So this is the time for a little bit of catch up/ketchup on what is going on with yours truly.
Working on the new Invisible College… getting within striking distance of publication at this point which has taken a year longer than I ever imagined. I could lay it at the feet of the Covid crisis but really it is on me for losing focus and jumping down a rather dark well around the election and losing friends to Covid and suicide this past year.
I have gotten my mojo back to an extent which is good, doing artwork and finally collating The Invisible College. The launch date hopefully we’ll be in the next couple of weeks, so just cross your fingers.
I’ve been playing with the idea of going on to Substack with my blog so I’ll have two places where you can find it here, and there. I’m pretty sure they’ll be different inputs and some crossed inputs on this.
Just a hint of what’s coming for The Invisible College. We have a theme this time focused on Alchemy for our 11th edition…
PD Newman has contributed and extract from his new book “Angels in Vermilion.” PD’s writings are sublime.
Whit Griffin has contributed some of his wonderful poetry from his epic poem “Uncanny Resonance“. I am still working my way through the main work and I have to say I am so impressed by this work.
Sasha Chaitow is interviewed by Ronnie Pontiac about her new book at “Atalanta Unveiled”, exploring one of the great classics of alchemical literature. Such a great interview. Truly.
Holly Van Fleet returns to the Invisible College with her “Alchemical Musings” and other subjects. Lots to like in this offering.
We have some unusual articles from artists. I am quite excited by the line up!
Andrea O’Reilly has an article on her pottery which is a first for the invisible College.., “Art of the Four Elements“. I would posit that pottery is the first of the alchemical arts.
Daniel Mirante discusses alchemy along with some of his fine art and his article “Psychegnosis”. Brilliant imagery, and word craft.
Madeline von Forester‘s excellent art steeped in alchemical references is explored in “Alchemy Expressed Through Surrealism“. Beautiful art, and quite moving.
Laurence Caruana discusses his alchemical journey from 1990s Montreal to the present time and “Speculum Alchemiae“. A grand adventure, worth your time.
There is a load of poetry from the Renaissance along Alchemical lines and other delights as well. This edition is dedicated to Ann & Sasha Shulgin for the amazing transformative work they did over the years to help change the world for a better place.
On The Menu:
The Golden Arm
Light Into Matter
Grizzly bear DNA maps onto Indigenous language families
The Fall Of Rome, A Good Thing?
Ancient Poesy: From the Greek. Some of my favourite works from days of yore…. G
Bring me Homer’s lyre, yes, bring it,
But leave that string of blood out
Bring a cup of versing rules
Oh and mix some metres in it
I will sing, then I’ll be dancing
Not a drop of sense left in me
I will dance to horn and zither
Crying out the cries that wine makes
Bring me Homer’s lyre, yes, bring it
Oh but take that string of blood out
In a dream
Anacreon, the singer of Teos,
Looked at me and laughingly addressed me.
And I ran up to him
And embraced him and kissed him.
He was an old man, but beautiful,
Beautiful and fond of wine.
His lips smelled of grapes.
Though he was already old and quaking
Eros led him by the hand.
As he passed by he took the wreath from his head
And gave it to me.
And I stupidly took it
And bound it around my forehead
And ever since
I have been mad with the sting of love.
The ladies say,
You really shouldn’t
Act that way;
Look in the mirror,
Your head is bald,
Your cheek is pale,
You’re getting old.
Well, ladies, I say,
I don’t know if my hair
Is thick or thin
And I don’t care
But the closer to death
I drift each day
The louder must I
Sing and play.
Here lies Anacreon,
An old man, a wine bibber,
And a lover of boys. His
Harp still sounds in silent
Acheron as he sings
Of the boys he left behind,
Megasthenes, who was so
Graceful, and that passionate
Thracian, Smerdies, and
Bathyllos and Euripile.
The vine tendrils mingle with
His carven beard, and the white
Marble smells of wine and myrrh.
Help! He is gone. That wild boy, Love, has escaped!
Just now, as day was breaking, he flew from his bed and was gone.
Description? Sweetly tearful, talks forever, swift, irreverent,
Slyly laughing, wings on his back, and carries a quiver.
His last name? I don’t know, for his father and mother,
Whoever they are, in earth or heaven, won’t admit it.
Everyone hates him, you see. Take care, take care,
Or even now he’ll be weaving new snares for your heart.
But hush—look there, turn slowly. You don’t deceive me, boy,
Drawing your bow so softly where you hide in Zenophile’s eyes.
Didn’t I tell you, oh soul, “Look out, you’ll be caught,
You silly thing, if you flutter so near her net?”
Didn’t I warn you?
And now the trap is sprung.
Why struggle in vain?
Love has tied your little wings,
Sprinkled you with cheap perfume, set you fainting in the fire
And given you, in your thirst, hot tears to drink.
That’s the message, Dorkas, and when you’ve told it to her
Then tell it to her again, and then again, now hurry.
But wait a minute; hold on there; slowly, my Dorkas, slowly.
Why are you rushing off before you’ve heard all your instructions?
Say also that I—but no. It’s more manly to be silent.
Don’t tell her a goddamn thing. Say only that I–. Tell it all!
All of it Dorkas, all of it! But, Dorkas, why did I send you,
When, look, I have followed after you, all the way to her door?
Do you leave the flowers of spring,
The lilies and the rest,
And plant your little sting
In Heliodora’s breast
To show that in love’s wound,
So deep and terrible,
A sweetness may be found
That makes life bearable?
Oh, please, your news is wasted,
I knew it long ago.
Do you think I have not tasted
Where you, drunkard, linger so?
If anything happens to me,
Kleoboulos my friend,
(For I am not safe—
I lie like a curling vine
Flung in the fire of girls)
before you send
My ashes under earth
pour in strong wine,
Then on the drunken urn write,
Love sends this gift to death”—
And bury me and go.
Dawn hateful to lovers, why do you rise so quickly
Beside my bed when I lie with delicious Demo?
Can’t you turn round, run back and be night again,
And stop that sweet smiling that pours out poison light?
Once before you did that, when Zeus was enjoying Alcmena.
Oh, learned at running backward! You can’t say you don’t know how. . .
Dawn hateful to lovers, why do you roll so slowly
Around the sad world when under another man’s blanket
Demo lies and sheds her god-like heat?
When it was my turn to hold her slender body in my arms
You couldn’t wait to hurl your disgusting light in my eyes.
Oh Night, and you, kind lamp beside his bed,
No one else was near so you
Were witness to our vows,
He that he’d love me,
I, that I’d never leave him,
Oh, you remember.
But now he says that vows flow away on the river,
Stay no longer than stay the breaking waves.
And you, oh lamp,
Now you see him lying
In someone else’s embrace.
I pray you, Eros, in the name of my muse I pray you,
Oh let me sleep and forget for a while this lust for Heliodora.
My god, I pray by your bow which doesn’t know how to shoot
At anyone else but day and night sinks shafts of screams in me!
Alright, no more prayers, you sonofabitch, you won’t get away with it.
With my last strength I write this poem for the police—
It was love—
Love killed me.
What I cannot see is how,
From the green wave rising,
Out of water, Oh Aphrodite,
You bred a flame.
There was once a man who travelled the land all over in search of a wife. He saw young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, and could not meet with one to his mind. At last he found a woman, young, fair, and rich, who possessed a right arm of solid gold. He married her at once, and thought no man so fortunate as he was. They lived happily together, but, though he wished people to think otherwise, he was fonder of the golden arm than of all his wife’s gifts besides.
At last she died. The husband put on the blackest black, and pulled the longest face at the funeral; but for all that he got up in the middle of the night, dug up the body, and cut off the golden arm. He hurried home to hide his treasure, and thought no one would know.
The following night he put the golden arm under his pillow, and was just falling asleep, when the ghost of his dead wife glided into the room. Stalking up to the bedside it drew the curtain, and looked at him reproachfully. Pretending not to be afraid, he spoke to the ghost, and said: ‘What hast thou done with thy cheeks so red?’
‘All withered and wasted away,’ replied the ghost in a hollow tone.
‘What hast thou done with thy red rosy lips?’
‘All withered and wasted away.’
‘What hast thou done with thy golden hair?’
‘All withered and wasted away.’
‘What hast thou done with thy Golden Arm?’
‘THOU HAST IT!’
Red Balloon: Wherein, the Small Faces perform a Tim Hardin classic…
So to wind this all up I just want to say thank you for your patience over the last year or so and I do hope that things are going to get better for all of us.
Radio EarthRites is still chugging along and I invite you to listen to it as we now have almost 10 GB of music and spoken word up on the site. There’s going to be a bunch of new programming coming up after the publication of the Invisible College and some before. I want to thank all who support it with their kind donations, keeping it afloat in these times I think is essential.
From the heat of the summer which was unprecedented in our lifetimes we are now going into early fall at least temperature wise here in the northwest. I enjoy the dance of the seasons, even during these chaotic times.
Well that’s about it for me at this point. I will let you know when the new Substack entries are going especially if it is a viable way of communicating.
Remember that love is the true path.