The Wooing…


We are in the cosmos and the cosmos is in us.

-Matthew Fox

Dear Friends,
Well, the major portion of the holidays have passed, and everyone seems to still be in command of their senses. (at this point) It seems that the established order of capitalism has been weakened a bit. I know of very few people who went on that giant credit bender that has been required to keep the wheels of commerce churning. Maybe the upheavals in the markets as well as the price yo-yo of petroleum has finally knocked some chinks out of the armor, maybe something new and w/holistic will start to emerge; maybe an economy of balance will become the norm. (practice…practice…)
Radio Crash On other notes: Radio Free EarthRites is down for awhile, having lost the power supply on our hard drive in the UK. We will keep you updated on it’s emerging condition…..
With all that said, I hope life is treating you well, and that you are weathering the season!
Bright Blessings,
P.S. A Happy Birthday to Deirdre Nixon!


On The Menu

The Gwyllm Llwydd 2009 Calendar! (it finally is here….)

Cosmic Quotes

Minilogue/hitchhikers choice – short version

The Courtship of Etain – Prologue In FairyLand

Poems For Remembrance

Minilogue – Animals (short version)


Get your 2009 Calendar Here!
This year’s calendar has Lunar Cycles, The Celtic Year, and the births of notable Entheogenic personages…
All new illustrations (of course) and a few updated images from years past. The majority of these images have never been printed before. The will become available as prints soon at!
Hey! Help out the artist, and adorn your wall with a bit of beauty and pertinent calendar dates and celebration!


Cosmic Quotes:
In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

-Carl Jung
The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.

-Stephen Jay Gould
You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

-Wislawa Szymborska
Our dreams are firsthand creations, rather than residues of waking life. We have the capacity for infinite creativity; at least while dreaming, we partake of the power of the Spirit, the infinite Godhead that creates the cosmos.

-Jackie Gleason
Other times, you’re doing some piece of work and suddenly you get feedback that tells you that you have touched something that is very alive in the cosmos.

-Leonard Nimoy
I’m playing dark history. It’s beyond black. I’m dealing with the dark things of the cosmos.

-Sun Ra

Minilogue/hitchhikers choice – short version

The Courtship of Etain – Prologue In FairyLand

From The Leabhar Na H-Uidhri

Lillith – Gabriel Rossetti

Etain of the Horses, the daughter of Ailill, was the wife of Mider, the Fairy Dweller in Bri Leith. Now Mider had also another wife named Fuamnach who was filled with jealousy against Etain, and sought to drive her from her husband’s house. And Fuamnach sought out Bressal Etarlam the Druid and besought his aid; and by the spells of the Druid, and the sorcery of Fuamnach, Etain was changed into the shape of a butterfly that finds its delight among flowers. And when Etain was in this shape she was seized by a great wind that was raised by Fuamnach’s spells; and she was borne from her husband’s house by that wind for seven years till she came to the palace of Angus Mac O’c who was son to the Dagda, the chief god of the men of ancient Erin. Mac O’c had been fostered by Mider, but he was at enmity with his foster-father, and he recognised Etain, although in her transformed shape, as she was borne towards him by the force] of the wind. And he made a bower for Etain with clear windows for it through which she might pass, and a veil of purple was laid upon her; and that bower was carried about by Mac O’c wherever he went. And there each night she slept beside him by a means that he devised, so that she became well-nourished and fair of form; for that bower was filled with marvellously sweet-scented shrubs, and it was upon these that she thrived, upon the odour and blossom of the best of precious herbs.
Now to Fuamnach came tidings of the love and the worship that Etain had from Mac O’c, and she came to Mider, and “Let thy foster-son,” said she, “be summoned to visit thee, that I may make peace between you two, and may then go to seek for news of Etain.” And the messenger from Mider went to Mac O’c, and Mac O’c went to Mider to greet him; but Fuamnach for a long time wandered from land to land till she was in that very mansion where Etain was; and then she blew beneath her with the same blast as aforetime, so that the blast carried her out of her bower, and she was blown before it, as she had been before for seven years through all the land of Erin, and she was driven by the wind of that blast to weakness and woe. And the wind carried her over the roof of a house where the men of Ulster sat at their ale, so that she fell through the roof into a cup of gold that stood near the wife of Etar the Warrior, whose dwelling-place was near to the Bay of Cichmany in the province that was ruled over by Conor. And the woman swallowed Etain together with the milk that was in the cup, and she bare her in her womb, till the time came that she was born thereafter as in earthly maid, and the name of Etain, the daughter of Etar, was given to her. And it was one thousand and twelve years since the time of the first begetting of Etain by Ailill to the time when she was born the second time as the daughter of Etar.
Now Etain was nurtured at Inver Cichmany in the house of Etar, with fifty maidens about her of the daughters of the chiefs of the land; and it was Etar himself who still nurtured and clothed them, that they might be companions to his daughter Etain. And upon a certain day, when those maidens were all at the river-mouth to bathe there, they saw a horseman on the plain who came to the water towards them. A horse he rode that was brown, curvetting, and prancing, with a broad forehead and a curly mane and tail. Green, long, and flowing was the cloak that was about him, his shirt was embroidered with embroidery of red gold, and a great brooch of gold in his cloak reached to his shoulder on either side. Upon the back of that man was a silver shield with a golden rim; the handle for the shield was silver, and a golden boss was in the midst of the shield: he held in his hand a five-pointed spear with rings of gold about it from the haft to the head. The hair that was above his forehead was yellow and fair; and upon his brow was a circlet of gold, which confined the hair so that it fell not about his face. He stood for a while upon the shore of the bay; and he gazed upon the maidens, who were all filled with love for him, and then he sang this song:
West of Alba, near the Mound

Where the Fair-Haired Women play,

There, ‘mid little children found,

Etain dwells, by Cichmain’s Bay.
She hath healed a monarch’s eye

By the well of Loch-da-lee;

Yea, and Etar’s wife, when dry,

Drank her: heavy draught was she!
Chased by king for Etain’s sake,
Birds their flight from Teffa wing:

‘Tis for her Da-Arbre’s lake

Drowns the coursers of the king.
Echaid, who in Meath shall reign,

Many a war for thee shall wage;

He shall bring on fairies bane,

Thousands rouse to battle’s rage.
Etain here to harm was brought,

Etain’s form is Beauty’s test;

Etain’s king in love she sought:

Etain with our folk shall rest!
And after that he had spoken thus, the young warrior went away from the place where the maidens were; and they knew not whence it was that he had come, nor whither he departed afterwards.
Moreover it is told of Mac O’c, that after the disappearance of Etain he came to the meeting appointed between him and Mider; and when he found that Fuamnach was away: “‘Tis deceit,” said Mider, “that this woman hath practised upon us; and if Etain shall be seen by her to be in Ireland, she will work evil upon Etain.” “And indeed,” said Mac O’c, “it seemeth to me that thy guess may be true. For Etain hath long since been in my own house, even in the palace where I dwell; moreover she is now in that shape into which that woman transformed her; and ’tis most likely that it is upon her that Fuamnach hath rushed.” Then Mac O’c went back to his palace, and he found his bower of glass empty, for Etain was not there. And Mac O’c turned him, and he went upon the track of Fuamnach, and he overtook her at Oenach Bodbgnai, in the house of Bressal Etarlam the Druid. And Mac O’c attacked her, and he struck off her head, and he carried the head with him till he came to within his own borders.
Yet a different tale hath been told of the end of Fuamnach, for it hath been said that by the aid of Manannan both Fuamnach and Mider were slain in Bri Leith, and it is of that slaying that men have told when they said:
Think on Sigmall, and Bri with its forest:

Little wit silly Fuamnach had learned;

Mider’s wife found her need was the sorest,

When Bri Leith by Manannan was burned.

Poems For Remembrance…

The Rose from Armidas Garden by Marie Spartali Stillman

Those who are dead are never gone:

they are there

in the thickening shadow.

The dead are not under the earth:

they are there in the tree that rustles,

they are there in the wood that groans,

they are in the water that runs,

they are in the water that sleeps,

they are in the hut,

they are in the crowd,

the dead are not dead.
Those who are dead are never gone:

they are in the breast of the woman,

they are in the child that is wailing,

and in the firebrand that flames.

The dead are not under the earth:

they are in the fire that is dying,

they are in the grasses that weep,

they are in the whimpering rocks,

they are in the forest,

they are in the house,

the dead are not dead.
-Birago Diop

Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow

because even today I still arrive

Look deeply: I arrive in every second

to be a bud on a spring branch,

to be a tiny bird whose wings are still

fragile, learning to sing in my new nest,

to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower

to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, in

order to fear and to hope,

the rhythm of my heart is the birth and death

of all that are alive.
-Thich Nhat Hanh

One man believes he is the slayer,

another believes he is the slain.

Both are ignorant; there is neither slayer nor slain.

You were never born; you will never die.

You have never changed; you can never change.

Unborn, eternal, immutable, immemorial, you do not die when the body dies.

Realizing that which is indestructible,

eternal, unborn, and unchanging,

how can you slay or cause another to be slain?
As a man abandons his worn-out clothes and acquires new ones,

so when the body is worn out a new one is acquired by the Self, who lives within.
The Self cannot be pierced with weapons or burned with fire;

water cannot wet it, nor can the wind dry it.

The Self cannot be pierced or burned, made wet or dry.

It is everlasting and infinite,

standing on the motionless foundation of eternity.

The Self is unmanifested, beyond all thought,

beyond all change. Knowing this, you should not grieve.
-Bhagavad Gita 2.19-25

Minilogue – Animals (short version)

Vimana-V – This illustration can be found in the new calendar!


Winter Solstice – The Turning Wheel…

To Juan at the Winter Solstice
There is one story and one story only

That will prove worth your telling,

Whether are learned bard or gifted child;

To it all lines or lesser gauds belong

That startle with their shining

Such common stories as they stray into.
Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,

Or strange beasts that beset you,

Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?

Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns

Below the Boreal Crown,

Prison of all true kings that ever reigned?
Water to water, ark again to ark,

From woman back to woman:

So each new victim treads unfalteringly

The never altered circuit of his fate,

Bringing twelve peers as witness

Both to his starry rise and starry fall.
Or is it of the Virgin’s silver beauty,

All fish below the thighs?

She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;

When, with her right she crooks a finger smiling,

How may the King hold back?

Royally then he barters life for love.
Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,

Whose coils contain the ocean,

Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,

Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,

Battles three days and nights,

To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?
Much snow is falling, winds roar hollowly,

The owl hoots from the elder,

Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:

Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.

The log groans and confesses

There is one story and one story only.
Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,

Do not forget what flowers

The great boar trampled down in ivy time.

Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,

Her sea-blue eyes were wild

But nothing promised that is not performed.
Robert Graves

A Winter’s Seance….

One of those large ones, I have to say…

This is a convoluted entry… It walks across continents, opens doors, closes windows, summons spirits. The darkest days and longest nights takes this entry in like a secret lover up the back stairs. New pleasures, unknown territories and that sudden wonderful surprise in the dark…
This is a Winter’s Seance: the spirits are rising to greet you.
We are pleased to introduce you to psychedelic rock of The Asteriods Galaxy Tour… a dark story from Theophile Guatier, and poetry from the poetic father of Pakistan. You’ll find art from perhaps the least sung of the Spanish Surrealist, and quotes from Aldous Huxley.
Feed the artist please, they are hungry in their caves.
Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour – Around the Bend

Aldous Huxley Quotes

The Mummy’s Foot -Theophile Gautier

Poetry: The Divine Dance of Allama Muhammad Iqbal

Allama Muhammad Iqbal: A Biography

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour – The Sun Ain’t Shining No More

Artist Remedios Varo
A Biography:
Remedios Varo Uranga (December 16 1908 – October 8, 1963) was a Spanish-Mexican, para-surrealist painter. She was born María de los Remedios Varo Uranga in Anglès, Girona, Spain in 1908. During the Spanish Civil War she fled to Paris where she was largely influenced by the surrealist movement. She met her husband, the French surrealist poet Benjamin Peret, in Barcelona. She was forced into exile from Paris during the Nazi occupation of France and moved to Mexico City at the end of 1941. She initially considered Mexico a temporary haven, but would remain in Latin America for the rest of her life. She had an early abortion due to the economic realities of her life. Due to the abortion, she could not become pregnant again.
In Mexico she met native artists such as Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Her strongest ties were to other exiles and expatriates, notably the English painter Leonora Carrington and her great love, the French pilot and adventurer, Jean Nicolle. Her last major relationship was with Walter Gruen, an Austrian who had endured concentration camps before escaping Europe. Gruen believed fiercely in Varo, and gave her the support that allowed her to fully concentrate on her painting.
After 1949 Varo developed her remarkable mature style, which remains beautifully enigmatic and instantly recognizable. She often worked in oil on masonite panels she prepared herself. Although her colors have the blended resonance of the oil medium, her brushwork often involved many fine strokes of paint laid closely together – a technique more reminiscent of egg tempera. She died at the height of her career from a heart-attack in Mexico City in 1963.
Her work continues to achieve successful retrospectives at major sites in Mexico and the United States.

(from wikipedia)


The Asteroids Galaxy Tour – Around the Bend (Official Music Video)


Aldous Huxley Quotes:

“A democracy which makes or even effectively prepares for modern, scientific war must necessarily cease to be democratic. No country can be really well prepared for modern war unless it is governed by a tyrant, at the head of a highly trained and perfectly obedient bureaucracy.”
“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
“All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours.”
“Every man who knows how to read has it in his power to magnify himself, to multiply the ways in which he exists, to make his life full, significant and interesting.”
“Good is a product of the ethical and spiritual artistry of individuals; it cannot be mass-produced.”
“Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.”
“Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted.”
“Most ignorance is vincible ignorance. We don’t know because we don’t want to know.”
“One of the many reasons for the bewildering and tragic character of human existence is the fact that social organization is at once necessary and fatal. Men are forever creating such organizations for their own convenience and forever finding themselves the victims of their home-made monsters.”
“The charm of history and its enigmatic lesson consist in the fact that, from age to age, nothing changes and yet everything is completely different.”
“What is absurd and monstrous about war is that men who have no personal quarrel should be trained to murder one another in cold blood.”




Theophile Gautier

I had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of one of those curiosity-venders, who are called marchands de bric-a-brac in that Parisian argot which is so perfectly unintelligible elsewhere in France.
You have doubtless glanced occasionally through the windows of some of these shops, which have become so numerous now that it is fashionable to buy antiquated furniture, and that every petty stock-broker thinks he must have his chambre au moyen age.
There is one thing there which clings alike to the shop of the dealer in old iron, the wareroom of the tapestry-maker, the laboratory of the chemist, and the studio of the painter:–in all those gloomy dens where a furtive daylight filters in through the window-shutters, the most manifestly ancient thing is dust;–the cobwebs are more authentic than the guimp laces; and the old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is actually younger than the mahogany which arrived but yesterday from America.
The warehouse of my bric-a-brac dealer was a veritable Capharnaum; all ages and all nations seemed to have made their rendezvous there; an Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebony panels, brightly striped by lines of inlaid brass; a duchess of the court of Louis XV nonchalantly extended her fawn-like feet under a massive table of the time of Louis XIII with heavy spiral supports of oak, and carven designs of chimeras and foliage intermingled.
Upon the denticulated shelves of several sideboards glittered immense Japanese dishes with red and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching; side by side with enameled works by Bernard Palissy, representing serpents, frogs, and lizards in relief.
From disemboweled cabinets escaped cascades of silver-lustrous Chinese silks and waves of tinsel, which an oblique sunbeam shot through with luminous beads; while portraits of every era, in frames more or less tarnished, smiled through their yellow varnish.
The striped breastplate of a damascened suit of Milanese armor glittered in one corner; Loves and Nymphs of porcelain; Chinese Grotesques, vases of celadon and crackle-ware; Saxon and old Souvres cups encumbered the shelves and nooks of the apartment.
The dealer followed me closely through the tortuous way contrived between the piles of furniture; warding off with his hands the hazardous sweep of my coat-skirts; watching my elbows with the uneasy attention of an antiquarian and a usurer.
It was a singular face that of the merchant:–an immense skull, polished like a knee, and surrounded by a thin aureole of white hair, which brought out the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the more strikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal bonhomie, counteracted, however, by the scintillation of two little yellow eyes which trembled in their orbits like two louis-d’ or upon quicksilver. The curve of his nose presented an aquiline silhouette, which suggested the Oriental or Jewish type. His hands–thin, slender, full of nerves which projected like strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and armed with claws like those on the terminations of bats’ wings–shook with senile trembling; but those convulsively agitated hands became firmer than steel pincers or lobsters’ claws when they lifted any precious article–an onyx cup, a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian crystal. This strange old man had an aspect so thoroughly rabbinical and cabalistic that he would have been burnt on the mere testimony of his face three centuries ago.
“Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a Malay kreese with a blade undulating like flame: look at those grooves contrived for the blood to run along, those teeth set backwards so as to tear out the entrails in withdrawing the weapon–it is a fine character of ferocious arm, and will look well in your collection: this two-handed sword is very beautiful–it is the work of Josepe de la Hera; and this colichemarde, with its fenestrated guard–what a superb specimen of handicraft!”
“No; I have quite enough weapons and instruments of carnage;–I want a small figure, something which will suit me as a paper-weight; for I cannot endure those trumpery bronzes which the stationers sell, and which may be found on everybody’s desk.”
The old gnome foraged among his ancient wares, and finally arranged before me some antique bronzes–so-called, at least; fragments of malachite; little Hindoo or Chinese idols–a kind of poussah toys in jadestone, representing the incarnations of Brahma or Vishnoo, and wonderfully appropriate to the very undivine office of holding papers and letters in place.
I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, all constellated with warts–its mouth formidable with bristling tusks and ranges of teeth–and an abominable little Mexican fetish, representing the god Zitziliputzili au naturel, when I caught sight of a charming foot, which I at first took for a fragment of some antique Venus.
It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints that lend to Florentine bronze that warm living look so much preferable to the gray-green aspect of common bronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statues in a state of putrefaction: satiny gleams played over its rounded forms, doubtless polished by the amorous kisses of twenty centuries; for it seemed a Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era of art–perhaps molded by Lysippus himself.
“That foot will be my choice,” I said to the merchant, who regarded me with an ironical and saturnine air, and held out the object desired that I might examine it more fully.
I was surprised at its lightness; it was not a foot of metal, but in sooth a foot of flesh–an embalmed foot–a mummy’s foot: on examining it still more closely the very grain of the skin, and the almost imperceptible lines impressed upon it by the texture of the bandages, became perceptible. The toes were slender and delicate, and terminated by perfectly formed nails, pure and transparent as agates; the great toe, slightly separated from the rest, afforded a happy contrast, in the antique style, to the position of the other toes, and lent it an aerial lightness–the grace of a bird’s foot;–the sole, scarcely streaked by a few almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded evidence that it had never touched the bare ground, and had only come in contact with the finest matting of Nile rushes, and the softest carpets of panther skin.
“Ha, ha!–you want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis,”–exclaimed the merchant, with a strange giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me–”ha, ha, ha!–for a paper-weight!–an original idea!–artistic idea! Old Pharaoh would certainly have been surprised had some one told him that the foot of his adored daughter would be used for a paper-weight after he had had a mountain of granite hollowed out as a receptacle for the triple coffin, painted and gilded–covered with hieroglyphics and beautiful paintings of the Judgment of Souls,”–continued the queer little merchant, half audibly, as though talking to himself!
“How much will you charge me for this mummy fragment?”
“Ah, the highest price I can get; for it is a superb piece: if I had the match of it you could not have it for less than five hundred francs;–the daughter of a Pharaoh! nothing is more rare.”
“Assuredly that is not a common article; but, still, how much do you want? In the first place let me warn you that all my wealth consists of just five louis: I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothing dearer;–you might search my vest pockets and most secret drawers without even finding one poor–five-franc piece more.”
“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! that is very little, very little indeed; ’tis an authentic foot,” muttered the merchant, shaking his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary motion t
o his eyes.
“Well, take it, and I will give you the bandages into the bargain,” he added, wrapping the foot in an ancient damask rag–”very fine! real damask–Indian damask which has never been redyed; it is strong, and yet it is soft,” he mumbled, stroking the frayed tissue with his fingers, through the trade-acquired habit which moved him to praise even an object of so little value that he himself deemed it only worth the giving away.
He poured the gold coins into a sort of medi3Ž4val alms-purse hanging at his belt, repeating:
“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis, to be used for a paper-weight!”
Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, he exclaimed in a voice strident as the crying of a cat which has swallowed a fish-bone:
“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased; he loved his daughter–the dear man!”
“You speak as if you were a contemporary of his: you are old enough, goodness knows! but you do not date back to the Pyramids of Egypt,” I answered, laughingly, from the threshold. I went home, delighted with my acquisition.
With the idea of putting it to profitable use as soon as possible, I placed the foot of the divine Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers scribbled over with verses, in themselves an undecipherable mosaic work of erasures; articles freshly begun; letters forgotten, and posted in the table drawer instead of the letter-box–an error to which absent-minded people are peculiarly liable. The effect was charming, bizarre, and romantic.
Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went out with the gravity and price becoming one who feels that he has the ineffable advantage over all the passers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.
I looked upon all who did not possess, like myself, a paper-weight so authentically Egyptian, as very ridiculous people; and it seemed to me that the proper occupation of every sensible man should consist in the mere fact of having a mummy’s foot upon his desk.
Happily I met some friends, whose presence distracted me in my infatuation with this new acquisition: I went to dinner with them; for I could not very well have dined with myself.
When I came back that evening, with my brain slightly confused by a few glasses of wine, a vague whiff of Oriental perfume delicately titillated my olfactory nerves: the heat of the room had warmed the natron, bitumen, and myrrh in which the paraschistes, who cut open the bodies of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess;–it was a perfume at once sweet and penetrating–a perfume that four thousand years had not been able to dissipate.
The Dream of Egypt was Eternity: her odors have the solidity of granite, and endure as long.
I soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep: for a few hours all remained opaque to me; Oblivion and Nothingness inundated me with their somber waves.
Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness of my mind; dreams commenced to touch me softly in their silent flight.
The eyes of my soul were opened; and I beheld my chamber as it actually was; I might have believed myself awake, but for a vague consciousness which assured me that I slept, and that something fantastic was about to take place.
The odor of the myrrh had augmented in intensity; and I felt a slight headache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses of champagne that we had drunk to the unknown gods and our future fortunes.
I peered through my room with a feeling of expectation which I saw nothing to justify: every article of furniture was in its proper place; the lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground crystal, burned upon its bracket; the water-color sketches shone under their Bohemian glass; the curtains hung down languidly; everything wore an aspect of tranquil slumber.
After a few moments, however, all this calm interior appeared to become disturbed; the woodwork cracked stealthily; the ash-covered log suddenly emitted a jet of blue flame; and the disks of the pateras seemed like great metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for the things which were about to happen.
My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I had placed the foot of the Princess Hermonthis.
Instead of remaining quiet–as behooved a foot which had been embalmed for four thousand years–it commenced to act in a nervous manner; contracted itself, and leaped over the papers like a startled frog;–one would have imagined that it had suddenly been brought into contact with a galvanic battery: I could distinctly hear the dry sound made by its little heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle.
I became rather discontented with my acquisition, inasmuch as I wished my paper-weights to be of a sedentary disposition, and thought it very unnatural that feet should walk about without legs; and I commenced to experience a feeling closely akin to fear.
Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir; and heard a bumping sound, like that caused by some person hopping on one foot across the floor. I must confess I became alternately hot and cold; that I felt a strange wind chill my back; and that my suddenly rising hair caused my nightcap to execute a leap of several yards.
The bed-curtains opened and I beheld the strangest figure imaginable before me.
It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown complexion, like the bayadere Amani, and possessing the purest Egyptian type of perfect beauty: her eyes were almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows so black that they seemed blue; her nose was exquisitely chiseled, almost Greek in its delicacy of outline; and she might indeed have been taken for a Corinthian statue of bronze, but for the prominence of her cheek-bones and the slightly African fulness of her lips, which compelled one to recognize her as belonging beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race which dwelt upon the banks of the Nile.
Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped, like those of very young girls, were encircled by a peculiar kind of metal bands and bracelets of glass beads; her hair was all twisted into little cords; and she wore upon her bosom a little idol-figure of green paste, bearing a whip with seven lashes, which proved it to be an image of Isis: her brow was adorned with a shining plate of gold; and a few traces of paint relieved the coppery tint of her cheeks.
As for her costume, it was very odd indeed. Fancy a pagne or skirt all formed of little strips of material bedizened with red and black hieroglyphics, stiffened with bitumen, and apparrently belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy.
In one of those sudden flights of thought so common in dreams I heard the hoarse falsetto of the bric-a-brac dealer, repeating like a monotonous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with so enigmatical an intonation:
“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased: he loved his daughter, the dear man!”
One strange circumstance, which was not at all calculated to restore my equanimity, was that the apparition had but one foot; the other was broken off at the ankle!
She approached the table where the foot was starting and fidgeting about more than ever, and there supported herself upon the edge of the desk. I saw her eyes fill with pearly-gleaming tears.
Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully comprehended the thoughts which agitated her: she looked at her foot–it was indeed her own–with an exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sadness; but the foot leaped and ran hither and thither, as though impelled on steel springs.
Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it, but could not succeed.
Then commenced between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot–which appeared to be endowed with a special life of its own–a very fantastic dialogue in a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been spoken thirty centuries ago in the syrinxes of the land of Ser: luckily, I understood Coptic perfectly well that night.
The Princess Herm
onthis cried, in a voice sweet and vibrant as the tones of a crystal bell:
“Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me; yet I always took good care of you. I bathed you with perfumed water in a bowl of alabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with palm oil; your nails were cut with golden scissors and polished with a hippopotamus tooth; I was careful to select tatbebs for you, painted and embroidered and turned up at the toes, which were the envy of all the young girls in Egypt: you wore on your great toe rings bearing the device of the sacred Scarab3Ž4us; and you supported one of the lightest bodies that a lazy foot could sustain.”
The foot replied, in a pouting and chagrined tone:
“You know well that I do not belong to myself any longer;–I have been bought and paid for; the old merchant knew what he was about; he bore you a grudge for having refused to espouse him;–this is an ill turn which he has done you. The Arab who violated your royal coffin in the subterranean pit of the necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him: he desired to prevent you from being present at the reunion of the shadowy nations in the cities below. Have you five pieces of gold for my ransom?”
“Alas, no!–my jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and silver, they were all stolen from me,” answered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob.
“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never retained anybody’s foot unjustly;–even though you have not got the five louis which it cost me, I present it to you gladly: I should feel unutterably wretched to think that I were the cause of so amiable a person as the Princess Hermonthis being lame.”
I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, troubadour tone, which must have astonished the beautiful Egyptian girl.
She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me; and her eyes shone with bluish gleams of light.
She took her foot–which surrendered itself willingly this time–like a woman about to put on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with much skill.
This operation over, she took a few steps about the room, as though to assure herself that she was really no longer lame.
“Ah, how pleased my father will be!–he who was so unhappy because of my mutilation, and who from the moment of my birth set a whole nation at work to hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact until that last day, when souls must be weighed in the balance of Amenthi! Come with me to my father;–he will receive you kindly; for you have given me back my foot.”
I thought this proposition natural enough. I arrayed myself in a dressing-gown of large-flowered pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic aspect; hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and informed the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.
Before starting, Hermonthis took from her neck the little idol of green paste, and laid it on the scattered sheets of paper which covered the table.
“It is only fair,” she observed smilingly, “that I should replace your paper-weight.”
She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, like the skin of a serpent; and we departed.
We passed for some time with the velocity of an arrow through a fluid and grayish expanse, in which half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by us, to right and left.
For an instant we saw only sky and sea.
A few moments later obelisks commenced to tower in the distance: pylons and vast flights of steps guarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined against the horizon.
We had reached our destination. The princess conducted me to the mountain of rose-colored granite, in the face of which appeared an opening so narrow and low that it would have been difficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the rock, had not its location been marked by two stel3Ž4 wrought with sculptures.
Hermonthis kindled a torch, and led the way before me.
We traversed corridors hewn through the living rock: their walls, covered with hieroglyphics and paintings of allegorical processions, might well have occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years in their formation;–these corridors, of interminable length, opened into square chambers, in the midst of which pits had been contrived, through which we descended by cramp-irons or spiral stairways;–these pits again conducted us into other chambers, opening into other corridors, likewise decorated with painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the symbols of the tau and pedum–prodigious works of art which no living eye can ever examine–interminable legends of granite which only the dead have time to read through all eternity.
At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so enormous, so immeasurable, that the eye could not reach its limits; files of monstrous columns streatched far out of sight on every side, between which twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame;–points of light which revealed further depths incalculable in the darkness beyond.
The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, and graciously saluted the mummies of her acquaintance.
My eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight, and objects became discernible.
I beheld the kings of the subterranean races seated upon thrones–grand old men, though dry, withered, wrinkled like parchment, and blackened with naphtha and bitumen–all wearing pshents of gold, and breastplaces and gorgets glittering with precious stones; their eyes immovably fixed like the eyes of sphinxes, and their long beards whitened by the snow of centuries. Behind them stood their peoples, in the stiff and constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, all eternally preserving the attitude prescribed by the hieratic code. Behind these nations, the cats, ibises, and crocodiles contemporary with them–rendered monstrous of aspect by their swathing bands–mewed, flapped their wings, or extended their jaws in a saurian giggle.
All the Pharaohs were there–Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus, Sesostris, Amenotaph–all the dark rulers of the pyramids and syrinxes–on yet higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros–who was contemporary with the deluge; and Tubal Cain, who reigned before it.
The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven times around the granite table, upon which he leaned, lost in deep reverie–and buried in dreams.
Further back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld dimly the seventy-two pre-Adamite Kings, with their seventy-two peoples–forever passed away.
After permitting me to gaze upon this bewildering spectacle a few moments, the Princess Hermonthis presented me to her father Pharaoh, who favored me with a most gracious nod.
“I have found my foot again!–I have found my foot!” cried the Princess, clapping her little hands together with every sign of frantic joy: “it was this gentleman who restored it to me.”
The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi–all the black, bronzed, and copper-colored nations repeated in chorus:
“The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot again!”
Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected.
He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his mustache with his fingers, and turned upon me a glance weighty with centuries.
“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of Truth! this is a brave and worthy lad!” exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with his scepter, which was terminated with a lotus-flower.
“What recompense do you desire?”
Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in which nothing seems impossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis;–the hand seemed to me a very proper antithetic recompense for the foot.
Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in astonishment at my witty request.
“What country do you come from? and what is your age?”
“I am a Frenchman; and I am twenty-
seven years old, venerable Pharaoh.”
“–Twenty-seven years old! and he wishes to espouse the Princess Hermonthis, who is thirty centuries old!” cried out at once all the Thrones and all the Circles of Nations.
Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to think my request unreasonable.
“If you were even only two thousand years old,” replied the ancient King, “I would willingly give you the Princess; but the disproportion is too great; and, besides, we must give our daughters husbands who will last well: you do not know how to preserve yourselves any longer; even those who died only fifteen centuries ago are already no more than a handful of dust;–behold! my flesh is solid as basalt; my bones are bars of steel!
“I shall be present on the last day of the world, with the same body and the same features which I had during my lifetime: my daughter Hermonthis will last longer than a statue of bronze.
“Then the last particles of your dust will have been scattered abroad by the winds; and even Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of Osiris, would scarce be able to recompose your being.
“See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mighty is my grasp,” he added, shaking my hand in the English fashion with a strength that buried my rings in the flesh of my fingers.
He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found my friend Alfred shaking me by the arm to make me get up.
“O you everlasting sleeper!–must I have you carried out into the middle of the street, and fireworks exploded in your ears? It is after noon; don’t you recollect your promise to take me with you to see M. Aguado’s Spanish pictures?”
“God! I forgot all, all about it,” I answered, dressing myself hurriedly; “we will go there at once; I have the permit lying on my desk.”
I started to find it;–but fancy my astonishment when I beheld, instead of the mummy’s foot I had purchased the evening before, the little green paste idol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!

Poetry: The Divine Dance of Allama Muhammad Iqbal

The secret divine my ecstasy has taught (from Baal-i-Jibreel)

The secret divine my ecstasy has taught

I may convey if I have Gabriel’s breath.
What can these stars tell me of my fate?

They are lost themselves in the boundless firmament.
The total absorption of thought and vision is life,

Scattered thought is selfhood’s total death.
Pleasures of selfhood are a blessing of God,

Who makes me lose my awareness of myself.
With a pure heart, a noble aim, a poignant soul.

I care not for Solomon’s wealth or Plato’s thought.
The Prophet’s ‘Mairaj’ has taught me that heaven

Lies within the bounds of human reach.
This universe, perhaps, is yet incomplete,

For I hear repeated sounds of “Be, And It Was.”
Thy mind is ruled by the magic of the West,

Thy cure lies in the Fire of Rumi’s faith.
It is he who has given my eyes a blissful vision,

It is he who has blessed my soul with light.

To the Saqi (from Baal-i-Jibreel)
Look! What wonders the spring has wrought!

The river bank is a paradise!

Rose-embowered glades,

Blossoming jasmine and hyacinth,

And violets, the envy of the skies!.

Rainbow colours transformed

Into a chorus of rapturous sounds,

And the harmony of flowers

The hillside is carnation-red;

In the languid haze, the air

Seems drunk with the beauty of life!

The brook, on the heights of the hill,

Dances to its own music.

The world is dizzy in a pageant of colour!
My rosy-cheeked Cup-bearer!

The voice of spring is the voice of life!

But the spring lasts not for ever;

So bring me the cup that tears all veils –

The wine that brightens life –

The wine that intoxicates the world –

The wine in which flows

The music of everlasting life,

The wine that reveals eternity’s secret.

Unveil the secrets, O Saqi.
Look! The world has changed apace!

New are the songs, and new is the music;

The West’s magic has dissolved;

The West’s magicians are bewildered;

Old politics has lost its game;

The world is tired of kings;

Gone are the days of the rich;

Gone is the jugglery of old;

Awake is China’s sleeping giant;

The Himalayas’ torrents are unleashed;

Sinai is riven;

Moses awaits the light divine.
The Muslim says that God is One

But his heart is Still a heathen:

Culture, sufism, rites and rthetoric,

All adore non- Arab idols;

The truth was lost in trifles,

And the nation was lost in conventions.

The speaker’s rhetoric is enchanting,

But is devoid of passion;

It is clothed in logic neat,

But lost in a maze of words;

The sufi, unique in the love of truth,

Unique in the love of God,

Was lost in un-Islamic thought;

Was lost in the hierarchic quest;

The fire of love is extinguished,

And a Muslim is a heap of ashes,
O Saqi! Give me the old wine again!

Let the potent cup go round!

Let me soar on the wings of love;

Make my dust bright-pinioned;

Make wisdom free;

And make the young guide the old;

Thou it is that nourishest. this nation;

Thou it is that canst sustain it;

Urge them to move, to stir;

Give them Ali’s heart; give them Siddiq’s passion;

Let the same old love pierce their hearts;

Awaken in them a burning zeal;

Let the stars throw down their spears,

And let the earth’s dwellers tremble‹

Give the young a passion that consumes;

Give them my vision, my love of God;

Free my boat from the whirlpool’s grip,

And make it move forward-,

Reveal to me the secrets of life,

For thou knowest them all;
The treasures of a fakir like me

Are suffused, unsleeping eyes,

And secret yearnings of the heart-,

My anguished sighs at night,

My solitude in the world of men,

My hopes and my fears,

My quest untiring,

My nature an arena of thought‹

A mirror of the world.

My heart a battlefield of life,

With armies of suspicion,

And bastions of certitude;

With these treasures I am

More rich than the richest of all.

Let the young join my throng,

And let them find an anchor of hope.
The sea of life has its ebb and flow-,

In every atom’s heart is the pulse of life;

It manifests itself in the body,

As a flame conceals a wave of smoke;

Contact with the earth was harsh for it,

But it liked the labour;

It is in motion, and not in motion;

Tired of the elements’ shackles;

A unity, imprisoned by plurality;

But always unique, unequalled.

It has made this dome of myriad glass;

It has carved this pantheon.

It does not repeat its craft‹

For thou art not me, and I am not thou;

It has created the world of men,

And remains in solitude,

Its brightness is seen in the stars,

And in the lustre of pearls-,

To it belong the wildernesses,
The flowers and the thorns;

Mountains sometimes are shaken by its might;

It captures angels and nymphs;

It makes the eagle pounce on a prey,

And leave a blood-stained body.
Every atom throbs with life;

Rest is an illusion;

Life’s journey pauses not,

For every moment is a new glory;

Life, thou thinkest, is a mystery;

Life is a delight in eternal flight;

Life has seen many ups and downs;

It loves a journey, not a goal.

Movement is life’s being;

Movement is truth, pause is a mirage.

Life’s enjoyment is in perils,

In facing ups and downs;

In the world beyond

Life stalked for death,

But the impulse to procreate

Peopled the world of man and beast.

Flowers blossomed and dropped

From this tree of life.

Fools think life is ephemeral;

Life renews itself for ever –

Moving fast as a flash,

Moving to eternity in a breath;

Time, a chain of days and nights,

Is the ebb and flow of breath.
This flow of breath is like a sword,

Selfhood is its sharpness;

Selfhood is the secret of life;

It is the world’s awakening,
Selfhood is solitary, absorbed,

An ocean enclosed in a drop;

It shines in light and in darkness,

Existent in, but away from, thee and me.
The dawn of life behind it, eternity before,

It has no frontiers before, no frontiers behind.

Afloat on the river of time,

Bearing the buffets of the waves,

Changing the course of its quest,

Shifting its glance from time to time;

For it a hill is a grain of sand,

Mountains are shattered by its blows;

A journey is its beginning and end,

And this is the secret of its being.

It is the moon’s beam, the spark in the flint,

Colourless itself, though infused with colours,

No concern has it with the calculus of space,

With linear time’s limits, with the finitude of life.

It manifested itself in man’s essence of dust,

After an eternity of a strife to be born.

It is in thy heart that Selfhood has an abode,

As heaven has its abode in the cornea of thy eye.
To one who guards his Selfhood,

The living that demeans it, is poison;

He accepts only a living,

That keeps his self- esteem;

Keep away from royal pomp,

Keep thy Selfhood free;

Thou shouldst bow in prayer,

Not bow to a human being.

This myriad-coloured world,

Under the sentence of death,

This world of sight and sound,

I Where life means eating and drinking,

Is Selfhood’s initial stage; It is not thy abode, O traveller!
This dust-bowl is not the source of thy fire;

The world is for thee, not thou for the world.

Demolish this illusion of’ time and space;

Selfhood is the Tiger of God, the world is its prey;

The earth is its prey, the heavens are its prey;

Other worlds there are, still awaiting birth,

The earth-born are not the centre of all life;

They all await thy assault,

Thy cataclysmic thought and deed;

Days and nights revolve,

To reveal thy Selfhood to thee;

Thou art the architect of the world.

Words fail to convey the truth;

Truth is the mirror, words its shade;

Though the breath is a burning flame,

The flame has limited bounds.

‘If now I soar any farther,

The vision will sear my wings.’

Selfhood can demolish the magic of this world; (from Baal-i-Jibreel)
Selfhood can demolish the magic of this world;

But our belief in The One is not comprehended by all.
Have a seer’s eye, and light will dawn on thee;

As a river and its waves cannot remain apart.
The light of God and knowledge are not in rivalry,

But so the pulpit believes, afraid of Hallaj’s rope.
Contentment is the shield for the pure and the noble

A shield in slavery, and a shield in power.
In the East the soul looks in vain for light;

In the West the light is a faded cloud of dust.
The fakirs who could shatter the power and pelf of kings

No longer tread this earth, in climes far or near.
The spirit of this age is brimful with negations,

And drained to the fast drop is the power of faith.
Muted is Europe’s lament on its crumbling pageant,

Muted by the delirious beats, the clangour of its music.
A sleepy ripple awaits, to swell into a wave

A wave that will swallow up monsters of the sea.
What is slavery but a loss of the sense of beauty?

What the free call beautiful, is beautiful indeed.
The present belongs to him who explores, in their depths,

The fathomless seas of time, to find the future’s pearl.
The alchemist of the West has turned stone into glass

But my alchemy has transmuted glass into flint
Pharaohs of today have stalked me in vain;

But I fear not; I am blessed with Moses’ wand.
The flame that can set afire a dark, sunless wood,

Will not be throttled by a straw afloat in the wind.
Love is self-awareness; love is self-knowledge;

Love cares not for the palaces and the power of kings.
I will not wonder if I reach even the moon and the stars,

For I have hitched my wagon to the star. of all stars.
First among the wise, last of the Prophets,

Who gave a speck of dust the brightness of the Mount.
He is the first and last in the eyes of love;

He is the Word of God. He is the Word of God.


Allama Muhammad Iqbal: A Biography
Muhammad Iqbal was born in Sialkot, Punjab, probably in 1877, although there is some uncertainty about the year of his birth. He graduated from Government College, Lahore, in 1899 with a master’s degree in philosophy. He taught there until 1905, while establishing his reputation as an Urdu poet. During this period his poetry expressed an ardent Indian nationalism, but a marked change came over his views between 1905 and 1908, when he was studying for his doctorate at Cambridge University, visiting German universities, and qualifying as a barrister.
The philosophies of Nietzsche and Bergson influenced Iqbal deeply, while he became extremely critical of Western civilization, which he regarded as decadent. He turned to Islam for inspiration and rejected nationalism as a disease of the West. He argued that Moslems must find their destiny through a pan-Islamic movement that ignored national boundaries. He also denounced the mystical trend of Indian Islam, blaming it for weakening the Moslem community and leading to its political downfall. These ideas found vigorous expression in the long poems Asrar-i-Khudi (The Secrets of the Self) in 1915 and Rumuz-i-Bekhudi (The Mysteries of Selflessness) in 1918. These were written in Persian, not Urdu, presumably to gain his ideas an audience in the Moslem world outside India.
Iqbal was knighted by the British in 1922, and his fame drew him increasingly into public life. Although he was not an active politician, he was elected to the Punjab legislature in 1926, and in 1930 he was made president of the Moslem League. By this time the dream of a pan-Islamic world no longer appealed to him. His statement in his presidential address that the “final destiny” of Indian Moslems was to have a “consolidated Northwest Indian Moslem state” is regarded as one of the earliest expressions of the idea of Pakistan.
Becoming convinced that Moslems were in danger from the Hindu majority if India should become independent, Iqbal gave his powerful support to Mohammad Ali Jinnah as the leader of India’s Moslems. In his last years Iqbal returned to Urdu as his poetic medium, publishing Bal-i-Jibril (Gabriel’s Wing) in 1935 and Zarb-i-Kalim (The Rod of Moses) in 1936. They have been criticized as lacking the energy and inspiration of his early work. He died in Lahore on April 21, 1938.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour – The Sun Ain’t Shining No More


The Philosophers’ Stone….

This is a new Mash-UP that I finished this week. You can pick up the print if you like it at: Doing so, you’ll support the artistic community, and help keep this little project going.
It has been over a week since I have posted, and I have to say I am having some problems with motivation. I actually have had this ready to go except for the Beardsley stuff for nearly a week. I have 2 other post that will appear in the next couple of days as well… I just want to say this: “No feedback makes Gwyllm a dull boy, and at times I feel I am thrashing around in the dark.” If you like something, drop me a line. I promise to answer, and if you want a conversation, well, I’m yours! 80)
The magazine is effectively done. We will have a new publisher as soon as I jump through all the hoops.
Snowing here in Portland tonight. It is colder than it has been for 10 years. The Ice Age Cometh. (Rowan hates my saying this. I have suggested that he learns to cross country ski as the Ice Wall will be coming out of Canada in his life time…. 80) )
I have finished the 2009 calendar, but is screwing up… soon my friends, soon. I wrestled with it for a week as they have piss poor instructions and even wonkier software. I will be pleased to be moving stuff soon.

This issue has some nice stuff in it. I have thrashed around, and found some delightful Pop, and Poetic items for your enjoyment.
On The Menu:

Aubrey Beardsley Quotes & Poem

Sufi Alchemists and the Grail Myth

The Poetry and The Music: Patti….
That’s it. Enjoy.
Much Love
Mantram of the Soul
I am soul,

I am light divine,

I am love,

I am will,

I am fixed design.


Aubrey Beardsley Quotes & Poem:
“No language is rude that can boast polite writers.”
“In the present age, alas! our pens are ravished by unlettered authors and unmannered critics, that make a havoc rather than a building, a wilderness rather than a garden. But, a lack! what boots it to drop tears upon the preterit?”
“I have one aim—the grotesque. If I am not grotesque I am nothing.”

The Ivory Piece
A fragment of verse
Carelessly coiffed, with sash half slipping down

Cravat mis-tied, and tassels left to stream,

I walked haphazard through the early town,

Teased with the memory of a charming dream.
I recollected a great room. The day,

Half dead, lit faintly on the walls the pale

And sudden eyes that showed the formal play

Of woven actors in some curious tale.
In fabulous gardens, where romantic trees

Perched on the branches birds without a name.
1898. Written in January 1898, shortly before his last illness, this draft of a poem—of which both theme and context remain tantalisingly obscure—gives an intriguing glimpse into the elliptic flights of Beardsley’s imagination.

Cannabis: The Philosopher’s Stone

Sufi Alchemists and the Grail Myth

From Green Gold: the Tree of Life, Marijuana in Magic and Religion

by Chris Bennett, Lynn Osburn, and Judy Osburn
Marcel Eliade has commented that there may be a Zoroastrian (here referred to as Parsi) origin for the Grail Myth: “In a work published in 1939, the Parsi Scholar Sir Jahangir C. Coyajee has also remarked upon the analogy between the Grail and the Iranian Glory, xvarenah , and the similari­ties between the legends of Arthur and those of the fabulous King Kay Khorsaw.” Interestingly the xvarenah mentioned, is the same substance the sacred Haoma was said to be rich in. Eliade goes on to say that in one of the many forms of the legend, the Grail is found in India: “Let us add that in the cycle of compositions posterior to Wolfram Von Eschenbauch, the Grail is won in India by Lohengrin, Parzival’s son, accompanied by all the knights .”
Barbara Walker tells us that the whole wasteland motif is of an Arab origin, and that the early crusaders brought it back to Europe believing that if the grail were not recovered then the wasteland that befell the Saudi-Arabian dessert would befall their more fertile land.[10] The story about Parzival and his son is closely paralleled in the following account given by Idries Shaw in The Sufis:
The first Sufi record of a teaching journey to England—such is contained in the travels of Najmuddin (Star of Faith) Gwath-ed-Dahar. He was born about 1232, or perhaps earlier. His son ”followed his father’s footsteps” from India to China in 1338. The first Najmuddin was a disciple of the illustrious Nizamuddin Awlia of Delhi, who sent him to Rum (Turkey) to study under Khidr Rumi. Khidr Rumi’s full name was Sayed Khidr Rumi Khapradri — the Cupbearer of Turkestan. It will be remembered that the Khidr order (equated with the Garter) has as its slogan a salutation to the cupbearer. This cup had miraculous qualities.
Idries Shaw’s comments on the cupbearer and the cup’s miraculous qualities parallel the Grail myth immensely. Further examination of Shaw’s comments shed even more illumination on the subject. First, let us look at the name Khidr , which is also spelled Khizr. It is a Moslem name used in reference to the Biblical prophet Elijah. As J.M. Campbell recorded in his classic 1894 essay, “On the Religion of Hemp :”
In his devotion to bhang , with reverence, not with the wor­ship, which is due to Allah alone, The North Indian Mussulman joins hymning to the praise of bhang. To the follower of the later religion of Islam the holy spirit in bhang is not the spirit of the Almighty, it is the spirit of the great prophet Khizr, or Elijiah. That bhang should be sacred to Khizr is natural, Khizr is the patron saint of water. Still more Khizr means green, the revered color of the cooling water of bhang ;. So the Urdu poet sings “When I quaff fresh bhang I liken its color to the fresh light down of thy youthful beard.” The prophet Khizr or the green prophet cries “May the drink be pleasing to thee.”
Peter Lamborn Wilson makes the following comments on the Sufi term, Saki-Khaneh, House of the Cupbearer:
The saki or wine serving boy is a symbol of the Beloved or the spiritual master in Sufi poetry, but in Pakistan saki-khaneh is a slang term for a tea house that serves charas and bhang .” — Scandal: Essays in Islamic Heresy
Shaw comments on the connections between the Arab Khidr Order and the famous British group, the Order of the Garter:
The early records of the Order of the Garter are lost. Its patron saint was St. George , who is equated in Syria, where his cult originates, with the mysterious Khidr -figure of the Sufi s. It was in fact called the Order of St. George, which would translate direct into Sufi phraseology as Tarika-i-Hadrat-i-Khidr (the Order of St. Khidr ). It became known as the Order of the Garter. The word “garter” in Arabic is the same as the word for the Sufi mystical tie or bond.
The modern day Order of the Garter traces its origins to the Knights of the Round Table and is attributed to Saint George, who is by tradition con­sidered to be the patron Saint of England. History provides little factual records of who Saint George was and what his actual exploits were. “Folklore named the pagan savior, Green George, a spirit of spring. His image was common in old church carvings, a human head surrounded by leaves.”[11] He is probably best remembered as the slayer of the dragon in a story that is found in twelfth century literature.
A Muslim writer in about AD 900 compared St. George with the Mesopotamian God Tammuz. Moslems also identified St. George with the mysterious prophet Khidr , known as the Verdant One and whose footsteps leave a green imprint. Khidr shares his day, 23 April, with the Saint. — William Anderson, The Archetype of Our Oneness with the Earth
Scholar Sula Benet made the following comments on a tale that closely resembles that of Saint George : “In the Ukraine there is a legend of a dragon who lived in Kiev, oppressing the people and demanding tribute. The dragon was killed and the city liberated by a man wearing a hemp shirt.”[12]
In the story of the Grail legend Parzival was sent on a quest for the Grail, the cup Christ drank from at the last supper which was thought to contain the power to heal the ailing King. In medieval times the people believed the state of the land coincided with the health of the king, and since the King was dying, the land in turn was becoming barren.
Comparatively, in Rabelais ’ Pantagruel , which is a parody of the Grail myth, and contains occult references to cannabis, we find the following passage referring to the herb Pantagruel ion, which is now known to be hemp :
…in the season of the great draught, when they were busiest gathering the said herb; to wit, at that time when Icarus’s dog, with his fiery balling and barking at the sun, maketh the whole world troglodytic and enforceth people everywhere to hide themselves in the dens and subterranean caves. It is likewise called Pantagruel ion, because of the notable and singular qualities, virtues, and properties thereof; for as Pantagruel[13] hath been the idea, pattern prototype and exemplar of all jovial perfection and accomplishment; so in this Pantagruelion have I found so much efficacy and energy, so much completeness and excellency, so much exquisiteness and rarity, and so many admirable effects and operations of a transcendent nature that if the worth and virtue therof had been known, when those trees, by the relation of the prophet, made election of a wooden king, to rule and govern over them, it without all doubt would have carried away from all the rest the plurality of votes and suffrages.[14]
One could make a modern analogy of the Grail Myth. Mankind represents the dying king who has forgotten his divinity. The polluted and stripped earth is the wasteland caused by this sickness. The rediscovered knowledge of hemp ’s many uses in the effort to heal ourselves, those around us and the earth,[15] could be said to represent the Grail . And our mission to end marijuana prohibition is the Quest.
There is no mystery why so few references to cannabis can be found in Medieval European literature; while embracing wine as a sacrament, the Inquisition outlawed cannabis ingestion in Spain in the twelfth century and France in the thirteenth. Anyone using hemp spiritually, medicinally, or otherwise was labeled “witch.”
Saint Joan of Arc, for example, was accused in 1430-31 of using a variety of herbal “witch” drugs, including cannabis, to hear voices. — J. Herer, The Emperor Wears No Clothes
In keeping with the medieval church’s war on all things Arabic, including bathing, Pope Innocent VIII issued a papal fiat in 1484 condemning the use of cannabis in the “satanic mass.” — A. De Passquale, “Farmacognosia della Canape Indiana”[16]
So after cannabis prohibitions of the fifth, twelfth and thirteenth centuries, hemp was re-condemned this time as an unholy sacrament of the second and third types of satanic mass.[17] This religious prohibition lasted more than 150 years.
In The Sufi
s, Idries Shaw tells us there is an Arab origin for the European witches: “Who brought the witches to the West? In the medieval form, from which most of our information derives, undoubtedly the Aniza tribe.” Pointing to evidence like the similarities between the witches circle and the circular dance of the medieval dervishes, Arab words used in witches’ spells, and the use of hallucinogenic plants in both systems, Shaw puts forth a reasonable argument that modern witches can find at least a part of their origin in a group founded by Abu el-Atahiyya (748–828):
His circle of disciples, the Wise Ones, commemorated him in a number of ways after his death. To signify his tribe, they adopted the goat, cognate with his tribal name (Anz, Aniza). A torch between goat horns (“the devil” in Spain as it later became) symbolized for them the light of illumination from the intellect (head) of the “goat,” the Aniza teacher. His wasm (tribal brand) was very much like a broad arrow, also called an eagle’s foot. This sign, known to the witches as the goosefoot, became the mark for their places of meeting. After Atahiyya’s death before the middle of the ninth century, tradition has it that a group from his school migrated to Spain, which had been under Arab rule for over a century at that time. — I. Shaw, The Sufis
[10] The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets.
[11] Barbara Walker, The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets. In this book, Barbara Walker offers the following origin for the story: “St. George the Dragon-slayer apparently evolved from a mythic meld of Green George with an Arian Bishop of Alexandria who opposed St. Athnasius, and put to death an orthodox master of the mint named Dracontius, “Dragon.’”
[12] Sula Benet, Early Diffusion and Folk Uses of Hemp.
[13] Here referring to the story’s hero, a giant who was named after the herb.
[14] Rabelais also states that his heroes drank as heartily “as the Templars.”
[15] See the Emperor Wears No Clothes, by J. Herer; also Hemp, Lifeline to the Future, by C. Conrad.
[16] In Estratto dai Lavori dell, Institute di Farmacognosia della Universita di Messina, Italy, no. 5.(1967) p. 24.
[17] The Emperor Wears No Clothes.


my blakean year

In my Blakean year

I was so disposed

Toward a mission yet unclear

Advancing pole by pole

Fortune breathed into my ear

Mouthed a simple ode

One road is paved in gold

One road is just a road
In my Blakean year

Such a woeful schism

The pain of our existence

Was not as I envisioned

Boots that trudged from track to track

Worn down to the sole

One road is paved in gold

One road is just a road
Boots that tread from track to track

Worn down to the sole

One road is paved in gold

One road is just a road
In my Blakean year

Temptation but a hiss

Just a shallow spear

Robed in cowardice
Brace yourself for bitter flack

For a life sublime

A labyrinth of riches

Never shall unwind

The threads that bind the pilgrim’s sack

Are stitched into the Blakean back

So throw off your stupid cloak

Embrace all that you fear

For joy will conquer all despair

In my Blakean year

Patti Smith – Asti & My Blakean Year

People Have the Power

I was dreaming in my dreaming

of an aspect bright and fair

and my sleeping it was broken

but my dream it lingered near

in the form of shining valleys

where the pure air recognized

and my senses newly opened

I awakened to the cry

that the people / have the power

to redeem / the work of fools

upon the meek / the graces shower

it’s decreed / the people rule
The people have the power

The people have the power

The people have the power

The people have the power
Vengeful aspects became suspect

and bending low as if to hear

and the armies ceased advancing

because the people had their ear

and the shepherds and the soldiers

lay beneath the stars

exchanging visions

and laying arms

to waste / in the dust

in the form of / shining valleys

where the pure air / recognized

and my senses / newly opened

I awakened / to the cry

Patti Smith – People Have The Power


Into the Red Earth….

So… we took off and out of Portland for an extended time over the Thanks Giving Holiday down to spend time with our friends the Nixon’s up above Medford Oregon… about a thousand or so feet up from the valley floor at their home on the north rim.


We were often treated to a view of rising and falling fog… one moment, the whole valley below looked as if it were a sea, with tumbling whiteheads, and then in just a few minutes the fog would rush up the hill and we’d be enveloped, and you could only see a few yards at the most. Truly lovely.
Being with Randy and De though was the best. Good friends, company and time. We also were joined by Julie and Mike who live about 3 miles from us in Portland, and although it is such a short distance, months have passed. We had plenty of time to catch up, have a glass together, and just to quietly hang out.

I have been working on an article on Mescaline/Peyote. Some of what follows are bits and pieces of what I have looked at lately. Grandfather Peyote has always been a subject of much fascination… It changes civilizations…. And now is greatly endangered. Time to protect the peyote fields! Time to spread its cultivation!


So there is lot to look at and listen… This is a pretty full edition, so sit back, get a cup of tea or coffee, and relax into this one!
On The Menu:

Havelock Ellis Quotes

Solar Fields – Third Time (A-version)

The Peyote Eaters: A Visit With the Native American Church

Arena: Philip K. Dick

The Random Quotes

Poetry: A short walk with Mr. Ginsberg

Solar Fields – Leaving Home
Hope You Enjoy!


Havelock Ellis Quotes:

“Civilization has from time to time become a thin crust over a volcano of revolution”
“Dancing is the loftiest, the most moving, the most beautiful of the arts, because it is no mere translation or abstraction from life; it is life itself.”
“Dreams are real as long as they last. Can we say more of life?”
“Sex lies at the root of life, and we can never learn to reverence life until we know how to understand sex.”
“The Promised Land always lies on the other side of a Wilderness.”
“Pain and death are part of life. To reject them is to reject life itself.”

Solar Fields – Third Time (A-version)

The Peyote Eaters: A Visit With the Native American Church

-Peter Gorman

“The way the ceremony started was this: An Indian Woman got separated from her family while they were in the desert. She was ready to gove birth and she was lost, hungry and thirsty and when she found a tree she fell asleep in the shade beneath it. Above the tree the buzzards circled, waiting for her to die. But while she slept a voice began talking to her. It told her to eat the plant she saw when she woke. That plant was the peyote cactus. It was very bitter but she age it and she was no longer hungry or thirsty, and when she gave birth her breasts were full of sweet milk.
When she fell asleep again the spirit of that medicine told her some songs and how to conduct the ceremony. When she woke she kept eating the cctus. She got her strength back and began to look for her family. When she found them she told them about the medicine. “’It’s a blessing,’ they said. ‘We must give it to all our people.’”

—The version told to me of How Peyote Came to be the Indian Medicine—
“We don’t know how long the medicine, the peyote, has been used. We do know that the religion came from the South, from Huichol country in Mexico. But it has become the heart, the very heart of the Indian nation. There is a great spirit about these meetings. We’re privileged to be guests here.”
I was listening to Duke White, a member of the Ghost Clan and a man with some Shoshone blood running through his veins. It was an early Spring evening and cold in the high Rockies. With us were two friends of mine, Larry Lavalle and Chuck Dudell. We were awaiting the start of a Native American Church meeting, a peyote ceremony. Of the four of us, only Duke had attended previously. It was through his friendship with the people running this service that we’d been invited. Even then it had taken some time to get the approval to attend: Because the Native American Church uses peyote, it is often wrongly thought of a drug-church, and the appearance of a story about it in High Times magazine was thought to be a bad political move as it might reinforce the idea of the Church being pro-drugs. Nothing could be further from the truth. The most basic beliefs of the Church forbid the frivolous use of peyote and most members I’ve spoken with also oppose the frivolous use of other medicines, including cannabis.
“This is really their story, the Native Americans, so I shouldn’t say too much,” said Duke. “It’s hard to describe a peyote meeting. It’s a very solumn thing, but it’s also full of warmth. It’s a time for shoring up relations and renewing ties. This meeting is being held for a young boy, a birthday meeting. We’ll go into the lodge singing.”
The lodge was a tee-pee. It had been erected earlier in the day on the same place these Southern Utes have held ceremonies for four generations. All through the afternoon people had arrived, some from as far away as New Jersey and Western Canada. All meetings were important, we’d been told, but this one perhaps even more so than usual: The boy, Joe, was turning 13 and so this was a manhood initiation. Joe’s parents were both out of the picture and the courts had decided it was better to place him with a white foster family than allow him to be raised by a peyote eating grandmother. The meeting then, was not only an initiation into manhood, it was a reminder of his roots, of his real family and thier ancient traditions.
We were still standing outside the tee-pee when the altar-fire was set: The burning cottonwood illuminated the canvas and silhouetted the lodge poles. As the flame grew the tee-pee began to take on a life of its own, something altogether removed from 1990 and the confines of reservation life, a strange beast whose ribs heaved with the pulse of the fire within.
Around us the Church members began to congregate. There were murmurings in Indian dialects and someone began to sing. A line formed and we were given places in it. It moved clockwise around the outside of the lodge, pausing at each of the four directions: West, the place where water comes from and the direction of the Thunderbird; North, the direction from which man comes; East, the direction of the sun and all illumination; and South, the direction of the Good Red Road, the path the spirit takes when we die.
When we finished circling the line formed at the door, which faced East. We entered and moved in the same direction, between the fire and the tee-pee wall, to places on the ground we’d been addigned earlier. Larry was seated next to me. Opposite us, Chuck sat next to Duke. Of the others, seven were women, some with small children; the rest were men. There were 26 of us in the circle altogether. Some people sat on pillows, some on couch cushions, others on the floor. We were told to sit cross-legged and given blankets to wrap around out shoulders to ward off the cold.
In the center of the tee-pee was the altar, a semi-circle of packed sand perhaps six inches high and wide, and eight feet in diameter. It was square-edged and flat-topped, with a thin line etched down its center, which represented the road we are on. It’s two open ends pointed to either side of the tee-pee door. The centerpoint of the altar pointed due West. At its head sat the Roadman, the one who shows the road. It was he who would run the meeting. To his right sat his Drummer, the man who would construct the water drum and play while the Roadman sang. To the left of the Roadman sat his woman companion, the Water Bearer who would bring us water during the night-long ceremony and provide us with food at dawn. Opposite the Roadman, to the right of the tee-pee door, sat the Fireman, the man who tended the fire and who would arrange the coals into the shape of a Thunderbird within the confines of the semi-circle of the altar. His assistant sat on the opposite side of the door.
In the center of the altar’s circle the fire burned. The flames rose toward the heaves, drawn by the natural draft of the tee-pee’s top-flap opening. On those flames the prayers of the congregation would rise.

Once we were seated conversations began: One man apologized for the way his wife had spoken about another man’s woman. Someone else wanted to know why his uncle had instructed a best friend to sever ties with him. Some of the conversations were in English, others in Ute. All of them rang of clearing the air of things which had been said or done so that the meeting would have no ill will impeding its progress.

While people spoke the Drummer made his drum: He stretched elk hide across the top of a cast iron cooking pot half-filled with water and laced it tight with thongs. When the drum was ready the Roadman, Junior, stood. He was a huge man of about 40, with thick black hair and an aura of strength about him. Deep lines were etched into his face.
“I want to thank you all for coming to this meeting,” he started, “to show your affection for my nephew, Joe. You know, it’s important for him to understand his place in this world, both as a man and as an Indian, like that. I want to ask you all to think of him in your prayers tonight. This is a good time for him.”
When he’d finished he sat and opened his medicine box. He took out eagle feather fans and a bone whistle and lay them by the altar. He tossed cedar chips into the fire, filling the space with the sweet and cleansing incense. He made a bed of sage on the flat top of the altar and on it he lay his Grandfather Peyote, an unusually large and perfect button. It was the button he’d used for years, the button which had been instructed in teaching the Road by other Roadmen’s Grandfather Peyotes, so that the line of peyote, like the ceremony itself, retains a vital connection from one generation to the next.
A pouch of loose tobacco and a packet of dried corn husks was passed; we rolled cigarettes and shared a ceremonial smoke. The corn husk cigarettes were the only ones permitted within the tee-pee and they were brought out on several occasions. When we finished smoking the harsh tobacco the husks were arranged around the altar so that their burned ends pointed toward the fire.
While we were still smoking someone brought out the peyote to be used during the ceremony and put it by the altar’s head. It was kept in three jars: A quart jar full of fried, ground buttons, and two gallon jars of peyote tea, both of which were fill with chopped peyote. One of the teas was made from dried buttons and was dark brown. The other, made from fresh peyote, was a beautiful, luminous glue-green. The water in the clear glass jar seemed to almost shimmer with a life of its own.
Junior made an invocation over the jars, blessing them with cedar and cleansing them with his one of his eagle-feather fans. Then he opened the lid of the jar full of dried peyote and took a spoonful with his right hand, poured it into his left, and ate. He drank three large swallows from each of the two teas, then passed the jars to his Drummer, who did the same. Once the Drummer had finished, the jars were passed to the left, in the direction of the Road. One by one each person helped themselves to the peyote. While they did, Junior picked up a ceremonial staff—a simple stick dressed in beads, feathers and incense—and a gourd rattle and began to sing. The Drummer played an accompaniment on the water drum using a short, flat stick worn smooth by use.
The drumming was quick and rhythmic; the sound of the rattle lending an insistence to the beat. The song itself was low and droning, its words unrecognizable, its power unmistakable. Instantly there was a kind of magic in the air, a riveting electricity. The Roadman’s song was short and ended abruptly. Moments later he began a second song, then a third and fourth, before he passed the staff and rattle to his Drummer, took the water-drum and reversed their rolls.
By the time he too had finished four soung and the rattle and drum had been passed to the next two men in the circle—the women did no singing or drumming; neither did we guests—the peyote jars had made their way to me. I’d only eaten peyote twice before, neither time in sufficient quantity to feel an effect. Now, with a large tablespoon of dried buttons in my hand, I had a moment’s hesitation: While I knew that this was the right time and place for the experience, I still found myself questioning whether I should go through with it or leave the ceremony. I didn’t know these people, after all, and they owed me nothing. What if I embarrassed myself by acting crazy, or worse, ruined their sacred ceremony?
I closed my eyes, felt the air in the tee-pee, knew that no harm would come from something as sacred as this, and ate. The peyote was hard and bitter and I had to fight to keep myself from spitting it out, and force myself to swallow it. When I was sure it was down I reached for the first tea and gulped the water and soft peyote bits. It was bitter beyond imagining. I remember thinking that anyone whyoo could imagine that the Native American Church members would indulge in this frivolously need only try it once to realize the absurdity of the idea.
The luminous tea was not nearly as bitter as the first had been. There was a kind of sweetness about it, though sweet was only relative to the other tea. There was something refreshing, quenching in it and as I swallow it I felt as though my insides were becoming as beautiful and luminous as the tea itself.

The peyote was passed to everyone and everyone but the small children took part. When it had finished the circle the jars were recapped and help near the altar’s head. The drum, staff and rattle, however, contined to circle among us. Each man sang four songs before passing on the staff, ancient songs handed down by grandmothers and grandfathers and some said to have been taught by Peyote itself. Some of the men were beautiful singers, others merely mumbled, but as the evening grew late the quality of the singer’s voices became less distinguishable than the strength and beauty of the intent of tier soings. Most were sung in Ute or Comanche, but there were occasional phrases dung in English for those of us who couldn’t understand. “God bless our little childrn, keep them safe and guide them,” someone sang, and Duke, sitting cross-legged across the tee-pee, Duke who had begun to almost glow, sang a birthday song, calling on Father Peyote to bless Joe and make his year one full of good things.
The stongs seemed to focus my attention on the fire and I sat staring at it for hours. The fire burned like no fire I’d ever seen; it pulsed with the rhythm of the singing, changing as each new singer tok the staff and shook the rattle. It became a consuming object of interest: Within its flames animals danced and leapt skyward—deer and beaver and buffalo alal dancing to the rhythms of the drum and rattle, cecoming eagles and hawks and lifting their wings skyward, flying through the teep-pee flaps for the heavens. These were the animals of these Plains’ People, and they were here with us as spirits, crowding in with us, making the tee-pee close and warm. And after the eld and buffalo and coyotes left, my own friendly spirit, an anaconda, apeared and moved about the flames in flame itself. It came to teach me things I’d never known and remind me of others I’d forgotten: The quality of spirit, gentleness, the strength to look within myself and see where courage had fallen short or been ignored. I felt those things well up within me and knew that I had not come this far to simply eat peyote, that this was not what this meeting was about at all. It was about having a glimpse at a tradition which had helped heal a people who had suffered indignities beyond imagination at the hands of invaders bent on genocide. It was about the recovery of their spirit and a reminder of their strength and resiliency. It was about their oral traditions, their music, their songs, thier spirit.
These were the things I saw and felt when I looked into the fire. What others saw or felt I’ve no idea. No one spoke then or since about what the fire showed them; even my friends and I have never discussed it.
Some time after the drum had made its way around the circle twice the peyote was passed again. I found it even more difficult to swallow the second time and had to excuse myself and leave the tee-pee to keep from vomiting. Outside the air was crisp. Ov
erhead the stars dressed the midnight sky. The ire threw the shadows of the celebrants against the canvas and for a moment it might have been 100 years ago. On another night I would have liked nothing better than to have spent a few hours alone; as it was I saw the circle of shadows was broken where I’d been sitting and hurried back inside.
I made my way around the altar in the direction of the Road and took my seat again. Tobacco was being passed for those who wanted it. I passed, wanting to let myself go into the flames again.
The Fireman and his assistant had kept the fire bright and even all night, working the cottonwood coals away from the flame with firesticks and shaping them into the image of a huge thunderbird, the outline of which defined the interior circle of the altar. The shape of the Thunderbird the Fireman had created glowed red and powerful, always renewing itself with fresh coals. The rhythm of the fidderent songs became one rhythm and our breating one breath. Somewhere far away and yet as close as here the drumming focused us and our breathing became one breath which the fire danced to. It was a fire like none I’ve seen, a thunderbird flying to the heavens.
When the staff had reached the Roadman for the fourth time, he stopped singing. He tossed cedar onto the fire and again the sweet smell filled the air. His companion, the Water Bearer left the tee-pee. While she was gone the peyote was put away. When she returned it was with a bucket of water. Junio blessed the bucket with his eagle-feather fan, drank, then passed the bucket so that each of us drank, and when the circle was completed he glr3ew his bone whistle four short times. We stood and left the tee-pee as a group, leaving Junior alone inside to say his private invocations.
Outisde again, I was suddenly aware that I was not in my normal state of consciousness, something I hadn’t realized before. The ground moved beneath my feet, the trees around us swayed despite the absence of wind or leaves. Chuck and Larry seemed to feel the same way as I: they mentioned that they too hadn’t been aware of the effects of the peyote while inside.
Within a few minutes—time enough to stretch and grab a cigarette—Junior joined us outside. We formed the same line we’d used at the beginning of the ceremony, made our way around the lodge, filed in and moved around the altar to our seats.
After we were seated and Junior had said some prayers, the singing and drumming began again, and the peyote was passed for the last time. I hadn’t noticed it while were were coming in, but Joe had joined us for the first time and sat with his Grandmother, Bertha Grove, a medicine woman in her own right. When the peyote came to him she had him take a token amount. I too only took a small portion the third time, knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep a large one down.
The remainder of the night, until false dawn, was deep and moving. Nothing had changed about the meeting physically—the singing continued, the frum and staff were passed from hand to hand, the fire burned and the beautiful thunderbird of colals was renewed again and aain. Still, something about the character of the meeting seemed to change. It became impossible to identify my own thoughts from those of the others. The songs, while still in native languages, began to be intelligible. It was as though the single breath we’d breathed earlier had become a single mind and we were no longer ourselves but the sum of our parts. I don’t know how else to describe it. I think that part of the night was the heart of the ceremony. The air itself grew dense with spirits.
I had no visions or dreams, no hallucinations. I was simply part of a larger organism than usual, not thinking, just being.
By false dawn, the first change in the night sky, the communal spirit had taken its toll. My back ached and I was suddenly hungry and cranky. Ti was as though the unwitting effort I’d made to subdue my ego had suddenly failed and I came roaring back, wanting my own identity, with my own petty concerns. I wanted the ceremony to be over. I wanted to stretch, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and I wanted to do them all at once. I struggled to keep quiet and maintain myself.
I looked around the tee-pee: I was not alone in my feeling that the center of the single-mindedness was over. The other participants seemed to be recovering their identities as well. People had begun shifting, yawning, stretching and a few began talking quietly. Junior blew his whistle, stood and threw cedar onto the Thunderbird. The peyote was put out of sight.
The Water Bearer stood and she and some of the other women present left the tee-pee. While they were gone the drumming and singing continued. By now the songs we’d heard repeated all night were so familiar that I found myself beginning to sing along with them. Others began to sing along as well, so that they began to take on a renewed sense of powers. Several voices echoed across the fire and the words resounded. Whatever my petty concerns, the music diminished them with its sense of urgency,. The last of the songs were near and no one wanted the spell broken. The rattle was shaken more and more feverishly, the drum and staff were passed, it seemed, faster and faster. The singing grew louder and the fire danced higher. My blood raced, my heart pounded. The focus of the meeting, broken by that first light of false dawn, had become clear again. More than that, it had become a point of catharsis. And then, unexpectedly, the first light of real dawn glanced off the top of the lodge poles and a beam of sawn burst through the tee-pee’s fire flaps into the very heart of the fire. The stinging stopped abruptly, the last notes flying up that shaft of light and into the morning sky.
Just then the women returned. All except the Water Bearer made their way back to their seats. She entered last and brought with her water, three pots of food and a birthday cake for Joe. She arranged the food in a line, facing into the fire from the East, then sat behind them so that she sat with her back to the tee-pee door, opposite the Roadman. She called for a corn husk and tobacco and rolled a cigarette, lit it and spoke.
“I bring food and water, the things of life. I want to thank our Father in heaven for providing them to us, so that we may live. I want to thank thee, oh heavenly father, for all of the blessings you have bestowed on us, for allowing Joe to be here to learn, so that he may grow up to be strong enough to face the challenges he will meet. For the Medicine, peyote you have given us so that we may learn the right Road. For the beauty of this land you have given us so that we may have a good place, oh heavenly Father, in which to raise our children.”
She named the things that were important to her and prayed for things important to all of us. She prayed for the health of sick relatives unable to attend the meeting and the spiritual health of those unable to see the light. She prayed for many thing and when she had finished she passed the food around the circle in the direction of the Road.
Everyone ate from the pots of traditional food: a corn gruel, a dish of meat and pine nuts and a sweet syrup drink, and when we had finished others began to speak. They prayed for their families who were already on the Good Red Road, and for health and for the health of crops and farm animals. And when they had finished Joe’s grandmother, Bertha, lit a cigarette and began to speak. She was a beautiful, elderly woman of immense compassion and heart.
“I don’t have many requests for myself,” she started. “I think you all named the things I want, so I’ll concentrate on my grandson here, snd do some things I wanted to do when I called this meeting.”

She turned to Joe. “Joe, you don’t have it easy, what with your parents gone, but the Indian way has always been a big family, so ‘m going to give you some family now. This is real family, Joe, because I’m giving them to you like this, in this meeting here, and I hope you like them. because they’re going to be looking out for you, like that, whether you want it or not.”
She laughed and her laughter was infectious. “O’m going to give you my brother first, as a godfather. He can teach you many things. He’s a sundance warrior from his mother’s side and that’s another good medicine, like our peyote. There’s a lot of power in that. You listen to him and you go to him when you have questions about what it means to be a man. He’ll tell you right, Joe, set you on the right Road.”
After she’d given him a godfather, she gave him a brother, uncles, cousins and assigned specific duties each would perform in his life. Some were blood relations, others were not. It was the creation of an extended family were were witnessing, something I’d never been part of before.
When she finished, she and Joe stood and began to make their way around the circle. Joe received gifts from each of us, and his grandmother, in turn, gave something to each of us.
When they had finished, Junior spoke. He thanked each of us for coming, then thanked the peyote for making the meeting strong. When he was done he blew his bone whistle to the four directions, then put it, along with his feather fans and Grandfather Peyote, back into his medicine box. The meeting was over.
The morning was fresh and clear, the sun bright and warm. The women made a traditional breakfast feast while the men dismantled the lodge. While we ate I spoke with Bertha.

“It’s good you came with your friends to be in this meeting,” she said. “It’s good Joe got to see white fellows come here and show respect for our traditions.”
I told her that it was we who were thankful for having been invited.

“A lot of people think we have these meeting just so we can use drugs. But you saw that’s not true. They think we’re bad for having these meeting. But our medicine is good. It’s one of god’s creations. The Grandfathers have been teaching us a lot of things for a long time.”


Arena: Philip K. Dick







The Random Quotes:

– George Burns | “I can remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty.”

– Tom Robbins | “If little else, the brain is an educational toy.”

– Andy Warhol | “I am a deeply superficial person.”

– Samuel Johnson | “The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.”

– Paul Johnson | “The word ‘meaningful’ when used today is nearly always meaningless.”

– Robert X. Cringely | “If the automobile had followed the same development cycle as the computer, a Rolls-Royce would today cost $100, get a million miles per gallon, and explode once a year, killing everyone inside.”

– Arthur C. Clarke | “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

– Alexandre Dumas | “Rogues are preferable to imbeciles because they sometimes take a rest.”

– Thomas Merton | “The least of learning is done in the classrooms.”

– Ernest Benn | “Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedy.”

– Albert Camus | “Charm is a way of getting the answer yes without asking a clear question.”

Poetry: A short walk with Mr. Ginsberg

Rotting Ginsberg, I stared in the mirror naked today

I noticed the old skull, I’m getting balder

my pate gleams in the kitchen light under thin hair

like the skull of some monk in old catacombs lighted by

a guard with flashlight

followed by a mob of tourists

so there is death

my kitten mews, and looks into the closet

Boito sings on the phonograph tonight his ancient song of


Antinous bust in brown still gazing down from

my wall

a light burst from God’s delicate hand sends down a wooden

dove to the calm virgin

Beato Angelico’s universe

the cat’s gone mad and scraowls around the floor

What happens when the death gong hits rotting ginsberg on

the head

what universe do I enter

death death death death death the cat’s at rest

are we ever free of — rotting ginsberg

Then let it decay, thank God I know

thank who

thank who

Thank you, O lord, beyond my eye

the path must lead somewhere

the path

the path

thru the rotting ship dump, thru the Angelico orgies

Haiku (Never Published)
Drinking my tea

Without sugar-

No difference.
The sparrow shits

upside down

–ah! my brain & eggs
Mayan head in a

Pacific driftwood bole

–Someday I’ll live in N.Y.
Looking over my shoulder

my behind was covered

with cherry blossoms.
Winter Haiku

I didn’t know the names

of the flowers–now

my garden is gone.
I slapped the mosquito

and missed.

What made me do that?
Reading haiku

I am unhappy,

longing for the Nameless.
A frog floating

in the drugstore jar:

summer rain on grey pavements.

(after Shiki)
On the porch

in my shorts;

auto lights in the rain.
Another year

has past-the world

is no different.
The first thing I looked for

in my old garden was

The Cherry Tree.
My old desk:

the first thing I looked for

in my house.
My early journal:

the first thing I found

in my old desk.
My mother’s ghost:

the first thing I found

in the living room.
I quit shaving

but the eyes that glanced at me

remained in the mirror.
The madman

emerges from the movies:

the street at lunchtime.
Cities of boys

are in their graves,

and in this town…
Lying on my side

in the void:

the breath in my nose.
On the fifteenth floor

the dog chews a bone-

Screech of taxicabs.
A hardon in New York,

a boy

in San Fransisco.
The moon over the roof,

worms in the garden.

I rent this house.

First Party At Ken Kesey’s With Hell’s Angels
Cool black night thru redwoods

cars parked outside in shade

behind the gate, stars dim above

the ravine, a fire burning by the side

porch and a few tired souls hunched over

in black leather jackets. In the huge

wooden house, a yellow chandelier

at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers

hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles

Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths

dancing to the vibration thru the floor,

a little weed in the bathroom, girls in scarlet

tights, one muscular smooth skinned man

sweating dancing for hours, beer cans

bent littering the yard, a hanged man

sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,

children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.

And 4 police cars parked outside the painted

gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.
December 1965


The weight of the world

is love.

Under the burden

of solitude,

under the burden

of dissatisfaction
the weight,

the weight we carry

is love.
Who can deny?

In dreams

it touches

the body,

in thought


a miracle,

in imagination


till born

in human–

looks out of the heart

burning with purity–

for the burden of life

is love,
but we carry the weight


and so must rest

in the arms of love

at last,

must rest in the arms

of love.
No rest

without love,

no sleep

without dreams

of love–

be mad or chill

obsessed with angels

or machines,

the final wish

is love

–cannot be bitter,

cannot deny,

cannot withhold

if denied:
the weight is too heavy
–must give

for no return

as thought

is given

in solitude

in all the excellence

of its excess.
The warm bodies

shine together

in the darkness,

the hand moves

to the center

of the flesh,

the skin trembles

in happiness

and the soul comes

joyful to the eye–
yes, yes,

that’s what

I wanted,

I always wanted,

I always wanted,

to return

to the body

where I was born.
San Jose, 1954

Solar Fields – Leaving Home