Dear Friends,
Thursday morning, somewhere in the Western World. I have been watching a dialogue that is quite telling about the modern mind… On one hand the realm speculation, conjuring spirits, and on the other analytical and psychological.
At times I find that I straddle an impossible divide; one is a realm of what appears to be absolute order, and the other side a realm where chaos resides. One side of me dwells in the land of science and modern life, and the other is rooted deeply in the heart of the endless forest and the dreamtime.
I think we all in some way try to bridge these gaps.
I am not so successful at it at times. I often feel like I am being torn asunder by the contrasting POV’s running in my head.
But there is relief at times; there is room for both if allowed.
So here I am sitting at a computer, talking to people through a keyboard, and sharing Stories and Poems, about “The Good People”.
Enjoy,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Elidyr’s Sojurn in Fairy-Land
Poetry: Concerning The Fey….
Art Work: john everett millais
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The Links:
Former Texas Governor Ann Richards Dies
Carl Jung: Psychologist or sorcerer?
Ancient Indian spaceport discovered
Scientist: Humans Strange, Neanderthals Normal
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Elidyr’s Sojurn in Fairy-Land
In that country of crosses, ruined chapels and rocking stones, caers and tumuli, cromlechs and camps, which is sometimes known as Dewisland, there once lived a boy named Elidyr whose father and mother wished him to become a priest. They accordingly sent him every day to the monks of St. David’s to learn his letters, but the little rascal much preferred hoop and ball to book-learning; all that went in at one ear came out at the other, and as a scholar he therefore left much to be desired. His teachers, remembering that Solomon had said, “He that spareth his rod hateth his son, but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes,” showed their affection towards their pupil in the manner he advised. At first they corrected him lightly and infrequently, but Elidyr did not amend his ways, and before long not a lesson passed without chastisement. Not only were the stripes more frequent, but they also became more severe, till Elidyr could stand them no longer. So one day when he was twelve years old he ran away: he went on and on, and the further he got the happier he felt. Knowing that a search would be made for him, he looked diligently for a hiding place, but for a long time he could find no place where he could feel safe. At last he came to a river: under the hollow bank of this, there was a beautiful hiding place, where no pursuer would ever expect to find a runaway. Into this he crept and slept that night as soundly as the best little boy who ever tired himself out with lessons. The next day he realised that, glorious as his hiding place was as an escape from books and thwackings, it had its disadvantages: the chief was that there was nothing to eat and drink, and that is a very serious thing for a growing boy with a healthy appetite. It was not safe to go out even to look for hips and haws, because when he lifted his head above the river bank he saw men and women searching all over the countryside for him. He became hungrier and hungrier, and oh, how slowly the time passed! It was the longest day Elidyr had ever known: the sun simply crawled across the heavens, and it seemed to be an age before it dipped its red rim in the waters of St. Bride’s Bay. He was no better off even when the sun did set, because night is worse than day when you cannot sleep, and it is very difficult to get even forty winks when you have an aching void inside you. Every time he woke up he felt hungrier, and he made up his mind to return home as soon as it was light enough for him to find his way.
Better two thrashings–for he knew that his father would lay on as well as the monks–than the wolf which was tearing his inside. When the shades of night were disappearing, he got up to start off, when to his intense surprise two little pigmies appeared to him and said, “Come with us, and we will lead you to a land full of sports and delights.” Very curiously his hunger vanished that very minute, and with the hunger vanished the desire to return to those hateful lessons and thrashings. So he upped with him and offed with him with the two pigmies. They went first through an underground passage all in the dark, but soon they came out into a most beautiful country. There were purling streams, lush meadows and wooded hills, all as pleasant as can be.
The two little men led Elidyr to a magnificent palace. “What is this place?” asked the truant. “This is the palace of the King of Faery,” answered his guides. They took him in, and there they found the King sitting on a splendid throne, with his courtiers in magnificent dresses all about him. He asked Elidyr who he was and whence he came. Elidyr told him, and the King said, “Thou shalt attend my son.” The King then waved him away, and the King’s son, who was about the same age as Elidyr, took him out of the court.
Then began a time of supreme happiness to Elidyr. He waited on the King’s son and joined in all the games and sports of the little men. They were little, but they were not mis-shapen dwarfs, for all their limbs were well-proportioned.
They were fair of complexion, and their hair was thick and long, falling over their shoulders like that of women. They rode little horses about the size of greyhounds, and they never ate flesh nor fish, but lived on messes of milk flavoured with saffron. They took no oaths, but never spoke a lie, for there was nothing they detested so much as falsehood. They scoffed at men for their struggles, follies, vanities, fickleness, treacheries and lies. But they worshipped none, unless you might say they were worshippers of Truth. The country in which they lived was beautiful, as has already been described, but there was this that was curious about it. The sun never shone and clouds were always over the sky, so that even the days were obscure and the nights were pitch dark, for neither moon nor stars ever gave any light.
After a time Elidyr began to long for his mother, and he begged to be allowed to go and visit his old home. The King gave him permission, and the two little men who had brought him to the realm of Faery led him through the underground passage to the upper earth, and right up to his mother’s cottage, keeping him invisible to all on the way. Imagine his mother’s joy when he entered, for she had thought he was lost for ever. She plied him with questions, and he had to tell her everything about himself and the bourne from which he had returned. She begged him to stay with her, but he had given his word to go back, and soon he departed, after making his mother promise not to tell where he was or with whom. After this he often went to visit his mother, sometimes by the road by which he had first returned, sometimes by others. At first he was not allowed to go alone, but inasmuch as he always kept his promise to come back, he was subsequently permitted to go by himself.
Now one day when Elidyr was with his mother, he told her of the heavy yellow balls which the King’s son. and he used in their play. His mother knew that they must be made of gold, and she said to him, “Bring one of them with you next time you come.” “It would not be right to do that,” said the boy. “What is the harm?” asked his mother. “I have been told never to bring anything with me to earth,” replied Elidyr, “Surely, out of the hundreds of balls which the King’s son has, he would not miss just one,” pleaded the mother, and the boy reluctantly consented. Some days after, when he thought no one was looking, he took up one of the golden balls, and started off to his mother’s cottage, walking at first slowly, but increasing his pace as he drew nearer to the upper air. Just as he emerged out of the underground passage on to the earth, he thought he heard tiny footsteps pattering behind him, and he started to run. Turning his head round, he saw two little men running after him and looking very grim. He put his best foot forward and tore ahead; the little men raced after him, but Elidyr having the start reached the cottage first. When he reached the threshold, he stumbled and fell, and the golden ball rolled out of his hand right to the feet of his mother. At that moment the two little men jumped over him as he lay sprawling, seized the ball and rushed out of the house. As they passed Elidyr they spat at him and shouted, “Thief, traitor, false mortal,” and other terms of reproach.
Full of grief and shame, he went sadly back to the river bank where the Underground passage commenced, determined to go back to the land of the little men to tell them how sorry he was that he had listened to his mother’s evil counsel, but he could find no trace of any opening. Again and again he searched, but never could he find any way back to that fair country. So after a time he went back to the monastery, and tried to deaden his longing for fairy land by devotion to learning. In due time he became a monk. The story of his sojourn in Fairy-land gradually leaked out, and men used to come and ask him about the land of the little men, but he could never speak of the happy time he had spent there without shedding tears.
Now it happened that when Elidyr was old, David, the second Bishop of St. David’s, came to visit the monastery and ask him about the manners and customs of the little men. Above all, he was curious to know what language they spoke, and Elidyr told him some of their words. When they asked for water they would say, “Udor udorurn,” and when they wanted salt, they said, “Halgei udorum.” Now the Bishop knew that the Greek for water is νοωρ and for salt άλς, and he thus discovered that the language of the fairies greatly resembles that of the ancient Greeks.
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Poetry: Concerning The Fey….
FAERY SONG Oran Sidhe
Trans by Shaw
Faery lovers of both sexes who come to mortal kind are common in Celtic story. The faery kind are not seen as diminutive sprights in Celtic tradition, but as the immortal and ancestral spirits who often have communion and conference with human kind. This Oran Sidhe or faery song describes the beauty of a faery woman Caitlin Matthews
I left in the doorway of the bower
My jewel, the dusky, brown, white-skinned,
Her eye like a star, her lip like a berry,
Her voice like a stringed instrument.
I left yesterday in the meadow of the kind
The brown-haired maid of sweetest kiss,
Her eye like a star, her cheek like a rose,
Her kiss has the taste of pears.
—
THE HOSTS OF THE FAERY
According to Patrick Logan (The Old Gods the facts about Irish Fairies), this poem can be found in the Book of Leinster written in the twelfth century. It describes a party of warriors who went to Magh Mel (Plain of Honey), and of the many names of fairyland, to help the king recover his wife who had been abducted from him. When they had recovered the stolen wife they all decided to remain in fairyland where their leader shares the ruling power with the king.
White shields they carry in their hands,
With emblems of pale silver;
With glittering blue swords,
With mighty stout horns.
In well-devised battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amid blue spears,
Pal-visaged, curly-headed bands.
They scatter the battalions of the foe,
They ravage every land they attack,
Splendidly they march to combat,
A swift distinguished, avenging host!
No wonder though their strength be great:
Songs of queens and kings are one and all;
On their heads are
Golden-yellow manes.
With smooth comely bodies,
With bright blue-starred eyes,
With pure crystal teeth,
With thin red lips.
Good they are at man-slaying,
Melodious in the ale-house,
Masterly at making songs,
Skilled at playing fidchell.
Translation: Kuno Meyer
—–
The Fairies
By William Allingham
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
—
The Elve’s Dance
anon.
Round about, round about,
In a fair ring-a,
Thus we dance, thus we dance,
And thus we sing-a,
Trip and go, to and fro
Over this green-a,
All about, in and out,
For our brave Queen-a.
—-
Invocation to the fairies
By F.D. Browne-Hemans
Fays and fairies haste away!
This is Harriet’s holiday:
Bring the lyre, and bring the lute,
Bring the sweetly-breathing flute;
Wreaths of cowslips hither bring,
All the honours of the spring;
Adorn the grot with all that’s gai,
Fays and fairies haste away
Bring the vine to Bacchus dear,
Bring the purple lilac here,
Festoons of roses, sweetest flower,
The yellow primrose of the bower,
Blue-ey’d violets wet with dew,
Bring the clustering woodbine too
Bring the baskets made of rush,
The cherry with it’s ripen’d blush,
The downy peach, so soft so fair,
The luscious grap, the mellow pear:
These to Harriet hither bring,
And sweetly in return she’ll sing
Be the brilliant grotto scene
The palace of the Fairy Queen
Form the sprightly circling dance,
Fairies here your steps advance;
To harp’s soft dulcet sound
Let your footsteps lightly bound
Unveil your forms to mortal eye;
Let Harriet view your revelry
The conversation went down hill from there. 
Farid ud-Din Attar was born in Nishapur, Persia (Iran). There is disagreement over the exact dates of his birth and death but several sources confirm that he lived about 100 years. He is traditionally said to have been killed by Mongol invaders. His tomb can be seen today in Nishapur.
Rowan came home with his friends Isabel and Ian shortly afterwards, Rowan sprouting a pair of Angel Wings that Isabel & Ian had crafted over the last couple of weeks. Isabel does some wonderful cartooning as well as being an accomplished musician. Lots of talent for 16 years!
There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king’s son, and they war to be married, when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn’t keep his promise to the fair lady–and more’s the pity.
from Plants of the Gods – Their Sacred, Healing and Hallucinogenic Powers
In relatively recent years, the use of Cannabis as an intoxicant has spread widely in Western society especially in the United States and Europe and has caused apprehension in law-making and law- enforcing circles and has created social and health problems. There is still little, if any, agreement on the magnitude of these problems or on their solution. Opinion appears to be pulled in two directions: that the use of Cannabis is an extreme social, moral, and health danger that must be stamped out, or that it is an innocuous, pleasant pastime that should be legalised. It may be some time before all of the truths concerning the use in our times and society of this ancient drug are fully known. Since an understanding of the history and attitudes of peoples who have long used the plant may play a part in furthering our handling of the situation in modern society, it behooves us to consider the role of Cannabis in mans past and to learn what lessons it can teach us: whether to maintain wise restraint in our urbanised, industrialised life or to free it for general use. For it appears that Cannabis may be with us for a long time. 
Beyond (or aside from) economic considerations, the ban on (some) psychotropics can also be considered from a shamanic perspective. Global Capital and universal Image seem able to absorb almost any outside and transform it into an area of commodification and control. But somehow, for some strange reason, Capital appears unable or unwilling to absorb the entheogenic dimension. It persists in making war on mind-altering or transformative substance, rather than attempting to co-opt and hegemonize their power.
Again: I have no idea what our strategy shall be. I believe however that the time has come to admit that a tactics of mere contingency can no longer sustain us. Permitted dissent has become an empty category, and reform merely a mask for recuperation. The more we struggle on their terms the more we lose. The drug legalization movement has never won a single battle. Not in America anywayand America is the sole superpower of Global Capital. We boast of our outlaw status as outsiders or marginals, as guerilla ontologists; why then, do we continually beg for authenticity and validation (either as reward or as punishment) from authority? What good would it do us if we were to be granted this status, this legality?
Clark Ashton Smith -the Bard of Auburn (1893-1961)
High up in a hollow of the Black Mountains of South Wales is a lonely sheet of water called Llyn y Fan Fach.
The shades of night began to fall, and Gwyn was about to depart in sore disappointment, when, casting a last farewell look over the lake, he beheld some cows walking on its surface. The sight of these beasts made him hope that they would be followed by the Lady of the Lake, and, sure enough, before long the maiden emerged from the water. She seemed lovelier than ever, and Gwyn was almost beside himself with joy at her appearance. His rapture increased when he saw that she was gradually approaching the land, and he rushed into the water to meet her, holding out the half-baked bread in his hand. She, smiling, took his gift, and allowed him to lead her to dry land. Her beauty dazzled him, and for some time he could do nothing but gaze upon her. And as he gazed upon her he saw that the sandal on her right foot was tied in a peculiar manner. She smiled so graciously upon him that he at last recovered his speech and said, “Lady, I love you more than all the world besides and want you to be my wife.”
Taliesin or Taliessin (c. 534c.599) is the earliest poet of the Welsh language whose work has survived. His name is associated with the Book of Taliesin, a book of poems written down in the 10th century but which most scholars believed to date in large part from the 6th century. He is believed to have been the chief bard in the courts of at least three British kings of that era. In legend he attained the status “Chief Bard of Britain” and as such would have been responsible for judging poetry competitions among all the royal bards of Britain. A few of the marks awarded for poems are extant in the margins of manuscripts. Taliesin’s life was later the subject of 16th century mythological work by Elis Gruffydd, who may have relied on existing oral tradition about him.
First you must grieve, many times, at your mistresss wrongs towards you, often requesting something, often being rejected. And often chew your innocent fingernails in your teeth, and tap the ground nervously with your foot, in anger!
Is it true all Rome talks about you, Cynthia, and you live in unveiled wantonness? Did I expect to deserve this? Ill deal punishment, faithless girl, and my breeze will blow somewhere else. Ill find one of all the deceitful women who wishes to be made famous by my song, who wont taunt me with such harsh ways: shell insult you: ah, so long loved, youll weep too late.
I admire many of the rules of your training, Sparta, but most of all at the great blessings derived from the girls gymnasia, where a girl can exercise her body, naked, without blame, among wrestling men, when the swift-thrown ball eludes the grasp, and the curved rod sounds against the ring, and the woman is left panting at the furthest goal, and suffers bruises in the hard wrestling.
Sextus Propertius (5016 B.C.), the greatest of the elegiac poets of Rome, was born of a well-to-do Umbrian family at or near Asisium (Assisi), the birthplace also of the famous St. Francis. We learn from Ovid that Propertius was his senior, but also his friend and companion; and that he was third in the sequence of elegiac poets, following Gallus, who was born in 69 B.C., and Tibullus, and immediately preceding Ovid himself, who was born in 43 B.C. We shall not then be far wrong in supposing that he was born about 50 B.C. His early life was full of misfortune. He lost his father prematurely; and after the battle of Philippi and the return of Octavian to Rome, Propertius, like Virgil and Horace, was deprived of his estate to provide land for the veterans, but, unlike them, he had no patrons at court, and he was reduced from opulence to comparative indigence. The widespread discontent which the confiscations caused provoked the insurrection generally known as the bellum frerusinum from its only important incident, the fierce and fatal resistance of Perugia, which deprived the poet of another of his relations, who was killed by brigands while making his escape from the lines of Octavian. The loss of his patrimony, however, thanks no doubt to his mothers providence, did not prevent Propertius from receiving a superior education. After, or it may be, during its completion he and she left Umbria for Rome; and there, about the year 34 B.C., he assumed the garb of manly freedom. He was urged to take up a pleaders profession; but, like Ovid, he found in letters and gallantry a more congenial pursuit. Soon afterwards he made the acquaintance of Lycinna, about whom we know little beyond the fact that she subsequently excited the jealousy of Cynthia, and was subjected to all her powers of persecution (vexandi). This passing fancy was succeeded by a serious attachment, the object of which was the famous ” Cynthia.” Her real name was Hostia, and she was a native of Tibur. She was a courtesan of the superior class, somewhat older than Propertius, but, as it seems, a woman of singular beauty and varied accomplishments. Her own predilections led her to literature; and in her society Propertius found the intellectual sympathy and encouragement which were essential for the development of his powers. Her character, as depicted in the poems, is not an attractive one; but she seems to have entertained a genuine affection for her lover. The intimacy began in 28 and lasted till 23 B.C. These six years must not, however, be supposed to have been a period of unbroken felicity. Apart from minor disagreements an infidelity on Propertiuss part excited the deepest resentment in Cynthia; and he was banished for a year. The quarrel was made up about the beginning of 25 B.C.; and soon after Propertius published his first book of poems and inscribed it with the name of his mistress. Its publication placed him in the first rank of contemporary poets, and amongst other things procured him admission to the literary circle of Maecenas. The intimacy was renewed; but the old enchantment was lost. Neither Cynthia nor Propertius was faithful to the other. The mutual ardour gradually cooled; motives of prudence and decorum urged the discontinuance of the connexion; and disillusion changed insensibly to disgust. Although this separation might have been expected to be final, it is not certain that it was so. It is true that Cynthia, whose health appears to have been weak, does not seem to have survived the separation long. But a careful study of the seventh poem of the last book, in which Propertius gives an account of a dream of her which he had after her death, leads us to the belief that they were once more reconciled, and that in her last illness Cynthia left to her former lover the duty of carrying out her wishes with regard to the disposal of her effects and the arrangements of her funeral. Almost nothing is known of the subsequent history of the poet. He was alive in 16 B.C., as some allusions in the last book testify. And two passages in the letters of the younger Pliny mention a descendant of the poet, one Passennus Paullus. Now in 18 B.C. Augustus carried the Leges Juliae, which offered inducements to marriage and imposed disabilities upon the celibate. Propertius then may have been one of the first to comply with the new enactments. He would thus have married and had at least one child, from whom the contemporary of Pliny was descended.
Our dear friend PK graduated from Oriental Medical School… Cramming 4 years into 3, while maintaining a job. I don’t know how he did it. He is now known as ‘Doctor Needles’ due to his drive to start up his practice with Acupuncture… 
We got to visit with Rowan’s Grandfather and Grandmother (my Dad n’ Step Mum) up in Washington. It was a quick visit, but we will be back there soon.
