Shock The Angels

“There is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking.” – Jean Cocteau

Ray Donley. Figure with mask and skull 2006
Dear Friends,
Well, thrashing around again.  I have been submerged in projects, and finding myself distracted quite frequently by the ensnarement of social media.  I have been realizing how much time I spend on it.  I have posted art and media as a service for quite awhile, and found some wonderful artist, and shared some of my long standing loves as well, but I realized to the detriment of my own creative process with art.  As I spend more time working away on the computer, the less time I spend with pen and pencil, airbrush, and paint.  Trying to turn that around… oh, and blogging.  I am returning to that as well.
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I am actually looking for typewriter ribbons.  I have an old one, that is still in good nick.  I do like to write by hand, but there is something about a typewriter, the clicking and clacking, the feel of the keys and the paper.  I may have spent years on those machines.  They do have their limitations, but they do for stories, etc.  Poetry?  I think not, though I confess I did type poetry during my mad jags at 3:00 in the morning over the years.  I seriously don’t think is was very good though.  Poetry requires reciting it aloud, and memorizing the lines, or writing it down by hand.  I have been able to write it down by hand of course, but the modern world and writing is unkind to the memory.  How much have we lost because of that?  Think on the bards and poets who carried the Illiad, or The Cattle Raids in their heads, and passed it down through countless generations….
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 So, perhaps as I get older, a bit of the Luddite starts to assert itself, or as I feel time growing short for this ride on the Dharma Wheel, that I must attend to what gifts I have been given.  I believe that there are gifts that we either take up, or they flee to others.  I have given away many ideas over the years.  Gladly it seems, I have seen a few of those gifts give wealth and happiness to others.  I did my part, in dreaming them first, but not perhaps hard enough to make them fully mine.  A conduit of sorts for an interesting version of the muse….
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Anyway, I meander.  We have bought more space for the Radio Station with a generous donation, and we are putting some ideas in place for the future…. New shows coming of course, stay tuned.
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Announcements coming from The Invisible College as well, on several fronts.  Projects, projects.
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On the home front, Rowan & Suzanne have been off in Europe for almost 2 months.  I believe they will be coming back later next week, or in November. It has all been very nebulous  Lately they have been in Portugal trying out the port and cuisine, and apparently having the time of their lives. Rowan got to meet family in Scotland which was a love fest all around from what I heard from his Auntie.  You can catch up with the sweet twosome on FB and Instagram: Rowan S Floyd

 Well that is enough for tonight. Nice to be back with the Hares’ Tale.
Lots of material here, enjoy!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Recurrence
Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come
Poetry: Ira Cohen
Dead Rabbits: Here She Comes

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The Links:
The Emerging States?
Great Tits Are Evolving…!
Saber Tooth Kitten?
Dentine & The Ancient Ones
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This is wonderful!


Recurrence from Julius Horsthuis on Vimeo.

Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come Ambient Site

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Ira Cohen Poetry
Ira Cohen
The Arm of the Dorje
Sunyata – Song to the Winter Sun
There was much wind
but I new not how to call it,
a roomful of strangers,
how familiar the feeling,
how cold it must be – barefoot
at the fountain when the sun goes down,
how the brown people love the blond baby
The white horse which looks out
from the wall suggests a journey
I once might have taken,
a covered memory reeking of sulphur
Words, they can go anywhere,
can they tell me where I come from,
the name of my planet,
the empty space which was my home?
The condemned murderer longs for
a firing squad, knows
where to put the shadows
you keep inside –
Between hands there are worlds
of ashes & thunder,
silent collisions of meaning,
the utter sugar of nights
taken for granted
They say the sun rises every day,
that sleep is incidental
I say myself
& so I look for your face at dawn
rising over my grief, over
the twice told terrain, violet w/ciphers,
Suffused w/ yr eternal smile
I would offer my flesh to your tiger,
turn your stone wheels w/ my water
Longing for the peaks the stars say
it will be clear
Let us meet in the sky then
till we come closer down here.
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The Day of the Basilisk – The Wayfarer’s Song
It started in the dark room
thinking that night had fallen at dawn
Then arising we glued red eyes
into the dry sockets of a dead bird
its belly full of dirty cotton
Then across the paddies & out of
the town
where familiar figures of Kleist &
Eschenbach
rise from the road in eddies of dust
The voice of the Changeling names the day,
the day of the Basilisk, usurped
from the tyrant’s quest to know
how not to maim the Gilded Hind of
self knowledge
Licchavi sirens shortchanged of a renaissance
spread out cracked wooden arms,
split skulls of haunting beauty, smiling
Mud murtis made by nature distract
Goethean comments fearful of what is hidden
while the delicate head of Mahadev
whittled by the wind
still seals the lingam in the ancient temple
We look with Mudusa’s eyes
at the first born fruits,
the full breasts of the river
where there is no infidelity -The golden larva w/ the royal face of Narayan,
hold it by its tail & call it by its name
Narayan, Narayan
it will dance for you & shake its head,
it lives only on air -we do not know if
it is alive or if it is dead, so gilded
its beauty
The face of Vishnu etches a dream of
ancient seas tinted w/ fallen light
Your face is everywhere
Your glory rings out over the peaks
capped w/ flame
Your shadow is enclosed within your shadow
You watch yourself falling
While falling you watch yourself looking down
You want to pick up the Tamang corpse
no one will touch
You call the children of darkness,
refute the wasted years of salt
poured into furrows
You see the thread needled to the hem of Night
betrayed by the shinbone of Day
where the fear is burned away
You look w/ basilisk eyes
turning the day to stone,
touched & transfigured
by the human, by the changing,
by the eternal, the always repeating
Alone.Dhulikel/Panauti
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Imagine Jean Cocteau
Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
a Rock and Roll Band
Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges
disguised as Wm Shakespeare
Imagine that I’m the cousin of the Mayor
of New York or the King of Nepal
(I didn’t say Napoleon!)
Imagine what it is like to be in the glare
of hot lights when you are longing for dark
corners
Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal
Orchestra –
Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica
or someone weighing out bones on the edge
of the desert in Afghanistan
Imagine that these poems are recorded moments
of temporary sanity
Imagine that the clock was just turned back –
or forwards – a hundred years instead of an hour
Let us pretend that we have no place to go,
that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,
that our bags are packed & that we have one hour
to checkout time
Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not
imagination but experience which makes poetry,
and that behind every image,
behind every word there is something
I am trying to tell you,
something that really happened.
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Insomnia On Duke Ellington Boulevard July 14, Breakfast w/myself at the Olympia Diner, 106th & B’way
Fell asleep around 4 AM
w/ the TV on
Van Heflin & Barbara Stanwyck
enter my disturbed sleep
Sometimes the only way out
is to die, but happily
someone else escapes,
takes to the road, goes on
traveling.
I’m up at seven, go to the post office.,
send two Cuban alligators
to Brussels,
the read Gabriel’s column in NEWSDAY
about the real meaning of the closet,
feel nauseous, order a hardboiled egg
which come w/out a shell
mashed in a cup
Is my heart, too, yearning
for its dying hour?
Please bring me one order
of cool snow!
*
If I could remember just a fraction
of what I said on the telephone
If he could take his clothes off
and sit on the banks of the Ganga
If she could see the profile of Caliban
in the smoke over the oilfieds
If we could just take off & go to Madagascar
If they would stop killing each other
and wake up tomorrow morning
w/ a new vision
I would stick my head in a printing press
and you could read tomorrow’s paper today:EXTRA! EXTRA!
Read all about it
Poets’ brains prove to be useful!

P.S. Sometimes when I pick up my pen
it leaks gold all over the tablecloth.

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Dead Rabbits Here She Comes

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This Edition Is Dedicated To All The Lovers In The World…