Jean Delville

Jean Delville (1867– 1953) -Belgian symbolist painter, author, poet, and teacher.

“There exists somewhere, around us, without or within us, in the depths of the unseen world, spheres where are formed the eternal images reflected in our intellects, and which the artist or poet filch from Mystery by the magic…power of their imagination, that mysterious divine faculty which must be known in order to be in tune with the harmony of the World.” – Jean Delville

Just a quick one…

You can find updates on the site in The Featured Artist Area, The Writing Area & The Daily Art Area. Also, we are continuing to feature “The Nova Express” Mix on Radio EarthRites. Please check them out!

Here is an entry to let you know what is up on the site, and a bit on a subject I have been reinvestigating as of late. Years ago, before Carlos Castenada, I was introduced through metaphysical studies, the realms of the Occult. Not really unusual, but along the way I discovered Sorcery, and specifically Sorcerers… I will not go into great details about them, but I realized that there are often parallel worlds occurring around us that we are unaware of, and struggles going on that would seem inconceivable to the everyday reality. The concept of Sorcery has been raising its multifaceted head lately though, and again I have turned my attention to it. In films (Dr. Strange!) and in other forms of media the term and reports of it are popping up. Sorcery takes many forms. It is not all capes, flying through the air, or casting spells of doom or light. It is often a persistent nudging of consciousness, an exercise of will.

Anyway, I have written a bit about it. You can find it below…

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
The Links
New Moon Duo!
New Blotter Art Available!
Les poètes maudits
Moon Duo – Sevens

the use of magic, especially black magic.
synonyms: (black) magic, the black arts, witchcraft, wizardry, enchantment, spells, incantation, witching, witchery, thaumaturgy
“the practice of sorcery was strictly forbidden”

Middle English sorcerie, from Anglo-French, from sorcer sorcerer, from Medieval Latin sortiarius, from Latin sort-, sors chance, lot
So, we are seeing a fine bit of sorcery as of late in the world…

Some of the basics in the sorcerer’s bag include the manipulation of language, repeated ritual, the application of will. One can cause a shifting of realities through combining these. It is the oldest of tools. Weave a version of a story of how you would want it to be, repeat it again and again, and again with ritualistic intent, the steady application of will and you’ll change the way your audience/participants caught up in the ritual perceives the world, and presto! You’ll have influenced reality to your model.

This is not a new tool, and it’s been a tool of statecraft and media since the concept of rule began. This shaping of reality is a constant, and deliberate act. It has led to such fruitful ideas as “Sacred Kingship”, “State”, “Patriotism”, ad nauseam. This line of sorcery, is only matched by it’s twin pulling along the same chariot: Religion.

As of late, the waters around these forms of sorcery have been in many cases strengthened by the new systems of communication, i.e. Radio, Television, Internet (especially Internet!) Yet, the center shall not hold. There are so many competing players now with so many variants in agendas that the foundations of these ancient structures are now collapsing. New Mages are emerging. Sorcerers with competing world views are now in combat in new realms that were never explored before. The whole show that we have been enthralled with since the neolithic is now in great upheaval, and traditional delivery systems are moving into collapse with great acceleration.

From Meme Sorcerers on the Right, to Meme Sorcerers on the Left, new fields of battle are being exploited. New beings are arising out of AI, beings that will engage with you, talk to you, try to persuade, and if that doesn’t work attack you. These are beings that are growing in strength, and are moving at break neck speed into the arena’s of light and dark.

Expect more chaos, has arrived… and it is not all bad!
The Links!
The Mind Of The Flat Earther…
Catfish Can Fly!
Moon Duo – Will Of The Devil

New Blotter Art Available!

Library of the doomed (XIV): “Les poètes maudits” by Paul Verlaine, published in Paris in 1884. A homage to Tristan Corbière, Arthur Rimbaud, Stéphane Mallarmé, Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and Pauvre Lelian (Paul Verlaine himself).

La fileuse file en versant des larmes
Sur son lin choisi s’inclinent ses charmes.
Le fil oublié glisse de ses doigts,
Et ses chants d’oiseaux tremblent dans sa voix.

Sa quenouille est là toute négligée…
Oh! d’un jour à l’autre on est si changée!
Quoi! plus une rose à son front rêveur!
Qu’est-ce donc qu’elle a? Je crois qu’elle a peur…

Elle était hier au banc de l’enfance
Avec ses fuseaux pour toute défense;
Mais le soir l’enfant ne les avait pas
Quand quelqu’un dans l’ombre a suivi ses pas.

Personne aujourd’hui ne la voit plus rire.
En si peu d’instants qu’a-t-on pu lui dire?
Ah! pour qu’elle file en versant des pleurs,
Il faut que dans l’ombre on ait pris ses fleurs.

Ein Lämplein verlosch in meinem Zelt!
Heil sei dem Freudenlicht der Welt!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
And now, the bright sun rises
As if nothing happened during this night!

The spinner spins while pouring tears;
She impresses her charms upon her flax.
The forgotten thread slides through her fingers,
And the songs of birds tremble in her voice.

Her distaff is utterly neglected…
Oh! One is so changed from one day to the next!
What! No more rosy bloom on brow of this dreamer?
What, then, does she have? I believe she has a fear…

It was yesterday upon the bank of her childhood
With only her spindle for defense;
But one evening the child had nothing
When someone in the shadows followed her steps.

No one today sees her laugh anymore.
In those fleeting instants what might one have told her?
Ah! In order that she spin while pouring forth tears
It is necessary to take some flowers.

A little lamp is extinguished in my tent.
Hello, oh joyous light of this world.

Jean Delville

Moon Duo – Sevens

Saturday, Somewhere!

The Evil of Perversity, 1891 // Jean Delville
Jean got carried away with his titles at times…. 😉

Welcome to…
Anyway, it’s Saturday, and I am working away on a couple of projects, but I thought I would take some time out to bring some new art, and ideas to the feast.

The Daily Art:
We have a new page… The Daily Art … It seems that I am losing the ability to post on Facebook (which, okay, I get it) is kinda like the universe nudging me away from that place. Instead, I will be posting here daily.

On the board as well is the idea of having a forum connected to the images, for comments etc. If you have any thoughts on this let me know.

Radio EarthRites:
The latest Show! Tune in! “The Nova Express!
9 hours of music, covering a large, very large field of diverse bands, solo acts and projects.  Give it a go if ya like.

So, still expanding what we are going to do here.  Hold on to your hats, lots more coming!
On The Menu:
The Links
Return Of The She-King
Thoughts On A Year
Poesy: Rainer Maria Rilke
Tomorrow Never Knows
The Links:
First The Discovery Of Troy…
I Really Have Never Doubted This
The GraveStones Of Comfort
Gene Hacking, Octopi Style!
Return Of The She-King


Solace in the Unknown – Andy Kehoe

Thoughts On A Year… I found this in my unpublished section.  It is a take on the last year, and the changes it held for me.  A bit personal, but maybe of interest: (another take on Hello! Goodbye!)

2016:  It started out very well, I was turning out art, had a hell of a good time speaking at The Exploring Psychedelics Conference at Southern Oregon University in mid April. Shortly after, my Step Mother passed, followed by my Father, 19 days later. A week after that, we received notice that the house we had lived in for the past 2.5 years was going up for sale. Of course, there was all kinds of scrambling after this. We did eventually find a new place (quite nice actually!), and I have had to make a couple of excursions down to Bat Country to take care of family biz with the passing of the parental units. I have only gotten back up on the creative horse again, after what has been a very, very dry 7 months.

With all that passed with the year, I started to think about a larger picture, that being our lives, from inception to ejection from the earthly realms. I try to hone ideas down to a frame work that is easier to grasp. I came up with this: “The first part, or half of our lives we are saying hello. The second part, or half, we are saying goodbye.” A bit simplistic maybe, but hold on for a bit as I build on the basic idea. We come into the world, we say hello first to our mothers, to light, to darkness, to touch, family, the round and turning world. Everything is new; everything a discovery. We say hello to friends, to school, to the creatures of the world as we discover them one after another. We are bathed in Hello! We discover and say hello to ideas, to stories, to the myths… to meeting our first loves, to our first lover, to work, to beauty, and more.

Of course we are saying goodbye probably from the start; from the natal ocean, and as it goes along, to innocence, to the purity that we come in upon. The goodbyes accelerate as you get older, to the first deaths of friends, perhaps in ones youth, to older family members.  We say goodbye with more and more frequency.  We say goodbye to myriads of situations as we grow, we say goodbye as we shed old identities, we say goodbye to other lovers perhaps when we become married, we sometimes say goodbye to those we marry through divorce. As we age, our mates, our friends, hero’s, places, all change, or die. In the end, we say goodbye to this wonderful place called the world. It is a process…

We cannot have one without the other it seems. As the years go on, I have found myself standing in a middle ground, and watching the process unfold. I think the term for some is “non-attachment”, which plays out as the opposite of “fond attachment”, which seems to be the standard operating mode. As I watch the hair on my head slip to growing out on my ears, in my ears, on my back… you get the picture. Everything changes. Change of course is the constant. We move, or become stuck in stasis. Life is always dealing these lessons, up to the very end.

You learn to say Hello with Love, and Goodbye with Love.  Abilities grow, and then perhaps flee, your lovers (on all types of levels) one day are gone.  We learn to look into the self, and appraise the path you have trodden. Hopefully, regret will not play a huge part in this.

It was a wonderful, and terrible year. So much to process with the passing time.

Here is to another year seemingly flying by so quickly, with all of its new opportunities. May your time here be filled with love.

Bright Blessings,

(René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke (1875-1926). Painting by Maler)
Poesy: Rainer Maria Rilke

How my body blooms from every vein
more fragrantly, since you appeared to me;
look, I walk slimmer now and straighter,
and all you do is wait-:who are you then?

Look: I feel how I’m moving away,
how I’m shedding my old life, leaf by leaf.
Only your smile spreads like sheer stars
over you and, soon now, over me.

Whatever shines through my childhood years
still nameless and gleaming like water,
I will name after you at the altar,
which is blazing brightly from your hair
and braided gently with your breasts.
You Who Never Arrived

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me — the far-off, deeply-felt
landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and
unsuspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods–
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house– , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,–
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.
Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening…
At The Brink Of Night

My room and this distance,
awake upon the darkening land,
are one. I am a string
stretched across deep
surging resonance.

Things are violin bodies
full of murmuring darkness,
where women’s weeping dreams,
where the rancor of whole generations
stirs in its sleep . . .
I should release
my silver vibrations: then
everything below me will live,
and whatever strays into things
will seek the light
that falls without end from my dancing tone
into the old abysses
around which heaven swells
through narrow
The Poet

O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love. I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich
and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.
– Rainer Maria Rilke
Tomorrow Never Knows – Electric Moon


Et in Arcadia Ego


Norman Lindsay

Dear Friends,

So, welcome again to the new site.  This is a fairly extensive entry, lots to mull over, and to spend time with.  I will be posting here more and more, so stop back often. 😛

It seems that Radio EarthRites has admirers, at least enough to copy and past our old logo from, and run a stream pretending to be us… which they are not.  Listen to the original, please.

Getting ready for Exploring Psychedelics Conference coming at the end of May. I am contemplating a small review of the talk I am giving, which is “Emerging Culture and Psychedelia” tracing the roots back over a wide range of time.  I hope you check out their site, and I hope to see you all there.

New Art!
I have some new art to share, Blotter work:  Gwyllm-Art Blotter!  I am very excited about it, this is the first blotter of mine that has been released in many years.  The first piece, “Aldous Huxley – Doors of Perception” was designed specifically for Blotter Art years ago. “The Chemist” is a more recent design, put together as an homage to the late Sasha Shulgin a year before his passing:

I hope you enjoy these two pieces. I so enjoy the process of creating them, and to see the results. We still have some low numbers left, in the signed and numbered prints, as well as in the Artist Proofs.
With all of that said, enjoy your visit, look around and if you want to send me feedback, or suggestions on the site, content, please let me know. Lots more soon, please stop by again, and share with your friends. 😉

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
The Links
Sunspot – Of The Wand & The Moon
Elise Cowen Poetry
The Architect Tonality of Psychogeographic, or The Hieroglyphics of Driftwork – Hakim Bey
Hanshan Poetry
Et in Arcadia Ego
Virelai – Skåledans – Toasting Dance
The Links:
The Lost City
Where Did They Go?
Darwin Sez.. Chill.
Sunspot – Of The Wand & The Moon

Elise Cowen Poetry

[Your arms around me all night]

Your arms around me all night
I woke to find me there
Not knowing what you held
Cramped Frightened
By the tenderness holding me
And once my eyes opened on
Tearing through your face
In the act of come,
I didn’t know you looked like that

Everything I love, I need to be
Hides in you.

Come summer
You’ll take off you
d         jeweled bees
Which sting me
I’ll strip my stinking
d         jeans
Hand in hand
We’ll run outside
Look straight at
d        the sun
A second time
And get tan

The first eye opens by the sun’s warmth
to stare at it

The second eye is ripped open by an
apothecary & propped with toothpicks,
systems & words
and likes to blink in mirrors

I only know there may be more because
one hurts when I think too much

The first eye is blind
there is no other
Teacher–your body my Kabbalah


The aroma of Mr. Rochesters cigars
among the flowers
Bursting through
I am trying to choke you
Delicate thought
Frankenstein of delicate grace
posed by my fear
And you
Take me by the throat

The body hungers before the soul
And after thrusts for its own memory

Why not afraid to hurt elig–
couldn’t hurt me except in wit, in funny
I couldn’t, wouldn’t art in relation
but with a rose or rather skunk cabbage

Just–Mere come I break through grey paper
What is the word from Deberoux Babtiste
the Funambule I
Desnuelu (who’s he?) to choke you
Duhamel and you
De brouille Graciously
Deberaux Take me by the throat
French logic
Black daisy chain of nuns
Nous sommes tous assasins
Keith’s jumping old man in the waves
morning dance of delicacy
“I want you to pick me up
when I fall down”
I wouldn’t and fell
not even death
I waited for
with the room
like cat shit
would take me
Donald’s first bed wherein this fantasy
shame changing him to you
And you talking of plum blossom scrolls
and green automobiles
Shame making body thought
a game
Cat’s cradle & imaginary
lattices of knowledge & Bach
Fearing making guilt making shame
making fantasy & logic & game &
elegance of covering splendour
emptying memory of the event
covering splendour with mere elegance
sneer between the angels
Wouldn’t couldn’t
Fear of the killer
dwarf with the bag of tricks & colonels picture
To do my killing for me
God is hidden
And not for picture postcards.

Emily white witch of Amherst
The shy white witch of Amherst
Killed her teachers
With her love
I’ll rather mine entomb
my mind
Or best that soft grey dove.

Allen Ginsberg & Elise Cowen/When they were lovers…


The Architect Tonality of Psychogeographic, or The Hieroglyphics of Driftwork–  Hakim Bey
(in memoriam Guy Debord)

obscure & mysterious grottoes into which they enter, imitating serpents – spaces of return to an intimacy that “once upon a time” was shattered by memory – by the simultaneous reiteration & belatedness of memory – that faculty of human consciousness “closet to the divine”. But don’t they say that “to forgive is human, to forget is divine” ? In the ritual reiteration or “remembrance” (dhikr) of the sufis one forgets the “self” precisely in order to recall the Self; – thus to re-member is to erase separation, & this erasure is a species of forgetfulness. (In certain key Islamic buildings like the Alhambra the reiteration of dhikr as calligrammatic text becomes the very definition of built space as mnemonic device or “Memory Palace” – not ornament but the very basis or crystal-precipitation-principle of architecture.)

“Since we are Jesus Christ,” as one of the Brethren of the free Spirit boasted, “the only issue is that what is already perfect in us should be reiterated …” This process however leads to a paradoxical un-learning – hence to a loss of fear – so that one can “let oneself be led by one’s natural senses, like a little child”. Now, the cave stands for unconsciousness; – the goal however is not to lose unconsciousness but to recapture that which unconsciousness separated us from, that which consciousness “spoiled”. Thus within the dark grotto itself memory must be paradoxically inscribed – key images are reiterated (literally repeated in some cases by a palimpsestic or incisive over-drawing) – images which represent out lost intimacy as a pantheon of animals (“good to think with”) – each animal a special joy or “divine” function. Thus the the cave becomes the first intentional architectural space, the intersection of unconsciousness (the bliss of “Nature”) & consciousness (memory , reiteration).

Ever since Plato we’ve been taught to revere anamnesis – but let’s descend to the pre-Platonic cave, the paleolithic grotto, to recover the positive dialectic of amnesia – without which memory becomes simply a curse, coagulating at last as History (the degree of zero of memory as suffocation): the first city (Çatalk Hüyük) is already arranged as a gridwork, the very antithesis of the grotto’s aesthetic shapelessness, it’s meandering & amazing spaces, it’s melted stalagmites & stalactites – its organicity (which is never the less expressed as mineral life). The cities of Sumer & Harappa were likewise laid out as severe grids, cruel abstractions of linearity. To draw a line is to separate, to create spatial hierarchy (between priest & people, rich & poor, surplus & scarcity) and to define the topia of memory against the dark unconscious of the tribe, the u-topian cave, the organic wild(er)ness. The tertium quid or coincidentia oppositorium here (between “grotto” & Babylon) might appear in the medieval city (which still survives in a few places in the Islamic world) where the excessive cruelty of the grid is mollified – not erased but softened – by a recording of a space according to the tree or the river-delta model (chaotic bifurcation ranging to complexity based on intra-dimensional “strange attractors”) – an urbanism of the organic, the aesthetic, & the complex or plural (as opposed to the inorganic, the ideological, & the simple or total).

The medieval city is an extruded grotto Some of these cities introduced allegorical pageants or parades in which huge emblem-complexes (composite hieroglyphs) were built & set up or carried around the labyrinth of streets. Myths & legends were acted out: – sometimes the Lord Mayor played the role of “Lord Mayor”, wandering thru a street-theater of encounters with symbolic characters (like Bloom in Nighttown), thus re-newing the City as its elected Hero undergoing the initiation of ritual marriage with the urban goddess.

Here the Free City comes to a synchronic & ludic consciousness of itself hic et nunc, rather than succumb to the miserabilist diachronism of power’s violence. In this Hermetic City we find the background or womb-space of the alchemical Emblem Books, and the narrativity of a Bosch or Breughel. Memory loses its heaviness here & takes on a folkloric air, carnivalesque (the festival as reiteration of pleasure) with built shapes that appropriate (thru design or thru the accidents of decay & accretion) the forms of breasts, phalluses, wombs, rocks & water, moss & flowers, even of wind & light.
The Babylonian grid-city wants memory to persist thru time – smooth & empty time – but as Dali showed, memory persists only in the deliquescense of measured time. The medieval-hermetic city (like Blake’s Green Jerusalem) preserves memory but in a “disordered” way – like akashic marmalade – time which is textured & full. “Babylon” preserves order (or else!) – but what happens to memory there ? Isn’t it transmuted into the poison formaldehyde of History, the re-iterated tale of our poverty & their power, taxonomic myth of the ruling class ? Who can blame us for harboring both a nostalgia & an insurrectionary desire for the narrow winding alleys, shadowy steps, covered ways & tunnels, middens & cellars of a city which has designed itself – organically, unconsciously – within an aesthetic of festive & secret conviviality, & of the curvaciuos negentropic mutability of memory itself ?

The psychic urbanism of the 1960’s constituted yet another attempt to reclaim built memory for this “Romantic” project – rus in urbe, as F. Law Olmstead put it – “The country in the city” – reintroduction of the eternal “baroque” (as in “baroque pearl”) or spontaneous form – (like the miraculous fungoid cinnabar grottoes of Mao Shan Taoism, created by the Imaginal potency of the Adept) – which is also the “divine” spontaneity, unconsciousness & forgetting, of Nature. A project for the builders of some near-future No Go Zone: – the city of psychogeographic resistance, the anti-grid, architectonality of driftwork, festal space – and the Cave of Fluid Memory. Rock & water – the reverie of the bard, the forgetfulness of the gods.
Hanshan (Cold Mountain) Poetry

Beyond Silence

Blue-green spring water,
white moonlit mountain.

Quiet wisdom of the spirit:
empty gaze beyond silence.
Here’s a message for the faithful

Here’s a message for the faithful
what is it that you cherish
to find the Way to see your nature
your nature is naturally so
what Heaven bestows is perfect
looking for proof leads you astray
leaving the trunk to search among the twigs
all you get is stupid
This rare and heavenly creature

This rare and heavenly creature
alone without peer
look and it’s not there
it comes and goes but not through doors
it fits inside a square-inch
it spreads in all directions
unless you acknowledge it
you’ll meet but never know
You have seen the blossoms among the leaves;

You have seen the blossoms among the leaves;
tell me, how long will they stay?
Today they tremble before the hand that picks them;
tomorrow they wait someone’s garden broom.

Wonderful is the bright heart of youth,
but with the years it grows old.
Is the world not like these flowers?
Ruddy faces, how can they last?
Et in Arcadia ego

Et in Arcadia ego (also known as Les bergers d’Arcadie or The Arcadian Shepherds) is a 1637–38 painting by Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665).

Had a night of vivid dreams of returning to my stepfather’s & mother’s house from years ago. No one was there, all had passed on. (as they have in “Reality”) Yet, in the house were treasures. I was bringing people in, to choose what they could use in their lives. I brought a young friend in, pregnant now with her 3rd child to choose what she would need in her life.

I found a shelf of beautiful books of my stepfather’s. He was a master book binder, but also had an incredible Occult & Metaphysical collection. I touched each and every book, knowing that they held great value for me.

I stepped into the ancient stream, finding my place in the great dance….

“Et in Arcadia Ego …” — These words may have first appeared in a painting by Il Guercino (c.1618) of the same name. Throughout the Renaissance, this phrase was used as a sort of code word for “the underground stream,” an invisible college of kindred souls who secretly shared their esoteric knowledge with one another, passing it around Europe via a network of secret societies and mystery schools, often utilizing its arcane symbolism in works of art and literature. Such symbolism shows up, for instance, in the works of Rene d’Anjou, Giordano Bruno, Leonardo da Vinci, Nicholas Poussin, and many others. The authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail(Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln) describe thusly the symbolism of the underground stream:

… the motif of an underground stream seems to have been extremely rich in symbolic and allegorical resonances. Among other things, it would appear to connote the ‘underground’ esoteric tradition of Pythagorean, Gnostic, Cabalistic, and Hermetic thought. But it might also connote something more than a general corpus of teachings, perhaps some very specific factual information — ‘secret’ of some sort transmitted in clandestine fashion from generation to generation. And it might connote an unacknowledged and thus ‘subterranean’ bloodline.
Virelai – Skåledans – Toasting Dance


Goodbye, Hello!!!

Welcome Page Gwyllm from The Invisible College on Vimeo.

Alvin Booth: Osmosis, Untitled #9905475, 1999
100 x 50 cm (40 x 20 inch)
Silver Gelatin Photograph, Copper and Glass, Ed. 10



Dear Friends,

So, after 12-13 years and over a 1000 post, I am laying “Turfing” to rest. To be clear, it was a name chosen by William King, a friend down Austin way who first set up Turfing for me on some ancient platform (this place is set up on Word Press). I took the name gladly, it was a gift in his regards for my efforts, and ideas.  He gave me a kick to the butt to get out in the world and it worked! I want to thank William for his efforts on my behalf way back when.

This is part of the process of reinvention that started a couple of years back.  I am a bit like a snake shedding its skin. I have felt this coming on for awhile.  I started to be a collective. Turfing grew out of that. The collective idea kind of withered away, but Turfing grew and went on to do some great things, as example:

1.  It got me to write again
2.  I was able to share my favourite poetry.
3. I was able to share art that I loved.
4. I was able to share music that moved me.
5. My curiosity grew through the searches I performed for material for the blog.
6. Feedback.  It was nice to hear from people, and to know that I touched people with what I had found, shared, and talked about.

Turfing has been more than what most think as a blog, but more of an ongoing magazine, journal, catalog of social events, and it helped build an on line community that is still vibrant in many ways

So, out of Turfing came a creative run that was fever pitched at times.  It got me off of my creative duff, and made me produce daily.  Out of this period, in large part my art was reborn, and The Invisible College Magazine came about.

So, I lay Turfing down now as the juices for it dried up over time. It revived recently, but in preparation for this change.

John Dee At The Court Of Elizabeth The 1st.


I had begun to think along the lines of a different sort of set up, and this will be what I call, “The Hare’s Tale“.  I will be weaving stories and essays that I have written, presenting videos of talks that I am now starting to give, sharing new and varied artist along with galleries of their works. One might ask, why “The Hare’s Tale”? If you have followed me at all on social media, you’d of seen multiple images of Hares & Rabbits over the last few years.  It really isn’t an obsession in the classic sense (well maybe it is 😉 ) Anyway, living in the UK years ago, I used to coarse Hares & Rabbits with my friend John in Devon. He had a beautiful Lurcher, a wonderful dog. 9 out of 10 times though the Hare or Rabbit would get away. Often before diving into the brambles and undergrowth, they would take a celebratory leap, or do a strange dance movement whilst in mid-air. As I recall, standing there, watching that leap, I had always been fascinated by them. It turns out I was born in the year of the Iron Hare (Chinese Calendar), and being born whilst the sun was in Virgo, The correspondence of Hare with Hermes/Mercury, and various Celtic deities.

(This was not hunting for sport, but for food. John had a family to feed, was unemployed at that time, with a weekly benefit of 6 pounds, which would buy you maybe 4 pints at that time…)

Part of the plans includes more book reviews, discussions on art creation including supply suggestions, and more ideas along these lines.

There still will be plenty of poetry, articles, music.  That will never go away, but the field widens now to what I feel are larger cultural concerns.

This really in the Beta Testing Stage…

It is now a wide unexplored field, stretching towards the imaginal horizon. I plan to make the next few years the most productive of my life, and to see where this project takes us. Thank you for being along for the ride.

Bright Blessings,
I’ll Let Maddy Explain:


Now, for a bit of content.

I put this together in response to the current “Administrations” proposed cuts to social spending on such items as “Meals On Wheels”, School Lunches, Housing Vouchers for the Poor, etc. The convoluted logic that it is passed as policy is nothing short of Barbarity. I know that we can come together in our communities to protect and stand with those less fortunate than us, those that are discriminated against, those pursued by unjust, and inhumane laws and policies.

Please visit the link!
For The Resistance

“I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.”
– Antonin Artaud, from ‘The Death of Satan and Other Mystical Writings’


Roberto Ferri – Vanitas

I posted this painting by Roberto Ferri on Facebook as a contemplation of death, much in the line of “The Vanities” oft portrayed in art.  It turned out to be the straw that broke the camels back.  For posting this image, FB banned me for 30 days.  I want to thank them for reminding me what I was actually here for, and it wasn’t to fit into their concepts of a closed feedback loop, that fed commercial exploitation of information shared on line.

If I had a poem to pick to go with it, it would be this one:


Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.

-W.B. Yeats.
The Links:
Take Care Of Your Art & Writings!
Why God Knows More About Bad Behaviour…
Alien Intelligence
Spider Food?
If you aren’t tuned into Radio EarthRites you might give this a listen.

Thanks For Visiting! More Soon!


The Seas Of Change

Jean-Jules-Antoine Lecomte du Nouÿ – Eros, 1873

Dear Friends,

Well, you may have noticed we are on a new site…  It’s something I have contemplated doing for awhile.  This is just a heads up, to let ya know that things on my bit are changing. was a beautiful experiment, that had it’s day.  I have had to concentrate my energies a bit better to get done what must be done on my side of things.

Life is sweet in many, many ways.  On one side, is the continuity of life, and on the other constant change.  It takes a bit of fine tuning along the way.  Hopefully with I can bring that fine tuning to my efforts.

I’ll be posting quite a bit of new materials on this site, which is not yet at the point for a total launch, but please just hold on, we will arrive!

Thanks to all of you who have followed my writings and art over the years!

Much Love,

David Ezziddine, Transfiguration, 2013

All that I once held as immutable facts in my youth has dissolved into a growing sea of mystery. As I get older, I know less, my sense of certainty in what makes up the universe departs.  Is there wisdom to be found in the surging tides of change? The greater aspects of things grow surreal. I only know of one constant in all of this.  Everything Changes. – G

Major Announcements Coming Up My Friends, Stay Tuned!

On The Short List:
Radio EarthRites
Allen Ginsberg Poetry
Dead Skeletons
A Wee Mashup
Is Consciousness Based In Materialism?
Smart Drugs?
A Better Road

Tune In At: Radio-EarthRites

Poetry: Allen Ginsberg

Richard Avedon – Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky, 1963
Holy! Holy! Holy!

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cassady
holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion
Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations
holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!
Father Death

Hey Father Death, I’m flying home
Hey poor man, you’re all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I’m going

Father Death, Don’t cry any more
Mama’s there, underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store

Old Aunty Death Don’t hide your bones
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
O Sister Death how sweet your moans

O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts’ll ease your Deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest

Genius Death your art is done
Lover Death your body’s gone
Father Death I’m coming home

Guru Death your words are true
Teacher Death I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this Blues

Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is new
Sangha Death, we’ll work it through

Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn

Father Breath once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.

~ Allen Ginsberg
Dead Skeletons:

A Wee Mashup:

The Dream Engine

Souichi Bandou
Another piece that I have chosen to feature here as it is probably a censored vision for much of social media (IOW FB)…. This piece evokes multiple levels/layers of dream, flowering, sensuality, beauty. A nice taste of surrealism pervades it.
The Dream Engine















I have been thinking a lot lately on what has transpired in the world of marijuana recently. I can only talk from a subjective view on this. I have been involved with MJ off and on (more off in the last few decades) for some 50 years. I have watched pot shops since the legalization pop up like mushrooms all over Portland and the surrounding areas. The laws surrounding the distribution and the taxation as well seems to be… onerous to a fault. The tax rate is much higher than on say, beer. The state tax here for beer is .08$ a gallon. (Alcohol Taxes Here) There is a 17% tax on Marijuana (MJ Tax Facts Here) which seems to me to be more than a bit out of hand. The gold rush is on folks, and what was left in the Sacred Space that MJ opened the door for many of us, seems to be more and more tainted with the full on onslaught of capitalism.

I am hearing that trimmer machines are coming in to the various grows, and what was once a cottage industry employing many out in the countryside has now gone the way of the loom, and factory mentality. Bad JuJu, and with the coming of the corporations (Hello Monsanto! Hello Big Tobacco!) it will get more and more obscene along the way.

If I had my druthers, I would go for decriminalization rather than legalization, and keep the damn business interest out. The only mitigating factor IMPOV is that one can grow their own, (4 plants max @ this point) and I know a few who are.

The smell of capitalism in the MJ world here is pretty rank, and down right sad. It takes the joy out of it. Going into a Pot store is probably the most depressing single social action I have taken part of in the last year, and that includes memorials. I don’t think I will go into another. The amount of tension around these businesses at least for me is palpable. No joy to be found there. Little art, no music, cash on the barrel head.

So, if you still use the plant be it by smoking, or edibles, tea, I suggest you grow your own. Retain the relationship you have built up over the years with the plant. There is a bond there, a plant ally that has a shared history with us going back countless millenia… If you have to buy, well, try to avoid the stores if you can. There are still people who grow for the love of the ally. They are out there, you just have to find them. Remember, a plant grown outside, in the dirt, free of pesticides is best. Allow the plant it’s life as close to nature as possible. Avoid the indoor grown if you can.

To turn this all around, I have decided to delve back into literature and poetry that I became familiar with. Before the days of “420”, and “apps for MJ delivery”, there is a wealth of poetry and literature spanning centuries. I can only hope that others will investigate the history and delve deeply into the richness of the culture around the plant. It truly is amazing. I have had profound and deeply spiritual experiences with it. I have visited heaven, and harrowed hell on my journeys with Cannabis/Hashish. I have seen vistas and experienced a deep and rich world, and come back refreshed and healed from pain and anxiety. I give thanks for the various gifts she brings. It has helped with my creativity over the years and has been a balm for pain when all other methods have failed.

Let us treat Cannabis with the respect she deserves, and not turn her into another product. That way lacks in respect. This edition of Turfing is dedicated to her, and all the beauty she has brought with her various gifts.

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
Radio EarthRites
On Social Media/Interactions
Gwyllm Art News
Susannah Martin Art
The Links
Poem Praising Hashish Over Wine
The End Of Law: The Hashisheen (Morning High)
Excerpt: The Oblivion Seekers Isabel Eberhardt (1899)
The Garden of Cafour, Cairo
Jean Léon Gérôme – Pool in a Harem
The End Of Law: The Hashisheen (Sinan’s Boat)
Radio EarthRites

A new show is coming tonight or tomorrow! Stay Tuned!
Tune In Here!
On Social Media/Interactions

I am slowly building a new approach to dealing with social media. I am not withdrawing, but cutting back, and being a bit more judicious in my time there, my postings etc. I am moving some of the art off into Turfing and what ever evolves out of it. What is needed is a greater control of the presentation. Turfing always afforded me that, and although I am sure to attract at least for a while, a smaller audience than what I have on FB (some 41k followers), perhaps they will follow me here. 😉 So, I will be here more often, hopefully back to the daily that this once was.
Gwyllm Art News:

So, the mural that I had done at Mirador on 20th & Division 14 years ago got tagged, big time. Why, I don’t understand. The city couldn’t destroy it, and it has been a part of the community for a very long time. I am hoping that someone recognizes the tag, and can put me in touch with the person who did this. I would really like to know what was going through their heads.
Here is a piece that I wanted to put up on Social Media, by Susannah Martin “Empty Kingdom”. Those pieces like this one will be on the blog from here on out.

West World Abandoned?
Telepathic Abilities In The Autism Spectrum?
I Posit A Waste Of Good Psychedelics….
Ancient Clue From Loch Ness
Poem Praising Hashish Over Wine

Drop the wine and drink from Haidar’s Lady,
which is perfumed with ambergris
and is green like chrysolite.

It is offered to you by a well-groomed young man
In the delicate palm of his hand
as if it were a special mark on a rosy cheek.

His outstretched hand reminds you
of the tender branches of the elegant plant,
moving softly at the slightest breeze,
disseminating its intoxicating aroma,
conveying to you by way of your nostrils
its exhilarating effect.
No wine or other tonic could generate
such a heavenly sensation.

It is a virgin,
and has not been adulterated by water,
nor has it been trodden by feet
or squeezed by hand.

It has never been mixed in a priest’s chalice.
It was not outlawed by Muslim rulers,
nor was it ever declared unclean by any.

Forget your trouble
and enjoy your indulgence
and don’t leave today’s pleasures for tomorrow.
– Anonymous
Arabic Poem praising hashish over wine, from The Sufi Culture In Egypt
The End Of Law: The Hashisheen (Morning High)
Vox: Sussan Deyhim/Patti Smith


Excerpt: The Oblivion Seekers Isabel Eberhardt (1899)

In this ksar, where the people have no place to meet but the public square or the earthen benches among the foot of the ramparts on the road to Bechar, here where there is not even a café, I have discovered a kif den…

It is a partially ruined house behind the Mellah, a long hall lighted by a single eye in the ceiling of twisted and smoke-blackened beams. The walls are black, ribbed with lighter-colored cracks that look like open wounds. The floor has been made by pounding the earth, but it is soft and dusty. Seldom swept, it is covered with pomegranate rinds and assorted refuse…

This place serves as a shelter for Moroccan vagabonds, for nomads, and for every sort of person of dubious intent and questionable appearance. The house seems to belong to no one; as at a disreputable hotel, you spend a few badly-advised nights there and go on. It is a natural setting for picturesque and theatrical events, like the antechamber of the room where the crime was committed…

In one corner lies a clean red mat, with some cushions from Fez in embroidered leather. On the mat, a large decorated chest which serves as a table. A rosebush with little pale pink blooms, surrounded by a bouquet of garden herbs, all standing in water inside one of those wide earthen jars from the Tell. Further on, a copper kettle on a tripod, two or three teapots, a large basket of dried Indian hemp. The little group of kif-smokers requires no other decoration, no other mise-en-scene. They are people who like their pleasure…

On a rude perch of palm branches, a captive falcon, tied by one leg…

The strangers, the wanderers who haunt this retreat sometimes mix with the kif-smokers, notwithstanding the fact that the latter are a very closed little community into which entry is made difficult. But the smokers themselves are travelers who carry their dreams with them across the countries of Islam, worshipers of the hallucinating smoke. The men who happen to meet her at Kensadsa are among the most highly educated in the land…

The seekers of oblivion sing and clap their hands lazil; their dream -vouces ring out late into the night, in the dim light of the mica-paned latern. Then little by little the voices fall, grow muffled, the words are slower. Finally the smokers are quiet, and merely stare at the flowers in ecstasy. They are epicurian, voluptuaries; perhaps they are sages. Even in the darkest purlieu of Morocco’s underworld such men can reach the magic horizon where they are free to build their dream-palaces of delight…

Chance brought them here to Kenadsa. Soon they will set out again, in different directions and on different trails, moving unconcernedly toward the fulfillment of their separate destinies. But it was a community of taste that gathered them together in this smoky refuge, where they pass the slow hours of a life without cares…
The Garden of Cafour, Cairo
Sylvestre de Sacy (1825)

The Garden of Cafour near Cairo is described by De Sacy as a place notorious because of the hashish which the fakirs used there. It was destroyed in 1258 A.C.E. The patrons eulogized the ecstasies of hashish by composing extravagant poetry such as the following.

The green plant which grows in the Garden of Cafour,
replaces in our hearts the effects of a wind old and generous,
When we inhale a single breath of its odor,
it insinuates itself in each of our members and penetrates
through our body,
Give us this verdant plant from the Garden of Cafour,
which supersedes the most delicate wine,
The poor when they have taken only the weight of one drachm
have a head superb above the Emirs.
Jean Léon Gérôme – Pool in a Harem

The End Of Law: The Hashisheen (Sinan’s Boat)
Vox · Ira Cohen


A pipe of Kif before breakfast gives a man the strength of a hundred camels in the courtyard
– Mooroccan Proverb (Thanks to Paul Bowles!)

CYA Soon!

Into The Light…

Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi? -L’Eternité.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

(It has been rediscovered.
What? -Eternity.
It’s the sea fused
With the sun.) – Arthur Rimbaud
Late Night Musings…
Back from Bat Country, trying to organize myself out of a wet paper bag before Solstice comes, and the new year begins. Here is to endings, here is to beginnings. Here especially is to Love, and Beauty.

This is a Turfing entry playing loose and free with the structure.

A great chance to get some Gwyllm Art at great discounts!

Gwyllm Art Year End Sale!!!
Sobriety is not a virtue when
One desires the overthrow of
The monoliths of common thought…

(Eugene Ansen Hofmann)
Elephant Stone:

The Goddess Emerges:
“Brighid – Gwyllm 2016

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

Here is praying for Evolution. Organize locally. Know the ones you are connected with.

The Drunken Boat

As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

Into the furious lashing of the tides
More heedless than children’s brains the other winter
I ran! And loosened Peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub

The storm blessed my sea vigils
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children
The green water penetrated my hull of fir
And washed me of spots of blue wine
And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook

And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!

I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts
And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,
And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves
And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!

I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!

I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!

I followed during pregnant months the swell,
Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,
Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!

I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas
Mingling with flowers panthers’ eyes and human
Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins
Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!

I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps
Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,
And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!
Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs
Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs
Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!

I should have liked to show children those sunfish
Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.
—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting
And ineffable winds winged me at times.

At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,
Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers
And I remained, like a woman on her knees…

Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels
And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes
And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes
Drowned men sank backward to sleep!

Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,
Thrown by the storm into the birdless air
I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued
By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;

Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,
I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,
Bearing, delicious jam for good poets
Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,

Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,
A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,
When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels
The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;

I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off
The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of the blue immobility
I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!

I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:
—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,
Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –

But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!

If I want a water of Europe, it is the black
Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight
A squatting child full of sadness releases
A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.

No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,
Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,
Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,
Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.

Arthur Rimbaud, “The Drunken Boat” from Complete Works, Selected Letters, translated by Wallace Fowlie. Copyright © 2005 by Wallace Fowlie. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.
Source: Complete Works, Selected Letters (The University of Chicago Press, 2005)

He is affection and the present since he opened the house to foaming winter and the hum of summer, he who purified drink and food, he who is the charm of fleeting places and the superhuman deliciousness of staying still. He is affection and the future, strength and love that we, standing amid rage and troubles, see passing in the storm-rent sky and on banners of ecstasy.
He is love, perfect and reinvented measurement, wonderful and unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine beloved for its fatal qualities. We have all experienced the terror of his yielding and of our own: O enjoyment of our health, surge of our faculties, egoistic affection and passion for him, he who loves us for his infinite life
And we remember him and he travels. . . And if the Adoration goes away, resounds, its promise resounds: “Away with those superstitions, those old bodies, those couples and those ages. It’s this age that has sunk!”
He won’t go away, nor descend from a heaven again, he won’t accomplish the redemption of women’s anger and the gaiety of men and of all that sin: for it is now accomplished, with him being, and being loved.
O his breaths, his heads, his racing; the terrible swiftness of the perfection of forms and of action.
O fecundity of the spirit and immensity of the universe!
His body! The dreamed-of release, the shattering of grace crossed with new violence!
The sight, the sight of him! all the ancient kneeling and suffering lifted in his wake.
His day! the abolition of all resonant and surging suffering in more intense music.
His footstep! migrations more vast than ancient invasions.
O him and us! pride more benevolent than wasted charities.
O world! and the clear song of new misfortunes!
He has known us all and loved us all. Let us, on this winter night, from cape to cape, from the tumultuous pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from glance to glance, our strengths and feelings numb, learn to hail him and see him, and send him back, and under the tides and at the summit of snowy deserts, follow his seeing, his breathing, his body, his day.

– Translated from the French – John Ashbery
Elephant Stone:


Catullus’s Saturnalia Gift

If I didn’t love you, sweet teasing Calvus,
far more than my own eyes, then for today’s gift
I’d hate you with the hate of Vatinius;
for what have I said or done to deserve it
that you’re killing me now with all these poets?
May the gods frown down on whichever client
settled accounts with this roll of miscreants
(unless, as I suspect, it’s that school-master
Sulla, writing off debts by setting these texts,
then I bear no hate, have no complaint to make:
at least your hard work receives due recompense).
God, here’s as cursed a verse as one might expect –
a book, I know, you sent to your Catullus
to finish him off, to floor and to bore us
on Saturnalia, our day for pleasure.
No, not so fast, you can’t escape, my false friend,
for if this long night of torment ever ends
I’m off to the bookshops to buy Caesius,
Aquinus and Suffenus, all poison pens,
to pay you back in full for your own torture.
Until then, goodbye, farewell, it’s time to quit:
let those bad feet limp away, lines and couplets,
disease of the age, unreadable poets.

(translated by Josephine Balmer)

“Earth, mountains, rivers – hidden in this nothingness.
In this nothingness – earth, mountains, rivers revealed.
Spring flowers, winter snows:
There’s no being or non-being, nor denial itself.”
– Saisho
Do great works, do kind works.
Share with those you love
and those that need healing.
In this the season,
when all has gone to ground.



“Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.” ‘1984’George Orwell
intracellular-interstellar-overdrive-web “IntraCellular/InterStellar OverDrive” – Gwyllm 2017

I am changing the format of Turfing, and going towards less of a magazine feel to a journal of sorts. This entry deals with the concept of “Transmission”
Thank you for coming back to Turfing. I am humbled by the love that people have shown for my work, and the appreciation. Time is short, there is much to be done.

Bright Blessings,
I have thought long and hard about the concept of Transmission. I realize that I have been the beneficiary of Transmissions going back time out of mind. Genetic transmissions (of course), teachings handed down over the countless generations, through thick and thin, through prosperity and poverty, peace and war.

I realize that I am here because of the efforts put forth by those who came before; my direct ancestors, and others who thought and dreamt the future. Without them, and the sacrifices made, we would not be here.

Transmission has been recently given over to the concept of the spiritual side. My Buddhist friends use the term frequently. This in itself is all kind of wonderful, and puts it a bit imo on a pedestal. Transmission from the teacher, the lineage etc. This of course is all well and fine and does serve a valuable purpose.

There is the transmission though of mammalian comfort, of love first of course from ones mother, holding you within her body for 9 months, and then in her arms after one makes their appearance in the world… There are countless ways that Transmission occurs. Little ones are like sponges, picking up the good, with the not so good. A child can learn love, or fear along these journeys, often commingled with countless myriads of conflicting signals.

The transmissions continue through ones life, and I think one has to do a sorting of sorts. Which ones did I accept at face value? Why do I repeat old saws, and are all of my thoughts truly mine? Are these emotions valid, or something I took on?

Perhaps the task is unraveling the various transmission that one tends to go back to, examine them for their validity. What do I want to pass on to those who come after? Surely not the gathered fears, angers, emotions that short circuit my life.

We all are on a voyage, as messengers from a distant past to a distant future. What transmissions do we truly want to deliver?
On The Menu:
Standing Rock Fund Raiser
The Linkage
Gwyllm Art Calendars!
Morning Dew
Poetry: William Butler Yeats
“Symphony No.9, Boogie” by Matryomin Ensemble
Help Support The Standing Rock Sioux Tribe!

I have constructed this print in support of the Standing Rock Sioux, and all who have gathered in this struggle for clean water, and for Mother Earth.

All Profits go to The Standing Rock Sioux Food Fund.

This is our time, these are the issues, and we know the solutions.

Stay Focused, Stay Real, Love Will Prevail.
Bright Blessings,
Standing Rock Food Fund Raiser!

50 Million Farmers – Thanks To Diane Darling For This
People Who Can See Calendars…. 😉
Occult America!
Whoa! It’s That Time Of Year Again, Calendars!!!
Yep, the new ones are here! First one up is the desk calendar, lower in price, but unique in that there is back history on some of the pieces and it is indeed a piece of art on its own:
Gwyllm Art – Desk Calendar 2017

The Wall Calendar: Sumptuous in size, for the wall of those whose discriminating taste runs to the Surreal, and possibly the Occult!
Gwyllm Art – Large Wall Calendar 2017

Why have one calendar when you can have two?

Poetry: William Butler Yeats
A Crazed Girl

That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea.’
A Coat Poem

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.
A Cradle Song
THE angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God’s laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with His mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown
These Are The Clouds

These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, So much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
The Back Story: Theremin Nesting Dolls Extravaganza!

“A life without love is of no account. Don’t ask yourself what kind of love you should seek, spiritual or material, divine or mundane, eastern or western…divisions only lead to more divisions. Love has no labels, no definitions. It is what it is, pure and simple. Love is the water of life. And a lover is a soul of fire! The universe turns differently when fire loves water.”
― Shams Tabrizi
The High, The Holy – Gwyllm 2013

The Beast Awakens…

“The universe is an intelligence test.” Timothy Leary
Dear Friends,
It has taken a lot to get Turfing moving as of late, but the last week or so is just the thing to get it going. Hopefully, I will not let it slip back into sleep. There are circumstances as well why Turfing has to come back alive… (Please see below)

Turfing has been dormant, as I have worked on other projects.  With the election, and the ascendancy of the Alt-Right viewpoint, the loss of Leonard and other issues… I lost my father and his wife this year, had to move due to the sell of our home in the South West of Portland, and go down to Bat Country with my younger brother to sort the parents estate. It has been a very hectic time.

Where do we go from here?  My son and his friends have been out in the streets demonstrating.  I am still trying to assess what is happening to the US. I am not surprised by the election results as some are; I figured Mr. Sanders was the real deal, and basically got screwed out of the nominations by the machinations of the Clinton Machine/DNC. It seems no one in the Democratic Party is listening to working class and lower middle class people outside of the major cities. This is not a victory for the Republicans mind you, but for Populism. We all will have to pay the piper for this little adventure it seems.

So, where from here? Do we hunker down and wait out the storm? This will work for some, but not for all. Let’s face it, everyone was expecting the centrist/Neo Con state to continue. This is a wonderful opportunity for those who are concerned for the earth, its family, and all to move forward. We have been given a gift, let us use it!

If you are coming here from FB, you’ll find the postings here a bit more earthy than what I publish there. So it is, We are in it for the long haul. Let us do this for the generations yet to come. Reach across the divide, talk to those who you would shun, only by this act of love, will the world change. Embrace them, do not refuse them.

Much Love,

“Vanitas” – Roberto Feri
This beautiful image helped get me banned for 30 days from FB. Imagine, art such as this being deemed… pornographic, or without redeeming social value. At times I feel that the wheels are running backwards, back to an age of prudery, muffled social dissent, and racsism…. oh, wait…
Commercial Break:
This is a great book, especially if you are interested in Acid Culture outside of the US. (which takes up a bit of space). Andy Roberts ties disparate threads of the psychedelic culture of the UK together in a brilliant cohesive piece of work, recommended.

Acid Drops – Andy Roberts

On another note, Gwyllm Art Calendars will be available this coming week! Yes, art that hasn’t been shared, experiments, and pieces never seen before.

On The Menu:
The Linkage
LSD and the Search For God
Poetry Lenore Kandel
The Ganjas

The Linkage:
Thank Goodness For The Neanderthal!
The Parrots Of Siberia
Secret Lives…


Poetry: Lenore Kandel
Age of Consent

I cannot be satisfied until I speak with angels
I require to behold the eye of god
to cast my own being into the cosmos as bait for miracles
to breath air and spew visions
to unlock that door which stands already open and enter into the presence
of that which I cannot imagine

I require answers for which I have not yet learned the questions

I demand the access of enlightenment, the permutation into the miraculous
the presence of the unendurable light

perhaps in the same way that caterpillars demand their lepidoptera wings
or tadpoles demand their froghood
or the child of man demands his exit
from the safe warm womb
First They Slaughtered the Angels


First they slaughtered the angels
tying their thin white legs with wire cords
opening their silk throats with icy knives
They died fluttering their wings like chickens
and their immortal blood wet the burning earth

we watched from underground
from the gravestones, the crypts
chewing our bony fingers
shivering in our piss-stained winding sheets
The seraphs and the cherubim are gone
they have eaten them and cracked their bones for marrow
they have wiped their asses on angel feathers
and now they walk the rubbled streets with
eyes like fire pits


who finked on the angels?
who stole the holy grail and hocked it for a jug of wine?
who fucked up Gabriel’s golden horn?
was it an inside job?

who barbecued the lamb of god?
who flushed St. Peter’s keys down the mouth of a
North Beach toilet?

who raped St. Mary with a plastic dildo stamped with the
Good Housekeeping seal of approval?
was it an outside job?

where are our weapons?
where are our bludgeons, our flame throwers, our poison
gas, our hand grenades?
we fumble for our guns and our knees sprout credit cards,
we vomit cancelled checks
standing spreadlegged with open sphincters weeping soap suds
from our radioactive eyes
and screaming
for the ultimate rifle
the messianic cannon
the paschal bomb

the bellies of women split open and children rip their
way out with bayonets
spitting blood in the eyes of blind midwives
before impaling themselves on their own swords

the penises of men are become blue steel machine guns,
they ejaculate bullets, they spread death as an orgasm

lovers roll in the bushes tearing at each other’s genitals
with iron fingernails

fresh blood is served at health food bars germ free
paper cups
gulped down by syphilitic club women
in papier-mâché masks
each one the same hand-painted face of Hamlet’s mother
at the age of ten

we watch from underground
our eyes like periscopes
flinging our fingers to the dogs for candy bars
in an effort to still their barking
in an effort to keep the peace
in an effort to make friends and influence people


we have collapsed our collapsible bomb shelters
we have folded our folding life rafts
and at the count of twelve
they have disintegrated into piles of rat shit
nourishing the growth of poison flowers
and venus pitcher plants

we huddle underground
hugging our porous chests with mildewed arms
listening to the slow blood drip from our severed veins
lifting the tops of our zippered skulls
to ventilate our brains
they have murdered our angels

we have sold our bodies and our hours to the curious
we have paid off our childhood in dishwashers and miltown
and rubbed salt upon our bleeding nerves
in the course of searching
and they have shit upon the open mouth of god
they have hung the saints in straightjackets and they have
tranquilized the prophets
they have denied both christ and cock
and diagnosed buddha as catatonic
they have emasculated the priests and the holy men and
censored even the words of love
Lobotomy for every man!
and they have nominated a eunuch for a president
Lobotomy for every housewife!
Lobotomy for the business man!
Lobotomy for the nursery schools!
and they have murdered the angels


now in the alleyways the androgynes gather swinging their
lepers’ bells like censers as they prepare the ritual
rape of god
the grease that shines their lips is the fat of angels
the blood that cakes their claws is the blood of angels

they are gathering in the streets and playing dice with
angel eyes
they are casting the last lots of armageddon


now in the aftermath of morning
we are rolling away the stones from underground, from the caves
we have widened our peyote-visioned eyes
and rinsed our mouths with last night’s wine
we have caulked the holes in our arms with dust and flung
libations at each other’s feet

and we shall enter into the streets and walk among them and do battle
holding our lean and empty hands upraised
we shall pass among the strangers of the world like a
bitter wind

and our blood will melt iron
and our breath will melt steel
we shall stare face to face with naked eyes
and our tears will make earthquakes
and our wailing will cause mountains to rise and the sun to halt

not even us

God/Love Poem

there are no ways of love but/beautiful/
I love you all of them

I love you / your cock in my hand
stirs like a bird
in my fingers
as you swell and grow hard in my hand
forcing my fingers open
with your rigid strength
you are beautiful / you are beautiful
you are a hundred times beautiful
I stroke you with my loving hands
pink-nailed long fingers
I caress you
I adore you
my finger-tips… my palms…
your cock rises and throbs in my hands
a revelation / as Aphrodite knew it

there was a time when gods were purer
/I can recall nights among the honeysuckle
our juices sweeter than honey
/ we were the temple and the god entire/

I am naked against you
and I put my mouth on you slowly
I have longing to kiss you
and my tongue makes worship on you
you are beautiful

your body moves to me
flesh to flesh
skin sliding over golden skin
as mine to yours
my mouth my tongue my hands
my belly and my legs
against your mouth your love
sliding… sliding…
our bodies move and join

your face above me
is the face of all the gods
and beautiful demons
your eyes…

love touches love
the temple and the god
are one