Return is the movement of the Tao.
Yielding is the way of the Tao.
All things are born of being.
Being is born of non-being. – Lao Tzu
Nigredo “The dose makes the poison.”
On The 1000th Posting Of Turfing:
With that phrase, Ibn put Turfing up for us, 7 years ago. Without Ibn’s efforts, there would of been at least for awhile, no Turfing, (and he also provided us a home for Earth Rites Radio in the beginning. Honestly, we are still trying to get it going again.) I want to acknowledge the part of friends and companions on this trip. Without the support and feedback it would of been much more difficult.
It has been a fun voyage. It will continue, and grow I hope. I want to thank all who have paid attention to it, and who slogged through so many, many postings. I am a person who discerns common/uncommon patterns. I see reality at times like a pointillist canvas. Too close, just dots, chaos. Further back, patterns, a vision. Turfing has been an examination and immersion into the tides of culture. Culture seeds itself, and if anything, I hope that Turfing has turned over the earth for some of you. Has it inspired you ever to add to the stream? I pray so.
I do have an announcement for those who find Turfing a bit of a trudge at times… We have a new Turfing Lite at EarthRites.Tumblr.Com ! This is not a substitute, but a concurrent stream. I post daily, or pretty much daily there. Check It Out! You can click on the follow button, or you can track it on Twitter.com/@EarthRites
So, on this occasion, thanks again. Drop me a line here! Make a comment! Feedback is always appreciated! If you have an email addy, or a link to a friend who might enjoy or benefit from Turfing, let me know. I will include them on my alerts.
In pursuit of knowledge,
every day something is added.
In the practice of the Tao,
every day something is dropped.
Less and less do you need to force things,
until finally you arrive at non-action.
When nothing is done,
nothing is left undone.
True mastery can be gained
by letting things go their own way.
It can’t be gained by interfering. – Lao Tzu
Thanks So Much,
So, this is not the largest of Turfs, but one with a couple of favourite elements for yours truly…. The poetry of Arthur Rimbaud, and the music of Eat Static.
On The Menu:
Eat Static – Pharoah
4 Poems – Arthur Rimbaud
Eat Static – Epoch calypso
Eat Static – Pharaoh
He is affection and the present moment because he has thrown open the house to the snow foam of winter and to the noises of summer—he who purified drinking water and food—who is the enchantment fleeing places and the superhuman delight of resting places.—He is affection and future, the strength and love which we, erect in rage and boredom, see pass by in the sky of storms and the flags of ecstasy.
He is love, perfect and reinvented measure, miraculous, unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine loved for its qualities of fate. We have all known the terror of his concession and ours: delight in our health, power of our faculties, selfish affection and passion for him,—he who loves us because his life is infinity…
And we recall him and he sets forth…And if Adoration moves, rings, his Promise, rings: “Down with these superstitions, these other bodies, these couples and ages. This is the time which has gone under!”
He will not go away, he will not come down again from some heaven, he will not redeem the anger of women, the laughter of men, or all that sin: for it is done now, since he is and since he is loved.
His breathing, his heads, his racings; the terrifying swiftness of form and action when they are perfect.
Fertility of the mind and vastness of the world!
His body! the dreamed-of liberation, the collapse of grace joined with new violence!
All that he sees! all the ancient kneelings and the penalties canceled as he passes by.
His day! the abolition of all noisy and restless suffering within more intense music.
His step! migrations more tremendous than early invasions.
O He and I! pride more benevolent than lost charity.
O world!—and the limpid song of new woe!
He knew us all and loved us, may we, this winter night, from cape to cape, from the noisy pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from vision to vision, our strength and our feelings tired, hail him and see him and send him away, and under tides and on the summit of snow deserts follow his eyes,—his breathing—his body,—his day.
The swaying motion on the bank of the river falls,
The chasm at the sternpost,
The swiftness of the hand-rail,
The huge passing of the current
Conduct by unimaginable lights
And chemical newness
Voyagers surrounded by the waterspouts of the valley
And the current.
They are the conquerors of the world
Seeking a personal chemical fortune;
Sports and comfort travel with them;
They take the education
Of races, classes, and animals, on this Boat.
Repose and dizziness
To the torrential light,
To the terrible nights of study.
For from the talk among the apparatus,—blood, flowers, fire, jewels—
From the agitated accounts on this fleeing deck,
—You can see, rolling like a dyke beyond the hydraulic motor road,
Monstrous, illuminated endlessly,—their stock of studies;
Themselves driven into harmonic ecstasy
And the heroism of discovery.
In the most startling atmospheric happenings
A youthful couple withdraws into the archway,
—Is it an ancient coyness that can be forgiven?—
And sings and stands guard.
Clear water; like the salt of childhood tears,
the assault on the sun by the whiteness of women’s bodies;
the silk of banners, in masses and of pure lilies,
under the walls a maid once defended;
the play of angels;—no…the golden current on its way,
moves its arms, black, and heavy, and above all cool, with grass. She
dark, before the blue Sky as a canopy, calls up
for curtains the shadow of the hill and the arch.
Ah! the wet surface extends its clear broth!
The water fills the prepared beds with pale bottomless gold.
The green faded dresses of girls
make willows, out of which hop unbridled birds.
Purer than a louis, a yellow and warm eyelid
the marsh marigold—your conjugal faith, o Spouse!—
at prompt noon, from its dim mirror, vies
with the dear rose Sphere in the sky grey with heat.
Madame stands too straight in the field
nearby where the filaments from the work snow down; the parasol
in her fingers; stepping on the white flower; too proud for her
children reading in the flowering grass
their book of red morocco! Alas, He, like
a thousand white angels separating on the road,
goes off beyond the mountain! She, all
cold and dark, runs! after the departing man!
Longings for the thick young arms of pure grass!
Gold of April moons in the heart of the holy bed! Joy
of abandoned boatyards, a prey
to August nights which made rotting things germinate.
Let her weep now under the ramparts! the breath
of the poplars above is the only breeze.
After, there is the surface, without reflection, without springs, gray:
an old man, dredger, in his motionless boat, labors.
Toy of this sad eye of water, I cannot pluck,
o! motionless boat! o! arms too short! neither this
nor the other flower: neither the yellow one which bothers me,
there; nor the friendly blue one in the ash-colored water.
Ah! dust of the willows shaken by a wing!
The roses of the reeds devoured long ago!
My boat still stationary; and its chain caught
in the bottom of this rimless eye of water,—in what mud?
A Prince was annoyed at always being occupied with perfecting vulgar generosities. He foresaw amazing revolutions in love, and suspected that his wives could come up with something better than complacency adorned with sky and luxury. He wished to see the truth, the hour of essential desire and satisfaction. Whether or not this was an aberration of piety, he wanted it. He possessed at the very least a rather broad human power.
All the women who had known him were murdered. What wanton pillaging of the garden of beauty! Beneath the saber, they gave him their blessing. He ordered no new ones.—The women reappeared.
He killed his followers, after the hunt or after drinking.—They all followed him.
He amused himself with cutting the throats of thoroughbred animals. He torched palaces. He hurled himself on people and hacked them to pieces.—The crowds, the golden roofs, the beautiful beasts still lived.
Is it possible to become ecstatic amid destruction, rejuvenate oneself through cruelty! The people didn’t complain. No one offered the support of his own opinions.
One evening he was galloping fiercely. A Genie appeared, of an ineffable, even unavowable beauty. From his face and bearing sprang the promise of a multiple and complex love! of an unspeakable, even unbearable love! The Prince and the Genie probably disappeared into essential health. How could they not die of it? So they died together.
But this Prince passed away, in his palace, at a normal age. The Prince was the Genie. The Genie was the Prince.
Wise music is missing from our desire.
Eat Static – Epoch Calypso
Those who know don’t talk.
Those who talk don’t know.
Close your mouth,
block off your senses,
blunt your sharpness,
untie your knots,
soften your glare,
settle your dust.
This is the primal identity.