protest of outraged Nature.

“A young Athenian goes to Corinth, to the house of the man who promises him his daughter in marriage. He is still a Pagan, and is not aware that the family he hopes to become a member of has just turned Christian. He arrives late at night. All are in bed, except the mother, who serves the meal hospitality demands, and then leaves him to slumber, half dead with fatigue. But hardly is he asleep, when a figure enters the room,—a maiden, clad in white, wearing a white veil and on her brow a fillet of black and gold. Seeing him, she raises her white hand in surprise: ‘Am I then already so much a stranger in the house? . . . Alas! poor recluse. . . . But I am filled with shame, I must begone.’ ‘Nay! stay, fair maiden; here are Ceres and Bacchus, and with you, love! Fear not, and never look so pale!’ ‘Back, back, I say! I have no right to happiness any more. By a vow my sick mother made, youth and life are for ever fettered. The gods are no more, and the only sacrifices now are human souls.’ ‘What! can this be you? You, my promised bride I love so well, promised me from a child? Our fathers’ oath bound us indissolubly together under Heaven’s blessing. Maiden! be mine!’ ‘No! dear heart, I cannot. You shall have my young sister. If I groan in my chill prison-house, you in her arms must think of me, me who waste away in thoughts of you, and who will soon be beneath the sod.’ ‘No! no! I call to witness yonder flame; it is the torch of Hymen. You shall come with me to my father’s house. Stay with me, my best beloved!’ For wedding gift he offers her a golden cup. She gives him her neck-chain; but chooses rather than the cup a curl of his hair.
“’Tis the home of spirits; she drinks with death-pale lips the dark, blood-red wine. He drinks eagerly after her, invoking the God of Love. Her poor heart is breaking, but still she resists. At last in despair he falls weeping on the bed. Then throwing herself down beside him: ‘Ah! how your grief hurts me! Yet the horror of it, if you so much as touched me! White as snow, and cold as ice, such alas! and alas! is your promised bride.’ ‘Come to me! I will warm you, though you should be leaving the very tomb itself. . . .’ Sighs, kisses pass between the pair. ‘Cannot you feel how I burn?’ Love unites them, binds them in one close embrace, while tears of mingled pain and pleasure flow. Thirstily she drinks the fire of his burning mouth; her chilled blood is fired with amorous ardours, but the heart stands still within her bosom.
“But the mother was there, though they knew it not, listening to their tender protestations, their cries of sorrow and delight. ‘Hark! the cock-crow! Farewell till to-morrow, to-morrow night!’ A lingering farewell, and kisses upon kisses!
“The mother enters furious, to find her daughter! Her lover strives to enfold her, to hide her, from the other’s view; but she struggles free, and towering aloft from the couch to the vaulted roof: ‘Oh! mother, mother! so you begrudge me my night of joy, you hunt me from this warm nest. Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the cold shroud, and borne me so untimely to the tomb? But a power beyond you has lifted the stone. In vain your priests droned their prayers over the grave; of what avail the holy water and the salt, where youth burns hot in the heart? Cold earth cannot freeze true Love! . . . You promised; I am returned to claim my promised happiness. . . .
“‘Alack! dear heart, you must die. You would languish here and pine away. I have your hair; ’twill be white to-morrow. 4 . . . Mother, one last prayer! Open my dark dungeon, raise a funeral pyre, and let my loving heart win the repose the flames alone can give. Let the sparks fly upward and the embers glow! We will back to our old gods again.’”

4:1 Compare Muratori, Script. It., i. 293, 545, on St. Cyprian; A. Maury, Magie, 435.
5:2 See Mansi, Baluze; Council of Arles, 442; Tours, 567; Leptines, 743; the Capitularies, etc. Gerson even, towards 1400.
6:3 See the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, and the authors quoted by A. Maury, Magie, 317. In the fourth century the Messalians, believing themselves to be full of demons, were constantly blowing their noses, and spitting unceasingly, in their incredible efforts to expectorate these.
10:4 At this point of the story I suppress an expression that may well shock us. Goethe, so noble in the form of his writings, is not equally so in the spirit. He quite mars the wonderful tale, fouling the Greek with a gruesome Slavonic notion. At the instant when the lovers are dissolved in tears, he makes the girl into a vampire. She curses because she is athirst for blood, to suck his heart’s blood. The poet makes her say coldly and calmly this impious and abominable speech: “When he is done, I will go on to others; the new generation shall succumb to my fury.”
The Middle Ages dress up this tradition in grotesque garb to terrify us with the devil Venus. Her statue receives from a young man a ring, which he imprudently places on her finger. Her hand closes on it, she keeps it as a sign of betrothal; then at night, comes into his bed to claim the rights it confers. To rid him of his hellish bride, an exorcism is required (S. Hibb., part iii. chap. iii. 174). The same story occurs in the Fabliaux, but absurdly enough applied to the Virgin. Luther repeats the classical story, if my memory serves me, in his Table-talk, but with great coarseness, letting us smell the foulness of the grave. The Spaniard Del Rio transfers the scene from Greece to Brabant. The affianced bride dies shortly before the wedding-day. The passing-bell is tolled; the grief-stricken bridegroom roams the fields in despair. He hears a wail; it is the loved one wandering over the heath. . . . “See you not,” she cries, “who my guide is?” “No!” he replies, and seizing her, bears her away to his home. Once there, the account was very near growing over tender and touching. The grim inquisitor, Del Rio, cuts short the thread with the words, “Lifting the veil, they found a stake with a dead woman’s skin drawn over it.” The Judge Le Loyes, though not much given to sensibility, nevertheless reproduces for us the primitive form of the legend. After him, there is an end of these gloomy story-tellers, whose trade is done. Modern days begin, and the Bride has won the day. Buried Nature comes back from the tomb, no longer a stealthy visitant, but mistress of the house and home.


Maulana Jami on the Path (of Tasawwuf)
It is recorded in the tradition of the Shaykhs that Jami once said, when asked about hypocrisy and honesty:
“How wonderful is honesty and how strange hypocrisy! I wandered to Mecca and to Baghdad, and I made a trial of the behavior of men.
When I asked them to be honest, they always treated me with respect, because they had been taught that good men always speak thus, and they had learned that they must have their eyes downcast when people speak of honesty.
When I told them to shun hypocrisy, they all agreed with me.
But they did not know that when I said ‘truth’, I knew that they did not know what truth was, and that therefore both they and I were then being hypocrites.
They did not know that when I told them not to be hypocrites they were being hypocrites in not asking me the method. They did not know that I was being a hypocrite in merely saying, ‘Do not be hypocrites’, because words do not convey the message by themselves.
They respected me, therefore, when I was acting hypocritically. They had been taught to do this. They respected themselves while they were thinking hypocritically; for it is hypocrisy to think that one is being improved simply by thinking that it is bad to be a hypocrite.
The Path (of Tasuwwuf) leads beyond: to the practice and the understanding where there can be no hypocrisy, where honesty is there and not something which is man’s aim.

One who travell’d in the Desert

Saw MAJNUN where he was sitting

All alone like a Magician

Tracing Letters in the Sand.

‘Oh distracted Lover! writing

What the Sword-wind of the Desert

Undeciphers so that no one

After you shall understand’.

MAJNUN answer’d — ‘I am writing

Only for myself, and only

“LAILA” —if for ever “LAILA”

Writing, in that Word a Volume,

Over which for ever poring,

From her very Name I sip

In fancy, till I drink, her Lip’.

God said to the Prophet David–

‘David, whom I have exalted

From the sheep to be my People’s

Shepherd, by your Justice my

Revelation justify.

Lest the mis-believing—yea,

The Fire-adoring Princes rather

Be my Prophets, who fulfill,

Knowing not my WORD, my WILL’.

translated by Edward Fitzgerald

Verses from the book Jami: Yusuf And Zulaikha

“No one ever suffered on the path of faith, who did not find the remedy for his pain. Let the remedy for Jami’s pain be that pain itself: let his medicine be his own ever-sorrowing heart.”

“It has long been known in this ancient abode that without bitterness, life can never become sweet. For nine long months the child must drink blood in its mother’s womb; and how many tortures must the ruby endure, imprisoned in rock, before the sun finally illuminates its gorgeous hue!”

“The lover who sincerely commits himself to the path of love will himself ultimately attain to the title of beloved.”

“Happy is he who is able to escape from self, and feel the gentle breeze of frienship. His heart is so full of the beloved, that there is no longer room for anyone else. It is the beloved flowing through his every vein and nerve like his very life: there is not an atom of his body that is not filled with the friend. The true lover can no longer perceive either the scent or the color of his own self: he has no interest, either friendly or hostile, in anyone other than the beloved. His heart is attached neither to thorne nor crown; all greed and lust have packed their bags and left his street. If he speaks, it is to the friend; if he seeks, it is from the friend. He no longer takes himself into account, and lives only for love. He leaves the raw and turns to the ripe, abandoning completely the abode of the self.”

Sunset – Nitin Sawhney

“If the scissors are not used daily on the beard, it will not be long before the beard is, by its luxuriant growth, pretending to be the head.”-Hakim Jami


The Graduate….

Tonight, Rowan graduates from High School. We had a gathering of friends for him yesterday, and it went nicely. Sweet people, and a wonderful time. My thanks and love go out to you all.
It has been a long haul for the lad, but he came out of it well, finishing on the honor roll and with premiering a one act play this past week that has never been performed in the US… (Picnic on a Battlefield – originally from Spain)
We have been blessed with these last 4 years. It has gone quickly but there is a sweetness to it all.
Life goes swiftly, and so much has occurred… this one is for Rowan, and all that he brings into the world by his presence.
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:

Rachid Taha – Bara Bara

The Poems of Paul Éluard

Rachid Taha – Rock El Casbah

Rachid Taha – Bara Bara


The Poems of Paul Éluard

She is standing on my lids

And her hair is in my hair

She has the colour of my eye

She has the body of my hand

In my shade she is engulfed

As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes

And she does not let me sleep

And her dreams in the bright day

Make the suns evaporate

And me laugh cry and laugh

Speak when I have nothing to say

To Live

We both have our hands to give

Take mine I shall lead you afar
I have lived several times my face has changed

With every threshold I have crossed and every hand clasped Familial springtime was reborn

Keeping for itself and for me its perishable snow

Death and the betrothed

The future with five fingers clenched and letting go
My age always gave me

New reasons for living through others

For having the blood of man other’s heart in mine
Oh the lucid fellow I was and that I am

Before the pallor of frail blind girls

Lovelier than the delicate worn moon so fair

By the reflection of life’s ways

A trail of moss and trees

Of mist and morning dew

Of the young body which does not rise alone

To its place on earth

Wind cold and rain cradle it

Summer makes a man of it
Presences is my virtue in each visible hand

Only death is solitude

From delight to fury from fury to clarity

I make myself whole through all beings

Through all weather on the earth and in the clouds

Through the passing seasons I am young

And strong for having lived

I am young my blood rises over my ruins
We have our hands to entwine Nothing can ever seduce better

Tahn our bonding to each other a forest

Returning earth to sky and the sky to night
To the night which prepares an unending day.


A few grains of dust more or less

On ancient shoulders

Locks of weakness on weary foreheads

This theatre of honey and faded roses

Where incalculable flies

Reply to the black signs that misery makes to them

Despairing girders of a bridge

Thrown across space

Thrown across every street and every house

Heavy wandering madnesses

That we shall end by knowing by heart

Mechanical appetites and uncontrolled dances

That lead to the regret of hatred
Nostalgia of justice

Head Against The Walls

There were only a few of them

In all the earth

Each one thought he was alone

They sang, they were right

To sing

But they sang the way you sack a city

The way you kill yourself.
Frayed moist night

Shall we endure you


Shall we not shake

Your cloacal evidence

We shall not wait for a morning

Made to measure

We wanted to see in other people’s eyes

Their nights of love exhausted

They dream only of dying

Their lovely flesh forgotten

Bees caught in their honey

They are ignorant of life

And we suffer everywhere

Red roofs dissolve under the tongue

Dog days in the full beds

Come, empty your sacks of fresh blood

There is still a shadow here
A shred of imbecile there

In the wind their masks, their cast-offs

In lead their traps, their chains

And their prudent blind-men’s gestures

There is fire under rocks

If you put out the fire

Be careful we have

Despite the night it breeds

More strength than the belly

Of your wives and sisters

And we will reproduce

Without them but by ax strokes

In your prisons
Torrents of stone labors of foam

Where eyes float without rancor

Just eyes without hope

That know you

And that you should have put out

Rather than ignore
With a safety pin quicker than your gibbets

We shall take our booty where we want it to be


Rachid Taha – Rock El Casbah