Early Mornings….

I awoke at 4:00 this morning, hearing noises. Being curious, I got up and looked out to the street.  A strange car was parked across the road from our home.  I turned on the outside light to let them know I was aware of them, and headed back to bed.  To no avail, I was awake.  Looked at my phone, read some news, and picked up the archaeology magazine and finished up articles.  The hours passed…

More noises, 3 police cars surrounding the car across the street.  This circus continued until 7:30, when the owner of the (now obvious) stolen car was driven up by the police.  He takes it away, and the young man who had been passed out in the stolen vehicle was frisked, drugs found, and hauled away.

I had surrendered to my wakefulness at around 6:00, and got up.  Got an orange juice, and started to work on a piece of art I had put away a decade ago.  Progress!  Lots moving, and to start the day with art.

The sun rolls up, Mary awakes, and I make cappuccinos for the pair of us.

I think my sleep cycle is changing. 🙂

Anyway, an early day it seems. … The doves are in the backyard, at the feeder, and the world awakes.

G
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A Woman’s Honour

Love bade me hope, and I obeyed;
Phyllis continued still unkind:
Then you may e’en despair, he said,
In vain I strive to change her mind.

Honour’s got in, and keeps her heart,
Durst he but venture once abroad,
In my own right I’d take your part,
And show myself the mightier God.

This huffing Honour domineers
In breasts alone where he has place:
But if true generous Love apppears,
The hector dares not show his face.

Let me still languish and complain,
Be most unhumanly denied:
I have some pleasure in my pain,
She can have none with all her pride.

I fall a sacrifice to Love,
She lives a wretch for Honour’s sake;
Whose tyrant does most cruel prove,
The difference is not hard to make.

Consider real Honour then,
You’ll find hers cannot be the same;
‘Tis noble confidence in men,
In women, mean, mistrustful shame.
– Lord John Wilmot
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The world but seems to be

The world but seems to be
yet is nothing more
than a line drawn
between light and shadow.
Decipher the message
of this dream-script
and learn to distinguish time
from Eternity.
– by Fakhruddin Iraqi
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In A Sacred Drift


I became water

I became water
and saw myself
a mirage
became an ocean
saw myself a speck
of foam
gained Awareness
saw that all is but
forgetfulness
woke up
and found myself
asleep.

– by Binavi Badakhshani
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Companion Books & Other Affairs:

So, here we are again, with another edition of “The Hare’s Tale.  We are plunging down the rabbit hole following what is best described as the path of Khezr (more on this later). I am taking books off of my bedside and chairside tables and featuring them here. Most of them are poetry books, and we will see the likes of Dale Pendell, Gary Snyder, Sufi Poets of Persia and elsewhere, Seamus Heaney, William Butler Yeats, etc.

Poetry lies central to the work that I do in my life. I am not a great poet, but I can turn a phrase on occasion. Yet, I swim in the world of poetry, and all that it implies. I find it a solace, an inspiration, a spiritual quest.

So I will be sharing books that I love, and providing links on where to find them. I hope that you will find the poetry as moving as I do.

The Poetry found on this entry is from “The Drunken Universe”, An anthology of Persian Sufi Poetry Translation and Commentary by Peter Lamborn Wilson and Narollah Pourjavady. This book has lifted my spirits time and again, and has revealed beauty that I hadn’t a clue about. It is well worth having.

Eye Candy:
As you may or may not know there are actually 2 Blogs on Gwyllm.com. This one, “The Hares’ Tale, and “Eye Candy!” which is a visual blog. On it you will find art, gifs, photographs that take my fancy. Some of it may not be suitable for work (NSFW), but I believe all of it is beautiful. You’ll find images from the Occult, Persian & Mughal Miniatures, Mandalas, Oil Paintings, Film Stills, Nature Photographs, Erotica, a wide gamut of beauty. Here is the link: Eye Candy! … Please check it out! I try to update frequently.

“Sacred Drift”:
A title to a book that has entranced me… I have a long involvement with Sufism, going back to the mid-60’s. Granted, I have pursued it mainly through poetry, and commentary and the reading of the Quran. I have included an excerpt of it in the body of this entry, ” Al-Khiḍr: The Green Man of Sufism” I spent most of the last 2 weeks up all hours of the night pouring over this book. It opens vistas, wide amazing vistas of travel, and heresy. It is highly recommended, and I shall be doing a review of it in the weeks to come. A Note: I don’t always review books that would be deemed, “New”. Heaven knows I try, and I will, there are a couple of volumes sitting next to me that are new this year, and another only 5 years old, so I am catching up.

Radio EarthRites:
New Show on, with DJ Kykeon’s “The Eleusinian Invocations Mix“. Give it a listen. We are about to launch a fund raiser to upgrade the site, and to bring more services via Radio EarthRites. Your support is very important to that!

So, that is it for now. Working on art and publishing the early part of this week. I hope this finds you well, and in happiness.

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
DJ Kykeons’ Eleusinian Invocations Mix!
The Links
Companion Books: The Drunken Universe
Armand Amar:Baba Aziz
Al-Khiḍr: The Green Man of Sufism
Armand Amar: Poem Of The Atoms
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The Links:
Ancient Fabrics…
The Cost Of Nuclear Weapons & Testing
Turn Up The Heat!
Aftermath of a great Collision
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Radio EarthRites!

https://gwyllm.com/radio-earthrites/
Starting 3:00PM Pacific Coast Time Sunday, 10/22/17 
The Return of DJ Kykeon! With his “Eleusinian Invocations Mix!”
8+Hours of Aural Beauty! Listen Now, More Shows To Come!
(The show will be in rotation all of this week along with “The Witching Hours Mix”.

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Companion Books: The Drunken Universe

The Universe

The universe
is a kaleidoscope:
now hopelessness, now hope
now spring, now fall.
Forget its ups and downs:
do not vex yourself:
The remedy for pain
is the pain.

-Sarmad
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Nonexistence

Nonexistence
within existence
is my Rule
getting lost
in getting lost
my Religion.

– Ayn al-Qozat Hamadani
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The Lamp of Your Face

What need
lovers for world’s delights
or the moth
for refined pleasures,
“viewing the garden”?
His lips
parched for water of Union
with the Beloved:
what need to chase
the “fountain of Khezr”?
He who falls
in your quarter, what need
for the caravans
of paradise except
to seek your love?
Surrendering his body
to the couch of your disease
what need has he
for the “healing breath”
of Jesus?
If the Friend
did not sit with him
in his retreat, what need
for the cloister
of solitude?
Today he gives up
his soul to separation:
why should he wait
for the promise
of tomorrow?
What need anymore
for glass after glass
of red wine, intoxicated,
unconscious with your
amorousness?
I am that moth
at the lamp of your face:
San’at, what do I need
with the candle
of manifestation?

– Mohammad ‘Aref San’at
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Love came

Love came
flowed like blood
beneath skin, through veins
emptied me of my self
filled me
with the Beloved
till every limb
every organ was seized
and occupied
till only
my name remains.
the rest is It.
– by Abu-Said Abil-Kheir
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Within the eye of the eye

Within the eye of the eye
I placed an eye
polished and adorned
with her beauty
but suddenly fell
into the Quarter of Perfection
and now am freed from sight,
from even the eye of contemplation.

– Ayn al-Qozat Hamadani
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As Heard On Radio EarthRites:
Armand Amar:Baba Aziz


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Al-Khiḍr: The Green Man of Sufism


The prophets Elias and Khadir at the fountain of life, late 15th century. Folio from a khamsa(quintet) by Nizami (d. 1209); Timurid period. Opaque watercolor and silver on paper. Herat, Afghanistan, now at The Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution

Al-Khiḍr is Khezr, the Hidden Prophet, the Green Man, King of Hyperborea, wily servant of Moses, trickster-cook of Alexander, Khezr who drank from the fountain of life in the Land of Darkness. Flowers and herbs spring up in his footsteps, and he strolls across the water, walking toward Ibn Arabi’s ship, coming closer; his green robe trailing on green waves — or perhaps woven of waves. Or Khezr appears in the desert with water and initiation for the masterless ones, the mad and blameworthy, the unique ones. “And three things are worthy of the glance: water, green things, and a beautiful face…”

When you say the name of Khezr (or Khadir) in company you should always add the greeting “Salaam Aleikum!” since he may be there — immortal and anonymous, engaged on some mysterious karmic errand. Perhaps he’ll hint of his identity by wearing green, or by revealing knowledge of the occult and hidden. But he’s something of a spy, and if you have no need to know he’s unlikely to tell you. Still, one of his functions is to convince skeptics of the marvelous, to rescue those who are lost in deserts of doubt and dryness. So he’s needed now more than ever, and surely still moves among us playing his great game.

From the point of view of “History of Religions” clearly Islam inherited Khezr from earlier myths and faiths, a fact recognized by the Islamic tradition which associates him with Moses and Alexander. By the Middle Ages, however, he had been thoroughly assimilated into the world of Islam and taken on a special role, symbolized by his two titles, “the Green Man” and “the Hidden Prophet”. In particular, he comes to stand for a certain kind of esoteric knowledge, which can only manifest in our banal everyday life as shock, either of outrage or of laughter, or both at once.

Khezr is one of the afrad, the Unique Ones who recieve illumination directly from God without human mediation; they can initiate seekers who belong to no Order or have no human guide; they rescue lost wanderers and desperate lovers in the hour of need. Uways al-Qarani is their historical prototype, Khezr their ahistorical prototype.

Some have indentified Khezr with St. George — but he might more accurately be seen as both St. George and the dragon in one figure. Nature, for esoteric Islam, does not need to be pinned down like some biology specimen or household pest — there exists no deep struggle between Nature and Order in the Islamic worldview.

The “spirits” of Nature, such as Khezr and the djinn — who are in a sense the principles of natural power — recognize in the Muhammadan Light that green portion of the spectrum upon which they themselves are also situated. If Christian moralism “fixes” Nature by “killing it”, Islam proceeds by conversion — or rather, by transmutation. Nature maintains its measure of independence from the merely human and moral sphere, while both realms are bathed in the integrative and salvific light of Muhammadan knowledge.

…As an immortal mortal, Khezr behaves like a figure in a dream; in fact, he behaves as we do in our happiest dreams of flying, or of the quintessence of life, “a green thought in a green shade”. He resembles those late medieval paintings of vegetable people, faces made out of fruit and leaves and sunlight: slightly sinister, at once funny and beautiful…

Nowadays Khezr might well be induced to reappear as the patron of modern militant eco-environmentalism, since he represents the fulcrum or nexus between wild (er) ness and the human / humane. Rather than attempt to moralize Nature (which never works because Nature is amoral), Khadirian Environmentalism would rejoice simultaneously both in its utter wildness and its “meaningfulness” — Nature as tajalli (the “shining through” of the divine into creation; the manifestation of each thing as divine light), Nature as an aesthetic realization.

From ~ Sacred Drift: Esasys on the Margins of Islam, pgs. 57, 138-139, 140, 143
By ~ Peter Lamborn Wilson

Al Khiḍr’s Feast Day is April 23.


Find A Copy Here.  Highly Recommended!

Peter Lamborn Wilson proposes a set of heresies, a culture of resistance, that dispels the false image of Islam as monolithic, puritan, and two-dimensional. Here is the story of the African-American noble Drew Ali, the founder of “Black Islam” in this country, and of the violent end of his struggle for “love, truth, peace, freedom, and justice.” Another essay deals with Satan and “Satanism” in Esoteric Islam; and another offers a scathing critique of “Authority” and sexual misery in modern Puritanist Islam. “The Anti-caliph” evokes a hot mix of Ibn Arabi’s tantric mysticism and the revolutionary teachings of the “Assassins.” The title essay, “Sacred Drift,” roves through the history and poetics of Sufi travel, from Ibn Khaldun to Rimbaud in Abyssinia to the Situationists. A “Romantic” view of Islam is taken to radical extremes; the exotic may not be “True,” but it’s certainly a relief from academic propaganda and the obscene banality of simulation.

“This is my brand of Islam: insurrectionary, elegant, dangerous, suffused with light – a search for poetic facts, a donation from and to the tradition of spiritual anarchy.” —Hakim Bey

“Peter Lamborn Wilson, in his book Sacred Drift: Essays on the Margins of Islam, offers an interesting window into the early evolution of Islamic ideas among African Americans.” —Abbas Milani, New Republic
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As Heard On Radio EarthRites:
Armand Amar: Poem Of The Atoms


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Beg for Love

Beg for Love.
Consider this burning, and those who
burn, as gifts from the Friend.
Nothing to learn.
Too much has already been said.
When you read a single page from
the silent book of your heart,
you will laugh at all this chattering,
all this pretentious learning.

– by Abu-Said Abil-Kheir

Shock The Angels

“There is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking.” – Jean Cocteau

Ray Donley. Figure with mask and skull 2006
Dear Friends,
Well, thrashing around again.  I have been submerged in projects, and finding myself distracted quite frequently by the ensnarement of social media.  I have been realizing how much time I spend on it.  I have posted art and media as a service for quite awhile, and found some wonderful artist, and shared some of my long standing loves as well, but I realized to the detriment of my own creative process with art.  As I spend more time working away on the computer, the less time I spend with pen and pencil, airbrush, and paint.  Trying to turn that around… oh, and blogging.  I am returning to that as well.
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I am actually looking for typewriter ribbons.  I have an old one, that is still in good nick.  I do like to write by hand, but there is something about a typewriter, the clicking and clacking, the feel of the keys and the paper.  I may have spent years on those machines.  They do have their limitations, but they do for stories, etc.  Poetry?  I think not, though I confess I did type poetry during my mad jags at 3:00 in the morning over the years.  I seriously don’t think is was very good though.  Poetry requires reciting it aloud, and memorizing the lines, or writing it down by hand.  I have been able to write it down by hand of course, but the modern world and writing is unkind to the memory.  How much have we lost because of that?  Think on the bards and poets who carried the Illiad, or The Cattle Raids in their heads, and passed it down through countless generations….
 —
 So, perhaps as I get older, a bit of the Luddite starts to assert itself, or as I feel time growing short for this ride on the Dharma Wheel, that I must attend to what gifts I have been given.  I believe that there are gifts that we either take up, or they flee to others.  I have given away many ideas over the years.  Gladly it seems, I have seen a few of those gifts give wealth and happiness to others.  I did my part, in dreaming them first, but not perhaps hard enough to make them fully mine.  A conduit of sorts for an interesting version of the muse….
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Anyway, I meander.  We have bought more space for the Radio Station with a generous donation, and we are putting some ideas in place for the future…. New shows coming of course, stay tuned.
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Announcements coming from The Invisible College as well, on several fronts.  Projects, projects.
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On the home front, Rowan & Suzanne have been off in Europe for almost 2 months.  I believe they will be coming back later next week, or in November. It has all been very nebulous  Lately they have been in Portugal trying out the port and cuisine, and apparently having the time of their lives. Rowan got to meet family in Scotland which was a love fest all around from what I heard from his Auntie.  You can catch up with the sweet twosome on FB and Instagram: Rowan S Floyd

 Well that is enough for tonight. Nice to be back with the Hares’ Tale.
Lots of material here, enjoy!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Recurrence
Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come
Poetry: Ira Cohen
Dead Rabbits: Here She Comes

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The Links:
The Emerging States?
Great Tits Are Evolving…!
Saber Tooth Kitten?
Dentine & The Ancient Ones
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This is wonderful!


Recurrence from Julius Horsthuis on Vimeo.

Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come Ambient Site

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Ira Cohen Poetry
Ira Cohen
The Arm of the Dorje
Sunyata – Song to the Winter Sun
There was much wind
but I new not how to call it,
a roomful of strangers,
how familiar the feeling,
how cold it must be – barefoot
at the fountain when the sun goes down,
how the brown people love the blond baby
The white horse which looks out
from the wall suggests a journey
I once might have taken,
a covered memory reeking of sulphur
Words, they can go anywhere,
can they tell me where I come from,
the name of my planet,
the empty space which was my home?
The condemned murderer longs for
a firing squad, knows
where to put the shadows
you keep inside –
Between hands there are worlds
of ashes & thunder,
silent collisions of meaning,
the utter sugar of nights
taken for granted
They say the sun rises every day,
that sleep is incidental
I say myself
& so I look for your face at dawn
rising over my grief, over
the twice told terrain, violet w/ciphers,
Suffused w/ yr eternal smile
I would offer my flesh to your tiger,
turn your stone wheels w/ my water
Longing for the peaks the stars say
it will be clear
Let us meet in the sky then
till we come closer down here.
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The Day of the Basilisk – The Wayfarer’s Song
It started in the dark room
thinking that night had fallen at dawn
Then arising we glued red eyes
into the dry sockets of a dead bird
its belly full of dirty cotton
Then across the paddies & out of
the town
where familiar figures of Kleist &
Eschenbach
rise from the road in eddies of dust
The voice of the Changeling names the day,
the day of the Basilisk, usurped
from the tyrant’s quest to know
how not to maim the Gilded Hind of
self knowledge
Licchavi sirens shortchanged of a renaissance
spread out cracked wooden arms,
split skulls of haunting beauty, smiling
Mud murtis made by nature distract
Goethean comments fearful of what is hidden
while the delicate head of Mahadev
whittled by the wind
still seals the lingam in the ancient temple
We look with Mudusa’s eyes
at the first born fruits,
the full breasts of the river
where there is no infidelity -The golden larva w/ the royal face of Narayan,
hold it by its tail & call it by its name
Narayan, Narayan
it will dance for you & shake its head,
it lives only on air -we do not know if
it is alive or if it is dead, so gilded
its beauty
The face of Vishnu etches a dream of
ancient seas tinted w/ fallen light
Your face is everywhere
Your glory rings out over the peaks
capped w/ flame
Your shadow is enclosed within your shadow
You watch yourself falling
While falling you watch yourself looking down
You want to pick up the Tamang corpse
no one will touch
You call the children of darkness,
refute the wasted years of salt
poured into furrows
You see the thread needled to the hem of Night
betrayed by the shinbone of Day
where the fear is burned away
You look w/ basilisk eyes
turning the day to stone,
touched & transfigured
by the human, by the changing,
by the eternal, the always repeating
Alone.Dhulikel/Panauti
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Imagine Jean Cocteau
Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
a Rock and Roll Band
Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges
disguised as Wm Shakespeare
Imagine that I’m the cousin of the Mayor
of New York or the King of Nepal
(I didn’t say Napoleon!)
Imagine what it is like to be in the glare
of hot lights when you are longing for dark
corners
Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal
Orchestra –
Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica
or someone weighing out bones on the edge
of the desert in Afghanistan
Imagine that these poems are recorded moments
of temporary sanity
Imagine that the clock was just turned back –
or forwards – a hundred years instead of an hour
Let us pretend that we have no place to go,
that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,
that our bags are packed & that we have one hour
to checkout time
Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not
imagination but experience which makes poetry,
and that behind every image,
behind every word there is something
I am trying to tell you,
something that really happened.
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Insomnia On Duke Ellington Boulevard July 14, Breakfast w/myself at the Olympia Diner, 106th & B’way
Fell asleep around 4 AM
w/ the TV on
Van Heflin & Barbara Stanwyck
enter my disturbed sleep
Sometimes the only way out
is to die, but happily
someone else escapes,
takes to the road, goes on
traveling.
I’m up at seven, go to the post office.,
send two Cuban alligators
to Brussels,
the read Gabriel’s column in NEWSDAY
about the real meaning of the closet,
feel nauseous, order a hardboiled egg
which come w/out a shell
mashed in a cup
Is my heart, too, yearning
for its dying hour?
Please bring me one order
of cool snow!
*
If I could remember just a fraction
of what I said on the telephone
If he could take his clothes off
and sit on the banks of the Ganga
If she could see the profile of Caliban
in the smoke over the oilfieds
If we could just take off & go to Madagascar
If they would stop killing each other
and wake up tomorrow morning
w/ a new vision
I would stick my head in a printing press
and you could read tomorrow’s paper today:EXTRA! EXTRA!
Read all about it
Poets’ brains prove to be useful!

P.S. Sometimes when I pick up my pen
it leaks gold all over the tablecloth.

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Dead Rabbits Here She Comes

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This Edition Is Dedicated To All The Lovers In The World…