Hitodama de
yuku kisan ja
natsa no har

Now as a spirit
I shall roam
The summer fields
~ Hokusai – written just before his death.
It has been a bit longer than usual since I have put an entry in, I have been working on a couple of books and a whole bunch of art for one of those books (20 plus illustrations!). My health has been improving, although I gained a bit of weight whilst recovering from my operation, but on the whole, happy as a rabbit.

There is a lot in this entry, I guess I am making up for lost time with it. Some great music from one of my favourite french shoe gaze outfits, Dead Horse One, with some pertinent info on Radio EarthRites, along with a very beautiful video, A quote from Alan Watts that has been rattling around my head for almost a month, an excerpt from The Practice of the Wild, Sufi/Arabic Poetry, and more music. The usual ball of wax of culture and image.

I hope this finds you well, and enjoying summer, or winter, depending on which part of the globe you are.

Here is to explorations,

On The Menu:
Dead Horse One: Season Of Mist
Radio EarthRites Updates
A Bit Of Beauty
The Big Bang
The Practice Of The Wild/Excerpt
Poetry: Hashish/Hasheesh
Dead Horse One..Insight
Dead Horse One: Season Of Mist

Radio EarthRites Updates:
We are running 2 shows now, “The Dialogue Of Dreams” Mix, & “The Cosmology Of Joy” Remix on alternating days. This is a new approach, giving more variety and soundscapes

We are looking to upgrade the station from 2Gb to 10Gb of content. That will double our fees, but it will open the station up to more shows, spoken word hours, greater programming variety and much more.

If you feel like supporting us, why not pledge a $1, $3, $5, $10, or? dollars a month for awhile? Cheaper than what many of us spend on coffee or beer a day, and Radio EarthRites is there for ya 24/7/365. Your support of Radio EarthRites would be appreciated!
Please share out the station to your friends, your co-workers and compatriots.

Tuesday:          The Dialogue Of Dreams:          12:00AM-12:00PM
Wednesday:    The Cosmology Of Joy Remix:  12:00AM-12:00PM
Thursday:        The Dialogue Of Dreams:          12:00AM-12:00PM
Friday:             The Cosmology Of Joy Remix:   12:00AM-12:00PM
Saturday:         The Dialogue Of Dreams:           12:00AM-12:00PM
Sunday:           The Cosmology Of Joy Remix  : 12:00AM-12:00PM

A Bit Of Beauty…

Flowers Opening Timelapse II from David de los Santos Gil on Vimeo.

Alan Watts:

Alan Watts

The Big Bang…
“It’s like you took a bottle of ink and you threw it at a wall. Smash! And all that ink spread. And in the middle, it’s dense, isn’t it? And as it gets out on the edge, the little droplets get finer and finer and make more complicated patterns, see? So in the same way, there was a big bang at the beginning of things and it spread. And you and I, sitting here in this room, as complicated human beings, are way, way out on the fringe of that bang. We are the complicated little patterns on the end of it. Very interesting. But so we define ourselves as being only that. If you think that you are only inside your skin, you define yourself as one very complicated little curlique, way out on the edge of that explosion. Way out in space, and way out in time. Billions of years ago, you were a big bang, but now you’re a complicated human being. And then we cut ourselves off, and don’t feel that we’re still the big bang. But you are. Depends how you define yourself. You are actually–if this is the way things started, if there was a big bang in the beginning– you’re not something that’s a result of the big bang. You’re not something that is a sort of puppet on the end of the process. You are still the process. You are the big bang, the original force of the universe, coming on as whoever you are. When I meet you, I see not just what you define yourself as–Mr so-and- so, Ms so-and-so, Mrs so-and-so–I see every one of you as the primordial energy of the universe coming on at me in this particular way. I know I’m that, too. But we’ve learned to define ourselves as separate from it. ”

― Alan W. Watts
The Practice Of The Wild/Excerpt:
Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder

So we can say that New York City and Tokyo are “natural” but not “wild.” They do not deviate from the laws of nature, but they are habitat so exclusive in the matter of who and what they give shelter to, and so intolerant of other creatures, as to be truly odd. Wilderness is a place where the wild potential is fully expressed, a diversity of living and nonliving beings flourishing according to their own sorts of order. In ecology we speak of “wild systems. “When an ecosystem is fully functioning, all the members are present at the assembly. To speak of wilderness is to speak of wholeness. Human beings came out of that wholeness, and to consider the possibility of reactivating membership in the Assembly of All Beings is in no way regressive.

By the sixteenth century the lands of the Occident, the countries of Asia, and all the civilizations and cities from the Indian subcontinent to the coast of North Africa were becoming ecologically impoverished. The people were rapidly becoming nature-illiterate. Much of the original vegetation had been destroyed by the expansion of grazing or agriculture, and the remaining land was of no great human economic use, “waste,” mountain regions and deserts. The lingering larger animals—big cats, desert sheep, serows, and such managed to survive by retreating to the harsher habitats. The leaders of these civilizations grew up with less and less personal knowledge of animal behavior and were no longer taught the intimate wide ranging
plant knowledge that had once been universal. By way of tradeoff they learned “human management,” administration, rhetorical skills. Only the most marginal of the paysan, people of the land, kept up practical plant and animal lore and memories of the old ways. People who grew up in towns or cities, or on large estates, had less chance to learn how wild systems work. Then major blocks of citified mythology (Medieval Christianity and then the “Rise of Science”) denied first soul, then consciousness, and finally even sentience to the natural world. Huge numbers of Europeans, in the climate of a nature-denying mechanistic ideology, were losing the opportunity for direct experience of nature.

A new sort of nature-traveler came into existence: men who went out as resource scouts, financed by companies or aristocratic families, penetrating the lightly populated lands of people who lived in and with the wilderness. Conquistadores and priests. Europe had killed off the wolves and bears, deforested vast areas, and overgrazed the hills. The search for slaves, fish, sugar, and precious metals ran over the edge of the horizon and into Asia, Africa, and the New World. These overrefined and warlike states once more came up against wild nature and natural societies: people who lived without Church or State. In return for gold or raw sugar, the white men had to give up something of themselves: they had to look into their own sense of what it meant to be a human being, wonder about the nature of hierarchy, ask if life was worth the honor of a king, or worth gold. (A lost and starving man stands and examines the nicked edge of his sword and his frayed Spanish cape in a Florida swamp.)

Some, like Nuno de Guzman, became crazed and sadistic. “When he began to govern this province, it contained 25,000 Indians, subjugated and peaceful. Of these he has sold 10,000 as slaves, and the others, fearing the same fate, have abandoned their villages” (Todorov, 1985, 134). Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico, ended up a beaten, depressed beggar-to-the-throne. Alvar Nunez, who for eight years walked naked across Texas and New Mexico, came out transformed into a person of the New World. He had rejoined the old ways and was never the same again. He gained a compassionate heart, a taste for self-sufficiency and simplicity, and a knack for healing. The types of both Guzman and Nunez are still among us. Another person has also walked onto the Noh stage of Turtle Island history to hold hands with Alvar Nunez at the far end of the process—Ishi the Yahi, who walked into civilization with as much desperation as Nunez walked out of it. Nunez was the first European to encounter North America and its native myth-mind, and Ishi was the last Native American to fully know that mind—and he had to leave it behind. What lies between those two brackets is not dead and gone. It is perennially within us, dormant as a hard-shelled seed, awaiting the fire or flood that awakes it again.
Poetry: Hashish/Hasheesh

Haydar’s Emerald cup

Give up wine and drink from the wine of Haydar,
Amber scented, green the color of emerald.
It is presented to you by a Turkish gazelle, slender,
Swaying like a willow bough, delicate.
In his hand, you would think, as he turns it,
It is like the traces of down on a rosy cheek.
The slightest breeze makes it reel,
And it flutters toward the coolness of the continuing breeze.
The grayish pigeons coo upon its branches in the morning.
And the cadences of the warbling doves cause it emotion.
It has many meanings the like of which are unknown to wine.
Therefore do not listen with respect to it to the words of the old censor.
It is virginal, not deflowered by rain,
Nor has it ever been squeezed by feet or hands,
No Christian priest has ever played around with a cup containing it,
Nor have they ever communion from its cask to any heretic’s soul…
Nothing has been said expressly from Malik to declare it unlawful,
Nor is the hadd penalty for its use… prescribed…
Thus take it with the sharp edge of steel.
Stay the hands of worry with kyff and achieve joyful repose.
Do not lightly postpone the day of joy till tomorrow.
‘The days will show you what you were ignorant of,
And someone for who you did not provide (to serve as your
messenger) will bring you the news’

– medieval Sufi poet, Ibn al-A’ma
The Secret of Hashish

The secret of hashish lifts up the spirit
In an ascent of disembodied thinking.
It is pure spirit. Free are its confines
From worries. Only the elect may taste it.
Hashish involves no sin. You are not punished.
Their wine makes you forget all meanings. Our herb
Recalls the mysteries of godly beauty.
You can obtain the green stuff without haggling.
You do not need much gold and silver for it.
Tucked in a handkerchief it can be carried.
No cup is needed if you wish to use it.
You find yourself clean, virtuous and witty.
Bright too and free from all annoying dullness.
The body is not tired eliminating
And vomiting like an inflated wine skin.
In times both good and bad you may enjoy it.
It is no hindrance to nights of devotion.

– al-Is-Irdi
Light your pipe

Smoke your pipe:
The Almighty will give you peace.
Smoke and drink small sips of tea;
The Almighty will free you
from your tribulations.
Smoke and breath deeply,
He who is jealous will know misery

Dead Horse One..Insight

“Be like the flower that gives its fragrance to even the hand that crushes it.”
― Ali ibn Abi Talib

Projects Unfolding…

“I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value.” – Hermann Hesse

Joshua Mays.

So, Hey There!

Hopes this finds you and yours well.

Life flows on at Caer Llwydd.  Mornings and evenings are particularly sweet, sitting out back sharing a drink with my beloved. The evenings are my favourite as a chill breeze comes up from the river as the crows settle in to the great cedars that ring our home. Every moment holds magick it seems, and blessings as well.  We are together, and all seems right with the world. As we sit in the gloaming, I feel the world shift…

A couple of weeks back I went into surgery.  Nothing major, but the healing process is something else. I was always a quick healer, but that seems to have slowed up as of late. It gives one pause, and makes being in the now that much more important. I find the phenomena of going under to be, well disconcerting. Hopefully never again!

Lots of stuff on this entry, I hope you enjoy. Launching 3 projects… Check ’em out!
More updates on the site… including Eye Candy, and Writings as well!

On The Menu:
The Links
Miranda Lee Richards – Golden Gate
The Dharma Eye of d.a.levy
The Orange Drop – Make It Her, Forever
I am very excited to be announce that Invisible College Publishing  is now offering various publication services for the Creative in mind. We are offering the following:

  • Editing Services
  • Publication Services
  • Promotional Services

Currently we’ve been working on an artist exhibition book, a book of poetry, and several other ventures. We happily will work with you on any of your projects in whatever aspect that will help you along the way.  We bring nearly 40 years of graphics and design to any creative endeavour. Find Out More Here! Publishing Services!

In conjunction we’ve started a web hosting and web construction service for Creatives as well.  It’s called Black Rabbit Graphix.  Having played with the idea for a while, and this seemed like a good time to jump into these waters.  The thought was born out of the idea that artist, writers and other Creatives have to take time out of their projects to build, launch, and maintain websites, which frankly if you are not fully prepared for it can be a real black hole for your creative efforts.  With that in mind, we purchased space on a server, and now offer the following services:

  • Web Hosting: Hosting sites for the creative community. Reasonable rates and special services.
  • Word Press Site Construction: We can take the worry and bother out of your hands, designing, constructing your site for you, and
    maintain it if you like.
  •  Graphic Arts & Publishing Services: Editing, graphix, layout of publications, online & printing through Invisible College Publications as well as promotions for your printed works.

So, check out the services that we are offering now.  Drop us a line on the Contact form on either site.  We can certainly be of service.


And This:
The Invisible College, Ninth Edition:
“Summoning The Muse”
The Groundwork for the 9th edition of The Invisible College is now being laid. Bringing together artist, writers, visionaries in a celebration of the creative spirit. Submissions are now being accepted. Join The Dance. Go to the link below, and fill in the form if you have a submission!
The Invisible College Ninth Edition!

The Links:
An Atlas for the End of the World
Do We Matter In The Cosmos?
Rupert Sheldrake Article (older, but good)
Country-specific effects of neonicotinoid pesticides on honey bees and wild bees
Miranda Lee Richards – Golden Gate

(Support The Artist!- Existential Beast!)
One of the great unsung Poets of the last century.  My friend Morgan turned me onto him a decade or so ago.  I am late to this parade, but that is okay as well. Gary Snyder lays d.a.’s work out nicely. Enjoy.

The Dharma Eye of d.a.levy
by Gary Snyder

d.a.levy – Darryl Levy – I try out his names, reaching to know the man; his poems, his polemics. I feel brother to Levy not only as poet but as fellow-worker in the Buddha-fields. Levy had a remarkable karma: he saw who he was, where he was, what his field of activity was, and what his tools were to be.

“if in the past
i was of the black
and sat at night
in cemeteries
& silence
even that
was transient”

In Indian thought the truth/law/absolute is called the Dharma. The Buddhadharma (“Buddhism”) is the Dharma as transmitted by a line of enlightened men and women. Gods exist, but even the Gods are subject to the laws of karma; and because of their tiresomely long omnipotent lives they are somewhat handicapped in the achievement of liberation. Gods have been known to gain insight by attending little talks given by poor wretched mendicant human wise men. There are religious-minded people who strive for purity and solitary illumination, to be “God” like-but the Dharma is without dualism. Great Buddhist yogins of the past often sat through the night in graveyards, meditating while seated on corpses. Some of these yogins in their exhaustive search through all the components of mind and transformations of thought-energy became “of the black” – showing no dualistic distaste for “impurity” – and hoping to reach the depths where there is the basest lead, the raw material for the alchemical transformation into “gold.”

“it was feb. 63 when i had enough money to buy a 6X9 letterhead hand press & type. Spent al most a year at my aunt and uncles printing sometimes 8 to 16 hours a day for days and days. . .”

The “right-handed” yogins and mystics have been an integral part of the conspiracy of civilization to degrade women and mis-use nature. They have become “established religion” living off of money provided by the state, or the pious gifts of workers and peasants.

The yogins of the left-hand, both women and men, have lived in the world doing their work and supporting themselves by crafts or labor. The Tantric siddha (“powerman”) Saraha was an arrow-maker. Naropa’s teacher Tilopa was a pounder of til seeds. Many were poets. Long apprentice ships were spent, in the mastery of a craft.
“i have a city to cover with lines”

His hometown, Cleveland, that he wouldn’t move from. Like the Sioux warriors who tied themselves to a spear and stuck it in the ground, never to retreat. Why? An almost irrational act of love–to give a measure of self-awareness to the people of Cleveland through poesy.
“you will not confront yourself
so you leap to the aid of others”

–Levy’s self-criticism also. But the Bodhisattva view does not imply that first, you perfect your selfrealization and second, enter the world to “cure illnesses and loosen bonds.” The waterwheel swings deep into the water and spills it off the top in the same turning.
“in the background i sense
clannish emasculated
masonic mafia rites”

You’d think a hard-working young printer and poet would incur no particular wrath and blame. Or would you. The problem goes deeper than the celebrated American anti-intellectualism or guilt-filled prurient repressive over-permissive sexual attitudes or the compulsive accumulation of X
the police try to protect
the banks – and everything else
is secondary”

(Luther’s outhouse a national institution.) The problem goes back to when the powers, beauties, and deep knowledges of the age-old women’s traditions were supplanted by military-caste mystiques & the accumulation of heavy metals. The poet/yogin still speaks for that other, saner, consciousness. The Occidental poet, with his “Muse.”
“lady you have to be realistic
sending all your poets to the looney bin
ain’t helping the profession very much
your blue hair in the wind
& yr eyes full of diamonds.”

Not an easy row to hoe. Nature a network of de-pendent transformations and the Muse can be Maya, mistress of the ecosystem of delusion; who will perpetually keep tricking, or be the means of seeing through (herself) – a challenge, Levy’s Cleveland is not, exactly, his adversary: but his witch-Muse he needs must convert to the Path (more paying-back for spooky experiments in previous lives – that muse -)

“What form of energy is used to
create the original thoughts?
Try to become THAT!”

This takes us to the heart of Levy’s strength. All manipulations of politics or magic – things, images, from inner or outer worlds; reduce down to this mustard seed that blows away when you try to look at it.
“Cherokee, Deleware, Huron [sic]
We will return your land to you”

It is curious how even a glimpse of the Mind-essence creates such primal respect for the land and for the dignity of men who live lovingly in the web of life – the primitives-

“it is not a Cathouse of the rising sun
or the deathwagon of the beat
generation, but a bridge of clouds
to a new culture.”

Traditional orthodox Buddhists are not concerned with building new cultures any more than they are interested in nature religion or girls. Poets must try to get them together – playing a funny kind of role, today, as pivot-man, between the upheavals of culture-change and the persistence of the Single Eye of knowledge. d. a. levy finished up his karma early – “reborn as a poet in an industrial society” but he did his job well.
“the traditions we follow
make the gods look young”

Thus the name of Padma Sambhava’s line of Tibetan Buddhism, Ning-ma, means “Ancient Ones.” The sophistications of Mahayana metaphysics harmonized with archaic and primitive systems … Goddesses; sexual yoga. Too rich to manage without the bitter tea of Zen as well – and here in North America, Turtle Island, we begin now to look for the next switchback in the path: something drawing on the wisdom traditions of Asia, incorporating the profound lore of our Semitic, Celtic, African, & Germanic roots – something that walks with the land and animals of Turtle Island in “a sacred manner” as the Indians do.

Levy gone up ahead, with that tinkle of bells (which is also how you hear the dakini approaching)

“when riding the winter pony
a trail of bells
soft/y ringing
deep in the mind

& if one listens
perhaps this sound
will guide
the young rider through the

Gary Snyder
4.V I 11.40071
(Reckoning roughly from
the earliest cave paintings)


Books by d.a.levy – find them where you can –

ukanhavyrfukncitibak. Cleveland, Ghost Press 1970.
Suburban Monastery Death Poem. Madison, Wis., Quixote Press, Vajrayana Reprint Series #1.
The Tibetan Stroboscope. Cleveland, Ayizan Press, 1968.
and, issues of The Buddhist Third Class Junk Mail Oracle.
The Orange Drop – Make It Her, Forever

“The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.” – Hermann Hesse

Spiritual Activist…

Olha (Olga) Akasi

Dear Friends,
A quick note. I’ve been assembling a new site, with new entries of course for Gwyllm.com. I am in transition, due to changes in my spirit and health (nothing major, just aggravating) I am turning to a new approach in the matters of the day to day. My boundless energy of the past is now perhaps just that; of the past. More focus folks, yep more focus.

The creative drive has always ran high in my life, but not always in a disciplined manner. Perhaps this is the message for me at this time, to focus, and to clear away the unnecessary. More writing, more art perhaps will come out of it. I tend to dither on the computer. I have taken a lesson from my friend Dale Pendell to step away from the computer when writing. The web is a wonderful place, but may I say, distracting. I have ended up thinking that the computer has turned into the everything machine. Beguiling, beguiling, I must not… you get the picture.

This edition was originally put together around a piece of writing that I am yet to transcribe over to the screen. I wrote it in the mornings which now seems to be the time of writing for me. Stay away from the computer, out of the office, sitting either in the garden or the dining room looking out on the back 40. Magick happens then. I am amazed.

This edition features Dales writing in: “A note to spiritual activists of the Buddhist or meditative variety” taken from Tikkun magazine. (Support these people, they are good!) Tikkun I have known Dale for nearly 20 years. He is the real deal, and I am pleased to feature this bit of writing on Spiritual Activism.

The times demand thoughtful essays, poetry, and creative thinking. Anger does not do it IMO. There is enough anger to sink the world in my view… Truthfully I cannot harbor the feeling for long, as it eats at you.

Compassion has always been a challenge when confronted by something, someone who seems hell-bent on manipulating the world to embrace their version of Thanatos. Yet, every being deserves compassion equally. We are all in this together. Let us explore new ways to bring forth a better world for all.

Much Love,

Photo: Rowan Spiers-Floyd


I have a bunch of new art as of late, in fact it is raining art here at Caer Llwydd.  I have entered into a partnership with a friend back east to bring some of my art to the Blotter world: Gwyllm’s Blotter Art:

Our Lady Of The Tryptamines
The “Gate Keeper”
“Solstice – Gwaschemasch’e Efendi”

As you see, I have been busy. Please follow the link above if you want a Blotter Print! Your support keeps us going here at Caer Llwydd. More Art Soon!
On The Menu:
The Links
Dale Pendell: A note to spiritual activists of the Buddhist or meditative variety
Love Burns
Aeon:Democracy needs politeness
Poetry: Sheikh Ansari
Shuffle Your Feet
The Links: 
David Byrne: Eliminating The Human…
The Deep State Sellout
The Mystery Of The Iron Beads
Can Plants Hear?
50 Years Of Marriage & Mindfulness

Ohara Koson

A note to spiritual activists of the Buddhist or meditative variety

Why Do We Turn Off Unneeded Lights Before We Leave a Room, or Before We Sit?

by Dale Pendell

The Case:

When, fundamentally, there are no lights. Why would (almost) any of us stoop to save a sentient being, when, fundamentally, there are no beings to save?

The Poem:

As the World Burns

The old masters, we hear,

avoided challenging

the status quo,

as they also

avoided contact

with women,

and refrained from

social activism.


the crimes of history,

the Buddha wondered

what to do. Thus

we sit, pursuing personal

self-cultivation –


as proof of some

transcendental virtue.

“In the great

kalpa fire, when all is consumed,

is it consumed as well?

Sit with this.”

Outside: the peasants

pass buckets

hand to hand.


Western culture first, and now global culture, has embraced conjuring as its principal form of magical practice. Conjuring means giving form to abstractions. We may call it Faustian magic, and contrast it with two other mythical shamanic practices in the Western Tradition: the way of the singer—that is, the path of art, typified by Orpheus; and the path of plant medicine and visionary practice, typified by Eve.

Conjuring is all about us—language conjures up ghosts, consciousness itself conjures up perhaps the greatest of all hallucinations—all given substance by our story-telling. Demystifying conjured ghosts is the practice where art (including poetry, music, and theater), meditation, and philosophy intersect—what we could call “unbinding magic.”

While, in various degrees, all concepts are conjured—some, like money, and the corporation, have been given bodies and autonomy. A corporation’s body has now been given the rights of citizens—conjuring indeed—but what is the spirit that has thus been brought forth?

The spiritual essence of a corporation is craving—by its charter a corporation can never have enough. It is the spirit that Buddhists call the preta, or “hungry ghost,” denizens of one of the six realms of existence. Out of compassion, Zen students make a small grain offering to the hungry ghosts before each meal. But to give the hungry ghost a body (with jaws and a large throat), autonomous life, immortality, the rights of citizens, a ruling position at the center of society with free access to feed and prey on the world of sentient beings is delusive madness. They will consume everything: earth’s resources, her plants and animals, her peoples, and her cultures.

This corporeal entity, we might say, is a burning light bulb, or a huge wrecking machine, left on auto-pilot and clear-cutting the earth. While we must sit to become intimate with our own greed, we should also, first, turn off the lights.

And lend a hand in putting out the fire. And right now that takes political action.

Dale and Scarlett April 2015 (Photo Courtesy Laura Pendell)

Dale Pendell resides in the foothills of the Sierra, with Laura Pendell, and their faithful cat Mushroom, dreaming a new world into existence.


On Political Discussion:Politeness Rules
From Aeon Magazine: Democracy needs politeness
Autocrats shouted, cursed, and bullied, while American revolutionaries used politeness as a tool of radical politics“Long before current fears about incivility in public life – before anxieties about Twitter-shaming and cable-news name-calling – politeness was very much on the minds of United States leaders. In 1808, the US president Thomas Jefferson ranked the ‘qualities of mind’ he valued. Not surprisingly, he included ‘integrity’, ‘industry’, and ‘science’. These traits were particularly important to American revolutionaries seeking a society based on independent citizens, rather than harsh rulers and inherited privilege. But at the top of his list, Jefferson chose not these familiar Enlightenment values but ‘good humour’ – or what contemporaries usually called ‘politeness’….”

This is a great article. I would suggest that it is widely disseminated and shared out as perhaps the first move to help heal the toxic political environment. – G

Poetry: Sheikh Ansari

Sheikh Ansari

Sheikh Ansari Jabir ibn ‘Abdullah al-Ansari (1006-1088 ce) He was called Sheikh al-Islam and he was also given the title Zayn al- ‘Ulama (Ornament of the Scholars) and Nasir al-Sunnah (Supporter of the Prophetic Tradition). Later on in Persian texts he was called Pir-e Herat (the Sheikh of Herat).

Some of Ansari works include Kashf al-Asrar “Unveiling of the Secrets” (Commentary of the Qur’an), Tabaquat al-Sufiyya (The Generations of the Sufis), “Munajat” (Intimate Invocations) which is incorporated into the Kashf al-Asrar and in the Tabaqat.
‘The Friend Beside Me’

O God
You know why I am happy:
It is because I seek Your company,
not through my own (efforts).

O God,
You decided and I did not.
I found the Friend beside me
when I woke up!

Sheikh Ansari – Kashf al_Asrar, Vol. 5, p. 407 – ‘Munajat – The Intimate Invocations’ – A.G. Farhadi

‘Where Are You?’

O God,
You are the aim of the call of the sincere,
You enlighten the souls of the friends, (and)
You are the comfort of the hearts of the travellers—
because You are present in the very soul.

I call out, from emotion:
“Where are you?”

You are the life of the soul,
You are the rule (ayin) of speech, (and)
You are Your own interpreter (tarjaman).

For the sake of Your obligation to Yourself,
do not enter us into the shade of deception, (but)
make us reach union (wisal) with You.

Sheikh Ansari – Kashf al_Asrar, Vol. 5, p. 598 – ‘Munajat – The Intimate Invocations’ – A.G. Farhadi

‘Pursuit of the Friend’

The heart left,
and the Friend is (also) gone.
I don’t know whether I should go after the Friend
or after the heart!
A voice spoke to me:
“Go in pursuit of the Friend,
because the lover needs a heart
in order to find union with the Friend.
If there was no Friend,
what would (the lover) do with (his) heart?”

Sheikh Ansari – Kashf al_Asrar, Vol. 1, p. 628 – ‘Maqulat-o Andarz-ha – Sayings and Advice’ – A.G. Farhadi

‘The Beauty of Oneness’

Any eye filled with the vision of this world
cannot see the attributes of the Hereafter,
Any eye filled with the attributes of the Hereafter
would be deprived of the Beauty (Jamal) of (Divine) Oneness.

Sheikh Ansari – Kashf al_Asrar, Vol. 7, p. 511 – ‘Maqulat-o Andarz-ha – Sayings and Advice’ – A.G. Farhadi

‘In Each Breath’

O you who have departed from your own self,
and who have not yet reached the Friend:
do not be sad, (for)
He is accompanying you in each of (your) breaths.

Sheikh Ansari – Kashf al_Asrar, Vol. 7, p. 268 – ‘Maqulat-o Andarz-ha – Sayings and Advice’ – A.G. Farhadi

A Path of Devotion

In this path the eye must cease to see,
And the ear to hear,
Save unto Him, and about Him.
Be as dust on His path.
Even the kings of this earth
Make the dust of His feet
The balm of their eyes.
– Sheikh Ansari


May Peace Be With You & Your Loved Ones,

In The Fields Of Light

You ask me why I live on Green Mountain ?
I smile in silence and the quiet mind.
Peach petals blow on mountain streams
To earths and skies beyond Humankind.
– Li Bai

Birth of Siddartha, mural from Bellanwila Raja Maha Viharaya, Sri Lanka

Thank you for visiting Gwyllm.com. I am experimenting with some new formats… and would like to know if you would like to receive updates via email from the site. I would think it would be a weekly email, without a lot of fanfare. Let me know, and you can do so at: Contact Form Let’s do this in a civilized manner! ;P

Life has taken some turns and twist as of late. I was hoping to speak at The Exploring Psychedelics Conference in Ashland at the end of the month, but the vehicle decided it needed a full brake job and more. Well, I have a talk, so we will be recording it and releasing it on Gwyllm.com. I will start posting videos soon, stay tuned!

Working on a book that I hope to release in a couple of weeks. A project that I deeply love. I had a poet visiting from the Washington Coast, we are finishing up his book soon to be released on The Invisible College Publishing….

Much Love,
On The Menu:
Site UpDate
Art UpDate
The Links
Solaris – Waiting
Buddhism and the Possibilities of a Planetary Culture – Gary Snyder
Daoist Poetry
Solaris – Inward
Site Update:
So, lots going on. The Daily Art is cooking along, with almost daily delivery of a plethora of images… wild and wacky stuff, but usually with a theme.

On our Featured Artist Gallery we have a wonderful bit of art and poetry, featuring the beautiful composite photos of Lang Jingshan & coupled with the brilliant Daoist poetry of Li Bai. This is a seriously beautiful mix of image and poetic imagery. I hope to bring more of these marriages to Gwyllm.com.

Radio EarthRites: We have a new show, The “Dream Engines” Mix….. 15.5 Hours Of Chilled Introspection… This is for all of you Trippers out there. I think you will enjoy where it goes. Some great music by cutting edge musicians…. If you enjoy the music, perhaps you might want to subscribe?

The “Dream Engines” Mix

Art Update:
Holy Moly, I have 4 new Blotter Pieces coming out this next week! Stay Tuned!

The Links:
Escaping Poverty
My God It Is Full Of Stars!
Entropy landscape sheds light on quantum mystery
How ‘The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám’ inspired Victorian hedonists
Solaris – Waiting


Buddhism and the Possibilities of a Planetary Culture – Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder

Buddhism holds that the universe and all creatures in it are intrinsically in a state of complete wisdom, love, and compassion, acting in natural response and mutual interdependence. The personal realization of this from-the-beginning state cannot be had for and by one- “self,”—because it is not fully realized unless one has given the self up and away.

In the Buddhist view, that which obstructs the effortless manifestation of this is ignorance, which projects into fear and needless craving. Historically, Buddhist philosophers have failed to analyze out the degree to which ignorance and suffering are caused or encouraged by social factors, considering fear-and desire to be given facts of the human condition. Consequently the major concern of Buddhist philosophy is epistemology and “psychology” with no attention paid to historical or sociological problems. Although Mahayana Buddhism has a grand vision of universal salvation, the actual achievement of Buddhism has been the development of practical systems of meditation toward the end of liberating a few dedicated individuals from psychological hang-ups and cultural conditionings. Institutional Buddhism has been conspicuously ready to accept or ignore the inequalities and tyrannies of whatever political system it found itself under. This can be death to Buddhism, because it is death to any meaningful function of compassion. Wisdom without compassion feels no pain.

No one today can afford to be innocent, or to indulge themselves in ignorance of the nature of contemporary governments, politics, and social orders. The national politics of the modem world are “states” which maintain their existence by deliberately fostered craving and fear: monstrous protection rackets. The “free world” has become economically dependent on a fantastic system of stimulation of greed which cannot be fulfilled, sexual desire which cannot be satiated, and hatred which has no outlet except against oneself, the persons one is supposed to love, or the revolutionary aspirations of pitiful, poverty-stricken marginal societies. The conditions of the Cold War have fumed most modem societies— both communist and capitalist—into vicious distorters of true human potential They try to create populations of preta—hungry ghosts with giant appetites and throats no bigger than needles. The soil, the forests, and all anima1 life are being consumed by these cancerous collectivities; the air and water of the planet is being fouled by them.

There is nothing in human nature or the requirements of human social organization which intrinsically requires that a society be contradictory, repressive, and productive of violent and frustrated personalities. Findings in anthropology and psychology make this more and more evident. One can prove it for oneself by taking a good look at Original Nature through meditation. Once a person has this much faith and insight, one will be led to a deep concern with the need for radical social change through a variety of nonviolent means.

The joyous and voluntary poverty of Buddhism becomes a positive force. The traditional harmlessness and avoidance of taking life in any form has nation-shaking implications. The practice of meditation, for which one needs only “the ground beneath one’s feet,” wipes out mountains of junk being pumped into the mind by the mass media and supermarket universities. The be1ief in a serene and generous fulfillment of natural loving desires destroys ideologies which blind, maim, and repress—and points the way to a kind of community which would amaze “moralists” and transform armies of men who are fighters because they cannot be lovers.

Avatamsaka (Kegon or Hua-yen) Buddhist philosophy sees the world as a vast, interrelated network in which all objects and creatures are necessary and illuminated. From one standpoint, governments, wars, or all that we consider “evil” are uncompromisingly contained in this totalistic realm. The hawk, the swoop, and the hare are one. From the “human” standpoint we cannot live in those terms unless all beings see with the same enlightened eye. The Bodhisattva lives by the sufferer’s standard, and he or she must be effective in aiding those who suffer.

The mercy of the West has been social revolution; the mercy of the East has been individual insight into the basic self/void. We need both. They are both contained in the traditional three aspects of the Dharma path: wisdom (prajñā), meditation (dhyana), and morality (shila). Wisdom is intuitive knowledge of the mind of love and clarity that lies beneath one’s ego-driven anxieties and aggressions. Meditation is going into the mind to see this for yourself—over and over again, until it becomes the mind you live in. Morality is bringing it back out in the way you live, through personal example and responsible action, ultimately toward the true community (sangha) of “all beings.” This last aspect means, for me, supporting any cultural and economic revolution that moves clearly toward a truly free world. It means using such means as civil disobedience, outspoken criticism, protest, pacifism, voluntary poverty, and even gentle violence if it comes to a matter of restraining some impetuous crazy. It means affirming the widest possible spectrum of non-harmful individual behavior—defending the right of individuals to smoke hemp, eat peyote, be polygamous, polyandrous, or homosexual. Worlds of behavior and custom long banned by the Judaeo-Capitalist-Christian-Marxist West. It means respecting intelligence and learning, but not as greed or means to personal power. Working on one’s own responsibility, but willing to work with a group. “Forming the new society within the shell of the old”—the I.W.W. slogan of 70 years ago.

The traditional, vernacular, primitive, and village cultures may appear to be doomed. We must defend and support them as we would the diversity of ecosystems; they are all manifestations of Mind. Some of the elder societies accomplished a condition of Sangha, with not a little of Buddha and Dharma as well. We touch base with the deep mind of peoples of all times and places in our meditation practice, and this is an amazing revo1utionary aspect of the Buddhadharma. By a “planetary culture” I mean the kind of societies that would follow on a new understanding of that relatively recent institution, the National State, an understanding that might enable us to leave it behind. The State is greed made legal, with a monopoly on violence; a natural society is familial and cautionary. A natural society is one which “Follows the Way,'” imperfectly but authentically.

Such an understanding will close the circle and link us in many ways with the most creative aspects of our past. If we are lucky, we may eventually arrive at a world of relatively mutually tolerant small societies attuned to their local region and united overall by a profound respect and love for the mind and nature of the universe. I can imagine further virtues in a world sponsoring societies with matrilineal descent, free-form marriage, “natural credit” economics, far less population, and much more wilderness.

* * * Snyder, Gary. “Buddhism and the Possibilities of a Planetary Culture,” in Engaged Buddhist Reader, Arnold Kotler, ed. Berkeley, CA: Parallax Press, 1996. 123-126. [Gary Snyder is a Pulitzer-Prize winning poet and teacher of literature and wilderness thought at the University of California at Davis. He is founder of the Ring of Bones Zendo, and author of Mountains and Rivers Without End, Axe Handles, Turtle Island, Earth House Hold, and many other books.]
I have always had a love for Daoist (when I was a young guy “Taoist”) poetry. Very heady stuff, pre-Zen and full of wry tumbles and play on words. Li Bai has become a favourite of mine over the years, but oh, there are so many other great poets from the Daoist tradition. Enjoy.

(Lang Jingshan – wonderful photographic artist, please see: Featured Artist Gallery)
Daoist Poetry

Birds Calling in the Ravine

I’m idle, as osmanthus flowers fall,
This quiet night in spring, the hill is empty.
The moon comes out and startles the birds on the hill,
They don’t stop calling in the spring ravine.
– Wang Wei
The Great Way

The Great Way has no gate;
there are a thousand paths to it.
If you pass through the barrier,
you walk the universe alone.
– Wu Men
Down From The Mountain

As down Mount Emerald at eve I came,
The mountain moon went all the way with me.
Backward I looked, to see the heights aflame
With a pale light that glimmered eerily.

A little lad undid the rustic latch
As hand in hand your cottage we did gain,
Where green limp tendrils at our cloaks did catch,
And dim bamboos o’er hung a shadowy lane.

Gaily I cried, “Here may we rest our fill!”
Then choicest wines we quaffed; and cheerily
“The Wind among the Pines” we sang, until
A few faint stars hung in the Galaxy.

Merry were you, my friend: and drunk was I,
Blissfully letting all the world go by.
– Li Bai
Returning to Songshan Mountain

The limpid river runs between the bushes,
The horse and cart are moving idly on.
The water flows as if with a mind of its own,
At dusk, the birds return to perch together.
The desolate town is faced by an ancient ferry,
The setting sun now fills the autumn hills.
And far below high Songshan’s tumbling ridges,
Returning home, I close the door for now..
– Wang Wei
The Old Dust

The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.

The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;
Fu-sang, the tree of immortality,
has crumbled to kindling wood.
Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word

When the green pines feel the coming of the spring.
Looking back, I sigh;
Looking before, I sigh again.
What is there to prize in the life’s vaporous glory?
– Li Bai
A Monk Asked

A monk asked Chao-chou Ts’ung shen (777-897) (Joshu), “Has the oak tree Buddha nature?”
Chao-chou said, “Yes, it has.”
The monk said, “When does the oak tree attain Buddhahood?”
Chao-Chou said, “Wait until the great universe collapses.”
The monk said, “When does the universe collapse?”
Chao-chou said, “Wait until the oak tree attains Buddhahood.
– Wu Men

Lang Jingshan
Solaris – Inward


Beltane Eve

“A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.”
–  Rhyme from England

On Beltaine/Beltane:
I have a well of memory that surfaces from time to time.  One of the earliest memories is in Newfoundland, dancing around the Maypole with other kids.  I must of been 3 or 4 years old at the time.  The clouds were fleecy overhead and the day was one of joy.  I am blessed with these memories, for they tie me to an old and ancient tradition, that the modern world cannot erase.  Here is to Bel-Eve, with all the correct rites observed.  Here is to love, and the regeneration of the earth through celebration.

In Passing…. I met Nick Sands over a long weekend at MindStates back in 2000 I believe.  He had just gotten out of prison.  He was a delightful conversationalist.  I talked with him a bit, along with others, and was struck most by his story of teaching Yoga and Meditation to other incarcerated souls.  He was to my mind about changing consciousness however most effective for the situation one finds oneself in, and especially with Love.  That was his main theme I believe.  A Bodhisattva of Love.  He put his life on the line for others, and along the way, changed the hearts of millions.

Tonight, I drink a toast to him, and light candles to light his way home.
Bright Blessings Nick, Bright Blessings….

So, we are now at the real beginning of Summer.  Not the Solstice, but on the cross quarter days.  Tonight, light a candle, a fire, and take your loved one into your arms, if only for a hug.  This is the real deal, this ties us to the ancient spiral of life….

The Fires Of Beltane

“‘Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There’s crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.”
–  Thomas Hood


 “In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.

To see the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow him in the leves grene
Under the green-wode tree.

Hit befell on Whitsontide
Early in a May mornyng,
The Sonne up faire can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.”
– Anonymous, May in the Green Wode, 15h Century

“The month of May was come, when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit; for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish in May, in likewise every lusty heart that is in any manner a lover, springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds.  For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May.”
–  Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur

“The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.”
–  Philip Larkin, The Trees


“The new earth quickens as you rise.
The May Queen is waiting.
Feel the pulsing ground call you to journey,
To know the depths of your desire.
The May Queen is waiting.
Moving through the night, the bright moon’s flight.
In green and silver on the plain.
She waits for you to return again.
Do not keep Her waiting.
Her temper stings if you refuse to taste Her honey.
Surrender as enchantment brings
The first light of dawning.
Move with Her in sacred dance, through fear to feeling.
Bringing ecstasy to those who dare.
Living earth is breathing.
Loving through the night in the bright moonlight,
As seedlings open with the rain.
She’ll long for you to return again.
Do not keep Her waiting.”
–  Ruth Barren, The May Queen is Waiting

“Now every field is clothed with grass, and every tree with leaves; now the woods put forth their blossoms, and the year assumes its gay attire.”
–  Virgil

 “What is now the foliage moving?
Air is still, and hush’d the breeze,
Sultriness, this fullness loving,
Through the thicket, from the trees.
Now the eye at once gleams brightly,
See! the infant band with mirth
Moves and dances nimbly, lightly,
As the morning gave it birth,
Flutt’ring two and two o’er earth.”
–  Wolfgang Goethe,
May 1815 

Beltane Fire Festival on Calton Hill in Edinburgh, Scotland. Event has been going on for years and has grown ever larger, now boasting over 300 performers and 10,000 to 15,000 spectators.

Bless You All, On This Most Fair Of Nights.


Granchester Meadows…

When governments rely increasingly on sophisticated public relations agencies, public debate disappears and is replaced by competing propaganda campaigns, with all the accompanying deceits. Advertising isn’t about truth or fairness or rationality, but about mobilising deeper and more primitive layers of the human mind.”
– Brian Eno

Alphonse Osbert (1857 – 1939) – Visione, 1892, oil on canvas, cm 235 x 138. French Symbolist painter


A short one.  Worked this weekend on a book for a poet.  Going over illustrations, corrections, alignments, etc.  I love the construction of a piece of art, and all the aspects of it.  Happy as a hound as the saying goes.

Lots of work going on with the site.  The Daily Art Continues to grow, and I am now working with 2 different types of forum software plugins to allow people to comment on the art found on The Daily Art.  My hope, and dream is that this site can be used to bring community together, and to foster change and awareness, channeling the energy here to constructive ends.

Art by its nature should help bring community together.  From the Paleolithic onwards, art has been the great focus of our various peoples. Make no mistake, art is a force for change, and it has always been so.

I hope this finds you with your friends, lovers, family. Here is to bringing a new world about. We will keep trying by art… Please visit when you can!
Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
The Links
Granchester Meadows
Ballad of the Gone MacLise
The Links:
The Ice Giant
Observing The Seasons
Finally: Watchers Of The Earth
This Week In Psychedelics
What Would Carl Jung Say About Donald Trump?
A lovely part of the world… This always captured it for me.

Grantchester Meadows – by DrDevious14

“Grantchester Meadows”

Icy wind of night, be gone.
This is not your domain.
In the sky a bird was heard to cry.
Misty morning whisperings and gentle stirring sounds
Belied a deathly silence that lay all around.
Hear the lark and harken to the barking of the dog fox gone to ground.
See the splashing of the kingfisher flashing to the water.
And a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees,
Laughing as it passes through the endless summer making for the sea.
In the lazy water meadow
I lay me down.
All around me,
Golden sunflakes settle on the ground,
Basking in the sunshine of a by gone afternoon,
Bringing sounds of yesterday into this city room.
Hear the lark and harken to the barking of the dog fox gone to ground.
See the splashing of the kingfisher flashing to the water.
And a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees,
Laughing as it passes through the endless summer making for the sea.
In the lazy water meadow
I lay me down.
All around me,
Golden sunflakes covering the ground,
Basking in the sunshine of a by gone afternoon,
Bringing sounds of yesterday into my city room.
Hear the lark and harken to the barking of the dog fox gone to ground.
See the splashing of the kingfisher flashing to the water.
And a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees,
Laughing as it passes through the endless summer making for the sea.

Here is to fond memories… Angus and Ira became involved with “Bardo Matrix” via John Chick in Kathmandu, in the mid 70’s. I first came in contact with Bardo Matrix in 1966, when I was in Colorado, and just discovering art, music and other delights. The work of Bardo Matrix helped shaped my aesthetics in multiple ways. I first discovered Mandala art through them, and multi-media shows. Now, we host the site for the Bardo Matrix… More on that site soon. There is wonderful His/HerStory about Bardo Matrix.  Fabulous Art, Happenings, Publications.  Truly wonderful!

Angus and Hetty, 1970’s

Ballad of the Gone MacLise
(For Angus MacLise, died Summer Solstice, June 21st, 1979)

In the fire is no end
but in the tall grasses
but on the riverbanks
but in the cool breezes urging
but in the long empty days.

(From Jaguar by Angus MacLise)

Ballad of the Gone MacLise
(For Angus MacLise, died Summer Solstice, June 21st, 1979)

In the poem one can lay down
the heartline, the harp can bring the tears
muffled by the sound of the drum,
your gamelans cut by the Buddha’s knife
of compassion.
Down at the Snowman I heard
them discussing your cremation:
“A dervish has fallen off the roof
the tall skinny one with the coat-hanger shoulders.”
I know the way the pillars of the Vision
trembled before you in the sunlight.
You saw the door of Konya open in the slums
of Brooklyn where light shafted thru’ abandoned
factories in the amphetamine dawn.
Now the shades of Mecca are drawn for you, Poet.
The five Dhyani Buddhas transcend your deep-freeze
and await your burning with cloths of the 5 wisdom colors.
Your unsatisfied cravings fly out of the pyre,
the blessings of your friends crackle with ghee
the white and black til seeds (sesame) burn in
the untrammeled day, and still you are wandering Angus,
passing thru the Bardo Keyhole –
Listen once more to those Tibetan horns,
they are calling you past Freak Street
where you sold the White Goddess for junk
Forget all your regrets and go now with the egret,
put on your robe of sky –
The Vagabond Maverick Poet MacLise
has left these burning halls,
the windtraps are wild with sound,
I see your hands beating a Persian rhythm
on suitcases of itinerant dreams,
I hear the droning of Beelzebub’s flies
making clear the ghastly way,
an opera undone by a chorus of 108 Mahasiddhas
singing your discarded lists of cembalums,
symphonic poems, untold futures.
You bummed cigarettes from Ram,
borrowed time and change from Krishna.
Now that your balance is finally broken
go in peace to the Buddhafields,
nodding in to the sound of your tartan.
The bane is over –
A new wheel is spinning its song.
Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock
we will meet at the Vidyaswari Ghat.
For you it’s free, this one way ticket
which is non-transferable,
Remember that before you try to come back.
May light mantle your shadow and
may you not see what is not to be seen.
Farewell, MacLise, thawing on the Riverbank,
I do not expect to meet your like again,
Farewell, brother, the shadow of Don Quixote
lowers its lance and you are overstood.
– Ira Cohen – June 27th 1979. Kathmandu, Nepal.

Ira Cohen

John Dowland… The hours spent with his music. Here, to share with you.

Yuri’s Night

Hey Friends,
Just a quick one. Be sure to check out The Daily Art!!

Yuri’s Night!

So, tonight is Yuri’s Night. I raised a toast tonight with my son Rowan and his beautiful lady Suzanne to Yuri’s bravery, and adventure… Being the first human in space, pushing the evolutionary bubble further and beyond any place that to that point any known human had gone. I cannot imagine what it was like, but heavens, what a feat. This is a celebration of the spirit encapsulated in one man of what we are capable of doing as a species. I don’t care if he was Soviet, Russian, whatever.

Here is to you Yuri, thank you, thank you, thank you for leading the way. Raise a glass to him if you will, step outside, look up to the stars. We are at home in the Multiverse.

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
The Links
Laika – Uneasy
Yuri Poetry!
Laika – Almost Sleepy
The Links:
Celebrating Yuri!
The Artist Brain!
The Plan For Mars
Kitteh Be Aware? (of course!)
Laika – Uneasy

Yuri Poems!

Yuri Gagarin
I dreamed of Yuri Gagarin straddling an atomic bomb,
I dreamed of grace and annihilation weightless and atmospheric
I dreamed of gravity as the tyranny of man

I dreamed of a view of this world from the sun, ashes in a cosmic crematorium
I dreamed of ice and fire, winter and war
I dreamed of mutually assured destruction, eyes watching the sky

I dreamed of watching from on high, all glory hallelujah and twinkling giants
I dreamed of falling back down, arms spread in unbreakable faith
I dreamed of Yuri Gagarin, alone among the stars, saint of that
great abyss, smiling as he met God, and asking him in a calm and
reassuring tone, where he’s been all this time
– Tyler King

Yuri Gagarin Was a Great Russian Poet

Yuri Gagarin was a great Russian poet;
Russia shoved him out of herself into the sky,
as if into exile,
as if to the Caucasus,
and he boarded a carriage, that is, a rocket –
for the path of rockets, that’s the path of poets – said: Let’s go!
and smiled his Gagarin smile.
And in that smile was the whole Earth,
the very best that’s here,
Earth in blue radiance,
news to the sky from humanity –
because the poet’s the one who speaks with the sky,
overcoming gravity
as if it were the language barrier.
– Inna Kabysh
The poem was read by Natalia Romanova
Translated from the Russian by Katherine E. Young
Ballad for the death of Gagarin
Look at Gagarin, strong
His life
is not a submerged rose
he becomes neither mud nor moss
In the blast of the fall
no one heard the flood of death.

The world cries. But why? The life
of the hero is suspended in a star
Oh, world! He can see you
and offers you a flowered branch
In the blast of the fall
no one heard the wind of death.

His face is stopped, lies unmoving,
but his voice echoes and spreads
from life in life, and life in life.

Look at Gagarin, strong
In the blast of the fall
no one heard the thunder of death.

He left on a flight with no boundaries.
His blue light floods the night
and every star blazes.
Look at Gagarin, strong.
In the blast of the fall
he passed and smiled over death.
– Nicolás Guillén, (at one time the national poet of Cuba)

Balada por la muerte de Gagarin

Miradlo a Gagarin fuerte
Su vida
no es una rosa sumergida
ni en lodo y musgo se convierte.
En el fragor de la caída
nadie oyó el agua de la muerte.

El mundo llora. Mas ¿por que? La vida
del héroe está en un astro suspendida.
¡Oh mundo! El puede verte
y brindarte una rama florecida.
El el fragor de la caida
nadie oyó el viento de la muerte.

Su rostro se detuvo, yace inerte,
mas su gran voz resuena repartida
de vida en vida y vida en vida.

Miradlo a Gagarin fuerte.
En el fragor de la caída
nadie oyó el trueno de la muerte.

Partió en un vuelo sin medida.
Su luz azul la noche vierte
Y cada estrella está encendida.
Miradlo a Gagarin fuerte.
En el fragor de la caída
pasó y sonrió sobre la muerte.
Gagarin In Space

Up here, being enclosed in the spaceship ‘Vostok’,
I feel like a fetus penetrating into another world,
as the soul of Orkath in the painting of El Greco.
From the porthole I see the earth in pale blue,
while outside, by my side, exquisite colors spread,
from the palette of the sky on the canvas of my eyes.

As I get back I’ll speak in Cyprus and everywhere,
that from that height I saw the Nazi tyrant as an ant,
I saw the World Bank and other Pharisees like dice
thrown by Heraclitus and the children of Ephesus.
I was terrified seeing the Finance as a house of sins,
I saw muddy waters swallowing limousines avidly,
tsunamis, hurricanes eating carnivals and casinos,
I saw the Colosseum cracked, letting lions to rush out.
I cried watching the forests and glaciers to fall dead,
I saw torn land, the migrating birds blown out on air.

However I see the young man finding gold veins
with a value that is gained but not be donated.
He is the buried seed, now resurrected as a tree.

Here there is light, not coin, product of the verb ‘think’,
I have learned to paint the truth of Greatness,
doves of peace flied over here to be my companion.
Here is the high art, where the light works inside us.
– Joseph S. Josephides
Laika – Almost Sleepy




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 Gwyllm.com…
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 earthrites.org, 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 gwyllm.com 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