Pointing To The Future…

(Vimana III – Gwyllm Llwydd)


Well the world keeps turning and life keeps churning. I have a few new projects going, but I felt in the mood this evening for a bit o’ Turfing…
This one seems full of ‘P’s’ for some reason, just check out the titles. Anyhoooo… here is to the future and those who are gathered together to deliver it kicking and squirming. I was lucky enough to stumble upon some writings from Dale R. Gowin, a fellow traveler…
Oh yes, I want to share with you that I heard from Walter Medeiros that he finally got Satty’s ‘Visions Of Frisco’ published! Check back to Earthrites/Turfing in the next couple of days, and I will have ordering information for you!
I hope you enjoy this entry… 8o)
Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Portishead – The Rip

Principles Of Revolutionary Luminism – Dale R. Gowin

Poetry For Spring: Hafiz

Portishead – We Carry On

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Portishead – The Rip (Live Jools Holland

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And Now…. I know Dale from a Email Group that we are both on. If you get a chance, check out his site (listed below) I think he is truly onto something, and I tip my hat to him- Gwyllm
A brief word from Dale R. Gowin:

The Luminist Manifesto – The Future Begins Now
Three axioms of a viable worldwide revolutionary consensus:
I. Every person born on Earth is an equal co-heir of the commonwealth of Earth.

II. No collective policy is legitimate unless it has the full consent and agreement of every person affected by it.

III. Voluntary cooperation for mutual benefit is the most efficient and satisfactory basis for all economic and social relations.

Principles Of Revolutionary Luminism

By Dale R. Gowin

www.luminist.org

This essay was written in 1996 while the author was incarcerated in a prison in New York State. It was revised in January 1998, and further revisions were made in June 1998. It includes a summary of some of the concepts contained in the Proposal for the Formation of the Church of Gnostic Luminism.

The goals of Revolutionary Luminism are the total liberation of the human race, individually and collectively, and a worldwide expansion of human consciousness into higher, more inclusive states from which the realities of our present historical and evolutionary situation can be accurately perceived and properly addressed.
Revolutionary Luminism seeks to enable the self-actualization of every member of the human race, and seeks to implement a worldwide society that will insure full liberty, autonomy, and security for every woman and man on Earth – not a “world government”: rather a worldwide grassroots free-market anarchocommunist commonwealth based on voluntary cooperation, individual liberty and personal responsibility – “all for (every) one and (every) one for all”.
This vision has been the goal of all true revolutionary movements in history, though it has never been realized due to the unripeness of human evolution and the counter-revolutionary strategies of a privileged elite addicted to tyrannical power and personal profit.
The vision of a worldwide libertarian commonwealth has also been the secret goal of an underground tradition which has existed within and outside of the Freemasonic Fraternities of the world – a tradition which traces its history through the Theosophists and Rosicrucians, the Illuminati and the Knights Templar, the Gnostics and the Essenes, Hermeticists and Pythagoreans, and on back into the mists of pre-history.
We are now entering an era in which these strands are twining together and this elusive dream of liberty is becoming both a real possibility and a real necessity – at the least a necessity for the preservation of civilization, and ultimately a prerequisite for human survival on Earth.
The forces which oppose our goal are also uniting, and are in fact in virtually complete control of Earth at this moment. Their motivation is to squeeze Earth like a grape and quench their lust for short-range profits on Her final agonies. As Jim Keith writes: “If you haven’t gotten the idea that this world is run by a criminal elite lacking the slightest concern for the welfare of mankind, then you haven’t been paying attention.”
This opposition is led by a dark cabal of ultra-rich elitists who are plotting the establishment of a totalitarian world government, a “new world order” in which the institutional violence and coercion of State Authority will be cemented into permanence. The top 3% of Earth’s population who own or control 97% of our substance seek to realize their 6,000-year-old objective of world domination. They plan to use their technologies of mass brainwashing and mind control, genocide, genetic manipulation, and ecocide to totally enslave or eliminate entire cultures, classes, and races of humanity. They plan to establish an omnipotent, monolithic, hierarchical, insectoid technocracy which will crush human liberty into extinction beneath its jack-boots.
We will not allow them to achieve their twisted apocalyptic dream. A signal has gone forth through the synapses of all sentient life, an alarm bell to wake the sleeping masses. We must rouse ourselves from our somnambulistic trance, shake off the chains of State and Corporate conditioning and indoctrination, and take our places in the spontaneously arising Legions of Light, Life, Love, and Liberty that are unfurling their banners throughout the world.
The entrenched late-20th-century power structures of Earth comprise the ultimate and absolute enemy of human liberty, equality and fraternity; of biodiversity and ecological health; of truth, justice, and love; of the survival of life on Earth.
Revolutionary Luminism is a flaming sword that can slay this world-consuming Leviathan.
BASIC PRINCIPLES

The term Luminism (also spelled “Illuminism”) refers to the experience of “enlightenment” – the expansion of human consciousness into states which allow direct personal experience of reality (gnosis).
This expanded consciousness provides access to new perspectives from which the apparent contradictions between science and religion disappear, as well as those between the spiritual and the political.
For convenience, the essential revelations made available by the gnostic experience can be summarized under four basic philosophical headings:
(1) Ontology, or, “What is real?”
(2) Epistemology, or, “How do you know?” (Both grammatical senses of this question are implied; i.e., “What is the source and nature of your knowledge?” and “How does knowing happen?”)
(3) Ethics, or, “What is the right (good, virtuous, beneficial) way for us to live and act as humans on Earth?” and
(4) Political theory, or, “How should human society on Earth be organized?”
The concepts summarized below are not presented as dogma to be believed; rather they are discoveries made by empirically verifiable research, which can be experimentally demonstrated and proven in the laboratory of the human mind and heart.
I. Ontology:

Consciousness in itself is the First Cause, the Prime Mover, the Supreme Being. Consciousness in itself comprises the totality of “ultimate reality”. Consciousness is prior to, not a product of, material forms. Consciousness in itself permeates all of time and space, yet it is not limited to the dimensions of time and space; it may be referred to technically as “eternal” and “infinite”. Consciousness in itself is formless, yet it permeates and manifests all forms.
Consciousness is a basic force of the universe, like gravity and the nuclear forces that bind atoms together. The human brain does not generate consciousness as an “epiphenomenon”, like a generator produces electricity; rather, the brain is analogous to a radio receiver that picks up the “broadcast” of consciousness.
Consciousness is in itself the ultimate identity or “true self” of every person and every living being. The human “ego” or apparent self is an artificial construct comprised of various levels of exterior identifications. These levels include the mind (memories, habits of thought, mannerisms, personality); the body (appearance, gender); one’s physical accoutrements (clothing, car, house, property, etc.); and one’s “social self” (family, genealogy, tribe, nation, class, race, etc.). The “true self” – the part of one’s self that is ultimately real – is prior to all of these and dependent on none of them.
Your own innermost Self (whoever you are) is a pure expression of universal Consciousness, embodying and enlivening the various levels of exterior being that comprise your apparent self. As such, the True Self has no beginning and no end, was not created and cannot be destroyed (in conformation with the laws of conservation of matter and energy). What we call “death” is the change that occurs when one’s essential Self separates from the various levels of exterior identification that it has been attached to during a specific sojourn in time and space. The True Self, your own most real essence, cannot die.
When the True Self separates from its outermost (physical) levels of identification, yet retains connection with various intermediate (mental, emotional) levels, it may retain connection to the physical world and return to physical life in a new body (i.e. reincarnate). This return occurs in obedience to a force of attraction caused by one’s deeds, words, and thoughts during a lifetime, which cause vibratory reactions (every action has an equal and opposite reaction). This force of attraction is called “karma” in Sanskrit and is a fundamental law of the universe.
II. Epistemology:

Consciousness knows the truth about itself and about all things. Every human being can access this knowledge by “going within” or focusing one’s attention on the subjective nature of one’s consciousness rather than one’s exterior identifications.
This inward focusing of the attention can lead to the experience of Illumination, or spontaneous intuitive apprehension of reality. Knowledge obtained in this manner is accompanied by a subjective sense of certainty and authenticity. With experience and training, this sense of certainty can be tuned and refined into an instrument of exacting accuracy and precision. It may indeed become one of the standard tools of 21st century science.
The Illumination experience can be nurtured and developed by numerous methods that have been developed during many millennia of underground Luminist experimentation and research. Among these methods are yoga, meditation, religious practices, shamanism, the martial arts, ceremonial Magick, Qabalah, sensory deprivation, modern technologies like biofeedback and “brain machines”, and – most importantly for our own era – controlled use of entheogenic (psychedelic) herbs and chemicals.
These tools and techniques can facilitate access to altered states of consciousness of many sorts. One classic reference to these altered states was written by the seminal psychologist and philosopher William James in his Varieties of Religious Experience: “Sour normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness, definite types of mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded.”
Results obtained from the Illumination experience can be checked and verified by the syncretic/eclectic method of objective analysis. “Syncretic” implies awareness of and open-mindedness toward all available sources of knowledge; and “eclectic” implies the selective use of only those elements of each which prove to be valid after exacting scrutiny and careful evaluation. When information deriving from gnostic experiences is supported by a “preponderance of evidence” from multiple sources, it may be tentatively accepted as valid. When one’s personal revelations harmonize with the “golden thread” of valid truth found by syncretic/eclectic research in the myriads of religious, philosophical, and scientific traditions of Earth, then the results may be accepted as reliable and sound.
III. Ethics

All living beings, as has been said above, are expressions of the same universal essence (which may be referred to as Consciousness, Life, Spirit, God, or the Self, according to personal preference). The recognition that other beings share one’s own essential Self forms the basis of all truly valid ethical principles. The ideal referred to as “the Golden Rule” in Christianity reflects this central realization. In practical terms, it might be expressed in the words, “Pain hurts (and pleasure pleases) the other as much as it does me.” Thus compassion and empathy are valid guides to ethical correctness in all situations.
To exterior appearance, living beings seem to be separate, but the eyes of Illumination reveal that the Many are fundamentally inseparable from the One. Therefore, ultimately, anything which benefits another also benefits oneself, and “an injury to one is an injury to all”. The principle of mutual aid follows from this realization. Actions which benefit others as well as oneself are ethically sound, and aid to some degree in the upliftment of the collectivity of which the individual is a part; and actions which benefit oneself at the expense or to the detriment of others are ethically wrong in that they detract to some degree from the wellbeing of the whole.
The accuracy of the information that flows between individuals in society is an essential element of the healthful functioning of the totality, in the same way that the flow of neuroelectrical data through the human nervous system and the synapses of the brain is integral to the healthful functioning of the body and the cells which compose it. Therefore truthfulness is an essential ethical principle of the highest importance. Truthfulness may be defined as an honest attempt to embody and bear witness to the truth to the best of one’s ability, and to refrain from deliberately deceiving or misleading others. On a personal level, truthfulness eliminates the accumulation of subconscious “baggage”, lingering thoughts and feelings that are repressed from conscious awareness. This “baggage” impedes the consciousness expansion necessary for Illumination and insulates the individual from participation in the telepathic or transpersonal psychic experiences which provide meaning and enrichment to our lives and aid in the acceleration of human social evolution into more humane and intelligent forms.
Harmlessness, ahimsa in Sanskrit, is the attempt to live in such a way as to inflict the absolute minimum necessary harm to other living beings, rooted in the realization that they are not truly “other” but co-participants with us in an organic totality. One immediate application of this principle is vegetarianism, the choice to refrain from eating the flesh of animals or using products whose production involves the death or suffering of animals. On a purely physical level, there is strong evidence that humans are not genetically designed to digest animal flesh, but that the human teeth and digestive system was engineered by evolution to process seeds, nuts, grains, fruits and herbs. Anthropological evidence indicates that our early human ancestors were not hunters, but scavengers who harvested bone-marrow from the leavings of carnivores during shortages of plant proteins. Actual flesh eating probably originated from the extreme environmental pressures of the Pleistocene ice age. Continuation of this practice in times of abundance is detrimental to human health. On a spiritual level, vegetarianism aids in the development of empathy, compassion, and the realization of the unity of all life.
Another essential principle is pacifism, the choice to refrain from deliberately harming or injuring other humans. Aside from the minimum force necessary to protect the life and liberty of self and loved ones, it is wrong to participate in the infliction of harm on others, either personally or by participation in social institutions formed to inflict wholesale harm. Conscientious application of this principle requires us to refrain from supporting such institutions in any way, even by taxation, and to do everything within our power to aid in their reduction and elimination.
Similarly, anarchism, considered as an ethical principle, is the choice to refrain from any form of coercion, and refusal to participate in any social institutions that practice it (i.e. government, which actually is a form of organized crime wearing a thin veneer of pretended legitimacy). By extension, this principle requires us to aid the deconstruction and dissolution of such institutions, and their replacement with institutions based on voluntary cooperation and mutual aid, in every possible way.
The principle of biostewardship is the responsibility we share as humans to care for and preserve the ecological health and safety of the natural world of which we are apart, and the biodiversity of our environment. We must actively oppose any institution, “public” or “private”, which needlessly endangers or harms the flora and fauna of Earth.
IV. Political Theory:

Every human being is a citizen of the Universe, prior to citizenship in any lesser jurisdiction such as nation or race. Proof of citizenship is the fact of existence; your membership card is your belly button. Universal citizenship confers certain inherent and inalienable rights, including, as Thomas Jefferson phrased it, “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”.
Every person who is alive on Earth is a co-heir of Earth, entitled by right of inheritance to a fair and equal share of the resources drawn from the planet by society. Thus, no person can legitimately be deprived of access to the necessities of life, including food, shelter, clothing, medical care and education. A clear indicator of the degree of justice in a society is the extent to which it insures these rights to every citizen. Any society that denies the essential prerequisites of survival to any person is unjust, an outlaw state; and it is the moral duty of all honest Earth-dwellers to work tirelessly toward the abolition of such states, and their replacement with alternative social institutions based on voluntary cooperation and mutual aid.
The just society will recognize the Royal Sovereignty of the Individual. Within the sphere of private actions which do not infringe upon the liberty and autonomy of others, the freedom of the individual is absolute. Any coercive interference with the freedom of individual action, if such action does no harm to others, is tyranny, and may justly be resisted by any means necessary.
The authority with which the collective decisions of a just society will be enforced will be legitimate only if it has the full, informed, voluntary consent and agreement of every person affected by it. “Authority” imposed without consent is tyranny, and may justly be resisted by any means necessary.
A worldwide social system based on these Revolutionary Luminist principles is destined to come into being on Earth; its pattern is programmed into the DNA code of the human species. The ancient prayer, “Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven”, expresses a foreshadowing of this future society. However, our achievement of this genetic destiny is threatened by the dark powers that rule the planet in these last days of the Old Millenium – forces intoxicated by the evil and averse dream of world domination, armed with geocidal megadeath machines, blindly pursuing the illusory loot of profit and power at the expense of all else. A choice must be made between these two destinies, and those who are now alive on Earth must make this choice.
The worldwide voluntary/cooperative society of the future can be prefigured by the social-organic metaphor. The goods and services required for survival and happiness will be provided to every individual by society in the same way that the bloodstream nourishes each cell of our bodies. A technological communication and information system will connect every member of society just as the nervous system connects the cells and organs of our bodies. In a healthy organic system, every discrete unit is autonomous and self-regulating; each cell follows its own built-in instructions (i.e. its own “will”).
The economy of the future world society will not require money as a medium of exchange; it will be a gift economy. Goods and services will be provided as free gifts to whoever needs them, and the work of production will be performed voluntarily, as each worker chooses. The motivation for production will be the natural human desire to provide superior enjoyments for self and others. The increased efficiency afforded by a voluntary/cooperative economy, coupled with the technologies of cybernetic automation, will provide virtually limitless abundance and leisure for everyone.
Bringing this future society into being will require an act of revolution on an unprecedented scale. It is the nature of coercive authority to resist relinquishing its grip on its victims at all costs. The 6,000-year-old conspiracy of darkness that rules the Earth today and threatens us all with, in George Orwell’s words, “a boot stamping on a human face forever”, is so entrenched and all-pervasive that it can only be deposed by a spontaneous, simultaneous worldwide uprising of the people. Bringing this revolution about is the only activity that is truly worthwhile; it provides the only hope for a future of liberty, security and peace, for an end to the suffering, tyranny, and ecocide that characterizes 20th century Earth society. We have had the First and Second World Wars; now we must have the First World Revolution.
But “revolution” does not necessarily imply “violence”. Such tactics as work stoppages, boycotts, tax refusal, and organization of cooperatives and collectives, have the potential to bring the planetary death machine down, if enough people participate.
The Revolutionary Luminist strategy for creating the necessary worldwide social revolution involves making the miracle of Illumination available to as many Earthdwellers as possible. As minds and hearts around the world are opened to the light of revelation, the innate intuitive recognition of the necessity of change will be unavoidable for more and more women and men every day. A clear consensus of “the way it ought to be” will begin to emerge as a “critical mass” of humanity becomes awakened.

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Poetry For Spring: Hafiz


I Will Hire You as a Minstrel
Take one of my tears,

Throw it into the ocean
And watch the salt in the wounds

Of this earth and men begin to disappear.
Take one of my tears

And cradle it in your palm.

Mount a great white camel

And carry my love into every desert,

Paying homage to every Prophet

Who has ever walked in our world.
O take one of my tears

And stop weeping only for sadness,
For there is so much More to this life

Than you now understand.
Take one of my tears

And become like the Happy One,

O like the Happy One –

Who now lives Forever

Within me.
When a drop from my Emerald Sea

Touches your soul’s mouth,

It will dissolve everything but your Joy

And an Eternal Wonder.
Then,

The Beloved will gladly hire you

As His minstrel
To go traveling about this world,

Letting everyone upon this earth
Hear

The Beautiful Names of God

Resound in a thousand chords!
Hafiz himself is singing tonight

In Resplendent Glory,
For the cup in my heart

Has revealed the Beloved’s Face,

And I have His oath in writing
That He will never again depart.
0 Hafiz, take one of your tears,

For you are weeping like a golden candle-
Throw one tear into the Ocean of your own verse
And let the wounds

Of every lover of God who kneels in prayer

And comes close to your words

Begin, right now,

To disappear.

The Secret
I need a drink, wine maiden, that cup with grape stain lined,

for love that once seemed pleasing has burdened down my mind.
Ah smell how West Wind wafts her musk through the tavern door;

now feel our pumping hearts beat fast, watch our fears unwind.
Why do we who visit love think we’d stay forever?

We know the yearn to wander will always lovers find.
So we asked the Elder: What law makes love bring pain?

Sobriety, he laughed, you’ll feel better when you’re wined.
Your plight cannot be aided by that dull fear to risk

the toss and turn of love’s dark storm upon the ocean blind.
See clear in all these gathered friends who still hold you dear

love’s secret is that you must love without desires that bind.
Hafez, enjoy the one you love, drink deep and embrace;

seek not with her to please your world, just give love and be kind.

What Happens?
What happens when your soul

Begins to awaken

Your eyes

And your heart

And the cells of your body

To the great Journey of Love?
First there is wonderful laughter

And probably precious tears
And a hundred sweet promises

And those heroic vows

No one can ever keep.
But still God is delighted and amused

You once tried to be a saint.

What happens when your soul

Begins to awake in this world

To our deep need to love

And serve the Friend?
O the Beloved

Will send you

One of His wonderful, wild companions ~

Like Hafiz.

A Brimming Cup of Wine

A Flower-Tinted cheek, the flowery close

Of the fair earth, these are enough for me

Enough that in the meadow wanes and grows

The shadow of a graceful cypress-tree.

I am no lover of hypocrisy;

Of all the treasures that the earth can boast,

A brimming cup of wine I prize the most–

This is enough for me!
To them that here renowned for virtue live,

A heavenly palace is the meet reward;

To me, the drunkard and the beggar, give

The temple of the grape with red wine stored!

Beside a river seat thee on the sward;

It floweth past-so flows thy life away,

So sweetly, swiftly, fleets our little day–

Swift, but enough for me!
Look upon all the gold in the world’s mart,

On all the tears the world hath shed in vain

Shall they not satisfy thy craving heart?

I have enough of loss, enough of gain;

I have my Love, what more can I obtain?

Mine is the joy of her companionship

Whose healing lip is laid upon my lip–

This is enough for me!
I pray thee send not forth my naked soul

From its poor house to seek for Paradise

Though heaven and earth before me God unroll,

Back to thy village still my spirit flies.

And, Hafiz, at the door of Kismet lies

No just complaint-a mind like water clear,

A song that swells and dies upon the ear,

These are enough for thee!

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Portishead – We Carry On LIVE On Jools Holland

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Two Songs – Three Poems

One of those late at night postings…

so, short and sweet!
On The Menu:

Gradam Ceoil

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MYRDIN AND HIS SISTER GWENDYDD

How Lancelot Came to the Nunnery in Search of the Queen

Cerdic And Arthur

Iarla O Lionaird – I Am Asleep
I return to the old theme, one of tribe, love, music, poetry. I hope you enjoy!
Gwyllm
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Gradam Ceoil

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A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MYRDIN AND HIS SISTER GWENDYDD.
RED BOOK OF HERGEST I.
I. I have come to thee to tell

Of the jurisdiction I have in the North;

The beauty of every region has been described to me.
II. Since the action of Ardderyd and Erydon,

Gwendydd, and all that will happen to me,

Dull of understanding, to what place of festivity shall I go?
III. I will address my twin-brother

Myrdin, a wise man and a diviner,

Since he is accustomed to make disclosures

When a maid goes to him.
IV. I shall become the simpleton’s song:

It is the ominous belief of the Cymry. The gale intimates

That the standard of Rydderch Hael is unobstructed.
V. Though Rydderch has the pre-eminence,

And all the Cymry under him,

Yet, after him, who will come?
VI. Rydderch Hael, the feller of the foe,

Dealt his stabs among them,

In the day of bliss at the ford of Tawy.
VII. Rydderch Hael, while he is the enemy

Of the city of the bards in the region of the Clyd;

Where will he go to the ford?
VIII. I will tell it to Gwendydd.

Since she has addressed me skilfully,

The day after to-morrow Rydderch Hael will not be.
IX. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

The intrepid in battle,

After Rydderch who will be?
X. As Gwenddoleu was slain in the blood-spilling of Ardderyd,

And I have come from among the furze,

Morgant Mawr, the son of Sadyrnin.
XI. I will ask my far-famed brother,

The fosterer of song among the streams,

Who will rule after Morgant?
XII. As Gwenddoleu was slain in the bloodshed of Ardderyd,

And I wonder why I should be perceived,

The cry of the country to Urien.
XIII, Thy head is of the colour of winter boar;

God has relieved thy necessities

Who will rule after Urien?
XIV. Heaven has brought a heavy affliction

On me, and I am ill at last,

Maelgwn Hir over the land of Gwynedd.
XV. From parting with my brother pines away

My heart, poor is my aspect along my furrowed cheek;

Now, after Maelgwn, who will rule?
XVI. Run is his name impetuous in the gushing conflict;

And fighting in the van of the army,

The woe of Prydein of the day!
XVII. Since thou art a companion and canon

Of Cunllaith, which with great expense we support,

To whom will Gwynedd go after Run?
XVIII. Run his name, renowned in war;

What I predict will surely come to pass,

Gwendydd, the country will be in the hand of Beli.
XIX. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in difficulties,

Who will rule after Beli?
XX. Since my reason is gone with ghosts of the mountain,

And I myself am pensive,

After Beli, his son Iago.
XXI. Since thy reason is gone with ghosts of the mountain,

And thou thyself art pensive,

Who will rule after Iago?
XXII. He that comes before me with a lofty mien,

Moving to the social banquet;

After Iago, his son Cadvan?
XXIII. The songs have fully predicted

That one of universal fame will come;

Who will rule after Cadvan?
XXIV. The country of the brave Cadwallawn,

The four quarters of the world shall hear of it;

The heads of the Angles will fall to the ground,

And there will be a world to admire it.
XXV. Though I see thy cheek so direful,

It comes impulsively to my mind,

Who will rule after Cadwallawn?
XXVI. A tall man holding a conference,

And Prydein under one sceptre,

The best son of Cymro, Cadwaladyr.
XXVII. He that comes before me mildly,

His abilities, are they not worthless?

After Cadwaladyr, Idwal.
XXVIII. I will ask thee mildly,

Far-famed, and best of men on earth,

Who will rule after Idwal?
XXIX. There will rule after Idwal,

In consequence of a dauntless one being called forth,

White-shielded Howel, the son of Cadwal.
XXX. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

The intrepid in war,

Who will rule after Howel?
XXXI. I will tell his illustrious fame,

Gwendydd, before I part from thee;

After Howel, Rodri.
XXXII. Cynan in Mona will be,

He will not preserve his rights;

And before the son of Rodri may be called,

The son of Cealedigan will be.
XXXIII. I will ask on account of the world,

And answer thou me gently;

Who will rule after Cynan?
XXXIV. Since Gwenddoleu was slain in the bloodshed of

Ardderyd, thou art filled with dismay;

Mervyn Vrych from the region of Manaw.
XXXV. I will ask my brother renowned in fame,

Lucid his song, and he the best of men,

Who will rule after Mervyn?
XXXVI. I will declare, from no malevolence,

The oppression of. Prydein, but from concern;

After Mervyn, Rodri Mawr.
XXXVII. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in the day of the war-shout;

Who will rule after the son of Rodri Mawr?
XXXVIII. On the banks of the Conwy in the conflict of Wednesday,

Admired will be the eloquence

Of the hoary sovereign Anarawd.
XXXIX. I will address my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in the day of mockery,

Who will rule after Anarawd?
XL. The next is nearer to the time

Of unseen messengers;

The sovereignty in the band of Howel.
XLI. The Borderers have not been,

And will not be nearer to Paradise.

An order from a kiln is no worse than from a church.
XLII. I will ask my beloved brother,

Whom I have seen celebrated in fame,

Who will rule after the Borderers?
XLIII. A year and a half to loquacious

Barons, whose lives shall be shortened;

Every careless one will be disparaged.
XLIV. Since thou art a companion and canon of Cunllaith,

The mercy of God to thy soul!

Who will rule after the Barons?
XLV. A single person will arise from obscurity,

Who will not preserve his countenance;

Cynan of the dogs will possess Cymry.
XLVI. I will ask thee on account of the world,

Answer thou me gently,

Who will rule after Cynan?
XLVII. A man from a distant foreign country;

They will batter impregnable Caers

They say a king from a baron.
XLVIII. I will ask on account of the world,

Since thou knowest the meaning;

Who will rule after the Baron?
XLIX. I will foretell of Serven Wyn,

A constant white-shielded messenger,

Brave, and strong like a white encircled prison;

He will traverse the Countries of treacherous sovereigns;

And they will tremble before him as far as Prydein.
L. I will ask my blessed brother,

For it is I that is inquiring it,

Who will rule after Serven Wyn?
LI. Two white-shielded Belis

Will then come and cause tumult;

Golden peace will not be.
LII. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid among the Cymry,

Who will rule after the two white-shielded Belis?
LIII. A. single passionate one with a beneficent mien,

Counselling a battle of defence;

Who will rule before the extermination?
LIV. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in the battle,

Who is the single passionate one

That thou predictest then?

What his name? what is he? when will he come?
LV. Gruffyd his name, vehement and handsome:

It is natural that he should throw lustre on his kindred;

He will rule over the land of Prydein.
LVI. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in battles,

Who shall possess it after Gruffyd?
LVII. I will declare from no malevolence,

The oppression of Prydein, but from concern;

After Gruffyd, Gwyn Gwarther.
LVIII. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

The intrepid in war,

Who will rule after Gwyn Gwarther?
LIX. Alas! fair Gwendydd, great is the prognostication of the oracle,

And the tales of the Sybil;

Of an odious stock will be the two Idases;

For land they will be admired; from their jurisdiction, long animosity.
LX. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in the battles,

Who will rule after them?
LXI. I will predict that no youth will venture;

A king, a lion with unflinching hand,

Gylvin Gevel with a wolf’s grasp.
LXII. I will ask my profound brother,

Whom I have seen tenderly nourished,

After that who will be sovereign?
LXIII. To the multiplicity of the number of the stars

Will his retinue be compared;

He is Mackwy Dau Hanner.
LXIV. I will ask my unprotected brother,

The key of difficulty, the benefit of a lord–

Who will rule after Dan Hanner?
LXV. There will be a mixture of the Gwyddelian tongue in the battle,

With the Cymro, and a fierce conflict;

He is the lord of eight chief Caers.
LXVI. I will ask my pensive brother,

Who has read the book of Cado,

Who will rule after him?
LXVII. I say that he is from Reged,

Since I am solemnly addressed;

The whelp of the illustrious Henri,

Never in his age will there be deliverance.
LXVIII. I will ask my brother renowned in fame,

Undaunted among the Cymry,

Who will rule after the son of Henri?
LXIX. When there will be a bridge on the Tav, and another on the Tywi,

Confusion will come upon Lloegyr,

And I will predict after the son of Henri,

Such and such a king and troublous times will be.
LXX. I will ask my blessed brother,

For it is I that is inquiring,

Who will rule after such and such a king?
LXXI. A silly king will come,

And the men of Lloegyr will deceive him;

There will be no prosperity of country under him.
LXXII. Myrdin fair, of fame-conferring song,

Wrathful in the world,

What will be in the age of the foolish one?
LXXIII. When Lloegyr will be groaning,

And Cymir full of malignity,

An army will be moving to and fro.
LXXIV. Myrdin fair, gifted in speech,

Tell me no falsehood;

What will be after the army?
LXXV. There will arise one out of the six

That have long been in concealment;

Over Lloegyr he will have the mastery.
LXXVI. Myrdin fair, of fame-conferring stock,

Let the wind turn inside the house,

Who will rule after that?
LXXVII. It is established that Owein should come,

And conquer as far as London,

To give the Cymry glad tidings.
LXXVIII. Myrdin fair, most gifted and most famed,

For thy word I will believe,

Owein, how long will he continue?
LXXIX. Gwendydd, listen to a rumour,

Let the wind turn in the valley,

Five years and two, as in time of yore.
LXXX. I will ask my profound brother,

Whom I have seen tenderly nourished,

Who will thence be sovereign?
LXXXI. When Owein will be in Manaw,

And a battle in Prydyn close by,

There will be a man with men under him.
LXXXII. I will ask my profound brother,

Whom I have seen tenderly nourished,

After that who will be sovereign?
LXXXIII. A ruler of good breeding and good will he be,

Will conquer the land,

And the country will be happy with joy.
LXXXIV. I will ask my profound brother,

Whom I have seen tenderly nourished,

After that who will be sovereign?
LXXXV. Let there be a cry in the valley

Beli Hir and his men like the whirlwind;

Blessed be the Cymry, woe to the Gynt.
LXXXVI. I will ask my far-famed twin-brother,

Intrepid in battles,

After Beli who will be the possessor?
LXXXVII. Let there be a cry in the Aber,

Beli Hir and his numerous troops;

Blessed be the Cymry, woe to the Gwyddyl.
LXXXVIII. I will address my farfamed twin-brother

Intrepid in war;

Why woe to the Gwyddyl?
LXXXIX. I will predict that one prince will be

Of Gwynedd, after your affliction;

You will have a victory over every nation.
XC. The canon of Morvryn, how united to us

Was Myrdin Vrych with the powerful host,

What will happen until the wish be accomplished?
XCI. When Cadwaladyr will descend,

Having a large united host with him,

On Wednesday to defend the men of Gwynedd,

Then will come the men of Caer Garawedd.
XCII. Do not separate abruptly from me,

From a dislike to the conference;

In what part will Cadwaladyr descend?
XCIII. When Cadwaladyr descends

Into the valley of the Tywi,

Hard pressed will be the Abers

And the Brython will disperse the Brithwyr.
XCIV. I will ask my profound brother,

Whom I have seen tenderly nourished;

Who will rule from thenceforth?
XCV. When a boor will know three languages

In Mona, and his son be of honourable descent,

Gwynedd will be heard to be abounding in riches.
XCVI. Who will drive Lloegyr from the borders

Of the sea, who will move upon Dyved?

And as to the Cymry, who will succour them?
XCVII. The far-extended rout and tumult of Rydderch,

And the armies of Cadwaladyr,

Above the river Tardennin,

Broke the key of men.
XCVIII. Do not separate abruptly from me,

From dislike to the conference,

What death will carry off Cadwaladyr?
XCIX. He will be pierced by a spear from the strong timber

Of a ship, and a hand before the evening;

The day will be a disgrace to the Cymry.
C. Do not separate abruptly from me

From dislike to the conference,

How long will Cadwaladyr reign?
CI. Three months and three long years,

And full three hundred years

With occasional battles, he will rule.
CII. Do not separate abruptly from me

From dislike to the conference,

Who will rule after Cadwaladyr?
CIII. To Gwendydd I will declare;

Age after age I will predict;

After Cadwaladyr, Cynda.
CIV. A hand upon the sword, another upon the cross,

Let every one take care of his life;

With Cyndav there is no reconciliation.
CV. I will foretell that there will be one prince

Of Gwynedd, after your affliction,

You will overcome every nation.
CVI. And as to the tribe of the children of Adam,

Who have proceeded from his flesh,

Will their freedom extend to the judgment?
CVII. From the time the Cymry shall be without the aid

Of battle, and altogether without keeping their mien,

It will be impossible to say who will be ruler.
CVIII. Gwendydd, the delicately fair,

The first will be the most puissant in Prydein;

Lament, ye wretched Cymry!
CIX. When extermination becomes the highest duty,

From the sea to the shoreless land,

Say, lady, that the world is at an end.
CX. And after extermination becomes the highest duty,

Who will there be to keep order?

Will there be a church, and a portion for a priest?
CXI. There will be no portion for priest nor minstrel,

Nor repairing to the altar,

Until the heaven falls to the earth.
CXII. My twin-brother, since thou hast answered me,

Myrdin, son of Morvryn the skilful,

Sad is the tale thou hast uttered.
CXIII. I will declare to Gwendydd,

For seriously hast thou inquired of me,

Extermination, lady, will be the end.
CXIV. What I have hitherto predicted

To Gwendydd, the idol of princes.

It will come to pass to the smallest tittle.
CXV. Twin-brother, since these things will happen to me,

Even for the souls of thy brethren,

What sovereign after him will be?
CXVI. Gwendydd fair, the chief of courtesy,

I will seriously declare,

That never shall be a sovereign afterwards.
CXVII. Alas I thou dearest, for the cold separation,

After the coming of tumult,

That by a sovereign brave and fearless

Thou shouldst be placed under earth.
CXVIII. The air of heaven will scatter

Rash resolution, which deceives, if believed:

Prosperity until the judgment is certain.
CXIX. By thy dissolution, thou tenderly nourished,

Am I not left cheerless?

A delay will be good destiny when will be given

Praise to him who tells the truth.
CXX. From thy retreat arise, and unfold

The books of Awen without fear;

And the discourse of a maid, and the repose of a dream.
CXXI. Dead is Morgeneu, dead Cyvrennin

Moryal. Dead is Moryen, the bulwark of battle;

The heaviest grief is, Myrdin, for thy destiny.
CXXII. The Creator has caused me heavy affliction;

Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,

Dead is Moryen, I wish to die.
CXXIII. My only brother, chide me not;

Since the battle of Ardderyd I am ill;

It is instruction that I seek;

To God I commend thee.
CXXIV. I, also, commend thee,

To the, Chief of all creatures

Gwendydd fair, the refuge of songs.
CXXV. The songs too long have tarried

Concerning universal fame to come;

Would to God they had come to pass!
CXXVI. Gwendydd, be not dissatisfied;

Has not the burden been consigned to the earth?

Every one must give up what he loves.
CXXVII. While I live, I will not forsake thee,

And until the judgment will bear thee in mind;

Thy entrenchment is the heaviest calamity.
CXXVIII. Swift is the steed, and free the wind;

I will commend my blameless brother

To God, the supreme Ruler;

Partake of the communion before thy death.
CXXIX. I will not receive the communion

From excommunicated monks,

With their cloaks on their hips;

May God himself give me communion!
CXXX. I will commend my blameless

Brother in the supreme Caer;

May God take care of Myrdin!
CXXXI. I, too, will commend my blameless

Sister in the supreme Caer;–

May God take care of Gwendydd. Amen!

_______

How Lancelot Came to the Nunnery in Search of the Queen

By S. Weir Mitchell
Three days on Gawain’s tomb Sir Lancelot wept,

Then drew about him baron, knight, and earl,

And cried, “Alack, fair lords, too late we came,

For now heaven hath its own, and woe is mine:

But ‘gainst the black knight Death may none avail.

I will that ye no longer stay for me.

In Arthur’s realm I go to seek the Queen,

Nor ever more in earthly lists shall ride.”

So, heeding none, seven days he westward rode,

And at the sainted mid-hour of the night

Was ‘ware of voices, and above them all

One that he knew, and trembled now to hear.

Rose-hedged before him stood a nunnery’s walls,

With gates wide open unto foe or friend.

Unquestioned to the cloister court he came,

And in the moonlight, on the balcony, saw

Beneath the arches nuns and ladies stand,

And in their midst a cowled white face he loved,

Whereat he cried aloud, “Lo, I am here!

Lo, I am here!–I, Lancelot, am here!

Would ye I came? I could not help but come.”

Spake then the Queen, low-voiced as one in pain:

“Oh, call him here, I pray you call him here.”

Then lit Sir Lancelot down, and climbed the stair,

And doffed his helm, and stood before the Queen.

But she that had great fear to see his face:

“Oh, sinless sisters, ye that are so dear,

Lo, this is he through whom great ills were wrought;

For by our love, which we have loved too well,

Is slain my lord and many noble knights.

And therefore, wit ye well, Sir Lancelot,

My soul’s health waneth; yet through God’s good grace

I trust, when death is come, to sit with Christ,

Because in heaven more sinful souls than I

Are saints in heaven; and therefore, Lancelot,

For all the love that ever bound our souls

I do beseech thee hide again thy face.

On God’s behalf I bid thee straitly go,

Because my life is as a summer spent;

Yea, go, and keep thy realm from wrack and war,

For, well as I have loved thee, Lancelot,

My heart will no more serve to see thy face;

Nay, not if thou shouldst know love in mine eyes.

In good haste get thee to thy realm again,

And heartily do I beseech thee pray

That I may make amend of time mislived.

And take to thee a wife, for age is long.”

“Ah no, sweet madam,” said Sir Lancelot,

“That know ye well I may not while I breathe;

But as thou livest, I will live in prayer.”

“If thou wilt do so,” said the Queen, “so be.

Hold fast thy promise; yet full well I know

The world will bid thee back.” — “And yet,” he cried,

“When didst thou know me to a promise false?

Wherefore, my lady dame, sweet Guinevere,

For all my earthly bliss hath been in thee,

If thou wilt no more take of this world’s joy,

I too shall cease to know the bliss of life.

I pray thee kiss me once, and nevermore.”

“Nay,” said the Queen, “that shall I never do.

No more of earthly lips shall I be kissed.”

Then like to one stung through with hurt of spears,

Who stares, death-blinded, round the reeling lists,

At gaze he stood, but saw no more the Queen;

And as a man who gropes afoot in dreams,

Deaf, dumb, and sightless, down the gallery stairs

Stumbling he went, with hands outstretched for aid,

And found his horse, and rode, till in a vale

At evening, ‘twixt two cliffs, came Bedevere,

And with his woesome story stayed the knight.

At this, Sir Lancelot’s heart did almost break

For sorrow, and abroad his arms he cast,

And cried, “Alas! ah, who may trust this world!”


Cerdic And Arthur

By John Lesslie Hall
Hengist went off to All-Father’s keeping,

Wihtgils’s son, to the Wielder’s protection,

Earl of the Anglians. From the east came, then,

Cerdic the Saxon a seven-year thereafter;

The excellent atheling, offspring of Woden

Came into Albion. His own dear land

Lay off to the eastward out o’er the sea-ways,

Far o’er the flood-deeps. His fair-haired, eagle-eyed

Liegeman and son sailed westwardly,

O’er the flint-gray floods, with his father and liegelord,

O’er the dashing, lashing, dark-flowing currents

That roll and roar, rumble, grumble

Eastward of Albion. Not e’er hath been told me

Of sea-goers twain trustier, doughtier

Than Cerdic and Cynric, who sailed o’er the waters

Valiant, invincible vikings and sea-dogs

Seeking adventure. Swift westwardly,

O’er the fallow floods, fared they to Albion,

Would look for the land that liegemen-kinsmen

Of Hengist and Horsa and high-mooded Aella

And Cissa had come to. Cerdic was mighty,

Earl of the Saxons. His excellent barks,

His five good floats, fanned by the breezes,

Gliding the waters were wafted to Albion,

Ocean-encircled isle of the sea-waves,

Delightsomest of lands. Lay then at anchor

The five good keels close to the sea-shore;

The swans of the sea sat on the water

Close by the cliff-edge. The clever folk-leader

Was boastful and blithesome, brave-mooded Saxon,

Said to his earlmen: “Excellent thanes

True-hearted, trusty table-companions,

See the good land the loving, generous

Gods have given you: go, seize on it.

I and my son have sailed westwardly,

To gain with our swords such goodly possessions

As Hengist and Aella did erstwhile win

On the island of Albion. On to the battle,

The foe confronteth us.” Folk of the island,

Earlmen of Albion, angry-mooded, then,

Stood stoutly there, striving to hurl them

Off in the ocean east to the mainland,

Back o’er the billows. Bravely Albion’s

Fearless defenders fought with the stranger

Then and thereafter: early did Cerdic

See and declare that slowly, bloodily,

And foot by foot, must the folk of the Saxons

Tear from the Welsh their well-lovèd, blithesome,

Beautiful fatherland. Brave were the men that

So long could repel the puissant, fearless

Sons of the Saxons that had sailed o’er the oceans

To do or to die, doughty, invincible

Earls of the east. The excellent kinsmen,

Father and son, scions of Woden,

Burned in their spirit to build in the south the

Greatest of kingdoms: ‘t was granted to Cerdic

To be first of the famous folk-lords of Wessex,

Land-chiefs belovèd; to lead, herald the

World-famous roll of the wise, eminent

Athelings of Wessex, where Egbert and Ethelwulf,

Alfred and Edward, ever resplendently,

Spaciously shine, shepherds of peoples,

Excellent athelings, and Athelstan, Godwin

And Harold the hero, helms of the Saxons,

Have their names written in record of glory

In legend and story, leaving their fame as an

Honor forever to England, peerless

Mother of heroes.–The men of the east

Slowly, bloodily builded a kingdom

Where Aesc and Aella not e’er had been able

To bear their banners, though both these athelings

Were in might marvellous, mood-brave, heroic

Leaders of liegemen.–Beloved of the Welsh

Was the atheling Arthur, excellent, valiant

Lord of the Silurians, land-prince, warrior

Famed ‘mid the races. He rued bitterly

That father and son, Saxon invaders,

To the left and right were wresting, tearing

From races no few their fond-lovèd, blood-bought

Homesteads and manors, were hacking and sacking

Folk of the southland, and far westwardly

Had bitterly banished the best of the heroes

And earlmen of Albion. Arthur was mighty,

Uther Pendragon’s offspring belovèd,

His fame far-reaching. Afar and anear then,

All men of Albion honored and loved him;

Sent over Severn beseeching the mighty

Silurian leader no longer to tarry

In crushing the foemen, but quickly to drive them

Back to their bottomless bogs in the eastward

O’er the rime-cold sea; said wailingly:

“The fierce, pitiless folk of the eastward,

Mighty, remorseless men of the waters,

Treacherous, terrible, will take speedily

Our name and nation, and naught will be left us

But to dare and to die.” The doughty, invincible

Atheling Arthur, earl of Siluria,

Offspring of Uther, early was ready;

Feared not, failed not, fared on his journey

Seeking for Cerdic. Severn’s waters

Saw him and laughed, little expecting

That Arthur the king and the excellent knights

Of the Table Round, with troopers a-many,

Would suffer the foemen to seize and possess the

Lands of Siluria, would let the remorseless,

Implacable, pitiless pagan and heathen

Sail over Severn; not soon did it happen

While Arthur the atheling his earth-joys tasted

Here under heaven. That hero was brave,

Great, all-glorious: God fought for him:

Nor Cerdic nor Cynric could soon injure that

Hero of Heaven; his horrible destiny

Wyrd the weaver wove in her eerie,

Mysterious meshes, mighty, taciturn

Goddess of gods: she gives whom she will to

Speed in the battle. Brave-mooded Arthur,

Offspring of Uther, was eager for glory,

Peerless of prowess: proudly, dauntlessly

Fought he for Albion. Not e’er heard I

Of better battle-knight, more bold, fearless,

That sun ever shone on: the sheen of his glory

With lustre illumined the land where his mother

Gave birth to the bairn; and broad, mighty,

Spacious his fame was; his splendid achievements

Were known to all nations. None could e’er dare to

Cope with that hero, till the conquering, dauntless

Earl of the Anglians, ever-belovèd

Founder of freedom and father of kings,

O’er the seas sailing, slowly, bloodily

Builded the best and broadest of kingdoms

Heroes e’er heard of. The heart of king Arthur

Was sad as he saw the Saxon invader

How, foot by foot, forward, onward,

He ever proceeded, eastward, westward,

Far to the north, founding and building

A kingdom and country to crush and destroy the

Land that he long had lived for, thought for,

Fiercely had fought for. Famed was Arthur,

Wide his renown; but Wyrd the spinster

Taketh no heed of hero or craven;

Her warp and her woof she weaveth and spinneth

Unmindful of men. The mighty war-hero,

Atheling Arthur, set out on his journey,

Laid down his life-joys; the belovèd folk-lord’s

Feasting was finished. Unflinching, fearless,

Doomed unto death, dead on the battle-field

Fell the brave folk-prince. Foul was the traitor,

Hated of heroes. The hope of his countrymen

Sank into darkness; for dead was Arthur,

The last and the best and bravest of Albion’s

Athelings of eld. Not ever thereafter

Could the Welshman withstand the sturdy, mighty

Tread of the Saxon as tramping, advancing,

Onward he went, eastward, westward,

Far to the northward: none withstood him,

Now Arthur was lifeless; he alone was able

To stay for a moment that sturdy, mighty,

Invincible march.–The valiant, doughty

Kinsmen of Cerdic, conquering earlmen,

Forward then bare bravely, unfalt’ringly,

Daringly, dauntlessly, the dragon of Wessex

Fuming and flaming; fearlessly bare it

Northward, eastward, on to the westward,

O’er Severn and Thames and Trent and Humber

And east oceanward, till all the great races

Of Albion’s isle owned as their liegelords

The children of Cerdic, sire of kings and

Founder of freedom. Few among athelings

Were greater than he, gift-lord eminent,

Wielder of Wessex; the wise-mooded, far-seeing,

Brave-hearted folk-prince builded his kingdom

As a bulwark of freedom. His brave, high-hearted

Table-companions, trusty, faithful

Liegemen and thanes, leaped to his service

In peace and in war: well did they love him,

Bowed to his bidding; blithely followed him

Where the fight was fiercest; would fall in the battle

Gladly, eagerly, excellent heroes,

Ere they’d leave their dear lord alone on the battle-field,

Bearing unaided the onset of foes and

The brunt of the battle. The brave ones were mindful

Of the duties of liegemen; dastardly thought it

To flee from the field while their fond, loving

Leader and liegelord lingered thereon

Dead or alive; deemed him a nidering

Who stood not stoutly, sturdily, manfully

Close to his lord as he led in the battle,

Facing the foemen. The free-hearted earlmen

Minded the days when their dear-honored liegelord

Feasted the throngs of thanemen-kinsmen

In the handsomest of halls heroes e’er sat in

‘Neath dome of the welkin. Well they remembered

How their lord lovingly lavished his treasures

On all earlmen older and younger,

Greater and lesser: ‘t were loathsomest treason

To leave such a lord alone in the battle,

With a foe facing him. The folk-ruler mighty

King-like requited them with costliest gems,

Most bountiful banqueting. The brave-hearted man

Builded his kingdom, broadly founded it

Northward, eastward, on to the westward,

South to the seaward. He said tenderly,

Cerdic discoursed, king of the Saxons,

Father of England: “Old, hoary is

Cerdic your king, kinsmen-thanemen,

Warriors of Wessex. Well have ye served me,

Ye and your fathers. I yet remember

How, ere age came on me, I ever was foremost

In deeds of daring, in doughty achievements,

In feats of prowess. I fought valiantly

Alone, unaided, with only my faithful,

Well-lovèd sword, and swept away hundreds

Of earlmen of Albion: now age, ruthless,

Horrible foe of heroes and warriors,

Hath marred my might, though my mood is as daring,

My spirit as stout and sturdy as ever

In years of my youth. I yearn in my soul, now,

To cross over Severn and cut into slivers

The wolf-hearted Welshmen. Well-nigh a forty

Years in their circuits have seen me a-conquering

Here under heaven: from hence, early

I go on my way. Woden will bid me

To the halls of Valhalla, where heroes will meet me,

Gladly will seat me ‘mid the glory-encircled

Heroes of heaven. In my heart it pains me

To feel my war-strength fading and waning

And ebbing away. Would I might leap now

Like a king to the battle, not cow-like breathe out my

Soul in the straw. The son of my bossom,

Cynric my bairn, bravely will lead you

When I am no more: he ever hath proved him

A bold battle-earl. My blade I will give him,

Sigbrand my sword: he hath served me faithfully

Sixty of winters: well do I love him,

Bold-hearted battle-brand.” The brave earlmen, then,

Shouted lustily, loudly commending

The words of good Cerdic. Cynric they loved, too,

Son of the hero; themselves had beheld him

How valiant, adventurous, invincible, king-like

He ever had borne him, since erst he landed

To fight, with his father, the fierce, implacable,

Wolf-hearted Welshmen: well did they love him,

And oft on the ale-benches earlmen asserted

That, when good king Cerdic, gracious, belovèd

Ward of the kingdom, went on his journey,

Laid down his life-joys, his liegefolk would never

Find them a folk-lord fonder, truer,

More honored of all men, than atheling Cynric

Surely would prove him. Shouted they lustily,

“Wes hael, wes hael! hero of Wessex,

Cerdic the conqueror,” clanging their lances

And beating their bucklers, bellowed like oxen,

Blew in their shields, shouting, yelling

Glad-hearted, gleefully. The good one discoursed, then,

Cerdic the king said to his liegemen

(Henchmen all hearkened): “Hear ye, good troopers,

Of Sigbrand my sword. I said he was trusty,

And bitter in biting. I brought him to Albion

Far from the eastward. I fared, long ago,

East over Elbe and Oder and Weser

And thence to the northward, never wearying,

Greedy for glory; ‘mid the Goths found it,

Old, iron-made, excellent sword-blade,

Weland his work. Well I remember

How I heard high-hearted heroes and athelings,

My true-hearted troopers, tell how a dragon,

His cave guarding, kept there a treasure

Age after age; how earls of the eastward

Said that Sigbrand, the sword-blade of Hermann,

Was kept in that cave covered with magic,

Encircled with sorcery, secretly guarded,

Bound with enchantments. I boldly adventured

A grim grapple with that grisly, terrible

Fire-spewing dragon, to fetch to the westward

The well-lovèd, warlike, wide-famous brand

Of Hermann the hero. I hied o’er the rivers

And off to the eastward: earls of those lands there

Laughed when they learned that a lad from the westward

Would dare the great dragon that had daunted their fathers

Five hundred winters. I fared eastward then,

Met with the monster, mightily smote him,

To earth felled him; flamings of battle

Horribly hurled he, hotly he snorted,

Would seethe me in poison. Wtih the point of my blade

I proudly did prick him. Prone he fell forward,

Dead lay the dragon. His den was no more

A horror to heroes; hastened I in, then,

To joy in the sight of jewels and treasures

And song-famous swords that had slept on the wall there

From earliest eras, edge-keen, famous,

Magic-encircled swords of the ancients,

Old-work of giants. With joy, saw I

World-famous Sigbrand, sword-blade of Hermann,

Men-leader mighty, matchless battle-knight,

Hero of Germany. I hastily seized it

All rusting to ruin; the rime-carved, ancient

Sword of the hero was soon hanging then

Safe at my side: it hath served me faithfully

Sixty of winters, well-tried, trusty

Friend-in-the-battle. When I fare, troopers,

Hence to Valhalla, high-hearted Cynric,

My fond-lovèd son, folk-lord of Wessex,

Will take up the brand borne by his father

And carve out a kingdom clean to the northward and

Wide to the westward; the Welshman will cower

And shudder and shake, as the shout of the Saxon

Frightens afresh forest and river

And meadow and plain. I shall pass on my journey

Early anon: old and hoary,

Death will subdue me. Dear young heroes,

Do as I bid ye. Bear ye onward

The banner of Wessex. Wyrd will help you

If doughty your valor. I dare to allege it,

That the gods have given this goodly, bountiful

Land of Albion to the liegemen and children

Of Cerdic the Saxon; seize, hold to it

Forever and ever. Ye early will see me

Lorn of my life-joys, lying unwarlike,

Dead in my armor. I urge you, good heroes,

To build me a barrow broad-stretching, lofty,

High on the cliff-edge, that comers from far

May see it and say that so did Angle-folk

Honor the atheling that erstwhile led their

Fathers of old in founding a kingdom.”

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Iarla O Lionaird – I Am Asleep

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Aftermath: Portland Muralist Opening

(Gwyllm Llwydd – “Endogenous Sun”)


Into the heart of the matters at hand… This is a shot (look up) of “Endogenous Sun”, with the culprit who painted it…
This Sunday we have a quick overview of the opening of The Portland Muralist Art Show… and an article of note from the waaaay back machine, and poetry of course. John Donne, one of the greats.
Enjoy!


On The Menu:

Portland Muralist Show Opening!

Death Of The Gods

Poetry For A May Evening: John Donne
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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Portland Muralist Show Opening!
Well, the opening of the show is over and the art is up on the walls. Amazing Stuff to be seen and there are great stories to be told with every piece
So I want to thank a few people who in my mind, makes the Muralist Show a success:
Joanne Oleksiak

Chris Haberman

Mark Meltzer

Joe Cotter

Without their tireless work, it would not of happened.
Joanne: who was there everytime I emailed, or on site to help who ever came in, with a gentle hand directing and suggestions.
Chris: who is an amazing fellow, being Curator, chief picture hanger, and fount of information and always a smile! (love to do a mural with this guy!)
Mark Meltzer: Always a kind word, and tireless! Marks’ enthusiasm and joy is a wonder. Watch for some projects between us coming up… (yes, public art is political!)
Joe Cotter: Joe has relentlessly pursued having the status of Outdoor Murals changed so we can be back on the streets with our art. Joe for me is the soul of the show. One person, can, and does move mountains, and that person is Joe.
An Honorary goes out to:

Morgan Miller & Robin Hawley and the staff at Maletis for providing all of the beer!
For Those That Came To The Opening:

I want to thank Lyterphotos’ and his daughter, Connie and Eurock (Connie started the program that gave birth to Davinci Middle School which has the best Arts Program in Oregon), Andrew and his friends, John Gunn, The Carnahan Clan, Lynn & Steve from Mirador (who are directly responsible for my participation by their kind donation of garage door space for the infamous “Mirador Mural”), Victor, Steve & Melanie, Mike Hoffman and many others for coming to the opening.

I especially want to point out Clear Channel for making it so difficult for muralist to have access to wall space in Portland. Without their corporate presence and legal maneuverings, Portland would have a vibrant art presence on the streets. As Clear Channel cannot tell art from advertisment, they have obstructed the local muralist for several years. Way to go Clear Channel! Always the community’s needs & desires at heart!

Love and Thanks especially to Mary (my better half) for making me finish the painting and helping with the last details on the sides, helping me to hang the 4 sections and backing me up 100 percent of the way. Without Love, Nothing Is Ever Accomplished!

Some Pics Of The Event, And Art Work!
Nick Olmsted and friends…

Nick’s work is fascinating. I will try to get some up on Turfing soon. He works with youth who are having difficulties, and seems to be a very devoted person to the powers of art. I am astounded by his work, and presence. He has a wonderful smile as you can see (that is him on the left)
He combines some wonderful elements in his mural work, and graphics, and I have to say that his enthusiasm is infectious!

Jason Coatney’s Excellent Work…

Some of the Art being produced during the show (Mark Larsen working away!)

There were several pieces being done during the show; it was quite fascinating watching the various techniques as the pieces unfolded. I kept having those Ah Ha! moments, like ‘why didn’t I think of that’?

This was a panel from a very large piece which was once on display at the Capital rotunda in Salem Oregon. Lots of indigenous artist worked on it, and this is but one example. I am hoping to get back soon and photograph it in its totality, so that there is a record of it on the web… I was truly blown away by the work done on this installation, and the flow and harmony of it. The his/herstories told in illustration are well worth the visit to this exhibit!
Toma Villa… ‘Stick Indians’

Toma told me a fascinating story regarding this piece; His father used to warn him about ‘the Stick Indians’ when they went out fishing when Toma was a child. The Stick Indians were beings who would seize children and steal them away. Toma lived a life of semi-terror from the story as you can imagine.

Mark Meltzer looking tired and blissed!


One of the nicest things about group shows is getting to know the artist… who time and again, prove to be thoughtful and wonderful people. It was an honor getting to know them: Nick, Asa, Jennifer Mercede, Baba W Diakite, Larry Kangas, Jason Coatney, Angelina Marino among many… (Sorry if you are not listed, my brain is starting to run down…!)
Chris & Joanne (sorry for the blur)… …Joe Cotter (earlier photo)


Chris, Gwyllm and Charlie Alan Kraft fooling about…

Asa “Spades” Kennedy with a bad case of beer cap eyes in front of his work….


Muralist Show – Group Shot of Artist….


We will have some more photos’ this week… Take Care!

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Death Of The Gods

From: The Sorceress, by Jules Michelet, [1939]
There are authors who assure us that a little while before the final victory of Christianity a mysterious voice was heard along the shores of the Ægean Sea, proclaiming: “Great Pan is dead!”
The old universal god of Nature is no more. Great the jubilation; it was fancied that, Nature being defunct, Temptation was dead too. Storm-tossed for so many years, the human soul was to enjoy peace at last.
Was it simply a question of the termination of the ancient worship, the defeat of the old faith, the eclipse of time-honoured religious forms? No! it was more than this. Consulting the earliest Christian monuments, we find in every line the hope expressed, that Nature is to disappear and life die out—in a word, that the end of the world is at hand.
The game is up for the gods of life, who have so long kept up a vain simulacrum of vitality. Their world is falling round them in crumbling ruin. All is swallowed up in nothingness: “Great Pan is dead!”

It was no new evangel that the gods must die. More than one ancient cult is based on this very notion of the death of the gods. Osiris dies, Adonis dies—it is true, in this case, to rise again. Æschylus, on the stage itself, in those dramas that were played only on the feast-days of the gods, expressly warns them, by the voice of Prometheus, that one day they must die. Die! but how?—vanquished, subjugated to the Titans, the antique powers of Nature.
Here it is an entirely different matter. The early Christians, as a whole and individually, in the past and in the future, hold Nature herself accursed. They condemn her as a whole and in every part, going so far as to see Evil incarnate, the Demon himself, in a flower. 1 So, welcome—and the sooner the better—the angel-hosts that of old destroyed the Cities of the Plain. Let them destroy, fold away like a veil, the empty image of the world, and at length deliver the saints from the long-drawn ordeal of temptation.
The Gospel says: “The day is at hand.” The Fathers say: “Soon, very soon.” The disintegration of the Roman Empire and the inroads of the barbarian invaders raise hopes in St. Augustine’s breast, that soon there will be no city left but the City of God.
Yet how long a-dying the world is, how obstinately determined to live on! Like Hezekiah, it craves a respite, a going backward of the dial. So be it then, till the year One Thousand,—but not a day longer.

Is it so certain, as we have been told over and over again, that the old gods were exhausted, sick of themselves and weary of existence? that out of sheer discouragement they as good as gave in their own abdication? that Christianity was able with a breath to blow away these empty phantoms?
They point to the gods at Rome, the gods of the Capitol, where they were only admitted in virtue of an anticipatory death, I mean on condition of resigning all they had of local sap, of renouncing their home and country, of ceasing to be deities representative of such and such a nation. Indeed, in order to receive them, Rome had had to submit them to a cruel operation, that left them poor, enervated, bloodless creatures. These great centralised Divinities had become, in their official life, mere dismal functionaries of the Roman Empire. But, though fallen from its high estate, this Aristocracy of Olympus had in nowise involved in its own decay the host of indigenous gods, the crowd of deities still holding possession of the boundless plains, of woods and hills and springs, inextricably blended with the life of the countryside. These divinities, enshrined in the heart of oaks, lurking in rushing streams and deep pools, could not be driven out.
Who says so? The Church herself, contradicting herself flatly. She first proclaims them dead, then waxes indignant because they are still alive. From century to century, by the threatening voice of her Councils, 2 she orders them to die. . . . And lo! they are as much alive as ever!
“They are demons . . .”—and therefore alive. Unable to kill them, the Church suffers the innocent-hearted countryfolk to dress them up and disguise their true nature. Legends grow round them, they are baptised, actually admitted into the Christian hierarchy. But are they converted? Not yet by any means. We catch them still on the sly continuing their old heathen ways and Pagan nature.
Where are they to be found? In the desert, on lonely heaths, in wild forests? Certainly, but above all in the house. They cling to the most domestic of domestic habits; women guard and hide them at board and even bed. They still possess the best stronghold in the world—better than the temple, to wit the hearth.
History knows of no other revolution so violent and unsparing as that of Theodosius. There is no trace elsewhere in antiquity of so wholesale a proscription of a religion. The Persian fire-worship, in its high-wrought purity, might outrage the visible gods of other creeds; but at any rate it suffered them to remain. Under it the Jews were treated with great clemency, and were protected and employed. Greece, daughter of the light, made merry over the gods of darkness, the grotesque pot-bellied Cabiri; but still she tolerated them, and even adopted them as working gnomes, making her own Vulcan in their likeness. Rome, in the pride of her might, welcomed not only Etruria, but the rustic gods as well of the old Italian husbandman. The Druids she persecuted only as embodying a national resistance dangerous to her dominion.
Victorious Christianity, on the contrary, was fain to slaughter the enemy outright, and thought to do so. She abolished the Schools of Philosophy by her proscription of Logic and the physical extermination of the philosophers, who were massacred under the Emperor Valens. She destroyed or stripped the temples, and broke up the sacred images. Quite conceivably the new legend might have proved favourable to family life, if only the father had not been humiliated and annulled in St. Joseph, if the mother had been given prominence as the trainer, the moral parent of the child Jesus. But this path, so full of rich promise, was from the first abandoned for the barren ambition of a high, immaculate purity.
Thus Christianity deliberately entered on the lonely road of celibacy, one the then world was making for of its own impulse—a tendency the imperial rescripts fought against in vain. And Monasticism helped it on the downward slope.
Men fled to the desert; but they were not alone. The Devil went with them, ready with every form of temptation. They must needs revolutionise society, found cities of solitaries,—it was of no avail. Everyone has heard of the gloomy cities of anchorites that grew up in the Thebaïd, of the turbulent, savage spirit that animated them, and of their murderous descents upon Alexandria. They declared they were possessed of the Devil, impelled by demons,—and they told only the truth.
There was an enormous void arisen in Nature’s plan. Who or what should fill it? The Christian Church is ready with an answer: The Demon, everywhere the Demon—Ubique Dæmon. 3
Greece no doubt, like all other countries, had had its energumens, men tormented, possessed by spirits. But the similarity is purely external and accidental, the resemblance more apparent than real. In the Thebaïd it is no case of spirits either good or bad, but of the gloomy children of the pit, wilfully perverse and malignant. Everywhere, for years to come, these unhappy hypochondriacs are to be seen roaming the desert, full of self-loathing and self-horror. Try to realise, indeed, what it means,—to be conscious of a double personality, to really believe in this second self, this cruel indweller that comes and goes and expiates within you, and drives you to wander forth in desert places and over precipices. Thinner and weaker grows the sufferer; and the feebler his wretched body, the more fiercely the demon harries it. Women in particular are filled, distended, inflated by these tyrants, who impregnate them with the infernal aura, stir up internal storm and tempest, make them the sport and plaything of their every caprice, force them into sin and despair.
Nor is it human beings only that are demoniac. Alas! all Nature is tainted with the horror. If the devil is in a flower, how much more in the gloomy forest! The light that seemed so clear and pure is full of the creatures of night. The Heavens full of Hell,—what blasphemy! The divine morning star, that has shed its sparkling beam on Socrates, Archimedes, Plato, and once and again inspired them to sublimer effort, what is it now?—a devil, the great devil Lucifer. At eve, it is the devil Venus, whose soft and gentle light leads mortals into temptation.
I am not surprised at such a society turning mad and savage. Furious to feel itself so weak against the demons, it pursues them everywhere, in the temples and altars of the old faith to begin with, later in the heathen martyrs. Festivals are abolished; for may they not be assemblages for idolatrous worship? Even the family is suspect; for might not the force of habit draw the household together round the old classic Lares? And why a family at all? The empire is an empire of monks.
Yet the individual man, isolated and struck silent as he is, still gazes at the skies, and in the heavenly host finds once more the old gods of his adoration. “This is what causes the famines,” the Emperor Theodosius declares, “and all the other scourges of the Empire,”—a terrible dictum that lets loose the blind rage of the fanatic populace on the heads of their inoffensive Pagan fellow-citizens. The Law blindly unchains all the savagery of mob-law.
Old gods of Heathendom, the grave gapes for you! Gods of Love, of Life, of Light, darkness waits to engulf you! The cowl is the only wear. Maidens must turn nuns; wives leave their husbands, or if they still keep the domestic hearth, be cold and continent as sisters.
But is all this possible? Who shall be strong enough with one breath to blow out the glowing lamp of God? So reckless an enterprise of impious piety may well bring about strange, monstrous, and astounding results. . . . Let the guilty tremble!
Repeatedly in the Middle Ages shall we find the gloomy story recurring of the Bride of Corinth. First told in quite early days by Phlegon, the Emperor Hadrian’s freedman, it reappears in the twelfth century, and again in the sixteenth,—the deep reproach, as it were, the irrepressible protest of outr
aged Nature.
“A young Athenian goes to Corinth, to the house of the man who promises him his daughter in marriage. He is still a Pagan, and is not aware that the family he hopes to become a member of has just turned Christian. He arrives late at night. All are in bed, except the mother, who serves the meal hospitality demands, and then leaves him to slumber, half dead with fatigue. But hardly is he asleep, when a figure enters the room,—a maiden, clad in white, wearing a white veil and on her brow a fillet of black and gold. Seeing him, she raises her white hand in surprise: ‘Am I then already so much a stranger in the house? . . . Alas! poor recluse. . . . But I am filled with shame, I must begone.’ ‘Nay! stay, fair maiden; here are Ceres and Bacchus, and with you, love! Fear not, and never look so pale!’ ‘Back, back, I say! I have no right to happiness any more. By a vow my sick mother made, youth and life are for ever fettered. The gods are no more, and the only sacrifices now are human souls.’ ‘What! can this be you? You, my promised bride I love so well, promised me from a child? Our fathers’ oath bound us indissolubly together under Heaven’s blessing. Maiden! be mine!’ ‘No! dear heart, I cannot. You shall have my young sister. If I groan in my chill prison-house, you in her arms must think of me, me who waste away in thoughts of you, and who will soon be beneath the sod.’ ‘No! no! I call to witness yonder flame; it is the torch of Hymen. You shall come with me to my father’s house. Stay with me, my best beloved!’ For wedding gift he offers her a golden cup. She gives him her neck-chain; but chooses rather than the cup a curl of his hair.
“’Tis the home of spirits; she drinks with death-pale lips the dark, blood-red wine. He drinks eagerly after her, invoking the God of Love. Her poor heart is breaking, but still she resists. At last in despair he falls weeping on the bed. Then throwing herself down beside him: ‘Ah! how your grief hurts me! Yet the horror of it, if you so much as touched me! White as snow, and cold as ice, such alas! and alas! is your promised bride.’ ‘Come to me! I will warm you, though you should be leaving the very tomb itself. . . .’ Sighs, kisses pass between the pair. ‘Cannot you feel how I burn?’ Love unites them, binds them in one close embrace, while tears of mingled pain and pleasure flow. Thirstily she drinks the fire of his burning mouth; her chilled blood is fired with amorous ardours, but the heart stands still within her bosom.
“But the mother was there, though they knew it not, listening to their tender protestations, their cries of sorrow and delight. ‘Hark! the cock-crow! Farewell till to-morrow, to-morrow night!’ A lingering farewell, and kisses upon kisses!
“The mother enters furious, to find her daughter! Her lover strives to enfold her, to hide her, from the other’s view; but she struggles free, and towering aloft from the couch to the vaulted roof: ‘Oh! mother, mother! so you begrudge me my night of joy, you hunt me from this warm nest. Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the cold shroud, and borne me so untimely to the tomb? But a power beyond you has lifted the stone. In vain your priests droned their prayers over the grave; of what avail the holy water and the salt, where youth burns hot in the heart? Cold earth cannot freeze true Love! . . . You promised; I am returned to claim my promised happiness. . . .
“‘Alack! dear heart, you must die. You would languish here and pine away. I have your hair; ’twill be white to-morrow. 4 . . . Mother, one last prayer! Open my dark dungeon, raise a funeral pyre, and let my loving heart win the repose the flames alone can give. Let the sparks fly upward and the embers glow! We will back to our old gods again.’”
Footnotes
4:1 Compare Muratori, Script. It., i. 293, 545, on St. Cyprian; A. Maury, Magie, 435.
5:2 See Mansi, Baluze; Council of Arles, 442; Tours, 567; Leptines, 743; the Capitularies, etc. Gerson even, towards 1400.
6:3 See the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, and the authors quoted by A. Maury, Magie, 317. In the fourth century the Messalians, believing themselves to be full of demons, were constantly blowing their noses, and spitting unceasingly, in their incredible efforts to expectorate these.
10:4 At this point of the story I suppress an expression that may well shock us. Goethe, so noble in the form of his writings, is not equally so in the spirit. He quite mars the wonderful tale, fouling the Greek with a gruesome Slavonic notion. At the instant when the lovers are dissolved in tears, he makes the girl into a vampire. She curses because she is athirst for blood, to suck his heart’s blood. The poet makes her say coldly and calmly this impious and abominable speech: “When he is done, I will go on to others; the new generation shall succumb to my fury.”
The Middle Ages dress up this tradition in grotesque garb to terrify us with the devil Venus. Her statue receives from a young man a ring, which he imprudently places on her finger. Her hand closes on it, she keeps it as a sign of betrothal; then at night, comes into his bed to claim the rights it confers. To rid him of his hellish bride, an exorcism is required (S. Hibb., part iii. chap. iii. 174). The same story occurs in the Fabliaux, but absurdly enough applied to the Virgin. Luther repeats the classical story, if my memory serves me, in his Table-talk, but with great coarseness, letting us smell the foulness of the grave. The Spaniard Del Rio transfers the scene from Greece to Brabant. The affianced bride dies shortly before the wedding-day. The passing-bell is tolled; the grief-stricken bridegroom roams the fields in despair. He hears a wail; it is the loved one wandering over the heath. . . . “See you not,” she cries, “who my guide is?” “No!” he replies, and seizing her, bears her away to his home. Once there, the account was very near growing over tender and touching. The grim inquisitor, Del Rio, cuts short the thread with the words, “Lifting the veil, they found a stake with a dead woman’s skin drawn over it.” The Judge Le Loyes, though not much given to sensibility, nevertheless reproduces for us the primitive form of the legend. After him, there is an end of these gloomy story-tellers, whose trade is done. Modern days begin, and the Bride has won the day. Buried Nature comes back from the tomb, no longer a stealthy visitant, but mistress of the house and home.

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Poetry For A May Evening: John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.

I, like an usurpt town, to another due,

Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,

Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,

But am betroth’d unto your enemy:

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
—Holy Sonnet XIV, ca 1615

—-
Witchcraft By A Picture
I fix mine eye on thine, and there

Pity my picture burning in thine eye ;

My picture drown’d in a transparent tear,

When I look lower I espy ;

Hadst thou the wicked skill

By pictures made and marr’d, to kill,

How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?
But now I’ve drunk thy sweet salt tears,

And though thou pour more, I’ll depart ;

My picture vanished, vanish all fears

That I can be endamaged by that art ;

Though thou retain of me

One picture more, yet that will be,

Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.


Song
Soul’s joy, now I am gone,

And you alone,

—Which cannot be,

Since I must leave myself with thee,

And carry thee with me—

Yet when unto our eyes

Absence denies

Each other’s sight,

And makes to us a constant night,

When others change to light ;

O give no way to grief,

But let belief

Of mutual love

This wonder to the vulgar prove,

Our bodies, not we move.
Let not thy wit be weep

Words but sense deep ;

For when we miss

By distance our hope’s joining bliss,

Even then our souls shall kiss ;

Fools have no means to meet,

But by their feet ;

Why should our clay

Over our spirits so much sway,

To tie us to that way?

O give no way to grief, &c.


Love’s Alchemy
Some that have deeper digg’d love’s mine than I,

Say, where his centric happiness doth lie.

I have loved, and got, and told,

But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,

I should not find that hidden mystery.

O ! ’tis imposture all ;

And as no chemic yet th’ elixir got,

But glorifies his pregnant pot,

If by the way to him befall

Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,

So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,

But get a winter-seeming summer’s night.
Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,

Shall we for this vain bubble’s shadow pay?

Ends love in this, that my man

Can be as happy as I can, if he can

Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom’s play?

That loving wretch that swears,

‘Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,

Which he in her angelic finds,

Would swear as justly, that he hears,

In that day’s rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.

Hope not for mind in women ; at their best,

Sweetness and wit they are, but mummy, possess’d.

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Mary & Gwyllm after the hanging of “Endogenous Sun”

Beltane Fires: Eternal Revolutions…

Just because we’ve arms doesn’t mean we can’t fly.– Gwyllm

Friday Evening… if you are in Portland or nearby!
Come to the Portland Muralist Art Show! – Opening: May 2nd, 5-9PM!

Olympic Mills Commerce Center, 107 SE Washington Street, PDX – May 2-June 28
Opening Reception: First Friday, May 2, 5-9PM
Come by, and say hello. Hugs Guaranteed!

I hope you have had a good Beltaine, and I hope the weekend will be a beautiful one for you and yours.
Much Love to my Family and Circle of Friends where ever you may be!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On the Menu:

Albert Hofmann 1906-2008

The Links

Roberto Venosa’s Talking Portrait of Terence McKenna

The Fire-Festivals of Europe – The Beltane Fires

Poetry For Beltane: Robert Graves

Steve Roach – Cloud Motion

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Albert Hofmann 1906-2008
We would like to say a fond farewell to Albert Hofmann, the father of LSD, and one of the messengers of the modern age.
A man who blended science with mysticism, and practiced a deep and abiding love.
Without his work, we’d still be in the dark ages, and more than likely Turf would not be here today…
Albert died this week, 102 years of age. Of sound mind, and sound body up to his last day, he was in the midst of the alpine spring when he let go of his mortal coil.
Thank You Albert for your gifts, and I feel blessed to have been touched by the magick you brought, and how you helped shape the world as a better place.
A Good Voyage, and I hope Anita was there when you burst through the door of light.

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The Links:

‘Give Peace A Chance’ lyrics going on sale in London

New African Art, Resisting Assimilation

Shades of The Ranters: Are the Quakers Going Pagan?

Rush Limbaugh ‘Dreaming’ Of Riots In Denver

Unclear On Basic Concepts: Psychiatrist says S.C. teen accused in plot is competent

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Roberto Venosa’s Talking Portrait of Terence McKenna

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The Fire-Festivals of Europe – The Beltane Fires

(From The Golden Bough)
In the Central Highlands of Scotland bonfires, known as the Beltane fires, were formerly kindled with great ceremony on the first of May, and the traces of human sacrifices at them were particularly clear and unequivocal. The custom of lighting the bonfires lasted in various places far into the eighteenth century, and the descriptions of the ceremony by writers of that period present such a curious and interesting picture of ancient heathendom surviving in our own country that I will reproduce them in the words of their authors. The fullest of the descriptions is the one bequeathed to us by John Ramsay, laird of Ochtertyre, near Crieff, the patron of Burns and the friend of Sir Walter Scott. He says: “But the most considerable of the Druidical festivals is that of Beltane, or May-day, which was lately observed in some parts of the Highlands with extraordinary ceremonies. … Like the other public worship of the Druids, the Beltane feast seems to have been performed on hills or eminences. They thought it degrading to him whose temple is the universe, to suppose that he would dwell in any house made with hands. Their sacrifices were therefore offered in the open air, frequently upon the tops of hills, where they were presented with the grandest views of nature, and were nearest the seat of warmth and order. And, according to tradition, such was the manner of celebrating this festival in the Highlands within the last hundred years. But since the decline of superstition, it has been celebrated by the people of each hamlet on some hill or rising ground around which their cattle were pasturing. Thither the young folks repaired in the morning, and cut a trench, on the summit of which a seat of turf was formed for the company. And in the middle a pile of wood or other fuel was placed, which of old they kindled with tein-eigin—i.e., forced-fire or need-fire. Although, for many years past, they have been contented with common fire, yet we shall now describe the process, because it will hereafter appear that recourse is still had to the tein-eigin upon extraordinary emergencies.
“The night before, all the fires in the country were carefully extinguished, and next morning the materials for exciting this sacred fire were prepared. The most primitive method seems to be that which was used in the islands of Skye, Mull, and Tiree. A well-seasoned plank of oak was procured, in the midst of which a hole was bored. A wimble of the same timber was then applied, the end of which they fitted to the hole. But in some parts of the mainland the machinery was different. They used a frame of green wood, of a square form, in the centre of which was an axle-tree. In some places three times three persons, in others three times nine, were required for turning round by turns the axle-tree or wimble. If any of them had been guilty of murder, adultery, theft, or other atrocious crime, it was imagined either that the fire would not kindle, or that it would be devoid of its usual virtue. So soon as any sparks were emitted by means of the violent friction, they applied a species of agaric which grows on old birch-trees, and is very combustible. This fire had the appearance of being immediately derived from heaven, and manifold were the virtues ascribed to it. They esteemed it a preservative against witch-craft, and a sovereign remedy against malignant diseases, both in the human species and in cattle; and by it the strongest poisons were supposed to have their nature changed.
“After kindling the bonfire with the tein-eigin the company prepared their victuals. And as soon as they had finished their meal, they amused themselves a while in singing and dancing round the fire. Towards the close of the entertainment, the person who officiated as master of the feast produced a large cake baked with eggs and scalloped round the edge, called am bonnach bea-tine—i.e., the Beltane cake. It was divided into a number of pieces, and distributed in great form to the company. There was one particular piece which whoever got was called cailleach beal-tine—i.e., the Beltane carline, a term of great reproach. Upon his being known, part of the company laid hold of him and made a show of putting him into the fire; but the majority interposing, he was rescued. And in some places they laid him flat on the ground, making as if they would quarter him. Afterwards, he was pelted with egg-shells, and retained the odious appellation during the whole year. And while the feast was fresh in people’s memory, they affected to speak of the cailleach beal-tine as dead.”
In the parish of Callander, a beautiful district of Western Perthshire, the Beltane custom was still in vogue towards the end of the eighteenth century. It has been described as follows by the parish minister of the time: “Upon the first day of May, which is called Beltan, or Baltein day, all the boys in a township or hamlet, meet in the moors. They cut a table in the green sod, of a round figure, by casting a trench in the ground, of such circumference as to hold the whole company. They kindle a fire, and dress a repast of eggs and milk in the consistence of a custard. They knead a cake of oatmeal, which is toasted at the embers against a stone. After the custard is eaten up, they divide the cake into so many portions, as similar as possible to one another in size and shape, as there are persons in the company. They daub one of these portions all over with charcoal, until it be perfectly black. They put all the bits of the cake into a bonnet. Every one, blindfold, draws out a portion. He who holds the bonnet, is entitled to the last bit. Whoever draws the black bit, is the devoted person who is to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favour they mean to implore, in rendering the year productive of the sustenance of man and beast. There is little doubt of these inhuman sacrifices having been once offered in this country, as well as in the east, although they now pass from the act of sacrificing, and only compel the devoted person to leap three times through the flames; with which the ceremonies of this festival are closed.”
Thomas Pennant, who travelled in Perthshire in the year 1769, tells us that “on the first of May, the herdsmen of every village hold their Bel-tien, a rural sacrifice. They cut a square trench on the ground, leaving the turf in the middle; on that they make a fire of wood, on which they dress a large caudle of eggs, butter, oatmeal and milk; and bring besides the ingredients of the caudle, plenty of beer and whisky; for each of the company must contribute something. The rites begin with spilling some of the caudle on the ground, by way of libation: on that every one takes a cake of oatmeal, upon which are raised nine square knobs, each dedicated to some particular being, the supposed preserver of their flocks and herds, or to some particular animal, the real destroyer of them: each person then turns his face to the fire, breaks off a knob, and flinging it over his shoulders, says, ‘This I give to thee, preserve thou my horses; this to thee, preserve thou my sheep; and so on.’ After that, they use the same ceremony to the noxious animals: ‘This I give to thee, O fox! spare thou my lambs; this to thee, O hooded crow! this to thee, O eagle!’ When the ceremony is over, they dine on the caudle; and after the feast is finished, what is left is hid by two persons deputed for that purpose; but on the next Sunday they reassemble, and finish the reliques of the first entertainment.”
Another writer of the eighteenth century has described the Beltane festival as it was held in the parish of Logierait in Perthshire. He says: “On the first of May, O.S., a festival called Beltan is annually held here. It is chiefly celebrated by the cow-herds, who assemble by scores in the fields, to dress a dinner for themselves, of boiled milk and eggs. These dishes they eat with a sort of cakes baked for the occasion, and having
small lumps in the form of nipples, raised all over the surface.” In this last account no mention is made of bonfires, but they were probably lighted, for a contemporary writer informs us that in the parish of Kirkmichael, which adjoins the parish of Logierait on the east, the custom of lighting a fire in the fields and baking a consecrated cake on the first of May was not quite obsolete in his time. We may conjecture that the cake with knobs was formerly used for the purpose of determining who should be the “Beltane carline” or victim doomed to the flames. A trace of this custom survived, perhaps, in the custom of baking oatmeal cakes of a special kind and rolling them down hill about noon on the first of May; for it was thought that the person whose cake broke as it rolled would die or be unfortunate within the year. These cakes, or bannocks as we call them in Scotland, were baked in the usual way, but they were washed over with a thin batter composed of whipped egg, milk or cream, and a little oatmeal. This custom appears to have prevailed at or near Kingussie in Inverness-shire.
In the north-east of Scotland the Beltane fires were still kindled in the latter half of the eighteenth century; the herdsmen of several farms used to gather dry wood, kindle it, and dance three times “southways” about the burning pile. But in this region, according to a later authority, the Beltane fires were lit not on the first but on the second of May, Old Style. They were called bone-fires. The people believed that on that evening and night the witches were abroad and busy casting spells on cattle and stealing cows’ milk. To counteract their machinations, pieces of rowan-tree and woodbine, but especially of rowan-tree, were placed over the doors of the cow-houses, and fires were kindled by every farmer and cottar. Old thatch, straw, furze, or broom was piled in a heap and set on fire a little after sunset. While some of the bystanders kept tossing the blazing mass, others hoisted portions of it on pitchforks or poles and ran hither and thither, holding them as high as they could. Meantime the young people danced round the fire or ran through the smoke shouting, “Fire! blaze and burn the witches; fire! fire! burn the witches.” In some districts a large round cake of oat or barley meal was rolled through the ashes. When all the fuel was consumed, the people scattered the ashes far and wide, and till the night grew quite dark they continued to run through them, crying, “Fire! burn the witches.”
In the Hebrides “the Beltane bannock is smaller than that made at St. Michael’s, but is made in the same way; it is no longer made in Uist, but Father Allan remembers seeing his grandmother make one about twenty-five years ago. There was also a cheese made, generally on the first of May, which was kept to the next Beltane as a sort of charm against the bewitching of milk-produce. The Beltane customs seem to have been the same as elsewhere. Every fire was put out and a large one lit on the top of the hill, and the cattle driven round it sunwards (dessil), to keep off murrain all the year. Each man would take home fire wherewith to kindle his own.”
In Wales also the custom of lighting Beltane fires at the beginning of May used to be observed, but the day on which they were kindled varied from the eve of May Day to the third of May. The flame was sometimes elicited by the friction of two pieces of oak, as appears from the following description. “The fire was done in this way. Nine men would turn their pockets inside out, and see that every piece of money and all metals were off their persons. Then the men went into the nearest woods, and collected sticks of nine different kinds of trees. These were carried to the spot where the fire had to be built. There a circle was cut in the sod, and the sticks were set crosswise. All around the circle the people stood and watched the proceedings. One of the men would then take two bits of oak, and rub them together until a flame was kindled. This was applied to the sticks, and soon a large fire was made. Sometimes two fires were set up side by side. These fires, whether one or two, were called coelcerth or bonfire. Round cakes of oatmeal and brown meal were split in four, and placed in a small flour-bag, and everybody present had to pick out a portion. The last bit in the bag fell to the lot of the bag-holder. Each person who chanced to pick up a piece of brown-meal cake was compelled to leap three times over the flames, or to run thrice between the two fires, by which means the people thought they were sure of a plentiful harvest. Shouts and screams of those who had to face the ordeal could be heard ever so far, and those who chanced to pick the oatmeal portions sang and danced and clapped their hands in approval, as the holders of the brown bits leaped three times over the flames, or ran three times between the two fires.”

The belief of the people that by leaping thrice over the bonfires or running thrice between them they ensured a plentiful harvest is worthy of note. The mode in which this result was supposed to be brought about is indicated by another writer on Welsh folk-lore, according to whom it used to be held that “the bonfires lighted in May or Midsummer protected the lands from sorcery, so that good crops would follow. The ashes were also considered valuable as charms.” Hence it appears that the heat of the fires was thought to fertilise the fields, not directly by quickening the seeds in the ground, but indirectly by counteracting the baleful influence of witchcraft or perhaps by burning up the persons of the witches.
The Beltane fires seem to have been kindled also in Ireland, for Cormac, “or somebody in his name, says that belltaine, May-day, was so called from the ‘lucky fire,’ or the ‘two fires,’ which the druids of Erin used to make on that day with great incantations; and cattle, he adds, used to be brought to those fires, or to be driven between them, as a safeguard against the diseases of the year.” The custom of driving cattle through or between fires on May Day or the eve of May Day persisted in Ireland down to a time within living memory.
The first of May is a great popular festival in the more midland and southern parts of Sweden. On the eve of the festival huge bonfires, which should be lighted by striking two flints together, blaze on all the hills and knolls. Every large hamlet has its own fire, round which the young people dance in a ring. The old folk notice whether the flames incline to the north or to the south. In the former case, the spring will be cold and backward; in the latter, it will be mild and genial. In Bohemia, on the eve of May Day, young people kindle fires on hills and eminences, at crossways, and in pastures, and dance round them. They leap over the glowing embers or even through the flames. The ceremony is called “burning the witches.” In some places an effigy representing a witch used to be burnt in the bonfire. We have to remember that the eve of May Day is the notorious Walpurgis Night, when the witches are everywhere speeding unseen through the air on their hellish errands. On this witching night children in Voigtland also light bonfires on the heights and leap over them. Moreover, they wave burning brooms or toss them into the air. So far as the light of the bonfire reaches, so far will a blessing rest on the fields. The kindling of the fires on Walpurgis Night is called “driving away the witches.” The custom of kindling fires on the eve of May Day (Walpurgis Night) for the purpose of burning the witches is, or used to be, widespread in the Tyrol, Moravia, Saxony and Silesia.

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Poetry For Beltane: Robert Graves


Rhea
On her shut lids the lightning flickers,

Thunder explodes above her bed,

An inch from her lax arm the rain hisses;

Discrete she lies,
Not dead but entranced, dreamlessly

With slow breathing, her lips curved

In a half-smile archaic, her breast bare,

Hair astream.
The house rocks, a flood suddenly rising

Bears away bridges: oak and ash

Are shivered to the roots – royal green timber.

She nothing cares.
(Divine Augustus, trembling at the storm,

Wrapped sealskin on his thumb; divine Gaius

Made haste to hide himself in a deep cellar,

Distraught by fear.)
Rain, thunder, lightning: pretty children.

“Let them play,” her mother-mind repeats;

“They do no harm, unless from high spirits

Or by mishap.”

In The Wilderness
He, of his gentleness,

Thirsting and hungering

Walked in the Wilderness;

Soft words of grace he spoke

Unto lost desert-folk

That listned wondering.

He heard the bittern call

From ruined palace-wall,

Answered him brotherly;

He held communion

With the she-pelican

Of lonely piety.

Basilisk, cockatrice,

Flocked to his homilies,

With mail of dread device,

With monstrous barbed stings,

With eager dragon-eyes;

Great bats on leathern wings

And old, blind, broken things

Mean in their miseries.

Then ever with him went,

Of all his wanderings

Comrade, with ragged coat,

Gaunt ribs — poor innocent –

Bleeding foot, burning throat,

The guileless young scapegoat;

For forty nights and days

Followed in Jesus’ ways,

Sure guard behind him kept,

Tears like a lover wept.

The White Goddess
All saints revile her, and all sober men

Ruled by the God Apollo’s golden mean –

In scorn of which we sailed to find her

In distant regions likeliest to hold her

Whom we desired above all things to know,

Sister of the mirage and echo.
It was a virtue not to stay,

To go our headstrong and heroic way

Seeking her out at the volcano’s head,

Among pack ice, or where the track had faded

Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:

Whose broad high brow was white as any leper’s,

Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,

With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir

Will celebrate with green the Mother,

And every song-bird shout awhile for her;

But we are gifted, even in November

Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense

Of her nakedly worn magnificence

We forget cruelty and past betrayal,

Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
Robert Graves

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Steve Roach – Cloud Motion
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Winstanley….

‘liberty cannot be provided for in a general sense if property is preserved.’

Be There Or Be Square!
Portland Muralist Art Show! – Opening: May 2nd, 5-9PM!
Olympic Mills Building Gallery –The Portland Mural Show
Olympic Mills Commerce Center, 107 SE Washington Street, PDX – May 2-June 28
Opening Reception: First Friday, May 2, 5-9PM

Closing Party/Paint Off: June 28, NOON – 6
www.olympicmill.com www.myspace.com/olympicmillsart
Featuring the work of local Portland muralists over the past 20 years. (Please see partial list of participating artists. There will be more.)
This show is a snapshot of extant mural work around Portland and a showcase for new work by local muralists.
Since 1998, there has been no easily accessible path to public murals in Portland. On the heels of the 2007 legal decision by Judge Michael Marcus deeming mural art legally sound, there is word that the city will soon open most walls to a simple mural permitting process. In exuberant display, local muralists show work & anticipate the opportunity of painting legally on public walls.
In this show there will be photos sketches, original work and documentation of some of your favorite Portland murals places…Outside In, The Musicians Union, Community Cycling Center, S.C.R.A.P.
There will be display of older murals…. “Struggle and Hope” honoring Ben Linder circa 1988, and also the “We Speak ” mural about the Columbus Quincentary circa 1992.
There will be live action painters hard at work at the opening party on May 2.
There will be a talk about public mural art at the opening by local artist Baba Wague and activist Martin Gonzalez . The opening is community mural style potluck. Bring something.
Artists Represented:
Charlotte Lewis

Ping Khaw

Mike Hensley

Robin Corbo

Emily Lutz

Charlie Alan Kraft

Sara Stout

Sheri Love

Jennifer Mercede

Larry Kangas

Joe Cotter

Kolieha Bush

Mark Meltzer

Asa Kennedy

Jay Meer

Eileen Belanger

Nicholas M. Olmsted

Chris Haberman

Kenny Spurlock

Jason Coatney

Gwyllm Llwydd

Rin Carroll Jackson

John Early

Laura Bender

Mark Larsen

Angelina Marino

Joel Heidel

Jesse Valesquez

Joanne Oleksiak

Bruce Orr

Carol Forté

Tom Cramer

Josh Wallace

Kate Sullivan

Eric Klanton

Jan York

William Park

Ryan Shanks

Tim Karpniski (and Together Gallery)

Donna Guardino

(and others)
From the site of the historic B&O Building, the heavily remodeled Olympic Mills Commerce Center is a multi-small business complex with natural sky lights, 24K sq.ft. of main floor art gallery and 7 floors of office space.
10% of art show proceeds go to local charities.
Art shows run in 2-month exhibitions. Support Local Arts, Support Portland City Art.

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So Morgan brought over ‘Winstanley’ this past week (on DVD)… I have had this entry sitting since 1/22/08, and held off until I saw the film. Amazing really, shot on 16mm, for a budget in 1974 of 17,000 British Pounds. It is well worth seeing, as it tells a pivotal tale the reverberates until today, and may I say, past us…
In the next couple of weeks we will be investigating various forms of communities and ideas about community that are in stark contrast to the present state of affairs here in the post – industrial west…
Remember, we are only as limited as our imaginations, and we can, and will create a new society, whether by intentionality, or by accident, something new is on the way, so we may as well help birth something better…
So… check ‘Winstanley’ out. We are all part of a long tradition, and there are so many tales to be known…
Painting away for the show this weekend, but I had to get this out!

On The Menu:

Tom Middleton – Sea Of Glass

Winstanley, The Diggers

William Blake: Poetry…
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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Tom Middleton – Sea Of Glass
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Winstanley, The Diggers

Excerpt from Communalism: From Its Origins to the Twentieth Century

By Kenneth Rexroth


Surprisingly the seventeenth century with its almost continuous wars of religion was not a good time for the radical Reformation. Cujis regio, ejus religio — religion had become a matter of large-scale politics. Wars fought between nations and alliances of nations divided Europe into blocks of Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists. Small groups of the elect were crushed out by the sheer weight of the contending monsters. Then, too, the Thirty Years War, which was fought to destroy the Holy Roman Empire as the dominant power in Europe, also crushed or profoundly distorted the culture of the various parts of the empire. Germany emerged fragmented and wasted and did not recover for generations. The radical Reformation had been a natural outgrowth of the culture of the late medieval middle of Europe and the Thirty Years War destroyed its roots. In the Netherlands, Switzerland, and amongst the Hutterites in their remote refuges, a process of fossilization had set in.
The English Civil War and commonwealth were essentially a product of class struggle, and the proliferation of sects in the latter days of the Civil War took place almost entirely in a lower middle class and upper working class context. In spite of their name, the Levellers were far from being unbridled democrats. They proposed to extend participation in power only to men of substance — small, middle-class substance — like themselves. The Fifth Monarchy men were such extreme chiliasts as to have no real social program.
The Ranters were only incidentally millenarians. Basically they were a revival of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit, who believed that once divinized and absorbed into the Godhead the soul was incapable of evil. Like the Adamites who were expelled from Tabor they lived exalted in an amoral ecstasy. If they practiced community of goods, nudism, speaking with tongues, and sexual orgies it was all part of a frantic, hurried, and hunted life lived in a state of unrelieved excitement. Some Ranters were simply extreme Spiritualists, descendants of Meister Eckhart and the Rhineland mystics; and with the Restoration of Charles II they were absorbed into the Quakers. They really lay completely outside the development of English Puritanism.
The agitation of the Levellers lasted only three years. They were primarily a political party who wished to see the promises of the Rump Parliament — the recruiting propaganda for the second stage of the Civil War — fulfilled. Their leader, John Lilburne, had been an associate of Cromwell’s at the beginning and the Levellers were perfectly right when they accused him of selling out. Although the final form of their Agreement of the Free People of England, their political manifesto, proposes a broader democracy than would come to England until the end of the nineteenth century, they did not believe in universal franchise, but excluded servants, paupers, farm laborers, Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Royalists, “heretics,” and, of course, women. Essentially they were left-wing Calvinist republicans. By the end of 1649 they had been completely suppressed.
In 1653 the Nominated or “Barebones” Parliament, chosen from the leaders of the Independent Churches, sat briefly; but its attempts to inaugurate the rule of the saints were so radical and disorganized that Cromwell dissolved them and became dictator — “Protector.” This led to a revolt of the more extreme millenarians, to whom Cromwell became the “Little Horn” of the Beast of the Apocalypse. They proposed to establish a ruthless despotism of the elect in preparation for the final kingdom of the millennium. The Fifth Monarchy movement, lacking both ideology and social program, sprang up through an inflamed rhetoric which consisted exclusively of the reiteration and rearrangement of the apocalyptic language of the Books of Daniel and Revelation. It was a massive hysterical outburst of rage by men who knew they had been betrayed. Unlike the Levellers, they took to armed revolt. In April 1657 a handful of men rushed about London fighting as they went and were quickly suppressed. In January 1661 another, even more frantic and desperate attempt occurred, and those who were not killed in the streets were executed, and the sect came to an end.
Movements like the old Family of Love, the Seekers, and the Quakers grew in the interstices of the English Reformation, at first so clandestinely that from Henry VIII to the emergence of the Quakers we know surprisingly little about them. Various groups were accused of practicing community of goods; but although the movement was widespread, at least in the imagination of its persecutors, each individual group seems to have been a tiny conventicle, with members meeting in one another’s’ homes and sharing their resources. Theologically the older Anabaptism died out in England and was replaced by Spiritualism. The modern Baptist sect which arose in those days was an independent development which owed practically nothing to continental Anabaptism but was rather a special form of Calvinism. In the writing and preaching of George Fox and the earliest Quakers there were no special social or economic concerns, and it was only after the Restoration with the consolidation of modern Quakerism in the days of William Penn that the Quakers became anti-political.
A little group of unemployed laborers and landless peasants gathered at St. George’s Hill near Walton-on-Thames in Surrey on April 1, 1649, and began to dig up the common land and prepare for sowing vegetables. Their leaders were William Everard and Gerrard Winstanley. At first their activities aroused curiosity and a certain amount of sympathy but as time went on the local lords of the manor, the gentry, aroused the populace and the mob shut the Diggers up in the church at Walton until they were released by a justice of the peace. Again they were captured by a mob and locked up in the nearby town of Kingston and again released. On April 16 a complaint was laid before the Council of State, who sent two groups of cavalry to investigate.
The captain, Gladman, reported that the incident was trivial and sent Everard and Winstanley to London to explain themselves to Thomas Fairfax. They explained that since the Norman Conquest England had been under a tyranny which was now abolished, but that now God would relieve the poor and restore their freedom to enjoy the fruits of the earth. The two men explained that they did not intend to interfere with private property, but only to plant and harvest on the many wastelands of England, and to live together holding all things in common. They were certain that their example would be followed by the poor and dispossessed all over England, and in the course of time all men would give up their possessions and join them in community.
A month later Lord Fairfax stopped by on his way to London, to see for himself what was happening, and decided it was a matter for the local authorities. In June another mob, including some soldiers, assaulted the Diggers and trampled their crops. Winstanley complained to Fairfax and the soldiers were apparently ordered to leave the Diggers alone. In June the Diggers announced that they intended to cut and sell the wood on the common, and at this point the landlords sued for damages and trespass. The court awarded damages of ten pounds and costs, and took the cows Winstanley was pasturing on the common, but released them because they were not his property.
Perhaps because of the judgment, and because their crops had all been destroyed, the Diggers moved in the autumn to the common of Cobham Manor, built four houses, and started a crop of winter grain. By this time there were over fifty Diggers. When they refused to disperse, Fairfax finally sent troops who, with the mob, destroyed two of the houses and again trampled the fields. The Diggers persisted and by spring they had eleven acres of growing grain and six or seven houses and similar movements had sprung up i
n Northamptonshire and Kent. The landlord, a clergyman, John Platt, turned his cattle into the young grain and led a mob in destroying houses and driving out the Diggers and their women and children.
On April 1, 1650, Winstanley and fourteen others (Everard, who seems to have been demented, vanishes early in the story) were indicted for disorderly conduct, unlawful assembly, and trespass. There is no record of the disposal of the indictment, but this was the end of the little communist society at Cobham.
This is all there was to the Digger movement, a trivial episode which was a ninety-day wonder in the news sheets when it first started, and which was almost without influence at the time, and easily could have been lost to history — except for the writings of Gerrard Winstanley. All during the course of the experiment he issued a series of pamphlets which, as his ideas rapidly evolved, came to constitute the first systematic exposition of libertarian communism in English.
All the tendencies of the radical Reformation seem to flow together in Winstanley, to be blended and secularized, and become an ideology rather than a theology. Spiritualism, radical Unitarianism, apostolic communism, evangelical rationalism — one could easily believe that he was well read in the entire literature of the radical Reformation. Yet we know nothing of his intellectual background, reading, or influences. He never quotes a secular authority, only the Bible, in all his writings, and we know nothing about his education, and little enough about his life. He says again and again that his ideas owe nothing to any other man or to any book, only to the Inner Light and to its “openings” in visionary experiences. Perhaps that is true.
Gerrard Winstanley was born in the village of Wigan in 1609, in a family of small gentry and merchants that had long been prominent in England. His father Edward was registered as a mercer and the son was raised in the cloth trade. Somewhere he must have received a fairly good education for a provincial middle-class boy because, although he never uses, as did everybody else in his day, a classical quotation, this very avoidance would indicate not only that he was well educated but quite sophisticated, and the prose style in his later pamphlets is that of a highly literate man. At the age of twenty he was in London, apprenticed to Sarah Gater, widow of William Gater of the Merchant Taylor’s company, and at twenty-eight he became a freeman and went into business for himself. Three years later he married Susan King. In the depression which began in 1643 he went bankrupt, and he was still being sued by one of his creditors in 1660. After his bankruptcy, he left London to stay with friends in the neighborhood of Cobham and Walton-on-Thames in Surrey where, to judge from his troubles over the cows, he made a living pasturing other people’s cattle on the common.
At some time before his first publication Winstanley joined the Baptists and may have been a preacher for them, but before 1648 he had come to believe that baptism was only an unimportant form and had ceased to attend Baptist conventicles. Rather he met with those little groups of Seekers who gathered in one another’s homes and waited for the Inner Light, and spoke only ex tempore. At this time he went through a period of temptation, guilt, fear of death and damnation, of devils and ghosts, and a sense of loss and abandonment, a time of spiritual crisis universal in the lives of the great mystics. Finally, he came to an abiding consciousness of God within himself, the assurance of universal salvation, and the peace which comes with direct experience of mystical illumination. His first two publications are really devoted to assimilating this experience. They move from a highly spiritualized chiliasm, developing a well-reasoned doctrine of universal salvation, to a highly spiritualized philosophy of history rather than a theology.
Even in these early pamphlets Winstanley has original insights. His chiliasm does not take the form of the salvation of a handful of the elect but of the divinization of man. In his teachings on sin and salvation the original sin of Adam was not lust but covetousness — selfishness and the desire for power — in which Winstanley shows himself an incomparably more astute moralist than the Puritans. Ultimately, the God who operates in history, in all things, and consciously in the soul of man, is called “Reason.” It would be a mistake to decide from this, as some modern writers have done, that Winstanley was a precursor of eighteenth-century rationalism. His reason is the ineffable God of Plotinus and Meister Eckhart apprehended in the mystical experience, though not separated from man as the Omnipotent Creator, but as the ultimately realizable in all things. So for him the narrative of the Old Testament and the life and passion of Christ cease to be historical documents about something that happened in the past and become symbolic archetypes of the cosmic drama of the struggle of good and evil that takes place in the soul of man.
When the Digger tracts began with the adventure at St. George’s Hill, Winstanley’s basic appeal was not to the practice of the apostles or to an eschatological ethic in preparation for apocalypse. His communism begins with an “opening,” an actual vision, and the appeal is always to his transcendent and imminent Reason — to a spiritualized natural law, not unlike the Tao of Chuang Tsu.
Likewise I heard these words: “Worke together. Eat bread together. Declare all this abroad.” Likewise I heard these words: “Whosoever it is that labours in the earth or any person or persons that lifts up themselves as Lords and Rulers over others and that doth not look upon themselves equal to others in the creation, the Hand of the Lord shall be upon the labourer. I the Lord have spoke it and I will do it. Declare all this abroad.” [The New Law of Righteousness, 1648]
This vision came not as a command from on high, but as a voice opening out of the experience of nature itself, for, says Winstanley, the doctrine of an anthropomorphic deity, set over against and independent of nature,
is the doctrine of a sickly and weak spirit who hath lost his understanding in the knowledge of the Creation and of the temper of his own Heart and Nature and so runs into fancies. [The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored, 1652]
To know the secrets of nature, is to know the works of God; and to know the works of God within the creation, is to know God himself, for God dwells in every visible work or body. And indeed if you would know spiritual things, it is to know how the Spirit or Power of Wisdom and Life, causing motion or growth, dwells within and governs both the several bodies of the stars and planets in the heavens above and the several bodies of the earth below as grass, plants, fishes, beasts, birds and mankinde. [Ibid.]
Belief in an outward heaven or hell is a “strange conceit,” a fraud by which men are delivered over into the power of their oppressors,
. . . a fancy which your false teachers put into your heads to please you with, while they pick your purses and betray your Christ into the hands of flesh, and hold Jacob under to be a servant still to Lord Esau. [The New Law of Righteousness]
True religion and undefiled is this, to make restitution of the Earth which hath been taken and held from the common people by the power of Conquests formerly and so set the oppressed free. [A New Yeers Gift for the Parliament and the Armie, 1650]
The earth with all her fruits of Corn, Cattle and such like was made to be a common Store-House of Livelihood, to all mankinde, friend and foe, without exception. [A Declaration from the Poor Oppressed People of England, 1649]
And this particular propriety [property] of mine and thine that brought in all misery upon people. For first it hath occasioned people to steal from one another. Secondly it hath made laws to hang those that did steal. It tempts people to do an evil action and then
kills them for doing it. [The New Law of Righteousness]
Now, this same power in man that causes divisions and war is called by some men the state of nature which every man brings into the world with him. . . . But this law of darknesse is not the State of Nature. [Fire in the Bush, 1650]
. . . the power of Life (called the Law of Nature within the creatures) which does move both man and beast in their actions; or that causes grass, trees, corn and all plants to grow in their several seasons; and whatsoever any body does, he does it as he is moved by this inward Law. And this Law of Nature moves twofold viz. unrationally or rationally. [The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored]
In the beginning of time the great creator Reason made the earth to be a common treasury . . . not one word was spoken in the beginning that one branch of mankind should rule over another. [The True Levellers Standard Advanced, 1649]
. . . the power of inclosing Land and owning Propriety was brought into the Creation by your ancestors by the Sword which first did murther their fellow-creatures men and after plunder or steal away their land. [A Declaration from the Poor Oppressed People of England]
They have by their subtle imagination and covetous wit got the plain-hearted poor or younger brethren to work for them for small wages and by their work have got a great increase. [The True Levellers Standard Advanced]
By large pay, much Free-Quarter and other Booties which they call their own they get much Monies and with this they buy Land. [Ibid.]
No man can be rich, but he must be rich, either by his own labors, or the labors of other men helping him: If a man have no help from his neighbor, he shall never gather an Estate of hundreds and thousands a year: If other men help him to work, then are those Riches his Neighbors, as well as his own, for they be the fruit of other mens labors as well as his own. But all rich men live at ease, feeding and clothing themselves by the labor of other men and not by their own; which is their shame and not their Nobility: for it is a more blessed thing to give than to receive. But rich men receive all they have from the laborers hand, and what they give, they give way other mens labors not their own. [The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored]
. . . if once landlords, then they rise to be Justices, Rulers and State Governours as experience shewes. [The True Levellers Standard Advanced]
. . . the power of the murdering and theeving sword formerly as well as now of late years hath set up a government and maintains that government; for what are prisons and putting others to death, but the power of the Sword to enforce people to that Government which was got by Conquest and sword and cannot stand of itself but by the same murdering power. [A Declaration from the Poor Oppressed People of England]
. . . the Kingly power sets up a Law and Rule of Government to walk by; and here Justice is pretended but the full strength of the Law is to uphold the conquering Sword and to preserve his son Propriety. . . . For though they say the Law doth punish yet indeed the Law is but the strength, life and marrow of the Kingly power upholding the Conquest still, hedging some into the Earth, hedging out others; giving the Earth to some and denying the Earth to others, which is contrary to the Law of Righteousnesse who made the Earth at first as free for one as for another. . . . Truly most Laws are but to enslave the Poor to the Rich and so they uphold the Conquest and are Laws of the great Red Dragons. [A New Yeers Gift for the Parliament and the Armie]
Winstanley borrowed from the Levellers the idea that in Anglo-Saxon England there had been an equitable sharing of land; and that at the Norman Conquest great estates had been created, and the old population dispossessed or driven into serfdom; and that this unequal division of the basic wealth of the land had been perpetuated ever since solely by the power of the sword; and that law and established religion were just devices to uphold the sword; and finally, that the overthrow of the king, the heir of the Norman power, had resulted in no important change. The old laws still stood. A new Church, first of the Presbyterians and then of the Independents, was established, and the grandees of the new commonwealth were enriching themselves like William the Conqueror’s knights, while the common people sank deeper into poverty. Winstanley’s interpretation of English history has been considered naïve, but there is much to be said for it. Anglo-Saxon England was in fact a frontier country, and all through the Dark Ages, following the catastrophic depopulation that began in the fifth century, there was much free land all over Europe and even more in the British Isles.
He says of caterpillar lawyers that “they love money as dearly as a poor man’s dog do his breakfast in a cold morning and they are such neat workmen, that they can turn a cause which way those that have the biggest purse have them.”
O you Parliament-men of England, cast those whorish laws out of doors, that are so common, that pretend love to everyone, and is faithful to none. For truly, he that goes to law, as the proverb is, shall die a beggar. So that old whores, and old laws, picks men’s pockets and undoes them . . . burn all your law books in Cheapside, and set up your government upon your own foundations. Do not put new wine into old bottles; but as your government must be new so let the laws be new, or else you will run farther into the mud, where you stick already, as though you were fast in an Irish bog. [A New Yeers Gift for the Parliament and the Armie]
As for the church:
And do we not yet see that if the Clergie can get Tithes or Money they will turn as the Ruling power turns, any way . . . to Papacy, to Protestantisme; for a King, against a King; for monarchy, for Some Government; they cry who bids most wages, they will be on the strongest side for an earthly maintenance. . . . There is a confederacie between the Clergy and the great red Dragon. The sheep of Christ shall never fare well so long as the wolf or red Dragon payes the Shepherd their wages. [Ibid.]
For Winstanley private property, but especially the property in land as the source of all wealth, “is the cause of all wars, bloodshed, theft and enslaving laws that hold the people under miserie.” Private property divides man from man and nation from nation and leads to a state of continuous war on which the state power flourishes.
Winstanley was the first to discover that axiom made famous by Randolph Bourne — “War is the health of the State.” He also had the curious and original idea that only in time of war does the power structure encourage scientific invention. “Otherwise the Kingly Bondage is the cause of the spreading of ignorance in the earth for fear of want and care to pay rent to taskmasters hath hindered many rare inventions and the secrets of creation have been locked up under the traditional parrot-like speaking from the Universities and Colleges for Scholars.” War, says Winstanley, makes the rich richer and the poor poorer and tightens the bonds of power.
Winstanley was a devout pacifist all during the Digger experiment; and one reason for the violent abuse of the Diggers, the destruction of their shanties, and the injury and killing of their livestock, was due to the fact that they put up no resistance. They believed that their example, if only they were permitted to cultivate the commons and wastelands, would be so infectious that soon it would be followed by all the poor of England; and that when they had established a community of love, interpenetrating all of English society, their success would lead even the rich and powerful to join them, and eventually all Europe would turn communist persuaded only by example.
Socialists, modern Communists, anarchists, all claim Winstanley as an ancestor. In fact his ideas bear most resemblance to those of the left-wing followers of
Henry George’s Single Tax. For him the source of all wealth was in land and its development in the application of labor to the resources of the earth. If these resources were held in common, and all men were permitted to develop them freely, and men labored in common, then the resulting wealth, even of crafts and manufactures, would naturally become communalized. Modern contemporary Marxists have called this economics naïve, but it was held at the beginning of the twentieth century by an economist who was anything but naïve, Henry George, who attracted many thousand intelligent followers, and it is after all the fundamental assumption of Marx himself. But it was not his economics that was most important to Winstanley. What he sought was a spiritual condition in mankind which would be in harmony with the working of Reason in nature — the return of man, who had fallen into covetousness, to the universal harmony. Winstanley’s communism was not an economic doctrine, but mutual aid followed from his organic philosophy as a logical consequence.
After the suppression of the little commune of Diggers Winstanley was quiet for a while. Then in 1652 he published, with a preface submitting it to Cromwell, his plan for a new commonwealth — The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored. The Digger pamphlets present no plan for administrative or governmental policy. Winstanley seems to have assumed that the example of small anarchist-communist groups working in occupied land in brotherhood would sweep all before it and convert England and eventually the world. The problems of self-defense and internal disruption are met by total pacifism before which power must simply dissolve. The violent suppression of the Diggers by both mob and authority forced Winstanley to consider the question of power anew.
The Law of Freedom, after a general introduction, is concerned largely with administrative plans, and the introduction is an appeal to Cromwell to use his power to introduce the new commonwealth. If you do not, says Winstanley, abolish the old power of conquest of the king and nobles, but only turn it over to other men, “you will either lose yourself or lay the foundation of greater slavery to posterity than you ever knew,” a chilling forecast of the dark Satanic mills of early British capitalism.
In the preamble he outlines the principal popular grievances, lack of religious toleration, survival of the old priesthood, the burden of tithes — a tenth of all income for an established Church, arbitrary administration of justice, the old laws are still enforced, the old feudal dues and obligations are still used to oppress the people, while the upper classes ignore their feudal obligations and enclose or abuse the common lands. These are the same grievances we are familiar with from the Hussite Wars and the Peasants’ Revolt in Germany.
Winstanley points out that true freedom does not consist in free trade, freedom of religion, or community of women, but freedom in the use of the earth, the natural treasure of society, and that the first duty of the new commonwealth should be to open the land to all people and to take over the former holdings of the king, the Church, and the nobility. To do this properly, and to use the land fruitfully for the good of all, society needs true government, administrative officers who will be devoted to freedom and the commonweal.
The original root of magistracy was in the family, and the first magistrate is the father, as the finally responsible member of a group in which all are mutually responsible. Officers of the society should be chosen by complete manhood suffrage for all over twenty, and at first only representatives of the old order need to be barred, although notorious evil livers are not fit to be chosen. They should be above forty years of age and hold office for one year only so that responsibility can be rotated throughout the community. First are the overseers, the peace officers who form a local council in each community. They preserve public order and suppress crime and quarrelling and disputes over household property and other chattels which remain in private possession. Others plan the distribution of labor and assign the young to apprenticeships. Others oversee the production of the craftsmen and farmers. Winstanley envisages manufactures as being carried on largely in people’s homes with a few public workshops. Apprenticeships normally take place within the family; only boys who do not wish to follow their fathers’ trade are assigned to the public workshops. Others organize the distribution of goods and food which go to warehouses and shops, both wholesale and retail, from which both craftsmen and consumers are free to choose what they wish.
In each community there is a “soldier,” what we would call a policeman, whose duty is to enforce the decisions of the peacemaker, a taskmaster to whom is given the rule of those convicted of crimes against the community and who assigns them to common labor. There is also an executioner who administers corporal or capital punishment to the hopelessly recalcitrant. Winstanley’s system of penalties may seem excessively severe to us, especially in a utopian society, but in their day, when people were hung for petty theft, they were relatively mild. In the county or shire the peacemakers of the towns, the overseers, and the soldiers, presided over by a judge, form the county senate and court of first appeal. Over all is parliament, which Winstanley seems to have thought of as primarily a court of final appeal, and he is very strongly opposed to its indulging in promiscuous legislation. Laws should be as few and simple as possible. What Winstanley had in mind was a polity like the Israelites in the Book of Judges — in fact the neolithic village with spontaneous justice administered by the elders sitting under a tree. Curiously he says nothing about juries or any other form of democratization of justice. Society defends itself by a militia and Winstanley has a most perceptive section on the evils of standing armies, militarism, and war.
Education in the new commonwealth is free, general, compulsory, and continues through life. Everyone is to be taught a trade or a craft at which he is to work part-time, whatever else he comes to do. No caste of intellectuals or academicians set apart from the people by booklearning is to be permitted to arise, although after the age of forty men “shall be freed from all labor and work unless they will themselves.” The death penalty is decreed for those who attempt to make a living by law or religion. In each community there shall be a “postmaster” who corresponds with all the others in the country directly and through a central postmaster in the chief city. They exchange news, especially news of progress in science, invention, and technology. Sunday is a day of rest. The people gather to listen to a reading of the laws, the news of the postmaster, and what we would call papers on learning and science. Religious services are not mentioned. The people are apparently at liberty to attend them if they wish. Marriage and divorce are civil, exclusively at the will of parties, and take place by simple declaration before the community with the overseers as witnesses.
Winstanley’s utopia has been criticized as being excessively simple and himself as naïve; and even more naïve, his idea that Cromwell would put in force such a policy, or probably even bother to read his pamphlet. Ideological discussion with his sectarian opponents was, whenever he had time, an indoor sport with Cromwell, but he never allowed it to influence him. We must not forget he lived in a time of revolutionary hope. In those days, as in the beginning of the Reformation on the continent, it seemed quite possible to intelligent men that an entirely new social order might be established. Everyone was something of a millenarian and believed that a new historical epoch was beginning. They could not foresee the rise of industrialism, capitalism, the secular State. To us, their future is the past and seems to have
been inevitable. There was nothing inevitable about it to them. Perhaps if Cromwell, or even Luther, had foreseen the horrors of the early industrial age in the nineteenth century, or the genocide and wars of extermination of the twentieth, they might have chosen the commonwealth of Winstanley or the community life of the Hutterites. In each great crisis of Western European civilization, the Reformation, the French Revolution, the revolutions of 1848, the First World War, the Bolshevik Revolution, the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War, it has seemed quite possible to change the world. It is only after the fact that the historical process appears to be the only way in which events could have worked out.
Was Winstanley’s utopia a workable polity? Within limits, yes. Whether he knew it or not, it is remarkably similar to that of the Taborites, the Moravian Brethren, the Hutterites, and the most successful and enduring communalist settlements in nineteenth-century America. His plans went into the common stock of ideas of later English communists and directly or indirectly influenced John Bellers, Robert Owen, Josiah Warren, William Morris, Belford Bax, Édouard Bernstein, David Petegorsky. Other socialists, Communists, and anarchists wrote extensively about him in the first half of the twentieth century and after the Second World War he became extremely popular. Revolutionary communalist groups in England, America, Germany, and France would even call themselves Diggers.
Although the Quakers are by far the best known and largest, and a still surviving community descended from the Spiritualist Anabaptists, and hence ultimately from the underground apostolic community of the Middle Ages, they did not practice community of goods. Rather each Seventh-Day Meeting, as they called their conventicles, had a common fund for the relief of members in need. As a majority of Quakers became prosperous — due to their strict honesty in trade and crafts and, prior to 1760 when they refused to pay tithes and so gave up farming, their advanced agricultural methods — these common funds became quite large and many poor people joined the Society of Friends to obtain welfare funds vastly superior to contemporary poor relief. At first this caused problems but within a generation members who had joined for these reasons had been absorbed into the general economy of Quaker mutual aid and poor Quakers were less than a third of the proportion of poor in the general population, while well-to-do members were proportionately three times as many. Quaker welfare funds came to be used more and more for the general relief of the poor in systematic ways which would foster self-help. Quakers were the principal, almost the sole, financiers, besides himself, of Robert Owen’s model factory town of New Lanark, and they have continued to invest in communal and cooperative movements of which they approve to this day.
In his youth at Manchester College Owen’s closest friends were the Quaker John Dalton and another young Friend named Winstanley, quite possibly a descendant of the great Digger.
Far more than Robert Owen, the most systematic theorist of a cooperative labor colony was the Quaker John Bellers, who greatly impressed Marx. Owen always denied that he was influenced by Bellers and claimed that he had never heard of him until Francis Place showed him a unique copy of his forgotten pamphlet in 1817. Owen immediately had a thousand copies printed and distributed them to those he thought would be interested, and so Bellers survived.
Bellers was born in 1654, a birthright Quaker. He became a friend of William Penn and other leading men of the time. In 1695 during the long economic depression in the last years of the century, he published Proposals for Raising a College of Industry of All Useful Trades and Husbandry. He called it a college rather than a work house or community because the first was identified with the servile institutions of state poor relief and the second implied that all things should be held in common. For a capital investment of fifteen thousand pounds — worth considerably more than ten times as much today — Bellers envisaged a self-sustaining colony of three hundred adults with shops, commissary, crafts, farm land, barns, dairies, pottery. The community was to be self-sufficient even in fuel and iron. All members, from common laborers to the overseers and managers, were to be paid in kind. The dwelling house would have four wings — one for married couples, one for single men and young boys, one for single women and girls, and one an infirmary. Meals were to be in common. Bellers, like Winstanley before him, placed great emphasis upon education in the humanities, in the arts, and in crafts and trade combined. Bellers thought that the creative life of the community and the advanced educational methods would attract many who would wish to come as visitors or even permanent boarders; and even more would wish to enroll their children in school, and for these privileges they would be expected to pay well. He worked out in considerable detail the projected bookkeeping of his community and demonstrated that the original investors would gain a considerable profit, while at the same time the standard of living of the members would be far higher than that of the contemporary working class. The first edition of the pamphlet was dedicated to the Society of Friends, the second to Parliament, but no one came forward to invest in such a colony. During his remaining years Bellers issued a series of pamphlets, some of them devoted to a careful economic analysis of a semi-socialist economy, others proposing a league of nations, an ecumenical council of all Christian religions, a national health service, a reform of Parliament and the electoral process, a total reform of prisons, and a reform of the Poor Laws.
Although Robert Owen had worked out his own system before he read Bellers’s pamphlet and although Fourier, Saint-Simon, and Cabet had certainly never heard of him, he anticipated most of their more practicable ideas and in far more practicable form. Although all his writings soon became excessively rare, he should be considered the founder of modern, socially responsible Quakerism of the Service Committee variety. Furthermore the various measures he proposed in his reformist practice have almost all been incorporated in the modern welfare state. Although Marx called him “a veritable phenomenon in the history of political economy,” amazingly there has never been an edition of his collected works nor, with all the immense flood of scholarly research and Ph.D. theses, has anyone written a book about him. He is not even mentioned in Beer’s History of British Socialism. Most information about him is to be found in the final chapter of Édouard Bernstein’s Cromwell and Communism.

_______

William Blake: Poetry…

A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe;

I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water’d it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with my smiles

And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole

When the night had veil’d the pole:

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretch’d beneath the tree

The Blossom
Merry, merry sparrow!

Under leaves so green

A happy blossom

Sees you, swift as arrow,

Seek your cradle narrow,

Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!

Under leaves so green

A happy blossom

Hears you sobbing, sobbing,

Pretty, pretty robin,

Near my bosom.

The Echoing Green
The sun does arise,

And make happy the skies;

The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring;

The skylark and thrush,

The birds of the bush,

Sing louder around

To the bells’ cheerful sound;

While our sports shall be seen

On the echoing green.
Old John, with white hair,

Does laugh away care,

Sitting under the oak,

Among the old folk.

They laugh at our play,

And soon they all say,

‘Such, such were the joys

When we all — girls and boys –

In our youth-time were seen

On the echoing green.’
Till the little ones, weary,

No more can be merry:

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end.

Round the laps of their mothers

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest,

And sport no more seen

On the darkening green.

The Divine Image
The Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

All pray in their distress;

And to these virtues of delight

Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

Is God, our Father dear,

And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

Is man, His child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,

Pity a human face,

And Love, the human form divine,

And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,

That prays in his distress,

Prays to the human form divine,

Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
For all must love the human form,

In heathen, Turk, or Jew;

Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell

There God is dwelling too.

Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau:

Mock on, mock on: ‘tis all in vain!

You throw the sand against the wind,

And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a Gem,

Reflected in the beam divine;

Blown back they blind the mocking Eye,

But still in Israel’s paths they shine.
The Atoms of Democritus

And the Newton’s Particles of Light

Are sands upon the Red Sea shore,

Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.

___________

Yab Yum


One of my favourite pictures… just a quick one, with a couple elements of note:
On The Menu:

Antony singing If It Be Your Will

The New Alchemy

John Cale – Hallelujah
Poetry is to be found with the Antony & John Cale Entries… From Leonard Cohen… (Thanks to Leanna and Richard for the nice evening of watching the Leonard Cohen Tribute film!)
The New Alchemy is from early writings on LSD by Alan Watts….
Have a good one!
Gwyllm

_______

An Amazing Voice!
Antony singing If It Be Your Will

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“If It Be Your Will”
If it be your will

That I speak no more

And my voice be still

As it was before

I will speak no more

I shall abide until

I am spoken for

If it be your will

If it be your will

That a voice be true

From this broken hill

I will sing to you

From this broken hill

All your praises they shall ring

If it be your will

To let me sing

From this broken hill

All your praises they shall ring

If it be your will

To let me sing
If it be your will

If there is a choice

Let the rivers fill

Let the hills rejoice

Let your mercy spill

On all these burning hearts in hell

If it be your will

To make us well
And draw us near

And bind us tight

All your children here

In their rags of light

In our rags of light

All dressed to kill

And end this night

If it be your will
If it be your will.

___

The New Alchemy

Alan Watts

an essay from This is It and Other Essays on Zen and Spiritual Experience,

by Alan Watts, Vintage Books, 1973, ©Alan Watts 1958, 1960.

This essay was written in 1960.
Besides the philosopher’s stone that would turn base metal into gold, one of the great quests of alchemy in both Europe and Asia was the elixir of immortality. In gullible enthusiasm for this quest, more than one Chinese emperor died of the fabulous concoctions of powdered jade, tea, ginseng, and precious metals prepared by Taoist priests. But just as the work of transforming lead into gold was in many cases a chemical symbolism for a spiritual transformation of man himself, so the immortality to be conferred by the elixir was not always the literally everlasting life but rather the transportation of consciousness into a state beyond time. Modern physicists have solved the problem of changing lead into gold, though the process is somewhat more expensive than digging gold from the earth. But in the last few years modem chemists have prepared one or two substances for which it may be claimed that in some cases they induce states of mind remarkably similar to cosmic consciousness.

To many people such claims are deeply disturbing. For one thing, mystical experience seems altogether too easy when it simply comes out of a bottle, and is thus available to people who have done nothing to deserve it, who have neither fasted nor prayed nor practiced yoga. For another, the claim seems to imply that-spiritual insight is after all only a matter of body chemistry involving a total reduction of the spiritual to the material. These are serious considerations, even though one may be convinced that in the long run the difficulty is found to rest upon semantic confusion as to the definitions of “spiritual” and “material.”

However, it should be pointed out that there is nothing new or disreputable in the idea that spiritual insight Is an undeserved gift of divine grace, often conveyed through such material or sacramental means as the water of baptism and the bread and wine of the mass. The priest who by virtue of his office transforms bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, ex opere operato, by the simple repetition of the formula of the Last Supper, is in a situation not radically different from that of the scientist who, by repeating the right formula of an experiment, may effect a transformation in the brain. The comparative worth of the two operations must be judged by their effects. There were always those upon whom the sacraments of baptism and communion did not seem to “take,” whose lives remained effectively unregenerate. Likewise, none of these consciousness-changing chemicals are literally mystical experience in a bottle. Many who receive them experience only ecstasies without insight, or just an unpleasant confusion of sensation and imagination. States akin to mystical experience arise only in certain individuals and then often depend upon considerable concentration and effort to use the change of consciousness in certain ways. It is important here, too, to stress the point that ecstasy is only Incidental to the authentic mystical experience, the essence of which might best be described as insight, as the word is now used in psychiatry.

A chemical of this kind might perhaps be said to be an aid to perception in the same way as the telescope, microscope, or spectroscope, save in this case that the instrument is not an external object but an internal state of the nervous system. All such instruments are relatively useless without proper training and preparation not only in their handling, but also in the particular field of investigation,

These considerations alone are already almost enough to show that the use of such chemicals does not reduce spiritual insight to a mere matter of body chemistry. But it should be added that even when we can describe certain events in terms of chemistry this does not mean that such events are merely chemical. A chemical description of spiritual experience has somewhat the same use and the same limits as the chemical description of a great painting. It is simple enough to make a chemical analysis of the paint, and for artists and connoisseurs alike there is some point in doing so. It might also be possible to work out a chemical description of all the processes that go on in the artist while he is painting. But it would be incredibly complicated, and in the meantime the same processes could be described and communicated far more effectively in some other language than the chemical. We should probably say that a process is chemical only when chemical language is the most effective means of describing it. Analogously, some of the chemicals known as psychedelics provide opportunities for mystical insight in much the same way that well-prepared paints and brushes provide opportunities for fine painting, or a beautifully constructed piano for great music. They make it easier, but they do not accomplish the work all by themselves.

The two chemicals which are of most use in creating a change of consciousness conducive to spiritual experience are mescaline and lysergic acid diethylamide (known, for short, as LSD). The former is a synthetic formulation of the active ingredients of the peyote cactus, and the latter a purely synthetic chemical of the indole group which produces its effects even in such minute amounts as twenty-five micrograms. The specific effects of these chemicals are hard to identify with any clarity, and so far as is known at present they seem to operate upon the nervous system by reducing some of the inhibitory mechanisms which ordinarily have a screening effect upon our consciousness. Certain psychiatrists who seem overly anxious to hang on to the socially approved sensation of reality—more or less the world as perceived on a bleak Monday morning—classify these chemicals as hallucinogens producing toxic effects of a schizoid or psychotic character. I am afraid this is psychiatric gobbledygook: a sort of authoritative rumble of disapproval. Neither substance is an addictive drug, like heroin or opium, and it has never been demonstrated that they have harmful effects upon people who were not otherwise seriously disturbed. It is begging the question to call the changes of consciousness which they educe hallucinations, for some of the unusual things felt and seen may be no more unreal than the unfamiliar forms perceived through a microscope. We do not know. It is also begging the question to call their effects toxic, which might mean poisonous, unless this word can also be used for the effects of vitamins or proteins. Such language is evaluative, not descriptive in any scientific sense.

Somewhat more than two years ago (1958) I was asked by a psychiatric research group to take 100 micrograms of lysergic acid, to see whether it would reproduce anything resembling a mystical experience. It did not do so, and so far as I know the reason was that I had not then learned how to direct my inquiries when under its influence. It seemed instead that my senses had been given a kaleidoscopic character (and this is no more than a metaphor) which made the whole world entrancingly complicated, as if I were involved in a multidimensional arabesque. Colors became so vivid that flowers, leaves, and fabrics seemed to be illumined from inside. The random patterns of blades of grass in a lawn appeared to be exquisitely organized without, however, any actual distortion of vision. Black ink or sumi paintings by Chinese and Japanese artists appeared almost to be three dimensional photographs, and what are ordinarily dismissed as irrelevant details of speech, behavior, appearance, and form seemed in some indefinable way to be highly significant. Listening to music with closed eyes, I beheld the most fascinating patterns of dancing jewelry, mosaic, tracery, and abstract images. At one point everything appeared to be uproariously funny, especially the gestures and actions of people going about their everyday business. Ordinary remarks seemed to reverberate with double and quadruple meanings, and the role-playing behavior of those around me not only became unusually evident but also implied concealed attitudes contrary or complementary to its overt intention. In short, the screening or selective apparatus of our normal interpretative evaluation of experience had been partially suspended, with the result that I was presumably projecting the sensation of meaning or significance upon just about everything. The whole experience was vastly entertaining and interesting, but as yet nothing like any mystical experience that I had had before.

It was not until a year later that I tried LSD again, this time at the request of another research team. Since then I have repeated the experiment five times, with dosages varying from 75 to 100 micrograms. My impression has been that such experiments are profound and rewarding to the extent that I do my utmost to observe perceptual and evaluative changes and to describe them as clearly and completely as possible, usually with the help of a tape recorder. To give a play-by-play description of each experiment might be clinically interesting, but what I am concerned with here is a philosophical discussion of some of the high points and recurrent themes of my experiences. Psychiatrists have not yet made up their minds as to whether LSD is useful in therapy, but at present I am strongly inclined to feel that its major use may turn out to be only secondarily as a therapeutic and primarily as an instrumental aid to the creative artist, thinker, or scientist. I should observe, in passing, that the human and natural environment in which these experiments are conducted is of great importance, and that its use in hospital wards with groups of doctors firing off clinical questions at the subject is most undesirable. The supervising physician should take a human attitude, and drop all defensive dramatizations of scientific objectivity and medical authority, conducting the experiment in surroundings of some natural or artistic beauty.

I have said that my general impression of the first experiment was that the “mechanism” by which we screen our sense-data and select only some of them as significant had been partially suspended. Consequently, I felt that the particular feeling which we associate with “the meaningful” was projected indiscriminately upon everything, and then rationalized in ways that might strike an independent observer as ridiculous—unless, perhaps, the subject were unusually clever at rationalizing. However, the philosopher cannot pass up the point that our selection of some sense-data as significant and others as insignificant is always with relation to particular purposes—survival, the quest for certain pleasures, finding one’s way to some destination, or whatever it may be. But in every experiment with LSD one of the first effects I have noticed is a profound relaxation combined with an abandonment of purposes and goals, reminding me of the Taoist saying that “when purpose has been used to achieve purposelessness, the thing has been grasped.” I have felt, in other words, endowed with all the time in the world, free to look about me as if I were living in eternity without a single problem to be solved. It is just for this reason that the busy and purposeful actions of other people seem at this time to be so comic, for it becomes obvious that by setting themselves goals which are always in the future, in the “tomorrow which never comes,” they are missing entirely the point of being alive.

When, therefore, our selection of sense-impressions is not organized with respect to any particular purpose, all the surrounding details of the world must appear to be equally meaningful or equally meaningless. Logically, these are two ways of saying the same thing, but the overwhelming feeling of my own LSD experiences is that all aspects of the world become meaningful rather than meaningless. This is not to say that they acquire meaning in the sense of signs, by virtue of pointing to something else, but that all things appear to be their own point. Their simple existence, or better, their present formation, seems to be perfect, to be an end or fulfillment without any need for justification. Flowers do not bloom in order to produce seeds, nor are seeds germinated in order to bring forth flowers. Each stage of the process—seed, sprout, bud, flower, and fruit— may be regarded as the goal. A chicken is one eggs way of producing others. In our normal experience something of the same kind takes place in music and the dance, where the point of the action is each moment of its unfolding and not just the temporal end of the performance.

Such a translation of everyday experience into something of the same nature as music has been the beginning and the prevailing undertone of all my experiments. But LSD does not simply suspend the selective process by cutting it out. It would be more exact to say that it shows the relativity of our ordinary evaluation of sense-data by suggesting others. It permits the mind to organize its sensory impressions in new patterns. In my second experiment I noticed, for example, that all repeated forms—leaves on a stem, books on shelves, mullions in windows—gave me the sensation of seeing double or even multiple, as if the second, third, and fourth leaves on the stem were reflections of the first, seen, as it were, in several thicknesses of window glass. When I mentioned this, the attending physician held up his finger to see if it would give me a double image. For a moment it seemed to do so, but all at once I saw that the second image had its basis in a wisp of cigar smoke passing close to his finger and upon which my consciousness had projected the highlights and outline of a second finger. As I then concentrated upon this sensation of doubling or repeating images, it seemed suddenly as if the whole field of sight were a transparent liquid rippled in concentric circles as in dropping a stone into a pool. The normal images of things around me were not distorted by this pattern. They remained just as usual, but my attention directed itself to highlights, lines, and shadows upon them that fitted the pattern, letting those that did not fall into relative insignificance. As soon, however, as I noticed this projection and became aware of details that did not fit the pattern, it seemed as if whole handfuls of pebbles had been thrown into-the optical space, rippling it with concentric circles that overlapped in all directions, so that every visible point became an intersection of circles. The optical field seemed, in fact, to have a structured grain like a photograph screened for reproduction, save that the organization of the grains was not rectilinear but circular. In this way every detail fitted the pattern and the field of vision became pointillist, like a painting by Seurat.

This sensation raised a number of questions. Was my mind imperiously projecting its own geometrical designs upon the world, thus “hallucinating” a structure in things which is not actually there? Or is what we call the “real” structure of things simply a learned projection or hallucination which we hold in common? Or was I somehow becoming aware of the actual grain of the rods and cones in my retina, for even a hallucination must have some actual basis in the nervous system? On another occasion I was looking closely at a handful of sand, and in becoming aware that I could not get it into clear focus I became conscious of every detail and articulation of the way in which my eyes were fuzzing the image—and this was certainly perception of a grain or distortion in the eyes themselves.

The general impression of these optical sensations is that the eyes, without losing the normal area of vision, have become microscopes, and that the texture of the visual field is infinitely rich and complex. I do not know whether this is actual awareness of the multiplicity of nerve-endings in the retina, or, for that matter, in the fingers, for the same grainy feeling arose in the sense of touch. But the effect of feeling that this is or may be so is, as it were, to turn the senses back upon themselves, and so to realize that seeing the external world is also seeing the eyes. In other words, I became vividly aware of the fact that what I call shapes, colors, and textures in the outside world are also states of my nervous system, that is, of me. In knowing them I also know my self. But the strange part of this apparent sensation of my own senses was that I did not appear to be inspecting them from outside or from a distance, as if they were objects. I can say only that the awareness of grain or structure in the senses seemed to be awareness of awareness, of myself from inside myself. Because of this, it followed that the distance or separation between myself and my senses, on the one hand, and the external world, on the other, seemed to disappear I was no longer a detached observer, a little man inside my own head, having sensations. I was the sensations, so much so that there was nothing left of me, the observing ego, except the series of sensations which happened—not to me, but just happened—moment by moment, one after another.

To become the sensations, as distinct from having them, engenders the most astonishing sense of freedom and release. For it implies that experience is not something in which one is trapped or by which one is pushed around, or against which one must fight. The conventional duality of subject and object, knower and known, feeler and feeling, is changed into a polarity: the knower and the known become the poles, terms, or phases of a single event which happens, not to me or from me, but of itself. The experiencer and the experience become a single, ever-changing self-forming process, complete and fulfilled at every moment of its unfolding, and of infinite complexity and subtlety. It is like, not watching, but being, a coiling arabesque of smoke patterns in the air, or of ink dropped in water, or of a dancing snake which seems to move from every part of its body at once. This may be a “drug-induced hallucination,” but it corresponds exactly to what Dewey and Bentley have called the transactional relationship of the organism to its environment. This is to say that all our actions and experiences arise mutually from the organism and from the environment at the same time. The eyes can see light because of the sun, but the sun is light because of the eyes. Ordinarily, under the hypnosis of social conditioning, we feel quite distinct from our physical surroundings, facing them rather than belonging in them. Yet in this way we ignore and screen out the physical fact of our total interdependence with the natural world. We are as embodied in it as our own cells and molecules are embodied in us. Our neglect and repression of this interrelationship gives special urgency to all the new sciences of ecology, studying the interplay of organisms with their environments, and warning us against ignorant interference with the balances of nature.

The sensation that events are happening of themselves, and that nothing is making them happen and that they are not happening to anything, has always been a major feature of my experiences with LSD. It is possible that the chemical is simply giving me a vivid realization of my own philosophy, though there have been times when the experience has suggested modifications of my previousthinking. (1) But just as the sensation of subject-object polarity is confirmed by the transactional psychology of Dewey and Bentley, so the sensation of events happening “of themselves” is just how one would expect to perceive a world consisting entirely of process. Now the language of science is increasingly a language of process—a description of events, relations, operations, and forms rather than of things and substances. The world so described is a world of actions rather than agents, verbs rather than nouns, going against the common-sense idea that an action is the behavior of some thing, some solid entity of “stuff.” But the commonsense idea that action is always the function of an agent is so deeply rooted, so bound up with our sense of order and security, that seeing the world to be otherwise can be seriously disturbing. Without agents, actions do not seem to come from anywhere, to have any dependable origin, and at first sight this spontaneity can be alarming. In one experiment it seemed that whenever I tried to put my (metaphorical) foot upon some solid ground, the ground collapsed into empty space. I could find no substantial basis from which to act: my will was a whim, and my past, as a causal conditioning force, had simply vanished. There was only the present conformation of events, happening. For a while I felt lost in a void, frightened, baseless, insecure through and through Yet soon I became accustomed to the feeling, strange as it was. There was simply a pattern of action, of process, and this was at one and the same time the universe and myself with nothing outside it either to trust or mistrust. And there seemed to be no meaning in the idea of its trusting or mistrusting itself, just as there is no possibility of a finger’s touching its own tip.

Upon reflection, there seems to be nothing unreasonable in seeing the world in this way. The agent behind every action is itself action. If a mat can be called matting, a cat can be called catting. We do not actually need to ask who or what “cats,” just as we do not need to ask what is the basic stuff or substance out of which the world is formed—for there is no way of describing this substance except in terms of form, of structure, order, and operation. The world is not formed as if it were inert clay responding to the touch of a potter’s hand; the world is form, or better, formation, for upon examination every substance turns out to be closely knit pattern. The fixed notion that every pattern or form must be made of some basic material which is in itself formless is based on a superficial analogy between natural formation and manufacture, as if the stars and rocks had been made out of something as a carpenter makes tables out of wood. Thus what we call the agent behind the action is simply the prior or relatively more constant state of the same action: when a man runs we have a “manning-running” over and above a simple “manning.” Furthermore, it is only a somewhat clumsy convenience to say that present events are moved or caused by past events, for we are actually talking about earlier and later stages of the same event. We can establish regularities of rhythm and pattern in the course of an event, and so predict its future configurations, but its past states do not “push” its present and future states as if they were a row of dominoes stood on end so that knocking over the first collapses all the others in series. The fallen dominoes lie where they fall, but past events vanish into the present, which is just another way of saying that the world is a self-moving pattern which, when its successive states are remembered, can be shown to have a certain order. Its motion, its energy, issues from itself now, not from the past, which simply falls behind it in memory like the wake from a ship.

When we ask the “why” of this moving pattern, we usually try to answer the question in terms of its original, past impulse or of its future goal. I had realized for a long time that if there is in any sense a reason for the world’s existence it must be sought in the present, as the reason for the wake must be sought in the engine of the moving ship. I have already mentioned that LSD makes me peculiarly aware of the musical or dance-like character of the world, bringing my attention to rest upon its present flowing and seeing this as its ultimate point. Yet I have also been able to see that this point has depths, that the present wells up from within itself with an energy which is something much richer than simple exuberance.

One of these experiments was conducted late at night. Some five or six hours from its start the doctor had to go home, and I was left alone in the garden. For me, this stage of the experiment is always the most rewarding in terms of insight, after some of its more unusual and bizarre sensory effects have worn off. The garden was a lawn surrounded by shrubs and high trees—Pine and eucalyptus—and floodlit from the house which enclosed it on one side. As I stood on the lawn I noticed that the rough patches where the grass was thin or mottled with weeds no longer seemed to be blemishes. Scattered at random as they were, they appeared to constitute an ordered design, giving the whole area the texture of velvet damask, the rough patches being the parts where the pile of the velvet is cut. In sheer delight I began to dance on this enchanted carpet, and through the thin soles of my moccasins I could feel the ground becoming alive under my feet, connecting me with the earth and the trees and the sky in such a way that I seemed to become one body with my whole surroundings.

Looking up, I saw that the stars were colored with the same reds, greens, and blues that one sees in iridescent glass, and passing across them was the single light of a jet plane taking forever to streak over the sky. At the same time, the trees, shrubs, and flowers seemed to be living jewelry, inwardly luminous like intricate structures of jade, alabaster, or coral, and yet breathing and flowing with the same life that was in me. Every plant became a kind of musical utterance, a play of variations on a theme repeated from the main branches, through the stalks and twigs, to the leaves, the veins in the leaves, and to the fine capillary network between the veins. Each new bursting of growth from a center repeated or amplified the basic design with increasing complexity and delight, finally exulting in a flower.

From my description it will seem that the garden acquired an atmosphere that was distinctly exotic, like the gardens of precious stones in the Arabian Nights, or like scenes in a Persian miniature. This struck me at the time, and I began to wonder just why it is that the glowingly articulated landscapes of those miniatures seem exotic, as do also many Chinese and Japanese paintings. Were the artists recording what they, too, had seen under the influence of drugs? I knew enough of the lives and techniques of Far Eastern painters to doubt this. I asked, too, whether what I was seeing was “drugged.” In other words, was the effect of the LSD in my nervous system the addition to my senses of some chemical screen which distorted all that I saw to preternatural loveliness? Or was its effect rather to remove certain habitual and normal inhibitions of the mind and senses, enabling us to see things as they would appear to us if we were not so chronically repressed? Little is known of the exact neurological effects of LSD, but what is known suggests the latter possibility. If this be so, it is possible that the art forms of other cultures appear exotic—that is, unfamiliarly enchanting—because we are seeing the world through the eyes of artists whose repressions are not the same as ours. The blocks in their view of the world may not coincide with ours, so that in their representations of life we see areas that we normally ignore. I am inclined to some such solution because there have been times when I have seen the world in this magical aspect without benefit of LSD, and they were times when I was profoundly relaxed within, my senses unguardedly open to their surroundings.

Feeling, then, not that I was drugged but that I was in an unusual degree open to reality, I tried to discern the meaning, the inner character of the dancing pattern which constituted both myself and the garden, and the whole dome of the night with its colored stars. All at once it became obvious that the whole thing was love-play, where love means everything that the word can mean, a spectrum ranging from the red of erotic delight, through the green of human endearment, to the violet of divine charity, from Freud’s libido to Dante’s “love that moves the sun and other stars.” All were so many colors issuing from a single white light, and, what was more, this single source was not just love as we ordinarily understand it: it was also intelligence, not only Eros and Agape but also Logos. I could see that the intricate organization both of the plants and of my own nervous system, like symphonies of branching complexity, were not just manifestations of intelligence—as if things like intelligence and love were in themselves substances or formless forces. It was rather that the pattern itself is intelligence and is love, and this somehow in spite of all its outwardly stupid and cruel distortions.

There is probably no way of finding objective verification for insights such as this. The world is love to him who treats it as such, even when it torments and destroys him, and in states of consciousness where there is no basic separation between the ego and the world suffering cannot be felt as malice inflicted upon oneself by another. By the same logic it might seem that with out the separation of self and other there can be no love. This might be true if individuality and universality were formal opposites, mutually exclusive of one another, if, that is, the inseparability of self and other meant that all individual differentiations were simply unreal. But in the unitary, or nondualistic, view of the world I have been describing this is not so. Individual differences express the unity, as branches, leaves, and flowers from the same plant, and the love between the members is the realization of their basic interdependence.

I have not yet been able to use LSD in circumstances of great physical or moral pain, and therefore my explorations of the problem of evil under its influence may appear to be shallow. Only once in these experiments have I felt acute fear, but I know of several cases in which LSD has touched off psychic states of the most alarming and unpleasant kind. More than once I have invited such states under LSD by looking at images ordinarily suggestive of “the creeps”—the mandibles of spiders, and the barbs and spines of dangerous fish and insects. Yet they evoked only a sense of beauty and exuberance, for our normal projection of malice into these creatures was entirely withdrawn, so that their organs of destruction became no more evil than the teeth of a beautiful woman. On another occasion I looked for a long time at a colored reproduction of Van Eyck’s Last Judgment, which is surely one of the most horrendous products of human imagination. The scene of hell is dominated by the figure of Death, a skeleton beneath whose batlike wings lies a writhing mass of screaming bodies gnawed by snakes which penetrate them like maggots in fruit. One of the curious effects of LSD is to impart an illusion of movement in still images, so that here the picture came to life and the whole entanglement of limbs and serpents began to squirm before my eyes. (2)

Ordinarily such a sight should have been hideous, but now I watched it with intense and puzzled interest until the thought came to me, “Demon est deus inversus—the Devil is God inverted—so let’s turn the picture upside down.” I did so, and thereupon burst into laughter for it became apparent at once that the scene was an empty drama, a sort of spiritual scarecrow, designed to guard some mystery from profanation by the ignorant. The agonized expressions of the damned seemed quite evidently “put on,” and as for the death’s-head, the great skull in the center of the painting, it became just what a skull is—an empty shell—and why the horror when there is nothing in it?

I was, of course, seeing ecclesiastical hells for what they are. On the one hand, they are the pretension that social authority is ultimately inescapable since there are post-mortem police who will catch every criminal. On the other hand, they are “no trespassing” signs to discourage the insincere and the immature from attaining insights which they might abuse. A baby is put in a play pen to keep it from getting at the matches or falling downstairs, and though the intention of the pen is to keep the baby closed in, parents are naturally proud when the child grows strong enough to climb out. Likewise, a man can perform actions which are truly moral only when he is no longer motivated by the fear of hell, that is, when he grows into union with the Good that is beyond good and evil, which, in other words, does not act from the love of rewards or the fear of punishments. This is precisely the nature of the world when it is considered as self-moving action, giving out a past instead of being motivated by a past.

Beyond this, the perception of the empty threat of the death’s-head was certainly a recognition of the fact that the fear of death, as distinct from the fear of dying, is one of the most baseless mirages that trouble us. Because it is completely impossible to imagine one’s own personal absence, we fill the void in our minds with images of being buried alive in perpetual darkness. If death is the simple termination of a stream of consciousness, it is certainly nothing to fear. At the same time, I realize that there is some apparent evidence for survival of death in a few extraordinarily unexplainable mediumistic communications and remembrances of past lives. These I attribute, vaguely enough, to subtler networks of communication and interrelationship in the pattern of life than we ordinarily perceive. For if forms repeat themselves, if the structure of branching trees is reverberated in the design of watercourses in the desert, it would not be so strange if a pattern so intricate as the human nervous system were to repeat configurations that arise in consciousness as veritable memories of the most distant times. My own feeling, and of course it is nothing more than an opinion, is that we transcend death, not as individual memory-systems, but only in so far as our true identity is the total process of the world as distinct from the apparently separate organism.

As I have said, this sense of being the whole process is frequently experienced with LSD, and, for me, it has often arisen out of a strong feeling of the mutuality of opposites. Line and plane, concept and percept, solid and space, figure and ground, subject and object appear to be so completely correlative as to be convertible into each other. At one moment it seems that there are, for example, no lines in nature: there are only the boundaries of planes, boundaries which are, after all, the planes themselves. But at the next moment, looking carefully into the texture of these planes, one discovers them to be nothing but a dense network of patterned lines. Looking at the form of a tree against the sky, I have felt at one moment that its outline “belongs” to the tree, exploding into space. But the next moment I feel that the same form is the “inline” of the sky, of space imploding the tree. Every pull is felt as a push, and every push as a pull, as in rotating the rim of a wheel with one’s hand. Is one pushing or pulling?

The sense that forms are also properties of the space in which they expand is not in the least fantastic when one considers the nature of magnetic fields, or, say, the dynamics of swirling ink dropped into water. The concepts of verbal thought are so clumsy that we tend to think only of one aspect of a relationship at a time. We alternate between seeing a given form as a property of the figure and as a property of the ground, as in the Gestalt image of two profiles in black silhouette, about to kiss. The white space between them appears as a chalice, but it is intensely difficult to see the kissing faces and the chalice simultaneously. Yet with LSD one appears to be able to feel this simultaneity quite vividly, and thus to become aware of the mutuality of one’s own form and action and that of the surrounding world. The two seem to shape and determine each other at the same moment, explosion and implosion concurring in perfect harmony, so giving rise to the feeling that one is actual self is both. This inner identity is felt with every level of the environment—the physical world of stars and space, rocks and plants, the social world of human beings, and the ideational world of art and literature, music and conversation. All are grounds or fields operating in the most intimate mutuality with one’s own existence and behavior so that the “origin” of action lies in both at once, fusing them into a single act. It is certainly for this reason that LSD taken in common with a small group can be a profoundly eucharistic experience, drawing the members together into an extremely warm and intimate bond of friendship.

All in all, I have felt that my experiments with this astonishing chemical have been most worth while, creative, stimulating, and, above all, an intimation that “there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in your philosophy.” Only once have I felt terror, the sense of being close to madness, and even here the insight gained was well worth the pain. Yet this was enough to convince me that indiscriminate use of this alchemy might be exceedingly dangerous, and to make me ask who, in our society, is competent to control its use. Obviously, this applies even more to such other powers of science as atomic energy, but once something is known there is really no way of locking it up. At the present time, 1960, LSD is in the control of pharmacologists and a few research groups of psychiatrists, and though there are unscrupulous and frankly psychotic psychiatrists, this seems to me a far more reliable form of control than that exercised by the police and the Bureau of Narcotics—which is not control at all, but ineffective repression, handing over actual control to the forces of organized crime.

On the whole, we feel justified in using dangerous powers when we can establish that there is a relatively low probability of disaster. Life organized so as to be completely foolproof and secure is simply not worth living, since it requires the final abolition of freedom. It is on this perfectly rational principle of gambling that we justify the use of travel by air and automobile, electric appliances in the home, and all the other dangerous instruments of civilization. Thus far, the record of catastrophes from the use of LSD is extremely low, and there is no evidence at all that it is either habit-forming or physically deleterious. It is, of course, possible to become psychically dependent on stimuli which do not establish any craving that can be identified in physiological terms. Personally, I am no example of phenomenal will power, but I find that I have no inclination to use LSD in the same way as tobacco or wines and liquors. On the contrary, the experience is always so fruitful that I feel I must digest it for some months before entering into it again. Furthermore, I find that I am quite instinctively disinclined to use it without the same sense of readiness and dedication with which one approaches a sacrament, and also that the experience is worth while to the precise degree that I keep my critical and intellectual faculties alert.

It is generally felt that there is a radical incompatibility between intuition and intellect, poetry and logic, spirituality and rationality, To me, the most impressive thing about LSD experiences is that these formally opposed realms seem instead to complement and fructify one another, suggesting, therefore, a mode of life in which man is no longer an embodied paradox of angel and animal, of reason fighting instinct, but a marvelous coincidence in whom Eros and Logos are one.

Footnotes

(1) I have often made the point, as in The Way of Zen, that the “real” world is concrete rather than abstract, and thus that the conceptual patterns of order, categorization, and logic which the human mind projects upon nature are in some way less real. But upon several occasions LSD has suggested a fundamental identity of percept and concept, concrete and abstract. After all, our brains and the patterns in them are themselves members of the concrete, physical universe, and thus our abstractions are as much forms of nature as the structure of crystals or the organization of ferns. (back)

(2) Later, with the aid of a sea urchin’s shell I was able to find out something of the reasons for this effect. All the small purple protuberances on the shell seemed to be wiggling, not only to sight but also to touch Watching this phenomenon closely, I realized that as my eyes moved across the shell they seemed to change the intensity of coloring, amounting to an increase or decrease in the depth of shadow. This did not happen when the eyes were held still. Now motion, or apparent motion, of the shadow will often seem to be motion of the object casting it, in this case the protrusions on the shell. In the Van Eyck painting there was likewise an alteration, a lightening or darkening, of actual shadows which the artist had painted, and thus the same illusion of movement.

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John is an amazing performer… if you ever get the chance…

John Cale – Hallelujah

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“Hallelujah”
Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

It goes like this

The fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you

To a kitchen chair

She broke your throne, and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Baby I have been here before

I know this room, I’ve walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew you.

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch

Love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know

What’s real and going on below

But now you never show it to me, do you?

And remember when I moved in you

The holy dove was moving too

And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain

I don’t even know the name

But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?

There’s a blaze of light

In every word

It doesn’t matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn’t much

I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you

And even though

It all went wrong

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah

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Dream Tsunami…


So… this past week has been lots of hard work, and dreaming for yours truly. In a crunch to help get a couple of houses on market, and with all the work comes some deep sleep, and some swirling dream states…
Dream Tsunami:

Parked above either the Camera Obscura, or the Seal House or… The Presidio in San Francisco, facing the ocean in a car with my friend John Archdeacon. Between us is his girlfriend, and as we talk we see a giant wave coming up over the car crashing down… and another wave propels us down the road in a flood of water. The ocean is rising up, and we try to speed away… What does it mean? Could it be the Graham Hancock book I am reading before I go to sleep, or is it the sleepy time tea? Every night this past week has been the same… intense fugues of dreamtime, culminating last night with a birth of a daughter to Mary and I. I can still feel the state as I type….
MURALIST ART SHOW! Be there or be square: May 2, Friday at the OlyMills building at 2nd and SE Stark at 5 until 9… The Portland Muralist Art Show… Celebrating the Muralist of Portland, and the struggle to have street art in Portland. Some of you may remember the story…
I have been helping out a bit, but Joanne Oleksiak has been stoking the fires for this… Stay tuned for more info, and if you don’t get a direct invite, come anyway. I will try to email all that I can, but let your friends know. Street art, and the work of many, many great artist! Come To The Opening!

(Here I am with the Infamous Mirador Mural that I painted…)


More soon… and remember to hug someone today!
Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Killer Tortoise….

The Gifts Of The Magician

My Little Pony vs Rammstein

Li Yu: Poetic Perfection….

Rammstein – Ich Will (Pooh version)

Art: Gustave Moreau

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The Links:

Guilty Before Proven Innocent

Mommy 2.0

Idiots and Angels…

Sex, Murder, Tentacles…

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Killer Tortoise….

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The Gifts Of The Magician
Once upon a time there was an old man who lived in a little hut in the middle of a forest. His wife was dead, and he had only one son, whom he loved dearly. Near their hut was a group of birch trees, in which some black-game had made their nests, and the youth had often begged his father’s permission to shoot the birds, but the old man always strictly forbade him to do anything of the kind.
One day, however, when the father had gone to a little distance to collect some sticks for the fire, the boy fetched his bow, and shot at a bird that was just flying towards its nest. But he had not taken proper aim, and the bird was only wounded, and fluttered along the ground. The boy ran to catch it, but though he ran very fast, and the bird seemed to flutter along very slowly, he never could quite come up with it; it was always just a little in advance. But so absorbed was he in the chase that he did not notice for some time that he was now deep in the forest, in a place where he had never been before. Then he felt it would be foolish to go any further, and he turned to find his way home.
He thought it would be easy enough to follow the path along which he had come, but somehow it was always branching off in unexpected directions. He looked about for a house where he might stop and ask his way, but there was not a sign of one anywhere, and he was afraid to stand still, for it was cold, and there were many stories of wolves being seen in that part of the forest. Night fell, and he was beginning to start at every sound, when suddenly a magician came running towards him, with a pack of wolves snapping at his heels. Then all the boy’s courage returned to him. He took his bow, and aiming an arrow at the largest wolf, shot him through the heart, and a few more arrows soon put the rest to flight. The magician was full of gratitude to his deliverer, and promised him a reward for his help if the youth would go back with him to his house.
‘Indeed there is nothing that would be more welcome to me than a night’s lodging,’ answered the boy; ‘I have been wandering all day in the forest, and did not know how to get home again.
‘Come with me, you must be hungry as well as tired,’ said the magician, and led the way to his house, where the guest flung himself on a bed, and went fast asleep. But his host returned to the forest to get some food, for the larder was empty.
While he was absent the housekeeper went to the boy’s room and tried to wake him. She stamped on the floor, and shook him and called to him, telling him that he was in great danger, and must take flight at once. But nothing would rouse him, and if he did ever open his eyes he shut them again directly.
Soon after, the magician came back from the forest, and told the housekeeper to bring them something to eat. The meal was quickly ready, and the magician called to the boy to come down and eat it, but he could not be wakened, and they had to sit down to supper without him. By-and-by the magician went out into the wood again for some more hunting, and on his return he tried afresh to waken the youth. But finding it quite impossible, he went back for the third time to the forest.
While he was absent the boy woke up and dressed himself. Then he came downstairs and began to talk to the housekeeper. The girl had heard how he had saved her master’s life, so she said nothing more about his running away, but instead told him that if the magician offered him the choice of a reward, he was to ask for the horse which stood in the third stall of the stable.
By-and-by the old man came back and they all sat down to dinner. When they had finished the magician said: ‘Now, my son, tell me what you will have as the reward of your courage?’
‘Give me the horse that stands in the third stall of your stable,’ answered the youth. ‘For I have a long way to go before I get home, and my feet will not carry me so far.’
‘Ah! my son,’ replied the magician, ‘it is the best horse in my stable that you want! Will not anything else please you as well?’
But the youth declared that it was the horse, and the horse only, that he desired, and in the end the old man gave way. And besides the horse, the magician gave him a zither, a fiddle, and a flute, saying: ‘If you are in danger, touch the zither; and if no one comes to your aid, then play on the fiddle; but if that brings no help, blow on the flute.’
The youth thanked the magician, and fastening his treasures about him mounted the horse and rode off. He had already gone some miles when, to his great surprise, the horse spoke, and said: ‘It is no use your returning home just now, your father will only beat you. Let us visit a few towns first, and something lucky will be sure to happen to us.’
This advice pleased the boy, for he felt himself almost a man by this time, and thought it was high time he saw the world. When they entered the capital of the country everyone stopped to admire the beauty of the horse. Even the king heard of it, and came to see the splendid creature with his own eyes. Indeed, he wanted directly to buy it, and told the youth he would give any price he liked. The young man hesitated for a moment, but before he could speak, the horse contrived to whisper to him:
‘Do not sell me, but ask the king to take me to his stable, and feed me there; then his other horses will become just as beautiful as I.’
The king was delighted when he was told what the horse had said, and took the animal at once to the stables, and placed it in his own particular stall. Sure enough, the horse had scarcely eaten a mouthful of corn out of the manger, when the rest of the horses seemed to have undergone a transformation. Some of them were old favourites which the king had ridden in many wars, and they bore the signs of age and of service. But now they arched their heads, and pawed the ground with their slender legs as they had been wont to do in days long gone by. The king’s heart beat with delight, but the old groom who had had the care of them stood crossly by, and eyed the owner of this wonderful creature with hate and envy. Not a day passed without his bringing some story against the youth to his master, but the king understood all about the matter and paid no attention. At last the groom declared that the young man had boasted that he could find the king’s war horse which had strayed into the forest several years ago, and had not been heard of since. Now the king had never ceased to mourn for his horse, so this time he listened to the tale which the groom had invented, and sent for the youth. ‘Find me my horse in three days,’ said he, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’
The youth was thunderstruck at this command, but he only bowed, and went off at once to the stable.
‘Do not worry yourself,’ answered his own horse. ‘Ask the king to give you a hundred oxen, and to let them be killed and cut into small pieces. Then we will start on our journey, and ride till we reach a certain river. There a horse will come up to you, but take no notice of him. Soon another will appear, and this also you must leave alone, but when the third horse shows itself, throw my bridle over it.’
Everything happened just as the horse had said, and the third horse was safely bridled. Then the other horse spoke again: ‘The magician’s raven will try to eat us as we ride away, but throw it some of the oxen’s flesh, and then I will gallop like the wind, and carry you safe out of the dragon’s clutches.’
So the young man did as he was told, and brought the horse back to the king.
The old stableman was very jealous, when he heard of it, and wondered what he could do to injure the youth in the
eyes of his royal master. At last he hit upon a plan, and told the king that the young man had boasted that he could bring home the king’s wife, who had vanished many months before, without leaving a trace behind her. Then the king bade the young man come into his presence, and desired him to fetch the queen home again, as he had boasted he could do. And if he failed, his head would pay the penalty.
The poor youth’s heart stood still as he listened. Find the queen? But how was he to do that, when nobody in the palace had been able to do so! Slowly he walked to the stable, and laying his head on his horse’s shoulder, he said: ‘The king has ordered me to bring his wife home again, and how can I do that when she disappeared so long ago, and no one can tell me anything about her?’
‘Cheer up!’ answered the horse, ‘we will manage to find her. You have only got to ride me back to the same river that we went to yesterday, and I will plunge into it and take my proper shape again. For I am the king’s wife, who was turned into a horse by the magician from whom you saved me.’
Joyfully the young man sprang into the saddle and rode away to the banks of the river. Then he threw himself off, and waited while the horse plunged in. The moment it dipped its head into the water its black skin vanished, and the most beautiful woman in the world was floating on the water. She came smiling towards the youth, and held out her hand, and he took it and led her back to the palace. Great was the king’s surprise and happiness when he beheld his lost wife stand before him, and in gratitude to her rescuer he loaded him with gifts.
You would have thought that after this the poor youth would have been left in peace; but no, his enemy the stableman hated him as much as ever, and laid a new plot for his undoing. This time he presented himself before the king and told him that the youth was so puffed up with what he had done that he had declared he would seize the king’s throne for himself.
At this news the king waxed so furious that he ordered a gallows to be erected at once, and the young man to be hanged without a trial. He was not even allowed to speak in his own defence, but on the very steps of the gallows he sent a message to the king and begged, as a last favour, that he might play a tune on his zither. Leave was given him, and taking the instrument from under his cloak he touched the strings. Scarcely had the first notes sounded than the hangman and his helper began to dance, and the louder grew the music the higher they capered, till at last they cried for mercy. But the youth paid no heed, and the tunes rang out more merrily than before, and by the time the sun set they both sank on the ground exhausted, and declared that the hanging must be put off till to-morrow.
The story of the zither soon spread through the town, and on the following morning the king and his whole court and a large crowd of people were gathered at the foot of the gallows to see the youth hanged. Once more he asked a favour–permission to play on his fiddle, and this the king was graciously pleased to grant. But with the first notes, the leg of every man in the crowd was lifted high, and they danced to the sound of the music the whole day till darkness fell, and there was no light to hang the musician by.
The third day came, and the youth asked leave to play on his flute. ‘No, no,’ said the king, ‘you made me dance all day yesterday, and if I do it again it will certainly be my death. You shall play no more tunes. Quick! the rope round his neck.’
At these words the young man looked so sorrowful that the courtiers said to the king: ‘He is very young to die. Let him play a tune if it will make him happy.’ So, very unwillingly, the king gave him leave; but first he had himself bound to a big fir tree, for fear that he should be made to dance.
When he was made fast, the young man began to blow softly on his flute, and bound though he was, the king’s body moved to the sound, up and down the fir tree till his clothes were in tatters, and the skin nearly rubbed off his back. But the youth had no pity, and went on blowing, till suddenly the old magician appeared and asked: ‘What danger are you in, my son, that you have sent for me?’
‘They want to hang me,’ answered the young man; ‘the gallows are all ready and the hangman is only waiting for me to stop playing.’
‘Oh, I will put that right,’ said the magician; and taking the gallows, he tore it up and flung it into the air, and no one knows where it came down. ‘Who has ordered you to be hanged?’ asked he.
The young man pointed to the king, who was still bound to the fir; and without wasting words the magician took hold of the tree also, and with a mighty heave both fir and man went spinning through the air, and vanished in the clouds after the gallows.
Then the youth was declared to be free, and the people elected him for their king; and the stable helper drowned himself from envy, for, after all, if it had not been for him the young man would have remained poor all the days of his life.

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My Little Pony vs Rammstein

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Li Yu: Poetic Perfection….

Washing Sand in the Stream

The morning sun has already risen,

fully thirty feet high.

Golden tripods, one after another, are filled

with incense animals.

The red brocade carpet

rufles with every step.
The lovely one dances tip-toe,

her golden hairpin slippen out;

Nauseated by wine, she often plucks

flower buds to smell,

While from the other palace is heard dimly

the music of fifes and drums.


A Casket of Pearls

Evening toilet newly done,

She applies softly a bit of dark rouge to her lips,

Revealing slightly her lilac tongue.

A melody of clear song

Temporarily induces the cherry lips to part.
Her silken sleeves are stained

with the scarlet dregs

Of fragrant wine, which tints the deep goblet.

Leaning aslant on the embroidered bed,

her chars indescribable,

She chews until pulpy the red flossy silk

And laughingly spits it out at her lover.


Outside the Curtains the Rain is Murmuring (Ripples Sifting Sand)
Curtain outside rain murmer

Spring trace waning

Silk covers not resist fifth watch cold

Dream in not know oneself be visitor

One time seek pleasure

Alone self not lean on railings

Without limit rivers hills

Parting time easy meet time hard

Flow water fall flower spring go with

Heaven on man world Outside the curtains the rain is murmering,

And spring is waning,

Silk bedding cannot resist the fifth watch cold.

While in my dream, I forget I am a guest,

And covet pleasure!

I should not lean alone on these railings,

The land is unlimited;

It’s easy to part- to meet again is hard.

Spring’s gone like blossom fallen on flowing water,

My paradise too!


Last Night the Wind and Rain Together Blew (Crows Crying at Night)
Last night wind together rain

Curtain curtain sough autumn song

Candle die water-clock exhausted often oh

Rise sit not able calm

Human affairs everywhere like flow water

Consider come a dream float life

Drunk country road sure should often go

This outside not able continue

Last night the wind and rain together blew,

The wall-curtains rustled in their autumn song.

The candle died, the water-clock was exhausted,

I rose and sat, but could not be at peace.

Man’s affairs are like the flow of floodwater,

A life is just like floating in a dream.

I should more often go drunken through the country,

For otherwise I could not bear to live.

Li Houzhu (Chinese: 李後主; pinyin: Lǐ Hòuzhǔ; literally “The Latter Lord Li”, 936–978), also known as Houzhu of Southern Tang (南唐後主, literally “the latter lord of Southern Tang”), personal name Li Yu (李煜), né Li Congjia (李從嘉), courtesy name Chongguang (重光; pinyin: chòngguāng), posthumously known as Prince of Wu (吳王), was a Chinese poet and the last ruler of the Southern Tang Kingdom from 961 to 975 during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms Period; he has been called the “first true master” of the ci form

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Rammstein – Ich Will (Pooh version)

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In The Dreaming…


Aiyeee…. April 15th and all that. For our off-shore readers, that is when the US Gov’t’s IRS comes to collect their pound of flesh. Not a pretty time…no not at all. It isn’t like you can tell where the money goes, until you pick up the Wall Street Journal, and see all the Corporations producing armaments are going great balls of fire… with our tax money. It has been estimated that the ultimate cost of this war will cost 3 Trillion Dollars, and much of this amount is going to corporations, and the individuals who invested in them as payments, dividends and the like. Sad indeed.
I wouldn’t mind paying taxes, when I know that it goes to something worthwhile, like healthcare, education, research to help get us out of the mess we are in… One can hope that this election cycle will see something better this way come.
Maybe this really points to the real solution(s): small and local, inter connected morphic communities as opposed to the massive state (which is breaking down for a reason, and probably it is a good one at that.) As a structure becomes more intricate it becomes increasingly more fragile. We are in perhaps the last days of the mega state…
So here is to all you local heroines and heroes waging love and harmony in your communities where ever you may be. You, your beloved, your children, friends, and neighbors are the real wealth. Through you, it all changes. Be Brave!
This edition has some nice bits in it… so hopefully you will enjoy it!..
Don’t forget to tune in to Radio Free EarthRites today… lots going on, excellent music, and please try out our Spoken Word Channel as well!
Bright Blessings!
Gwyllm
(Gwyllm n Tomas, a summer or 2 ago…!)

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On The Menu:

Son Kite: On Air

The Links

The Fairy Folk of Tara

In The Dreaming: Charles Baudelaire

Art: Jesse King & Gwyllm

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Son Kite: On Air

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The Links:

Space Debris Evolution In Pictures

The seriously inconvenient truth on drugs…

Da Vinci’s Mother?

Horribly Wrong Web Design….

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The Fairy Folk of Tara

[Note: This is taken from W.Y. Evans Wentz’s The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries.]
On the ancient Hill of Tara, from whose heights the High Kings once ruled all Ireland, from where the sacred fires in pagan days announced the annual resurrection of the sun, the Easter Tide, where the magic of Patrick prevailed over the magic of the Druids, and where the hosts of the Tuatha De Danann were wont to appear at the great Feast of Samain, to-day the fairy-folk of modern times hold undisputed sovereignty. And from no point better than Tara, which thus was once the magical and political centre of the Sacred Island, could we begin our study of the Irish Fairy-Faith. Though the Hill has lain unploughed and deserted since the curses of Christian priests fell upon it, on the calm air of summer evenings, at the twilight hour, wondrous music still sounds over its slopes, and at night long, weird processions of silent spirits march round its grass-grown raths and forts. It is only men who fear the curse of the Christians; the fairy-folk regard it not.
The Rev. Father Peter Kenney, of Kilmessan, had directed me to John Graham, an old man over seventy years of age, who has lived near Tara most of his life; and after I bad found John, and he had led me from rath to rath and then right through the length of the site where once stood the banquet hail of kings and heroes and Druids, as he earnestly described the past glories of Tara to which these ancient monuments bear silent testimony, we sat down in the thick sweet grass on the Sacred Hill and began talking of the olden times in Ireland, and then of the good people’ : –
The ‘Good People’s’ Music.-‘ As sure as you are sitting down I beard the pipes there in that wood (pointing to a wood on the north-west slope of the Hill, and west of the banquet hall). I heard the music another time on a hot summer evening at the Rath of Ringlestown, in a field where all the grass had been burned off; and I often heard it in the wood of Tara. Whenever the good people play, you hear their music all through the field as plain as can be; and it is the grandest kind of music. It may last half the night, but once day comes, it ends.’

Who the ‘ Good People’ are. – I now asked John what sort of a race the ‘good people’ are, and where they came from, and this is his reply :-‘ People killed and murdered in war stay on earth till their time is up, and they are among the good people. The souls on this earth are as thick as the grass (running his walking-stick through a thick clump), and you can’t see them; and evil spirits are just as thick, too, and people don’t know it. Because there are so many spirits knocking (going) about they must appear to some people. The old folk saw the good people here on the Hill a hundred times, and they’d always be talking about them. The good people can see everything, and you dare not meddle with them. They live in raths, and their houses are in them. The opinion always was that they are a race of spirits, for they can go into different forms, and can appear big as well as little.’

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In The Dreaming: Charles Baudelaire

I Love The Naked Ages Long Ago

I love the naked ages long ago

When statues were gilded by Apollo,

When men and women of agility

Could play without lies and anxiety,

And the sky lovingly caressed their spines,

As it exercised its noble machine.

Fertile Cybele, mother of nature, then,

Would not place on her daughters a burden,

But, she-wolf sharing her heart with the people,

Would feed creation from her brown nipples.

Men, elegant and strong, would have the right

To be proud to have beauty named their king;

Virgin fruit free of blemish and cracking,

Whose flesh smooth and firm would summon a bite!

The Poet today, when he would convey

This native grandeur, would not be swept away

By man free and woman natural,

But would feel darkness envelop his soul

Before this black tableau full of loathing.

O malformed monsters crying for clothing!

O ludicrous heads! Torsos needing disguise!

O poor writhing bodies of every wrong size,

Children that the god of the Useful swaths

In the language of bronze and brass!

And women, alas! You shadow your heredity,

You gnaw nourishment from debauchery,

A virgin holds maternal lechery

And all the horrors of fecundity!
We have, it is true, corrupt nations,

Beauty unknown to the radiant ancients:

Faces that gnaw through the heart’s cankers,

And talk with the cool beauty of languor;

But these inventions of our backward muses

Are never hindered in their morbid uses

Of the old for profound homage to youth,

—To the young saint, the sweet air, the simple truth,

To the eye as limpid as the water current,

To spread out over all, insouciant

Like the blue sky, the birds and the flowers,

Its perfumes, its songs and its sweet fervors.
-Translated by William A. Sigler
(A French Post-Card from so long ago…)

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L’Invitation au Voyage

Mon enfant, ma soeur,

Songe à la douceur,

D’aller là-bas, vivre ensemble!

Aimer à loisir,

Aimer et mourir,

Au pays qui te ressemble!

Les soleils mouillés,

De ces ciels brouillés,

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes,

Si mystérieux,

De tes traîtres yeux,

Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
—-

Her Hair

O fleece, that down the neck waves to the nape!

O curls! O perfume nonchalant and rare!

O ecstasy! To fill this alcove shape

With memories that in these tresses sleep,

I would shake them like penions in the air!
Languorous Asia, burning Africa,

And a far world, defunct almost, absent,

Within your aromatic forest stay!

As other souls on music drift away,

Mine, O my love! still floats upon your scent.
I shall go there where, full of sap, both tree

And man swoon in the heat of the southern climates;

Strong tresses be the swell that carries me!

I dream upon your sea of amber

Of dazzling sails, of oarsmen, masts, and flames:
A sun-drenched and reverberating port,

Where I imbibe colour and sound and scent;

Where vessels, gliding through the gold and moiré,

Open their vast arms as they leave the shore

To clasp the pure and shimmering firmament.
I’ll plunge my head, enamored of its pleasure,

In this black ocean where the other hides;

My subtle spirit then will know a measure

Of fertile idleness and fragrant leisure,

Lulled by the infinite rhythm of its tides!
Pavilion, of autumn-shadowed tresses spun,

You give me back the azure from afar;

And where the twisted locks are fringed with down

Lurk mingled odors I grow drunk upon

Of oil of coconut, of musk, and tar.
A long time! always! my hand in your hair

Will sow the stars of sapphire, pearl, ruby,

That you be never deaf to my desire,

My oasis and my gourd whence I aspire

To drink deep of the wine of memory.
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De Profundis Clamavi

Have pity, You alone whom I adore

From down this black pit where my heart is sped,

A sombre universe ringed round with lead

Where fear and curses the long night explore.
Six months a cold sun hovers overhead;

The other six is night upon this land.

No beast; no stream; no wood; no leaves expand.

The desert Pole is not a waste so dead.
Now in the whole world there’s no horror quite

so cold and cruel as this glacial sun,

So like old Chaos as this boundless night;
I envy the least animals that run,

Which can find respite in brute slumber drowned,

So slowly is the skein of time unwound.
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Cats

They are alike, prim scholar and per fervid lover:

When comes the season of decay, they both decide

Upon sweet, husky cats to be the household pride;

Cats choose, like them, to sit, and like them, shudder.
Like partisans of carnal dalliance and science,

They search for silence and the shadowings of dread;

Hell well might harness them as horses for the dead,

If it could bend their native proudness in compliance.
In reverie they emulate the noble mood

Of giant sphinxes stretched in depths of solitude

Who seem to slumber in a never-ending dream;
Within their fertile loins a sparkling magic lies;

Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam,

Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.

Sunny Monday


Well here it is , Monday and all. In the crunch mode, so I won’t be long winded. Here is a selection of items that came out of discussions this weekend with a friend down in Peru, and family friends…
Rowan is off to Outdoor School… He has been jumping through the hoops and fires of pre-college testing and placement. There is a nimbus of creative fire as well playing over his head. He wrote a 6000 word paper Friday and Saturday. Ah… youth!
It is quite the mash-up, but I think there is a thread of coherency in it somewhere…. 8o)
On The Menu:

The Links

Lili Haydn – Strawberry Street

Quotes From Thich Nhat Hanh

Thich Nhat Hanh’s 14 Precepts

Jean Cocteau: Poet

Link: The life of a poet

Extract: La Belle et La Bête
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

____________
The Links:
The False Dilemma between Neo-Darwinism and Intelligent Design

Accidents at Disease Lab Acknowledged

Santeria priest suing city of Euless

Scientists discover 8,000-year-old trees

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Listening to the radio last night… I discovered Lili Haydn… Listen to her album at her site… but as a treat here she is performing live.
Lili Haydn – Strawberry Street (Live-First Performance)

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Quotes From Thich Nhat Hanh:

Life can be found only in the present moment. The past is gone, the future is not yet here, and if we do not go back to ourselves in the present moment, we cannot be in touch with life.
Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers.
When you plant lettuce, if it does not grow well, you don’t blame the lettuce. You look for reasons it is not doing well. It may need fertilizer, or more water, or less sun. You never blame the lettuce. Yet if we have problems with our friends or our family, we blame the other person. But if we know how to take care of them, they will grow well, like the lettuce.
Blaming has no positive effect at all, nor does trying to persuade using reason and argument. That is my experience. If you understand, and you show that you understand, you can love, and the situation will change.
The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth.
Every day we do things, we are things that have to do with peace. If we are aware of our life…, our way of looking at things, we will know how to make peace right in the moment, we are alive.
Keeping your body healthy is an expression of gratitude to the whole cosmos – the trees, the clouds, everything.

People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.
Anger and hatred are the materials from which hell is made.
In each of us is a seed of understanding. The seed is God.
Life can be found only in the present moment. The past is gone, the future is not yet here, and if we do not go back to ourselves in the present moment, we cannot be in touch with life.
Our own life is the instrument with which we experiment with the truth.

People deal too much with the negative, with what is wrong. Why not try and see positive things, to just touch those things and make them bloom?
Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.
The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth.
When your mind is liberated, your heart floods with compassion.
When things are not going well, it is good to stop in order to prevent the unpleasant, destructive energies from continuing.
In order to rally people, governments need enemies. They want us to be afraid, to hate, so we will rally behind them. And if they do not have a real enemy, they will invent one in order to mobilize us.
Harm no person, animal, plant, or mineral.
A smile can change the situation of the world.

————————-

Thich Nhat Hanh’s 14 Precepts:
“Do not be idolatrous about or bound to any doctrine, theory, or ideology, even Buddhist ones. All systems of thought are guiding means; they are not absolute truth.
Do not think that the knowledge you presently possess is changeless, absolute truth. Avoid being narrow-minded and bound to present views. Learn and practice non-attachment from views in order to be open to receive others’ viewpoints. Truth is found in life and not merely in conceptual knowledge. Be ready to learn throughout our entire life and to observe reality in yourself and in the world at all times.
Do not force others, including children, by any means whatsoever, to adopt your views, whether by authority, threat, money, propaganda, or even education. However, through compassionate dialogue, help others renounce fanaticism and narrowness.
Do not avoid contact with suffering or close your eyes before suffering. Do not lose awareness of the existence of suffering in the life of the world. find ways to be with those who are suffering by all means, including personal contact and visits, images, sound. By such means, awaken yourself and others to the reality of suffering in the world.
Do not accumulate wealth while millions are hungry. Do not take as the aim of you life fame, profit, wealth, or sensual pleasure. Live simply and share time, energy, and material resources with those who are in need.
Do not maintain anger or hatred. As soon as anger and hatred arise, practice the meditation on compassion in order to deeply understand the persons who have caused anger and hatred. Learn to look at other beings with the eyes of compassion.
Do not lose yourself in dispersion and in your surroundings. Learn to practice breathing in order to regain composure of body and mind, to practice mindfulness, and to develop concentration and understanding.
Do not utter words that can create discord and cause the community to break. Make every effort to reconcile and resolve all conflicts, however small.
Do not say untruthful things for the sake of personal interest of to impress people. Do not utter words that cause diversion and hatred. Do not spread news that you do not know to be certain. Do not criticize or condemn things you are not sure of. Always speak truthfully and constructively. Have the courage to speak out about situations of injustice, even when doing so may threaten your own safety.
Do not use the Buddhist community for personal gain or profit, or transform your community into a political party. A religious community should, however, take a clear stand against oppression and injustice, and should strive to change the situation without engaging in partisan conflicts.
Do not live with a vocation that is harmful to humans and nature. Do not invest in companies that deprive others of their chance to life. Select a vocation which helps realize your ideal compassion.
Do not kill. Do not let others kill. Find whatever means possible to protect life and to prevent war.
Possess nothing that should belong to others. Respect the property of others but prevent others from enriching themselves from human suffering or the suffering of other beings.
Do not mistreat your body. Learn to handle it with respect. Do not look on your body as only and instrument. Preserve vital energies (sexual, breath, spirit) for the realization of the Way. Sexual expression should not happen without love and commitment. In sexual relationships be aware of future suffering that may be caused. To preserve the happiness of others, respect the rights and commitments of others. Be fully aware of the responsibility of bringing new lives into the world. Meditate on the world into which you are bringing new beings.
Do not believe that I feel that I follow each and every of these precepts perfectly. I know I fail in many ways. None of us can fully fulfill any of these. However, I must work toward a goal. These are my goal. No words can replace practice, only practice can make the words.
“The finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.”

________

Jean Cocteau: Poet

I’m prepared to believe you still love me,

Venus. But if I hadn’t written about you,

If my house wasn’t built of my poems,

I would feel the void and fall from the roof.
Quotes From Jean…
A film is a petrified fountain of thought.
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.
Art produces ugly things which frequently become more beautiful with time. Fashion, on the other hand, produces beautiful things which always become ugly with time.
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.

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Audio:

La Toison Dor


Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica)
…Preamble
A rough draft

for an ars poetica
. . . . . . .
Let’s get our dreams unstuck
The grain of rye

free from the prattle of grass

et loin de arbres orateurs
I
plant
it
It will sprout

But forget about

the rustic festivities
For the explosive word

falls harmlessly

eternal through

the compact generations
and except for you
nothing

denotates
its sweet-scented dynamite
Greetings

I discard eloquence

the empty sail

and the swollen sail

which cause the ship

to lose her course
My ink nicks

and there
and there
and there
and

there
sleeps

deep poetry
The mirror-paneled wardrobe

washing down ice-floes

the little eskimo girl
dreaming

in a heap

of moist negroes

her nose was

flattened

against the window-pane

of dreary Christmases
A white bear

adorned with chromatic moire
dries himself in the midnight sun
Liners
The huge luxury item
Slowly founders

all its lights aglow
and so

sinks the evening-dress ball

into the thousand mirrors

of the palace hotel
And now

it is I
the thin Columbus of phenomena

alone

in the front

of a mirror-paneled wardrobe

full of linen

and locking with a key
The obstinate miner

of the void

exploits

his fertile mine
the potential in the rough

glitters there

mingling with its white rock
Oh

princess of the mad sleep

listen to my horn

and my pack of hounds
I deliver you

from the forest

where we came upon the spell
Here we are

by the pen

one with the other

wedded

on the page
Isles sobs of Ariadne
Ariadnes

dragging along

Aridnes seals
for I betray you my fair stanzas

to

run and awaken

elsewhere
I plan no architecture
Simply

deaf

like you Beethoven
blind

like you

Homer

numberless old man
born everywhere
I elaborate

in the prairies of inner

silence
and the work of the mission

and the poem of the work

and the stanza of the poem

and the group of the stanza

and the words of the group

and the letters of the word

and the least

loop of the letters
it’s your foot

of attentive satin

that I place in position

pink

tightrope walker

sucked up by the void
to the left to the right

the god gives a shake

and I walk

towards the other side

with infinite precaution

Sumo Poem
The players are pink giants.

As unique as the frescoes from a famous cathedral.

The regimen gives some of them enormous bellies

and breasts as mature as any woman.

Each of them sports a top-knot

and the face of a pretty girl.

They come together in equilibrium,

their legs intertwined,

their fingers grasping each other’s sash.

And the fringe standing erect.

Their muscles flexing.

Legs rooted to the earth.

Blood coursing through their veins.

And the ring is all a pastel of pink.

A Snippet I found on-line…..
“Take care not to shave your antennae of a mornimg.
Respect movements, flee schools.
Do not confuse progressive science with intuitive science, the only one that counts.
Do as the beautiful woman: see to your figure and your petticoats. Though, of course, I am not speaking literally.
Be someone else when receiving your blows (Leporello).
People would say to Al Brown: “You are not a boxer. You are a dancer.” He laughed at this, and won.
Do not take up cause against the inaccuracies printed about you. They are your protection.
Be a constant outrage to modesty There is nothing to fear: modesty is exercised only among the blind.
One is either judge or accused. The judge sits, the accused stands. Live on your feet.
Never forget that a masterpiece is testimony to intellectual depravity (A break with the norm.) Turn it into action, and society will condemn it. That is what usually happens anyway.
Contradict the so-called avant-garde.
Hasten slowly. Run faster than beauty.
Find first, seek later.
Be helpful, even if it compromises you.
Compromise yourself. Obscure your own trail.
Withdraw quietly from the dance.
He who is affected by an insult is infected by it.
Understand that some of your enemies are amongst your best friends (a question of standards).
Fight any instinct to be humorless, for humorlessness is the worst of all absurdities.
Do not fear being ridiculous in relation to the ridiculous.
Don’t put all your baskets in one egg.
See your disappointments as good fortune. One plan’s deflation is another’s inflation.
A certain kind of stupidity is essential. The encyclopedists are the source of the kind of intelligence that is a transcendent form of stupidity.
Do not close the circle. Leave it open. Descartes closes the circle. Pascal leaves it open. Rousseau’s triumph over the encyclopedists is to have left his circle open when they closed theirs.
The pen should be a dowser’s rod, capable of reviving an atrophied sense, to help an infallible yet almost totally dysfunctional sense. (The real me.) .
Do not flee yourself in action.
Allow the power of the soul to grow as flagrant as the power of sex.
Expect neither reward nor beatitude. Return noble waves for ignoble.
Hate only hatred.
An unjust conviction is the supreme title to nobility.
Disavow anyone who provokes or accepts the extermination of a race to which he does not belong.
Be a mere assistant to your unconscious. Do only half the work. The rest will do itself.
Consider metaphysics as an extension of the physical.
Know that your work speaks only to those on the same wavelength as you.
Anything of any importance cannot help but be unrecognizable, since it bears no resemblance to anything already known.
. . . The ultimate politeness in art consists of speaking only to those who are able to uncover and measure its relationships. Anything else is symbolic, and symbolism is merely transcendental imagery. . . .”

Jean Cocteau: The life of a poet

Extract: La Belle et La Bête

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Into The Spring…

ERUTAN DNOCES SI TIBAH.

-Leonardo Da Vinci


Something for you on this Tuesday night….
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:

Some Quotes For You…

Depeche Mode: “John The Revelator

Does consciousness reside in the brain? Lessons from near-death experiences

Charles Mungoshi: Zimbabwean Poet

Blind Willie Johnson – John the Revelator

__________

Some Quotes For You…
“Trying to think about how we can make a big difference, we must not ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee.”

— Marian Wright Edelman
“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.”

—Bertrand Russell
“Life is act, and not to do is death.”

— Lewis Morris
“The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope.”

— Barbara Kingsolver

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Thanks to Cliff for this…

Depeche Mode: “John The Revelator”

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Does consciousness reside in the brain? Lessons from near-death experiences
Dr. Pim van Lommel is a Dutch cardiologist who collected accounts of his patients’ experiences during the time their hearts were stopped and there was no blood flow to their brains. These patients had no detectable electrical activity in their brains. By standard Western theories, their brains were dead, and they could not have had any experiences. Yet some of these people – about one in five – report vivid memories from this time. The patients never report fear, and frequently speak of deep peace and connection, white light at the end of a tunnel, bliss.
Conventional medicine would like to explain these stories as hallucinations or fabrications of the brain. But in some cases, people saw and remembered things around them. Here is a story recounted by a coronary care nurse:
“During night shift an ambulance brings in a 44-year old cyanotic, comatose man into the coronary care unit. He was found in coma about 30 minutes before in a meadow. When we go to intubate the patient, he turns out to have dentures in his mouth. I remove these upper dentures and put them onto the ‘crash cart.’ After about an hour and a half the patient has sufficient heart rhythm and blood pressure, but he is still ventilated and intubated, and he is still comatose. He is transferred to the intensive care unit to continue the necessary artificial respiration. Only after more than a week do I meet again with the patient, who is by now back on the cardiac ward. The moment he sees me he says: ‘O, that nurse knows where my dentures are.’ I am very surprised. Then he elucidates: ‘You were there when I was brought into hospital and you took my dentures out of my mouth and put them onto that cart, it had all these bottles on it and there was this sliding drawer underneath, and there you put my teeth.’ I was especially amazed because I remembered this happening while the man was in deep coma and in the process of CPR. It appeared that the man had seen himself lying in bed, that he had perceived from above how nurses and doctors had been busy with the CPR. He was also able to describe correctly and in detail the small room in which he had been resuscitated as well as the appearance of those present like myself. He is deeply impressed by his experience and says he is no longer afraid of death.”
Following up after such events, Van Lommel finds that typically those who have such experiences report that their lives are altered in three ways:
– A new perspective on their lives

– Enhanced intuitions, telepathic abilities

– Loss of the fear of death

______________

Charles Mungoshi: Zimbabwean Poet

After the rain
For one whole week

it rained without a

break.
On the first day of sunshine

and light clothes,

a bird smashed and broke a wing

against a wall on

First Street.
For eight hours

it lay on the pavement,

flapping now and again

its one sound wing
dragging the broken one

like a warning

from the far country of its

youth.

For eight hours:

breathing softly, while the

whole human city passed by.
Towards the end of the day

a beggar

wondered what mistake it had made

in its calculations
and muttering curses to a neon sign,

cupped it in his hands

and made his way to his plastic-paper shack

by the banks of the Mukuvisi River.


Before the sun
Intense blue morning

promising early heat

and later in the afternoon,

heavy rain.
The bright chips

fly from the sharp axe

for some distance through the air,

arc,

and eternities later,

settle down in showers

on the dewy grass.
It is a big log:

but when you are fourteen

big logs

are what you want.
The wood gives off

a sweet nose-cleansing odour

which (unlike sawdust)

doesn’t make one sneeze.
It sends up a thin spiral

of smoke which later straightens

and flutes out

to the distant sky: a signal

of some sort,

or a sacrificial prayer.
The wood hisses,

The sparks fly.
And when the sun

finally shows up

in the East like some

latecomer to a feast

I have got two cobs of maize

ready for it.
I tell the sun to come share

with me the roasted maize

and the sun just winks

like a grown-up.
So I go ahead, taking big

alternate bites:

one for the sun,

one for me.

This one for the sun,

this one for me:

till the cobs

are just two little skeletons

in the sun.


In the wilderness
The torrid silence of the October sun.

Miles upon miles and miles of burnt-out plains.
Suddenly you realise

you are talking loudly to your

shadow.


Letter to a Son
Now the pumpkin is ripe.

We are only a few days

from the year’s first mealie cob.

The cows are giving us lots of milk.

Taken in the round it isn’t a bad year at all –

if it weren’t for your father.

Your father’s back is back again

and all the work has fallen on my shoulders.

Your little brothers and sisters

are doing fine at the day-school.

Only Rindai is becoming a problem.

You will remember we wrote to you –

did you get our letter? – you didn’t answer.

You see, since your father’s back started

we haven’t been able to raise enough money

to send your sister Rindai to secondary school.

She spends most of her time crying by the well.

It is mainly because of her

that I am writing this letter.

I had thought you would be with us last Christmas;

then I thought maybe you were too busy

and you would make it at Easter –

it was then your father nearly left us, son.

Then I thought I would come to you some time

before the cold season settled in – you know

how I simply hate that time of the year –

but then your father went down again

and this time worse than any other time before.

We were beginning to think he would never see

another sowing season.
I asked your sister Rindai to write you

but your father would have none of it –

you know how stubborn he can get

when he has to lie in bed all day or gets

one of those queer notions of his

that everybody is deserting him!

Now, Tambu, don’t think I am asking for money –

although we had to borrow a little from

those who have it to get your father to hospital –

and you know how he hates having to borrow!

That is all I wanted to tell you.
I do hope that you will be with us this July.

It’s so long ago now since we last heard from you –

I hope this letter finds you still at the old address.

It is the only address we know.
YOUR MOTHER


Poet
Poised on the thin edge of now

like a poleaxed tightrope walker
the past a roaring lion in the underbrush

the future a nuclear mushroom I can’t swallow
this bare flat table I am sitting at

this blank white page I am looking at
beckon, like the drowning man’s straw.

Let us bear your dreams any place, some time,

for you.

Blind Willie Johnson – John the Revelator

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