Well, here we are. Oregon saw an interesting year, with some good, some bad. I am going to concentrate on the good. The big one for me, was seeing all manner of drugs decriminalized.(see above!) (microdosing, dosing, is legal!) Heavens, sane drug policies. Changes can happen.
On the personal front, we are well. Missing folks, work etc., yet the days are filled somehow with wonderful times. Mary and I have found a quiet and beautiful place together, I have no regrets in the days and nights that have passed. Lots of love, laughter, good moments. We will be glad when the present situation eases. Oh, there will be parties!
I am going to skip links on this entry, there is enough here to digest without me adding extraneous information flow.
Enjoy Your Visit!
On The Menu:
On Missing Blog Post & Other Phenomena
Radio EarthRites Updates
Gil Scott-Heron “Gun”
The Poetry of Ursula Le Guin
The White Trout
Gil Scott-Heron “Work For Peace”
On Missing Blog Post & Other Phenomena:
The last few months has been a remarkable ride.
Along the way, by concentrating on the media circus, I short circuited the creative part of my being by indulging the paranoid bit(s) in my mind. More than indulged, it took root, grew, blossomed… and withered away. Finally. (I hope)
I was going to write about the events in the body politics of the last few months, but truly I am done with it at this point. That blog post just sat there waiting to be done, but it never came to fruition. I have driven friends crazy with my postings from Reddit and other sources. I have been swimming in the tides of various rightwing political sites trying to figure out what was happening. I am no closer than when I started, must give it all a great rest
I’ve decided to return to source. Source for me is Art, Poetry, and living an Authentic Life as possible. Sometimes I achieve it, other times, not. Not for lack of trying, I assure you. I have to say that on occasion I have been attending an online Zendo on Wednesdays, which has helped with centering. Wood working has helped. Getting Radio EarthRites going with 10gb of storage rather than 2gb. Returning to the publishing. Restoring focus, on the real.
I do have great concerns for the US, and the world situation, but my dwelling on it doesn’t solve it. People have enough on their plate with the Virus, and the chaos that has swirled around us all as of late. I will not add to it.
I am here to speak if I can, for possible futures. We all are I feel, each individuation of being. We have lots to do to secure the world now, and I do have that rare feeling of presque vu, that tingling of something just beyond, waiting that is now coursing through me at the present. There are visions I must attend to, and try to make them manifest.
I would like to apologize to those who I bombarded with endless links, pictures, etc. Wanting connection, in a disconnected time.
Radio EarthRites Updates:
Well, we have taken the plunge and upgraded the server at the provider going from 2gb of online material to 10gb. Quite excited about this! It makes it easier to work with, and to grow shows, etc. Still trying to figure out how to do a schedule with WP without tearing my hair out.
The first of the Spoken Word shows is up, Tuesdays & Fridays, “Terence Incognita”. This will be an ongoing service. Terence delivers a brilliant mélange of language, concept and possible futures. Still a heady mix all these years on.
Expect Poetry, Storytelling, Philosophy as well. Stay Tuned!
Gil was always a great inspiration. I started listening to his works over a half century ago. His political observations, stories, chants, dreams informed my life over decades. I was going to write about the current times, and use his works to illustrate some of my parallel thoughts & observations. The gun thing is a uniquely American vision. The US was actually born out of the attempted seizure of weapons from militias in Massachusetts at Lexington & Concord. Gil addresses some of this all very brilliantly in the dialogue before the song, and within it as well…
Gil Scott Heron: Gun
The Poetry of Ursula Le Guin
I first came across her works in the late 60s early 70s. Her take on gender roles and on anarchist theory informed my life from then on. The first book of hers that I recall reading was, “The Left Hand of Darkness”. It was an interesting tale of sexuality and fluid gender roles. I think I was about 19 when I read it. Profound, and deeply human, it is a great work. She could of died right after publishing it, and her place would of still been cemented in the Pantheon of American Literature. Yet, her influence on my life didn’t stop there.
When I reached the age of 25-26, I found her book, “The Dispossessed”. This is a tale of Anarchism, free will, sacrifice & conscience. I read it in just under two days. I wept after I read it, as it incapsulated much of what had been going on inside of my mind regarding my pov around what I wanted for the world, and myself. It was shattering in that I had no idea that others had similar thoughts. I was ignorant of Anarchist theory, it wasn’t like it was taught in school, or readily available in book stores. This of course was pre-public internet. The concept of no hierarchies, the concept of gifting the world your attention, life, talents was a breath of fresh air. I had no idea that such freedom could exist, even if just in theory.
I was always going to write her and thank her for the influences that she had on the various aspects of my life. Of course as I usually do I put it off thinking everyone immortal to some degree or another.
On one spring afternoon on Hawthorne boulevard in Portland at the Fred Meyers store Mary & I were sitting upstairs by the escalators checking out the yard furniture and dreaming of what we could do with what was available. Suddenly Ursula and her husband came up the escalator heading to the parking lot, and my mouth dropped as she was rushing him out the door telling her husband to hurry they had other things to do and I sat there in absolute heroine worship mode. I thought to get up, and go thank her for her works, but I didn’t, not wanting to intrude on her day.
I can name a few writers/poets who have influenced me; Robert Graves, J.R.R.R Tolkien, Ursula LeGuin, Ibn Arabi, William Butler Yeats, Ray Bradbury to name but a few. Their books, writings, poetry have all added to my life over the years.
I am grateful for Ursula’s place in my literary world. Here are a few poems of hers, an area I haven’t explored enough.
gold of amber
red of ember
brown of umber
Over the bright shallows
now no flights of swallows.
Leaves of the sheltering willow
dangle thin and yellow.
At four in the morning the west wind
moved in the leaves of the beech tree
with a long rush and patter of water,
first wave of the dark tide coming in.
On the longest night of all the year
in the forests up the hill,
the little owl spoke soft and clear
to bid the night be longer still.
THE WINDS OF MAY
are soft and restless
in their leafy garments
that rustle and sway
making every moment movement.
The dogwood cowered under the thunder
and the lilacs burned like light itself
against the storm-black sky until the hail
whitened the grass with petals.
Come to Dust
Spirit, rehearse the journeys of the body
that are to come, the motions
of the matter that held you.
Rise up in the smoke of palo santo.
Fall to the earth in the falling rain.
Sink in, sink down to the farthest roots.
Mount slowly in the rising sap
to the branches, the crown, the leaf-tips.
Come down to earth as leaves in autumn
to lie in the patient rot of winter.
Rise again in spring’s green fountains.
Drift in sunlight with the sacred pollen
to fall in blessing.
All earth’s dust
has been life, held soul, is holy.
I’m half unseen,
to me, my skin
to all within.
My eyes can see a star,
but not my mind.
The I think, the more
I am unfamiliar.
Insight is half blind
Where is my core?
What inwardnesses are
Mother rain, manifold, measureless,
falling on fallow, on field and forest,
on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,
downwelling waters all-washing, wider
than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster
than countrysides, calming, recalling:
return to us, teaching our troubled
souls in your ceaseless descent
to fall, to be fellow, to feel to the root,
to sink in, to heal, to sweeten the sea.
Out here, there is another way to be.
There is a rising brightness in the rock,
a singing in the silence of the tree.
Something is always moving, running free,
as quick and still as quail move in a flock.
The hills out here know a hard way to be.
I have to listen for it patiently:
a drumming canter slowing to a walk,
a flutter in the silence of a tree.
The owl’s call from the rimrock changes key.
What door will open to the flicker’s knock?
Out here there is another way to be,
described by the high circles of a hawk
above what hides in silence in the tree.
The cottonwoods in their simplicity
talk softly on, as hidden waters talk,
an almost silent singing in the tree
that says, here is another way to be.
How it Seems to Me
In the vast abyss before time, self
is not, and soul commingles
with mist, and rock, and light. In time,
soul brings the misty self to be.
Then slow time hardens self to stone
while ever lightening the soul,
till soul can loose its hold of self
and both are free anc can return
to vastness and dissolve in light,
the long light after time.
An Irish Fairy Tale… in the vernacular.
The White Trout; A Legend of Cong
BY S. LoverThere was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king’s son, and they war to be married, when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn’t keep his promise to the fair lady–and more’s the pity.
Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase av loosin’ the king’s son–for she was tendher-hearted, God help her, like the rest iv us!–and pined away after him, until at last, no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.
Well, sir, in coarse a’ time, the White Throut, God bless it, was seen in the sthrame beyant, and sure the people didn’t know what to think av the crathur, seein’ as how a white throut was never heard av afar, nor since; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell–aye throth, and beyant the memory a’ th’ ouldest in the village.
At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?–and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the white throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin’ a’ the likes; and one a’ them in partic’lar (bad luck to him; God forgi’ me for saying it!) swore he’d catch the throut and ate it for his dinner–the blackguard!
Well, what would you think o’ the villainy of the sojer? Sure enough he catch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin’-pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a christian crathur, and, my dear, you’d think the sojer id split his sides laughin’–for he was a harden’d villain; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fly the other; and, what would you think, but the divil a taste of a burn was an it all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a quare throut that could not be briled. “But,” says he, ‘I’ll give it another turn by-and-by,” little thinkin’ what was in store for him, the haythen.
Well, when he thought that side was done he turns it agin, and lo and behould you, the divil a taste more done that side was nor the other. “Bad luck to me,” says the sojer, “but that bates the world,” says he; “but I’ll thry you agin, my darlint,” says he, “as cunnin’ as you think yourself;” and so with that he turns it over, but not a sign of the fire was on the purty throut. “Well,” says the desperate villain–(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villain entirely, he might know he was doing a wrong thing, seein’ that all his endeavours was no good)–“Well,” says he, “my jolly little throut, maybe you’re fried enough, though you don’t seem over well dress’d; but you may be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a tit-bit afther all,” says he; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a piece a’ the throut; but, my jew’l, the minit he puts his knife into the fish, there was a murtherin’ screech, that you’d think the life id lave you if you hurd it, and away jumps the throut out av the fryin’-pan into the middle a’ the flure; and an the spot where it fell, up riz a lovely lady–the beautifullest crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, and a band a’ goold in her hair, and a sthrame a’ blood runnin’ down her arm.
“Look where you cut me, you villain,” says she, and she held out her arm to him–and, my dear, he thought the sight id lave his eyes.
“Couldn’t you lave me cool and comfortable in the river where you snared me, and not disturb me in my duty?” says she.
Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last he stammered out somethin’, and begged for his life, and ax’d her ladyship’s pardin, and said he didn’t know she was on duty, or he was too good a sojer not to know betther nor to meddle wid her.
“I was on duty, then,” says the lady; “I was watchin’ for my true love that is comin’ by wather to me,” says she, “an’ if he comes while I’m away, an’ that I miss iv him, I’ll turn you into a pinkeen, and I’ll hunt you up and down for evermore, while grass grows or wather runs.”
Well the sojer thought the life id lave him, at the thoughts iv his bein’ turned into a pinkeen, and begged for mercy; and with that says the lady–
“Renounce your evil coorses,” says she, “you villain, or you’ll repint it too late; be a good man for the futhur, and go to your duty 1 reg’lar, and now,” says she, “take me back and put me into the river again, where you found me.”
“Oh, my lady,” says the sojer, “how could I have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like you?”
But before he could say another word, the lady was vanished, and there he saw the little throut an the ground. Well he put it in a clean plate, and away he runs for the bare life, for fear her lover would come while she was away; and he run, and he run, even till he came to the cave agin, and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the wather was as red as blood for a little while, by rayson av the cut, I suppose, until the sthrame washed the stain away; and to this day there’s a little red mark an the throut’s side, where it was cut. 2
Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an altered man, and reformed his ways, and went to his duty reg’lar, and fasted three times a-week–though it was never fish he tuk an fastin’ days, for afther the fright he got, fish id never rest an his stomach–savin’ your presence.
But anyhow, he was an altered man, as I said before, and in coorse o’ time he left the army, and turned hermit at last; and they say he used to pray evermore for the soul of the White Throut.
[These trout stories are common all over Ireland. Many holy wells are haunted by such blessed trout. There is a trout in a well on the border of Lough Gill, Sligo, that some paganish person put once on the gridiron. It carries the marks to this day. Long ago, the saint who sanctified the well put that trout there. Nowadays it is only visible to the pious, who have done due penance.]
Another of Gil’s works that I find pertinent to our times, timeless his work truly is.
Gil Scott Heron: Work For Peace
No one is to be called an enemy, all are your benefactors, and no one does you harm. You have no enemy except yourselves.
Francis of Assisi