A Compendium Of Thoughts…
There are those that believe they control their creative output. Kudo’s to them, but after 50 years of working with art in various iterations, music, etc. I cannot agree with this.
I lay it down to the Muse. Her gifts are numerous, and what she brings is beyond measure. Know though, that she can be a harsh mistress, calling you at all hours, and in all situations Yes, you can ignore the call/impulse. She will take her gifts elsewhere, and some other creative will be gifted with what was offered to you.
After awhile of you not responding, she will no longer call on you. There is some terrible psychic pain in the world, but outside of losing a loved one, I have found this pain to be the most exacting.
Allow her in, demands and all. She will drive you incessantly. Time is short. It always is. Don’t put off what you can create today.
On The Menu:
It’s A Beautiful Afternoon/Radio EarthRites
New Blotter Art
Beauty Spot – Bill Laswell
3 Poets/3 Poems
Send Away – Hol Baumann
It’s another beautiful afternoon in the northwest paradise of Milwaukie Oregon.
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Gods of Divine Inebriation Blotter
|Gods of Divine Inebriation Blotter|
Golden Gate Park January 14, 1967 (Human Be-In)
|Golden Gate Park January, 14 1967(Human Be-In)Blotter|
Beauty Spot – Bill Laswell
Hymn to the Goddess San Francisco in Paradise – Gary Snyder
If you want to live high get high — Nihil C.
Up under the bell skirt
caving over the soil
white legs flashing
— amazed to see under their clothes they are
this makes them sacred
& more than they are in their own shape
the wildest cock-blowing
thus the most so —
high in the dark town
dream sex church
YAHWEH peyote spook
Mary the Fish-eyed
vomiting molten gold.
san fran sisco
hung over & swing down
dancers on water
oil slick glide
magical strikes —
howls of the guardians rise from the waterfront.
— state line beauties those switcher engines
warehouz of jewels and fresh fur
on its downhill springs
parked on mountainsides
white minarets in the night
demon fog chaos.
bison stroll on the grass.
languid and elegant, fucking while standing
young couples in silk
crystal towers gleam for a hundred miles
poison oak hedges, walld child garden
& the ring of mountains holding a cool
basin or pure evening fog
strained through the bridge
gold and orange,
beams of cars wiser than drivers
stream across promenades, causeways,
smiling the city Hall Altar to Heaven
they serve up the cock tail,
there is higher than nature in city
it spins in the sky
quenching the blue flame
tasting the tea brought from China
cracking the fresh duck egg on white plate
passed out the gates of our chambers
over the clear miles, ships
forever such ecstasy
wealth and such beauty
we live in the sign of Good Will…
(the white-robed saint trim my locks for
a paltry sun… life is
rolling lawns clippt and the smell of gum tree.
boiled crabs from a saltwater vat
bison and elk of Chrysopylae
eels in the rocks in the wave
olive oil, garlic, soy, hard cheese.
Devas of small merit in Jambudvipa
plucking sour berries to eat:
shall ascend to an eminence
scanning the scene
from the Farollones
long ship low far below
sliding under the bridge
bright white red-lead
— blue of the sea
on that ship is me
— smilers all on the nod nap on cots
but the slither & breakfree
tosst slipper up on the toe
& the white thighs open
the flesh of the wet flower
crossed eyes gleam come
flowery prints and
yellow kettles in a row
breast weight swelled down
kind chairmen smile around.
generals and presidents swallow
hoping they too can come
THERE IS NO WAY
turn back dead tourist
drop your crumb your funny passport
— fall back richer spenders
think you make with wild teenager
on hard forever
crust in jewel
— you are too old
the san francisco fake front strip tease
last a minute and they stink and die
THIS LAND IS FOR THE HIGH
& love is for ten thousand years
(damnd square climbers give me pains)
them wilty blossoms on her sweaty brow —
the flute and lute and drums
police cars siren down on Fillmore
fog clears back away
the police close in
& shoot the loose
& clouds are slipping by
& hide it in your pockets
— it all becomes plain sky.
Getting Rid of the Ego – Ken Wainio
It’s like getting married in the rain. A coach will pull up
at the edge of the dam when the flood starts and the bride
throws her flowers at the drowned. If you don’t believe this,
go to a monastery for ten years and study the light through a
keyhole. Without moving your eye from the door cut out a
piece of sky and wait for somebody to come with a key.
The flood is well up by this time. The dead are getting
married in rowboats and copulating on pieces of wreckage. If
you still don’t believe it, take out your keyhole and study the
drowned. They are discussing the possibilities of islands and
shaping tombstones into anchors. Their children hold their
breath underwater and pray to the God of Rain. He is
holding himself in a cloud making everybody worship the
flood. He is quite fond of suffering and has never understood
sociology. But the dead come with their pogo sticks and stare
up at the seat of his pants.
If you still don’t get this, go sit down in the nearest bar
and study the runway of faces. If anyone comes up to you and
demands your marriage certificate, take out your keyhole and
blast them with a peak of stars. If they are still sitting there
waiting for you to kill your ego, tell them the world is flat and
has an edge like the table. Drop something transparent over
the side and tell them it was the argument of Columbus on
his way to the new world.
The Shadow of Icarus – Katalin Ladik
Catches a glimpse of his own shadow
as he glides above silver meadows,
his black opened raincoat expands
on the hills that are covered with oil
cold cherries gasp among his wings,
He is suffocating as all turns into night around him
He is happy and He falls into the sky.
— translated from the Hungarian by Emöke Z. B’Racz
Ah, in those earliest days of love how naturally the kisses spring into life! So closely, in their profusion, do they crowd together that lovers would find it as hard to count the kisses exchanged in an hour as to count the flowers in a meadow in May. Marcel Proust