“An-naasu niyaam wa idhaa matu’ntabahu”

Les Amoureux du Café de Flore (Lovers, Café de Flore), Paris 1960 by Léon Herschtritt
Les Amoureux du Café de Flore (Lovers, Café de Flore), Paris 1960 by Léon Herschtritt

I hope this finds you all well, and with loved ones and friends. The passing of a year, the emerging of a new one are blurred markers of our trajectories through the arc of being. The New Year is an agreement, like that of dating years. Many societies have New Years of course. The Celts had theirs on November 1st, others of course had theirs tied to the Lunar and or Solar procession. I have always tried to figure out why 12-13 days after the winter solstice, but its really not a big one.

2013… slipping away. So much has occurred this year. Perhaps the greatest lesson for our family was letting go. We lost my sister, and we had to give up our home of 17 years. Neither of them easy events, and losing Rebecca (my sister) and coming to grips with it was and is the hardest for me. This entry is another way of saying goodbye.

It was a year of growth artistically for me. I feel I am coming into a new place, and the art work has been coming fast and furious. When I am not working, I am creating. I guess as I get older the concentration has kicked in. I am happy about that.

I hope the year was good for you and yours. Many friends had rough patches, and lost love ones. I guess the predictions for 2012 of being a shift was correct, but not in the way everyone was fantasizing about.

This Entry in Turfing:
We are touching bases with 3 artist that were important in the development of my aesthetic sense. (well two of them) The third came later in my days, but moved me deeply in the world of poetry.
The 3 artist are: Seamus Heaney, Colin Wilson & Lou Reed.
Giants in their fields, and they touched me deeply. This entry is my homage to their works, and by no means can truly define their work. I am touching on just a bit of what works moved me. I hope you enjoy this look back.

We will have another entry coming up soon. Stay Tuned. Here is to Healing, and here is to Letting Go!

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
Poetry: Seamus Heaney, 3 Poems
Colin Wilson: Summary of Atlantis and the Old Ones, An Investigation of the Age of Civilisation
Lou Reed: 3 Songs
Pretty much, this says it for me. Thanks to The Kinks for this.

Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I’m thinking of the days,
I won’t forget a single day, believe me.

I bless the light,
I bless the light that lights on you believe me.
And though you’re gone,
You’re with me every single day, believe me.

Days I’ll remember all my life,
Days when you can’t see wrong from right.
You took my life,
But then I knew that very soon you’d leave me,
But it’s all right,
Now I’m not frightened of this world, believe me.

I wish today could be tomorrow,
The night is dark,
It just brings sorrow, let it wait.

Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I’m thinking of the days,
I won’t forget a single day, believe me.

Days I’ll remember all my life,
Days when you can’t see wrong from right.
You took my life,
But then I knew that very soon you’d leave me,
But it’s all right,
Now I’m not frightened of this world, believe me.

Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I’m thinking of the days,
I won’t forget a single day, believe me.

I bless the light,
I bless the light that shines on you believe me.
And though you’re gone,
You’re with me every single day, believe me.
Poetry: Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney

Lovers on Aran

The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To posess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?

Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves’ collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.
The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
Colin Wilson appeared in my life around 1968, 1969. His writings were a revelation for me. I dipped in again a few times over the years, but his early stuff really got me going about questioning myself, and looking at where I was going. Hats off to ya Colin, thanks for wakeup call.

Colin Wilson:
Colin Wilson
Summary of Atlantis and the Old Ones, An Investigation of the Age of Civilisation, by Colin Wilson

Charles Hapgood, an American professor of history, became convinced in 1989 that a civilisation, ‘with high levels of science’, had existed at least 100,000 years ago.

In the mid-1950s, Hapgood had written a book called Earth’s Shifting Crust, to which Einstein contributed an Introduction, arguing that the whole crust of the earth undergoes periodic ‘slippages’, one of which in 9500 BC had caused the North Pole to move from Hudson Bay to its present position. And in 1966, his Maps of the Ancient Sea Kings had suggested that mediaeval maps called ‘portolans’ – used by sailors to navigate ‘from port to port’ – proved that there must have been a worldwide maritime civilisation in 7000 BC.

In 1989 he told the writer Rand Flem-Ath that he intended to bring out a new edition of Earth’s Shifting Crust, containing his evidence that civilisation had existed since before 100,000 years ago. But before he could do that, he walked in front of a car and was killed.

I agreed to collaborate with Rand Flem-Ath in trying to solve this mystery. After a long search, I was fortunate enough to track down the man who claimed to have convinced him that civilisation dated back a 100,000 years. He was an eccentric recluse who lived in a small town in New England. When I asked him to explain what had convinced him that there was civilisation a 100,000 years ago, he specified two things: (1) that Neanderthal man was far more intelligent than we assume, and (b) that ancient measures prove that man knew the exact size of the earth millennia before the Greek Eratosthenes worked it out in 240 BC.

A little research of my own quickly verified both statements. Far from being a shambling ape, Neanderthal man had a larger brain than we have, was well acquainted with astronomy, played musical instruments, and even invented the blast furnace. As to the size of the earth, the ancient Greeks had a measure called the stade – the length of a stadium. The polar circumference of the earth proves to be exactly 3,600 stade. Yet the Greeks did not know the size of the earth. They must have inherited the stade from someone who did know.

On a cruise down the Nile in 1997 I stumbled on another crucial discovery: the Nineveh number, a vast 15 digit number found inscribed on an Assyrian clay tablet in the ruins of Assurbanipal’s library. Yet the Assyrians were no great mathematicians. The French space engineer Maurice Chatelain – who provided the first moon rocket with its communication system – discovered powerful internal evidence that the Nineveh number must have been worked out about 65,000 years ago.

He also learned that two more numbers, even larger, were found inscribed on stele in the Mayan sacred city of Quiriga. These shared with the Nineveh number a remarkable characteristic: they could be divided precisely by the number of years it takes the earth to complete its ‘precessional cycle’ round the sun, just under 26,000. (Precession of the equinoxes is the backward movement of the signs of the zodiac, so that in the heavens, spring begins slightly earlier each year.)

So it seems the Assyrians inherited their knowledge of precession from some early ‘founder’ civilisation – presumably the same civilisation from which the Maya, thousands of years later and thousands of miles across the Atlantic, inherited theirs.

I came upon one more important discovery on that Nile cruise. It was something that happened in the temple of Edfu, and it took six more years before its full signficance dawned on me, and provided a sudden insight into the secret of Egyptian temples. Of this more in a moment.

I had come upon another interesting piece of evidence that ‘high levels of science’ date back much earlier than we suppose. It started with the mystery of the Libyan desert glass. Two British scientists driving through the Libyan desert discovered large quantities of a fused green glass, highly valued by Arab craftsmen for making jewellery. Their first assumption, that these were ‘tektites’, a fused glass that comes from outer space, had to be abandoned since it lacked the typical air bubbles, and left them with the only alternative hypothesis: that this glass had been manufactured by some strange industrial process around 6000 BC. But that would have required large quantities of water. It was Hapgood who was able to assure the investigators that there had been vast lakes in the desert in 6000 BC. When Lord Rennell of Rodd described the mystery to a scientist named John V. Dolphin, who had worked on testing the atom bomb in the desert of Australia, Dolphin told him that the glass looked just like the fused sand left behind after an atom bomb test, which led Lord Rennell to consider the possibility that the makers of the Libyan desert glass had mastered atomic energy. Hapgood dismissed this notion, being himself convinced that the ancients simply had some other method of producing very high temperatures – of around 6,000 degrees.

Unknown to Hapgood and Lord Rennell, a Bulgarian inventor name Ilya Velbov – who later called himself Yull Brown – had solved this problem. Brown made the extraordinary discovery that if the hydrogen and oxygen in water are separated, and then re-combined in a kind of oxy-acetylene flame, it will punch an instantaneous hole in a piece of hard wood, burn tungsten (requiring 6,000 degrees), vaporise metals, melt a firebrick, and weld glass to copper. Brown called this mixture ‘Brown’s gas’, and the Chinese used it in their submarines to turn seawater into drinking water. Yet because no one understands the process, science has shown total lack of interest in it. However, Brown had no doubt it was known to the ancients, who used it to extract purified gold from gold ore.

Brown’s total refusal to compromise with American industry ruined his one excellent chance of achieving fame and riches, and he died unknown.

But if Hapgood is correct about his 100,000 year old science, what evidence remains? Well, a modern builder would admit that, for all our technology, he would have no idea of how to go about building the Great Pyramid. The same is true of the magnificent ruins of Tiahuanaco, in the Andes, whose harbour area has blocks so big that no modern crane could lift them. These builders seem to have had some technology for moving immensely heavy weights.

Lake Titicaca, on which Tiahuanaco was once a port, is full of sea creatures. At some time in the past, a geological convulsion raised it two and a half miles in the air. Geologists assume this was millions of years ago; but this is absurd. Who would build a great port on a lake with no other ports or cities? Surely, Tiahunaco must have been at sea level when the convulsion occurred. In their book When the Earth Nearly Died, Compelling Evidence of a Cosmic Catastrophe of 9500 BC (1995), D. S. Allan and J. B. Delair argue that the convulsion was probably due to the impact of a comet or asteroid. The date, of course, is the date Plato assigns to the destruction of Atlantis ‘in a day and a night’.

The story of the great flood is preserved in the legends of the Haida Indians of Canada and of many other tribes. But which flood? Plato speaks of no less than four. The first of these was the Atlantis flood. The second is referred to in the Book of Enoch and the rituals of the Freemasons, and it took place approximately two thousand years after Plato’s flood. ‘Seven burning mountains’ fell to earth from space, according to the evidence of Professor Alexander Tollmann, the largest in the Sunda Strait, and it set in motion a great migration north, which created civilisations in India and then in Sumeria (the Sumerians are regarded as the founders of European civilisation). The third flood, around 6000 BC, created the Black Sea, and was the flood of Noah and the Epic of Gilgamesh. The fourth, ‘Deucalion’s flood’, occurred in the Bronze age, around 2200 BC. Another vast catastrophe struck in 535 AD, causing worldwide famine, drought and plague, which destroyed, among others, the civilisation of the Maya in Central America, and of the Nazca Indians of Peru, whose giant line-drawings on the surface of the desert , we now know, were designed to persuade the gods to send rain.

These drawings can be seen only from the air, and have given rise to the theory that the Nazca shamans, with the aid of ‘psychedelic’ drugs (which the Indians are known to have used) were able to achieve out-of-the-body experiences that enabled them to do this. The Indians of the Peruvian forest use a drug called ayahuasca, which (according to anthropologist Jeremy Narby) they claim taught them the properties of 80,000 plants and the structure of DNA.

Shamanism thereafter becomes one of the central themes of this book, and it is argued that shamans have a knowledge of nature that goes far beyond that of modern science. There seems to be no doubt that shamans possess powers that we would consider ‘magical’, and many examples are given here. The healing abilities of shamans can also be used for the opposite purpose, to produce sickness and death. The Kahuna priests of Hawaii can use the Death Prayer to kill enemies. And it was when reading about their power to protect temples with a curse, and the story of one rash youth who became paralysed from the waist down after entering a ‘fordidden’ temple in a spirit of bravado, that I suddenly saw the meaning of an incident that had happened in 1997 in the temple of Edfu. The curse of Tutankamun was undoubtedly more than a legend,.

The book now returns to the subject of the search for ‘ancient knowledge’, and to the Scotsman and Freemason James Bruce who went to Ethiopia in search of the lost Book of Enoch. We consider evidence advanced by Robert Lomas and Christopher Knight that Enoch travelled to the British Isles, and that a stone (or wooden) structure built on a hilltop could be used as an astronomical computer, which explains, among other things, the length of the ‘megalithic yard’ noted in all megalithic sites by Professor Alexander Thom – he spoke of their builders as ‘Stone Age Einsteins’. Lomas and Knight argue that the rituals of Freemasonry date from ‘Tollman’s flood’ in 7500 BC.

They also pointed out that Rosslyn Chapel, near Edinburgh, founded by the Templar William St Clair, contains carvings of exclusively American plants such as sweet corn and aloes, although Columbus did not discover America until fifty years after it was built. The evidence indicates that when the Templar fleet left La Rochelle to escape the mass arrests (and executions) inaugurated by Philip the Fair in 1307, some ships sailed to America.

How did they know that America was there? The answer seems to be: from maps (like those of Hapgood’s ‘Ancient Sea Kings’) discovered by the original Templars after the fall of Jerusalem to the Crusaders in 1112 AD. King Baldwin gave the nine knights permission to stable their horses in the basement of the old Temple of Solomon, deserted since the Romans had destroyed it in 66 AD after a Jewish uprising. Many documents belonging to a sect called the Essenes had been stored there, one of them (the ‘Heavenly Jerusalem’ scroll) full of Masonic symbols. It seems clear that the Essenes were part of the Masonic tradition, and were aware of the existence of America. The evidence indicates that Jesus was not only an Essene, but was regarded by them as the Messiah who would overthrow Roman rule. He was crucified after an unsuccessful attempt to stir up revolt, and was replaced as leader of the Essenes by his brother James.

Subsequently, St Paul virtually invented the religion called Christianity, in which Jesus ‘the Christ’ is the Saviour who redeems man from Original Sin (a thought that certainly never entered Jesus’s head). And when the original Christians were massacred by the Romans in AD 66, St Paul’s version (preached abroad to gentiles) went on to conquer the world. For purely political reasons it was adopted by the Emperor Constantine to hold his rickety empire together, and the Council of Nicaea laid down the doctrine of the Trinity as a dogma. Pope Leo X would say later: ‘It has served us well, this myth of Christ’. (But then, as we shall show, Pope Leo belonged to the original religious tradition that flowed from the Essenes, and was a member of a secret society known as the Priory of Sion, founded in 1112 by the first Knight Templars.)

Lomas and Knight argue that Hiram Abif, the Temple architect, whose legend of murder by three ‘apprentices’ is the foundation stone of Freemasonry, was in fact an Egyptian pharaoh named Sequenenre, murdered by Hyksos assassins in an attempt to wrest from him a secret ritual for turning a pharaoh into a god. Sequenenre’s son subsequently drove the Hyksos (the ‘Shepherd Kings’) out of Egypt. And six hundred years later, the story was turned on its head when Sequenenre was transformed into ‘Hiram Abif’, architect of Solomon’s Temple. Rosslyn was, in due course, built by a Templar and Freemason in imitation of Solomon’s Temple.

Solomon strayed from the old religion to become a worshipper of Venus, and we learn how the planet Venus is the only planet to form a perfect pentagram in the sky – the fundamental symbol of magic.

We go on to explore the story of the ‘original (Essene) Christianity’, and how it became the secret guarded by a line of French kings, the Merovingians, who knew that Christianity was an invention of St Paul and the Council of Nicaea, and who hoped one day to replace the Catholic Church and restore the original Christianity. They were overthrown when King Dagobert II was murdered and replaced by the Carolingian dynasty, but kept alive the knowledge of the secret of the Priory of Sion. This secret was accidentally discovered by a parish priest named Beranger Sauniere in a village called Rennes-le-Chateau (which lies in the middle of a natural ‘magical’ landscape in which hills form an exact pentagram).

Sauniere also learned that Jesus had not died on the cross, but had been taken down after six hours and nursed back to health, after which he fled to France with his wife, Mary Magdalen, and lived in Rennes-le-Chateau, then called Aireda. The Merovingian kings were direct descendants of Jesus and Mary Magdalen. In the mid-90s, following these clues, an art historian named Peter Blake discovered a cave that he believes to be the tomb of Jesus and Mary, and learned that several popes and cardinals (including Richelieu) has been members of the Priory.

For the concluding two chapters of the book, we return to the mystery of Hapgood’s 100,000 year-old civilisation.

It is clear that the ancients possessed some extraordinary ability to multiply huge numbers, very like those possessed by modern calculating prodigies (such as 5 year old Benjamin Blyth, who took only a few minutes to work out how many second he had been alive). We explore The Infinite Harmony by Mike Hayes, which shows the intimate relation between the DNA code and the I Ching. This leads to a consideration of synchronicity, which modern science refuses to recognise, and the ‘certain blindness in human beings’ that causes us to ‘filter out’ so much our experience. Goethe, like William James, was fully aware of this blindness, and the scientific ‘filters’ that cause us to see ‘God’s living garment’ as a world of dead matter. Goethe’s Theory of Colour is explored. We speak of ‘eidetic vision’, the odd ability of certain people (like Nicola Tesla) to be able to recreate some object inside their heads. (It is also fundamental to training in magic.)

Julian Jaynes realised that man is trapped in a grey world created by the left cerebral hemisphere, the ‘scientific’ part of the brain. But then, Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater, two founders of the Theosophical Society, wrote a book called Occult Chemistry that describes quarks more than half a century before science posited their existence.

We move on to another scientist, Chandra Bose, who saw nature – even metals – as alive. And this takes us back to Hapgood, who after his retirement became interested in some very odd aspects of science – for example, the discovery of lie-detector expert Cleve Backster that plants can read our minds. While still a college professor, he did experiments with his students that demonstrated that plants that are ‘prayed for’ flourish more than plants that are ignored, while plants that are ‘prayed against’ often died. Hapgood became very interested in the ‘life fields’discovered b the American scientist Harold Burr, and the recognition that these can be controlled by ‘thought fields’. Hapgood’s studies of anthropology led him to conclude that man has been as intelligent as ourselves for at least 200,000 years, and perhaps for two million. There is, in fact, evidence that our ancestor homo erectus was sailing the seas on rafts 800,000 years ago.

Most amazing is Hapgood’s experiments with hypnosis, which proved conclusively that he could hypnotise his students to accurately predict the future.

The final chapter of this book contains some of its most remarkable discoveries, beginning with the unearthing of a half-million year old plank that had been carefully planed on one side. Then we consider Neanderthal man and some facts that prove his high level of intelligence – and whose red ochre mines in South Africa date back 100,000 years. One sculpture, the Bearkhat Ram, has been dated back to a quarter of a million years ago.

We consider the fact that ‘shamanic’ cultures take ‘group conciousness’ for granted – the kind of telepathic awareness that enables flocks of birds and schools of fishes to change direction simultaneously. Ancient man almost certainly possessed this same telepathic ability. Kevin Kelly’s book Out of Control describes how the whole audience at a computer conference in San Diego learned this ability in a quarter of an hour. In this sense, societies like ancient Egypt were almost certainly ‘collectives’, which could explain their ability to lift massive weights.

We pass on to the extraordinary discoveries of John Michell, who pointed out that the Nineveh number can be divided by the diameters of the sun and moon, and that a mathematical principle called ‘the Canon’ seems to lie behind ancient science: the notion that our universe appears to be designed along mathematical lines – the ‘code of numbers that structures the universe’, which implies that there is an intelligence behind this design. An example is the sequence of ‘Fibonacci numbers’ that play such as basic part in nature, from spiral nebulae to seashells. We discuss the Anthropic Cosmological Principle, formulated by astronomer Brandon Carter, which states that the universe aims at the propagation of life, and at Fred Hoyle’s statement that ‘Our planet is perfectly suited to the incubation of life’, and that ‘it looks as if some superintendent has been monkeying with the physics’.

In that case, what is it that makes human freedom so limited? Man is confined in ‘close-upness’ which deprives him of meaning. We glance again at some of the evidence that man may have been around far longer than science supposes – such as an iron nail embedded in a piece of coal several million years old, and a mastodon’s tooth engraved with a horned beast, that came from a Miocene bed of 25 million years ago.

We quote the Nobel Prize Winner Frederick Soddy, who discovered isotopes, on the ‘evidence of a wholly unknown and unsuspected civilisation of which all other relic has disappeared. And we end by quoting Plato: ‘that things are far better taken care of than we can possibly imagine’.

Lou Reed
Lou Reed

What can I say. Lou. I saw him so many times. Each time, a new band, a new twist. I fell for Lou and the Velvets in the fall of 1967. We went our separate ways after my son was born. I had changed, you know how this happens.

I tried to reconnect off and on, but it only started to happen after he past away. It hit me hard in the gut, I felt like I had been disloyal, but I think the man would of been amused. He helped shape me in his way. I went down some pretty dark paths during those years,and I am happy I survived regardless of my drive for oblivion once upon a time. Oh! Sweet Nothing!

Here are 3 songs of Lou’s. Some of my favourites. Please listen.
Perfect Day

Street Hassle

Oh!Sweet Nothing

“O ignorant one! When we die,
It will be proven to us:
A dream was what we have seen,
And what we have heard, was a tale.” – Mir Dard

The Calling - Gwyllm 2013
The Calling – Gwyllm 2013

“O, sleeper! How many people are not sleeping.
You are called, so wake up!
God will replace you in all He asks of you,
If you, at least sleep by Him!

Your heart however remains deaf to this appeal.
You only get awake in the world of creatures,
Which destroys you each time you die because of its hand.
Take care of your soul before its departure:
The provisions of the journey are not a certainty.” – Ibn al-‘Arabi

In The Center

“If you are depressed you are living in the past.
If you are anxious you are living in the future.
If you are at peace you are living in the present.” ― Lao Tzu

The year is rushing past it seems, just as I was getting adjusted into it. The last few weeks has seen a calming down, and a recentering which is a relief. We are much more settled into our new digs, and had a nice gathering for Thanksgiving. Good friends, family, food and drink can help transform any place into home. With a lot of the art hung, and furniture arranged and some good tunes, I find myself pretty content to walk through the door.

Rowan has been busy, new job, and applying for art grants. He is doing well, with plenty of challenges to take up. Mary and I are still working hand to hand on all of the projects, and honestly, any art work or writing that I get out has a big dose of her input into it. She has soul, and that most wonderful of human attributes, humour. All my love!

Looking forward to the new changes, thankful for what has gone on before, and happily dwelling in this “now”.

Lots on the menu this time. Poetry, music, and new projects afoot. I hope you enjoy!

Bright Blessings,

I have been a busy bee as of late. Lots of stuff going on, and just to list a few…

Latest Projects:
header new
I have recently updated my art site, I had put it off for a long, long time, and finally migrated it into a WordPress format, which I am sure is going to change, again. I got tired working in HTML and this was a fix that was needed. It is fairly modest at this point compared to where it was, but it will grow as I go along.

Part of the reason that I have gone this route is that I have taken a giant leap and bought a high end printer for my Giclée Prints. I now have the capacity to print up to 17 by 24 inches, (at 1200 dpi if so desired). This frees me up on having to travel to friends houses and use their machines, which though visiting is nice, I can now do it quickly, and get a print out within a day.

In celebration of the new set up and printer, for every print that is ordered while supplies last I will be including a Free Digital Print with every purchase of a Giclée Print (my choice on digital prints)while the supply last! So take advantage of this cool offer!

Gwyllm Art Calendars for 2014
From my art from prints, to illustrations from “The Invisible College” Magazine. Birthdays of Poets, Artist, Philosophers, Metaphysicians and Occultist of are listed along with lunar phases and holidaze.

The calendar comes in two sizes, 13.5×19 @$23.99 & 11×17 @$15.00. They ship anywhere in the world!
Samsung Phone Cases, IPAD & IPhone Cases on Redbubble!
6 Different Images for the portable media tool of choice. This is my first foray into this field, so check them out! Be aware that the menu is on the left for the different devices!

Here are some pics to check out!

On The Menu:
Computer Art
Sundial Aeon
Agrippa – William Gibson
Two Poems: Allen Ginsberg

The Calling - Gwyllm Llwydd
The Calling – Gwyllm Llwydd

Computer Art….

So my background is pretty much old school art school. Went to art college at a very young age, fell in love with Mandala’s, Art Nouveau, Surrealism, Max Ernst’s collages. I did everything by hand. I fell in love with ink and pen, and horrors upon horrors for my art teachers, water colours.

A few years down the road…
I had my first interactions with computers via synthesizers. What I had done for years with Piano’s, Organs, Basses, Mandolins… I then transformed with that wondrous device. There were hours of discussion with my string driven friends if it was “real music” or artificial. I certainly fell into different positions on this. At the end of my music career I was still using synths, but I was migrating to dulcimers, and medieval instruments like the psaltrey. Today I still love synths, yet I do love the old instruments, and the oldest instrument, the human voice.

I found myself again working with art after I left the musical stage…. First serigraphs, then airbrush. Still work with these. I found myself drifting into working with programming fractals in the early 90’s. Interesting, but it was not what I actually considered art then, but when I see other’s work like Beau Deeley and Mike Crowley I am awe struck by their skills with what they produce.

I enjoy working with photoshop. I have been working with it since the late 90’s, and I am still discovering features and techniques with it.  Yet, when I put something I have done with it up on line there usually are people who like it, and others who might like the piece but are dismissive of it as if using a computer instead of scissors, or a brush were some how cheating, or it really wasn’t art.

What are your thoughts? Does using a modern tool invalidate the impulse?

Shapeshifting, Murder & Twisted Love on the Frontier. My son Rowan’s thesis film, just off the film festival circuit.

A wee bit of music to help the medicine go down…
Sundial Aeon [Hypnosis]

William Gibson

(A Book of The Dead)

by William Gibson

I hesitated
before untying the bow
that bound this book together.

A black book:
Order Extra Leaves By Letter and Name

A Kodak album of time-burned
black construction paper

The string he tied
Has been unravelled by years
and the dry weather of trunks
Like a lady’s shoestring from the First World War
Its metal ferrules eaten by oxygen
Until they resemble cigarette-ash

Inside the cover he inscribed something in soft graphite
Now lost
Then his name
W.F. Gibson Jr.
and something, comma,

Then he glued his Kodak prints down
And wrote under them
In chalk-like white pencil:
“Papa’s saw mill, Aug. 1919.”

A flat-roofed shack
Against a mountain ridge
In the foreground are tumbled boards and offcuts
He must have smelled the pitch,
In August
The sweet hot reek
Of the electric saw
Biting into decades

Next the spaniel Moko
“Moko 1919”
Poses on small bench or table
Before a backyard tree
His coat is lustrous
The grass needs cutting
Beyond the tree,
In eerie Kodak clarity,
Are the summer backstairs of Wheeling,
West Virginia
Someone’s left a wooden stepladder out

“Aunt Fran and [obscured]”
Although he isn’t, this gent
He has a “G” belt-buckle
A lapel-device of Masonic origin
A patent propelling-pencil
A fountain-pen
And the flowers they pose behind so solidly
Are rooted in an upright length of whitewashed
concrete sewer-pipe.

Daddy had a horse named Dixie
“Ford on Dixie 1917”
A saddle-blanket marked with a single star
Corduroy jodhpurs
A western saddle
And a cloth cap
Proud and happy
As any boy could be

“Arthur and Ford fishing 1919”
Shot by an adult
(Witness the steady hand
that captures the wildflowers
the shadows on their broad straw hats
reflections of a split-rail fence)
standing opposite them,
on the far side of the pond,
amid the snake-doctors and the mud,
Kodak in hand,
Ford Sr.?

And “Moma July, 1919”
strolls beside the pond,
in white big city shoes,
Purse tucked behind her,
While either Ford or Arthur, still straw-hatted,
approaches a canvas-topped touring car.

“Moma and Mrs. Graham at fish hatchery 1919”
Moma and Mrs. G. sit atop a graceful concrete arch.

“Arthur on Dixie”, likewise 1919,
rather ill at ease. On the roof behind the barn, behind him,
can be made out this cryptic mark:

“Papa’s mill 1919”, my grandfather most regal amid a wrack of
cut lumber,
might as easily be the record
of some later demolition, and
His cotton sleeves are rolled
to but not past the elbow,
striped, with a white neckband
for the attachment of a collar.
Behind him stands a cone of sawdust some thirty feet in height.
(How that feels to tumble down,
or smells when it is wet)

The mechanism: stamped black tin,
Leatherette over cardboard, bits of boxwood,
A lens
The shutter falls
Dividing that from this.

Now in high-ceiling bedrooms,
unoccupied, unvisited,
in the bottom drawers of veneered bureaus
in cool chemical darkness curl commemorative
montages of the country’s World War dead,

just as I myself discovered
one other summer in an attic trunk,
and beneath that every boy’s best treasure
of tarnished actual ammunition
real little bits of war
but also
the mechanism

The blued finish of firearms
is a process, controlled, derived from common
rust, but there under so rare and uncommon a patina
that many years untouched
until I took it up
and turning, entranced, down the unpainted
stair, to the hallway where I swear
I never heard the first shot.

The copper-jacketed slug recovered
from the bathroom’s cardboard cylinder of
Morton’s Salt was undeformed
save for the faint bright marks of lands
and grooves so hot, stilled energy,
it blistered my hand.

The gun lay on the dusty carpet.
Returning in utter awe I took it so carefully up
That the second shot, equally unintended,
notched the hardwood bannister
and brought a strange bright smell of ancient sap to life
in a beam ofdusty sunlight.
Absolutely alone
in awareness of the mechanism.

Like the first time you put your mouth
on a woman.

“Ice Gorge at Wheeling 1917”

Iron bridge in the distance,
Beyond it a city.
Hotels where pimps went about their business
on the sidewalks of a lost world.
But the foreground is in focus,
this corner of carpenter’s Gothic,
these backyards running down to the freeze.

“Steamboat on Ohio River”,
its smoke foul and dark,
its year unknown,
beyond it the far bank
overgrown with factories.

“Our Wytheville
House Sept. 1921”

They have moved down from Wheeling and my father wears his
city clothes. Main Street is unpaved and an electric streetlamp is
slung high in the frame, centered above the tracked dust on a
slack wire, suggesting the way it might pitch in a strong wind,
the shadows that might throw.

The house is heavy, unattractive, sheathed in stucco, not native
to the region. My grandfather, who sold supplies to contractors,
was prone to modern materials, which he used with
wholesaler’s enthusiasm. In 1921 he replaced the section of brick
sidewalk in front of his house with the broad smooth slab of poured
concrete, signing this improvement with a flourish, “W.F.
Gibson 1921”. He believed in concrete and plywood
particularly. Seventy years later his signature remains, the slab
floating perfectly level and charmless between mossy stretches of
sweet uneven brick that knew the iron shoes of Yankee horses.

“Mama Jan. 1922” has come out to sweep the concrete with a
broom. Her boots are fastened with buttons requiring a special instrument.

Ice gorge again, the Ohio, 1917. The mechanism closes. A
torn clipping offers a 1957 DeSOTO FIREDOME, 4-door Sedan,
torqueflite radio, heather and power steering and brakes, new
w.s.w. premium tires. One owner. $1,595.

He made it to the age of torqueflite radio
but not much past that, and never in that town.
That was mine to know, Main Street lined with
Rocket Eighty-eights,
the dimestore floored with wooden planks
pies under plastic in the Soda Shop,
and the mystery untold, the other thing,
sensed in the creaking of a sign after midnight
when nobody else was there.

In the talc-fine dust beneath the platform of the
Norfolk & Western lay indian-head pennies undisturbed since
the dawn of man.

In the banks and courthouse, a fossil time
prevailed, limestone centuries.

When I went up to Toronto
in the draft, my Local Board was there on Main Street,
above a store that bought and sold pistols.
I’d once traded that man a derringer for a
Walther P-38. The pistols were in the window
behind an amber roller-blind
like sunglasses. I was seventeen or so but basically I guess
you just had to be a white boy.
I’d hike out to a shale pit and run
ten dollars worth of 9mm
through it, so worn you hardly
had to pull the trigger.
Bored, tried shooting
down into a distant stream but
one of them came back at me
off a round of river rock
clipping walnut twigs from a branch
two feet above my head.

So that I remembered the mechanism.

In the all night bus station
they sold scrambled eggs to state troopers
the long skinny clasp-knives called fruit knives
which were pearl handled watermelon-slicers
and hillbilly novelties in brown varnished wood
which were made in Japan.

First I’d be sent there at night only
if Mom’s carton of Camels ran out,
but gradually I came to value
the submarine light, the alien reek
of the long human haul, the strangers
straight down from Port Authority
headed for Nashville, Memphis, Miami.
Sometimes the Sheriff watched them get off
making sure they got back on.

When the colored restroom
was no longer required
they knocked open the cinderblock
and extended the magazine rack
to new dimensions,
a cool fluorescent cave of dreams
smelling faintly and forever of disinfectant,
perhaps as well of the travelled fears
of those dark uncounted others who,
moving as though contours of hot iron,
were made thus to dance
or not to dance
as the law saw fit.

There it was that I was marked out as a writer,
having discovered in that alcove
copies of certain magazines
esoteric and precious, and, yes,
I knew then, knew utterly,
the deal done in my heart forever,
though how I knew not,
nor ever have.

Walking home
through all the streets unmoving
so quiet I could hear the timers of the traffic lights a block away:
the mechanism. Nobody else, just the silence
spreading out to where the long trucks groaned
on the highway their vast brute souls in want.

There must have been a true last time
I saw the station but I don’t remember
I remember the stiff black horsehide coat
gift in Tucson of a kid named Natkin
I remember the cold
I remember the Army duffle
that was lost and the black man in Buffalo
trying to sell me a fine diamond ring,
and in the coffee shop in Washington
I’d eavesdropped on a man wearing a black tie
embroidered with red roses
that I have looked for ever since.

They must have asked me something
at the border
I was admitted
and behind me swung the stamped tin shutter
across the very sky
and I went free
to find myself
mazed in Victorian brick
amid sweet tea with milk
and smoke from a cigarette called a Black Cat
and every unknown brand of chocolate
and girls with blunt-cut bangs
not even Americans
looking down from high narrow windows
on the melting snow
of the city undreamed
and on the revealed grace
of the mechanism,
no round trip.

They tore down the bus station
there’s chainlink there
no buses stop at all
and I’m walking through Chiyoda-ku
in a typhoon
the fine rain horizontal
umbrella everted in the storm’s Pacific breath
tonight red lanterns are battered.

in the mechanism.
Two Poems: Allen Ginsberg

Tales Of The Tribe – Allen Ginsberg

Transcription of Organ Music – Allen Ginsberg


The Wonder Of It All - Gwyllm Llwydd
The Wonder Of It All – Gwyllm Llwydd

“Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love.” – Lao Tzu