One regret dear world, that I am determined not to have when I am lying on my deathbed is that I did not kiss you enough.
-Hafiz
Remember for just one minute of the day, it would be best to try looking upon yourself more as God does, for She knows your true royal nature.
-Hafiz
One of those larger entries, with lots of stuff…. I want to thank Roberto Venosa for his gift last year of ‘The Orientalist’ an overview with so many excellent paintings. This is directly related to the art you see in this entry of Jean Leon Gerome, one of my favourite painters… Also a big thanks to Mike Hoffman for reminding me of: ‘sigur ros – Svefn-g-englar’ Truly, a dialogue of angels.
I feel the summer waning, our first rains today. Huge thunderstorm yesterday, the gods were talking across the skies of Portland.
Ryan P. came by and worked on my new system. we had a great time, drinking a bit of Absinthe, and having an enjoyable evening.
So many people getting ready for Burning Man! I see postings from different list; it is as if the hive has to rise up and fly to the desert! I have recieved postings from Tribe from people looking to have their art cars towed south… people looking for rides, looking for camps….
Back to the magazine, and a wee bit of editing for the rest of the evening……
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Sigur Ros – Glósóli
Hashish- Marijuana Quotes
The Visions of Hasheesh
Poetry: The Divine Hafiz
sigur ros – Svefn-g-englar
Art: Jean Leon Gerome
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The Links:
Foundation may be from Shakespeares Theatre?
Do Subatomic Particles Have Free Will?
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Sigur Ros – Glósóli
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Hashish- Marijuana Quotes:
Tobacco, coffee, alcohol, hashish, prussic acid, strychnine, are weak dilutions; the surest poison is time.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
If a man wishes to rid himself of a feeling of unbearable oppression, he may have to take hashish.
-Nietzsche
In regard to the physical effects, the Commission have come to the conclusion that the moderate use of hemp drugs is practically attended by no evil results at all. Speaking generally, the Commission are of opinion that the moderate use of hemp drugs appears to cause no appreciable physical injury of any kind. In regard to the alleged mental effects of the drugs, the Commission have come to the conclusion that the moderate use of hemp drugs produces no injurious effects on the mind, and no mental injury. In regard to the moral effects of the drugs, the Commission are of opinion that their moderate use produces no moral injury whatever. There is no adequate ground for believing that it injuriously affects the character of the consumer. Viewing the subject generally, it may be added that the moderate use of these drugs is the rule, and the excessive use is comparatively exceptional. The moderate use practically produces no ill effects. The injury from habitual moderate use is not appreciable. It has been the most striking feature of this inquiry to find how little the effects of hemp drugs have obtruded themselves on observation.
-from The Indian Hemp Drugs Commission, 1894
“…marijuana is one of the safest, therapeutically active substances known to man.”
-DEA Judge Francis Young
“[In] my era everybody smoked and everybody drank and there was no drug use”
-DEA Chief Thomas Constantine, July 1, 1998
“When you return to this mundane sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland winter – to quit paradise for earth – heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, guest of mine – taste the hashish! ”
-Alexander Dumas, ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, 1844
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The Vision of Hasheesh
-Bayard Taylor
Chapter X of The Lands of the Saracen.
A slightly different version was published in the April, 1854 edition of Putnam’s Monthly Magazine
“Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse’s painting.”
–Collins.
During my stay in Damascus, that insatiable curiosity which leads me to prefer the acquisition of all lawful knowledge through the channels of my own personal experience, rather than in less satisfactory and less laborious ways, induced me to make a trial of the celebrated Hasheesh — that remarkable drug which supplies the luxurious Syrian with dreams more alluring and more gorgeous than the Chinese extracts from his darling opium pipe. The use of Hasheesh — which is a preparation of the dried leaves of the cannabis indica — has been familiar to the East for many centuries. During, the Crusades, it was frequently used by the Saracen warriors to stimulate them to the work of slaughter, and from the Arabic term of “Hashasheën” or Eaters of Hasheesh, as applied to them, the word “assassin” has been naturally derived. An infusion of the same plant gives to the drink called “bhang” which is in common use throughout India and Malaysia, its peculiar properties. Thus prepared, it is a more fierce and fatal stimulant than the paste of sugar and spices to which the Turk resorts, as the food of his voluptuous evening, reveries. While its immediate effects seem to be more potent than those of opium, its habitual use, though attended with ultimate and permanent injury to the system, rarely results in such utter wreck of mind and body as that to which the votaries of the latter drug inevitably condemn themselves.
A previous experience of the effects of hasheesh — which I took once, and in a very mild form, while in Egypt — was so peculiar in its character, that my curiosity, instead of being satisfied, only prompted me the more to throw myself, for once, wholly under its influence. The sensations it then produced were those, physically, of exquisite lightness and airiness — mentally, of a wonderfully keen perception of the ludicrous, in the most simple and familiar objects. During the half hour in which it lasted, I was at no time so far under its control, that I could not, with the clearest perception, study the changes through which I passed. I noted, with careful attention, the fine sensations which spread throughout the whole tissue of my nervous fibre, each thrill helping, to divest my frame of its earthly and material nature, until my substance appeared to me no grosser than the vapors of the atmosphere, and while sitting in the calm of the Egyptian twilight, I expected to be lifted up and carried away by the first breeze that should ruffle the Nile. While this process was going on, the objects by which I was surrounded assumed a strange and whimsical expression. My pipe, the oars which my boatmen plied, the turban worn by the captain, the water-jars and culinary implements, became in themselves so inexpressibly absurd and comical, that I was provoked into a long fit of laughter. The hallucination died away as gradually as it came, leaving me overcome with a soft and pleasant drowsiness from which I sank into a deep, refreshing sleep.
My companion and an English gentleman, who, with his wife, was also residing in Antonio’s pleasant caravanserai — agreed to join me in the experiment. The dragoman of the latter was deputed to procure a sufficient quantity of the drug. He was a dark Egyptian, speaking only the lingua franca of the East, and asked me, as he took the money and departed on his mission, whether he should get hasheesh “per ridere, o per dormire?” “Oh, per ridere, of course,” I answered; “and see that it be strong and fresh.” It is customary with the Syrians to take a small portion immediately before the evening meal, as it is thus diffused through the stomach and acts more gradually, as well as more gently, upon the system. As our dinner-hour was at sunset, I proposed taking hasheesh at that time, but my friends, fearing that its operation might be more speedy upon fresh subjects, and thus betray them into some absurdity in the presence of the other travellers, preferred waiting until after the meal. It was then agreed that we should retire to our room, which, as it rose like a tower one story higher than the rest of the building, was in a manner isolated, and would screen us from observation.
We commenced by taking a tea-spoonful each of the mixture which Abdallah had procured. This was about the quantity I had taken in Egypt, and as the effect then had been so slight, I judged that we ran no risk of taking an over-dose. The strength of the drug, however, must have been far greater in this instance, for whereas I could in the former case distinguish no flavor but that of sugar and rose leaves, I now found the taste intensely bitter and repulsive to the palate. We allowed the paste to dissolve slowly on our tongues, and sat some time, quietly waiting the result. But, having been taken upon a full stomach, its operation was hindered, and after the lapse of nearly an hour, we could not detect the least change in our feelings. My friends loudly expressed their conviction of the humbug of hasheesh, but I, unwilling to give up the experiment at this point, proposed that we should take an additional half spoonful, and follow it with a cup of hot tea, which, if there were really any virtue in the preparation, could not fail to call it into action. This was done, though not without some misgivings, as we were all ignorant of the precise quantity which constituted a dose, and the limits within which the drug could be taken with safety. It was now ten o’clock; the streets of Damascus were gradually becoming silent, and the fair city was bathed in the yellow lustre of the Syrian moon. Only in the marble court-yard below us, a few dragomen and mukkairee lingered under the lemon-trees, and beside the fountain in the centre.
I was seated alone, nearly in the middle of the room, talking with my friends, who were lounging upon a sofa placed in a sort of alcove, at the farther end, when the same fine nervous thrill, of which I have spoken, suddenly shot through me. But this time it was accompanied with a burning sensation at the pit of the stomach; and, instead of growing upon me with the gradual pace of healthy slumber, and resolving me, as before, into air, it came with the intensity of a pang, and shot throbbing along the nerves to the extremities of my body. The sense of limitation — of the confinement of our senses within the bounds of our own flesh and blood — instantly fell away. The walls of my frame were burst outward and tumbled into ruin; and, without thinking what form I wore — losing sight even of all idea of form — I felt that I existed throughout a vast extent of space. The blood, pulsed from my heart, sped through uncounted leagues before it reached my extremities; the air drawn into my lungs expanded into seas of limpid ether, and the arch of my skull was broader than the vault of heaven. Within the concave that held my brain, were the fathomless deeps of blue; clouds floated there, and the winds of heaven rolled them together, and there shone the orb of the sun. It was — though I thought not of that at the time — like a revelation of the mystery of omnipresence. It is diffcult to describe this sensation, or the rapidity with which it mastered me. In the state of mental exaltation in which I was then plunged, all sensations, as they rose, suggested more or less coherent images. They presented themselves to me in a double form: one physical, and therefore to a certain extent tangible; the other spiritual, and revealing itself in a succession of splendid metaphors. The physical feeling, of extended being was accompanied by the image of an exploding meteor, not subsiding into darkness, but continuing to shoot from its centre or nucleus — which corresponded to the burning spot at the pit of my stomach — incessant adumbrations of light that finally lost themselves in the infinity of space. To my mind, even now, this image is still the best illustration of my sensations, as I recall them; but I greatly doubt whether the reader w
ill find it equally clear.
My curiosity was now in a way of being satisfied; the Spirit (demon, shall I not rather say?) of Hasheesh had entire possession of me. I was cast upon the flood of his illusions, and drifted helplessly whithersoever they might choose to bear me. The thrills which ran through my nervous system became more rapid and fierce, accompanied with sensations that steeped my whole being in unutterable rapture. I was encompassed by a sea of light, through which played the pure, harmonious colors that are born of light. While endeavoring, in broken expressions, to describe my feelings to my friends, who sat looking upon me incredulously-not yet having been affected by the drug-I suddenly found myself at the foot of the great Pyramid of Cheops. The tapering courses of yellow limestone gleamed like gold in the sun, and the pile rose so high that it seemed to lean for support upon the blue arch of the sky. I wished to ascend it, and the wish alone placed me immediately upon its apex, lifted thousands of feet above the wheat-fields and palm-groves of Egypt. I cast my eyes downward, and, to my astonishment, saw that it was built, not of limestone, but of huge square plugs of Cavendish tobacco! Words cannot paint the overwhelming sense of the ludicrous which I then experienced. I writhed on my chair in an agony of laughter, which was only relieved by the vision melting away like a dissolving view; till, out of my confusion of indistinct images and fragments of images, another and more wonderful vision arose.
The more vividly I recall the scene which followed, the more carefully I restore its different features, and separate the many threads of sensation which it wove into one gorgeous web, the more I despair of representing its exceeding glory. I was moving over the Desert, not upon the rocking dromedary, but seated in a barque made of mother-of-pearl, and studded with jewels of surpassing lustre. The sand was of grains of gold, and my keel slid through them without jar or sound. The air was radiant with excess of light, though no sun was to be seen. I inhaled the most delicions perfumes; and harmonies, such as Beethoven may have heard in dreams, but never wrote, floated around me. The atmosphere itself was light, odor, music; and each and all sublimated beyond anything the sober senses are capable of receiving. Before me — for a thousand leagues, as it seemed — stretched a vista of rainbows, whose colors gleamed with the splendor of gems — arches of living amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, and ruby. By thousands and tens of thousands, they flew past me, as my dazzling barge sped down the magnificent arcade; yet the vista still stretched as far as ever before me. I revelled in a sensuous elysium, which was perfect, because no sense was left ungratified. But beyond all, my mind was filled with a boundless feeling of triumph. My journey was that of a conqueror — not of a conqueror who subdues his race, either by Love or by Will, for I forgot that Man existed — but one victorious over the grandest as well as the subtlest forces of Nature. The spirits of Light, Color, Odor, Sound, and Motion were my slaves; and, having these, I was master of the universe.
Those who are endowed to any extent with the imaginative faculty, must have at least once in their lives experienced feelings which may give them a clue to the exalted sensuous raptures of my triumphal march. The view of a sublime mountain landscape, the hearing of a grand orchestral symphony, or of a choral upborne by the “full-voiced organ,” or even the beauty and luxury of a cloudless summer day, suggests emotions similar in kind, if less intense. They took a warmth and glow from that pure animal joy which degrades not, but spiritualizes and ennobles our material part, and which differs from cold, abstract, intellectual enjoyment, as the flaming diamond of the Orient differs from the icicle of the North. Those finer senses, which occupy a middle ground between our animal and intellectual appetites, were suddenly developed to a pitch beyond what I had ever dreamed, and being thus at one and the same time gratified to the fullest extent of their preternatural capacity, the result was a single harmonious sensation, to describe which human language has no epithet. Mahomet’s Paradise, with its palaces of ruby and emerald, its airs of musk and cassia, and its rivers colder than snow and sweeter than honey, would have been a poor and mean terminus for my arcade of rainbows. Yet in the character of this paradise, in the gorgeous fancies of the Arabian Nights, in the glow and luxury of all Oriental poetry, I now recognize more or less of the agency of hasheesh.
The fulness of my rapture expanded the sense of time; and though the whole vision was probably not more than five minutes in passing through my mind, years seemed to have elapsed while I shot under the dazzling myriads of rainbow arches. By and by, the rainbows, the barque of pearl and jewels, and the desert of golden sand, vanished; and, still bathed in light and perfume, I found myself in a land of green and flowery lawns, divided by hills of gently undulating outline. But, although the vegetation was the richest of earth, there were neither streams nor fountains to be seen; and the people who came from the hills, with brilliant garments that shone in the sun, besought me to give them the blessing of water. Their hands were full of branches of the coral honeysuckle, in bloom. These I took; and, breaking off the flowers one by one, set them in the earth. The slender, trumpet-like tubes immediately became shafts of masonry, and sank deep into the earth; the lip of the flower changed into a circular mouth of rose-colored marble, and the people, leaning over its brink, lowered their pitchers to the bottom with cords, and drew them up again, filled to the brim, and dripping with honey.
The most remarkable feature of these illusions was, that at the time when I was most completely under their influence, I knew myself to be seated in the tower of Antonio’s hotel in Damascus, knew that I had taken hasheesh, and that the strange, gorgeous and ludicrous fancies which possessed me, were the effect of it. At the very same instant that I looked upon the Valley of the Nile from the pyramid, slid over the Desert, or created my marvellous wells in that beautiful pastoral country, I saw the furniture of my room, its mosaic pavement, the quaint Saracenic niches in the walls, the painted and gilded beams of the ceiling, and the couch in the recess before me, with my two companions watching me. Both sensations were simultaneous, and equally palpable. While I was most given up to the magnificent delusion, I saw its cause and felt its absurdity most clearly. Metaphysicians say that the mind is incapable of performing two operations at the same time, and may attempt to explain this phenomenon by supposing a rapid and incessant vibration of the perceptions between the two states. This explanation, however, is not satisfactory to me; for not more clearly does a skilful musician with the same breath blow two distinct musical notes from a bugle, than I was conscious of two distinct conditions of being in the same moment. Yet, singular as it may seem, neither conflicted with the other. My enjoyment of the visions was complete and absolute, undisturbed by the faintest doubt of their reality; while, in some other chamber of my brain, Reason sat coolly watching them, and heaping the liveliest ridicule on their fantastic features. One set of nerves was thrilled with the bliss of the gods, while another was convulsed with unquenchable laughter at that very bliss. My highest ecstacies could not bear down and silence the weight of my ridicule, which, in its turn, was powerless to prevent me from running into other and more gorgeous absurdities. I was double, not “swan and shadow,” but rather, Sphinx-like, human and beast. A true Sphinx, I was a riddle and a mystery to myself.
The drug, which had been retarded in its operation on account of having been taken after a
meal, now began to make itself more powerfully felt. The visions were more grotesque than ever, but less agreeable; and there was a painful tension throughout my nervous system — the effect of over-stimulus. I was a mass of transparent jelly, and a confectioner poured me into a twisted mould. I threw my chair aside, and writhed and tortured myself for some time to force my loose substance into the mould. At last, when I had so far succeeded that only one foot remained outside, it was lifted off, and another mould, of still more crooked and intricate shape, substituted. I have no doubt that the contortions through which I went, to accomplish the end of my gelatinous destiny, would have been extremely ludicrous to a spectator, but to me they were painful and disagreeable. The sober half of me went into fits of laughter over them, and through that laughter, my vision shifted into another scene. I had laughed until my eyes overflowed profusely. Every drop that fell, immediately became a large loaf of bread, and tumbled upon the shop- board of a baker in the bazaar at Damascus. The more I laughed, the faster the loaves fell, until such a pile was raised about the baker, that I could hardly see the top of his head. “The man will be suffocated,” I cried, “but if he were to die, I cannot stop!”
My perceptions now became more dim and confused. I felt that I was in the grasp of some giant force; and, in the glimmering of my fading reason, grew earnestly alarmed, for the terrible stress under which my frame labored increased every moment. A fierce and furious heat radiated from my stomach throughout my system; my mouth and throat were as dry and hard as if made of brass, and my tongue, it seemed to me, was a bar of rusty iron. I seized a pitcher of water, and drank long and deeply; but I might as well have drunk so much air, for not only did it impart no moisture, but my palate and throat gave me no intelligence of having drunk at all. I stood in the centre of the room, brandishing my arms convulsively, and heaving sighs that seemed to shatter my whole being. “Will no one,” I cried in distress, “cast out this devil that has possession of me?” I no longer saw the room nor my friends, but I heard one of them saying, “It must be real; he could not counterfeit such an expression as that. But it don’t look much like pleasure.” Immediately afterwards there was a scream of the wildest laughter, and my countryman sprang upon the floor, exclaiming, “O, ye gods! I am a locomotive!” This was his ruling hallucination; and, for the space of two or three hours, he continued to pace to and fro with a measured stride, exhaling his breath in violent jets, and when he spoke, dividing his words into syllables, each of which he brought out with a jerk, at the same time turning his hands at his sides, as if they were the cranks of imaginary wheels. The Englishman, as soon as he felt the dose beginning to take effect, prudently retreated to his own room, and what the nature of his visions was, we never learned, for he refused to tell, and, moreover, enjoined the strictest silence on his wife.
By this time it was nearly midnight. I had passed through the Paradise of Hasheesh, and was plunged at once into its fiercest Hell. In my ignorance I had taken what, I have since learned, would have been a sufficient portion for six men, and was now paying a frightful penalty for my curiosity. The excited blood rushed through my frame with a sound like the roaring of mighty waters. It was projected into my eyes until I could no longer see; it beat thickly in my ears, and so throbbed in my heart, that I feared the ribs would give way under its blows. I tore open my vest, placed my hand over the spot, and tried to count the pulsations; but there were two hearts, one beating at the rate of a thousand beats a minute, and the other with a slow, dull motion. My throat, I thought, was filled to the brim with blood, and streams of blood were pouring from my ears. I felt them gushing warm down my cheeks and neck. With a maddened, desperate feeling, I fled from the room, and walked over the flat, terraced roof of the house. My body seemed to shrink and grow rigid as I wrestled with the demon, and my face to become wild, lean and haggard. Some lines which had struck me, years before, in reading Mrs. Browning’s “Rhyme of the Duchess May,” flashed into my mind: –
On the last verge, rears amain;
And he shivers, head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off;
That picture of animal terror and agony was mine. I was the horse, hanging poised on the verge of the giddy tower, the next moment to be borne sheer down to destruction. Involuntarily, I raised my hand to feel the leanness and sharpness of my face. Oh horror! the flesh had fallen from my bones, and it was a skeleton head that I carried on my shoulders! With one bound I sprang to the parapet, and looked down into the silent courtyard, then filled with the shadows thrown into it by the sinking moon. Shall I cast myself down headlong? was the question I proposed to myself; but though the horror of that skeleton delusion was greater than my fear of death, there was an invisible hand at my breast which pushed me away from the brink.
I made my way back to the room, in a state of the keenest suffering. My companion was still a locomotive, rushing to and fro, and jerking out his syllables with the disjointed accent peculiar to a steam-engine. His mouth had turned to brass like mine, and he raised the pitcher to his lips in the attempt to moisten it, but before he had taken a mouthful, set the pitcher down again with a yell of laughter, crying out: “How can I take water into my boiler, while I am letting off steam?”
But I was now too far gone to feel the absurdity of this, or his other exclamations. I was sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of unutterable agony and despair. For, although I was not conscious of real pain in any part of my body, the cruel tension to which my nerves had been subjected filled me through and through with a sensation of distress which was far more severe than pain itself. In addition to this, the remnant of will with which I struggled against the demon, became gradually weaker, and I felt that I should soon be powerless in his hands. Every effort to preserve my reason was accompanied by a pang of mortal fear, lest what I now experienced was insanity, and would hold mastery over me for ever. The thought of death, which also haunted me, was far less bitter than this dread. I knew that in the struggle which was going on in my frame, I was borne fearfully near the dark gulf, and the thought that, at such a time, both reason and will were leaving my brain, filled me with an agony, the depth and blackness of which I should vainly attempt to portray. I threw myself on my bed, with the excited blood still roaring wildly in my ears, my heart throbbing with a force that seemed to be rapidly wearing away my life, my throat dry as a potsherd, and my stiffened tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth-resisting no longer, but awaiting my fate with the apathy of despair.
My companion was now approaching the same condition, but as the effect of the drug on him had been less violent, so his stage of suffering was more clamorous. He cried out to me that he was dying, implored me to help him, and reproached me vehemently, because I lay there silent, motionless, and apparently careless of his danger. “Why will he disturb me?” I thought; “he thinks he is dying, but what is death to madness? Let him die; a thousand deaths were more easily borne than the pangs I suffer.” While I was sufficiently conscious to hear his exclamations, they only provoked my keen anger; but after a time, my senses became clouded, and I sank into a stupor. As near as I can judge, this must have been three o’clock in the morning, rather more than five hours after the hasheesh began to take effect. I lay thus all the following day and night, in a state of gray, blank oblivion, broken only by a single wandering gleam of consciousness. I recollect hearing François’ voice. He told me afterwards that I arose, attempted to dress myself, drank two cups of coffee, and then fell back into the same death-like stupor; but of all this, I did not retain the least knowledge. On the morning of the second day, after a sleep of thirty hours, I awoke again to the world, with a system utterly prostrate and unstrung, and a brain clouded with the lingering images of my visions. I knew where I was, and what had happened to me, but all that I saw still remained unreal and shadowy. There was no taste in what I ate, no refreshment in what I drank, and it required a painful effort to comprehend what was said to me and return a coherent answer. Will and Reason had come back, but they still sat unsteadily upon their thrones.
My friend, who was much further advanced in his recovery, accompanied me to the adjoining bath, which I hoped would assist in restoring me. It was with great difficulty that I preserved the outward appearance of consciousness. In spite of myself, a veil now and then fell over my mind, and after wandering for years, as it seemed, in some distant world, I awoke with a shock, to find myself in the steamy halls of the bath, with a brown Syrian polishing my limbs. I suspect that my language must have been rambling and incoherent, and that the menials who had me in charge understood my condition, for as soon as I had stretched myself upon the couch which follows the bath, a glass of very acid sherbet was presented to me, and after drinking it I experienced instant relief. Still the spell was not wholly broken, and for two or three days I continued subject to frequent involuntary fits of absence, which made me insensible, for the time, to all that was passing around me. I walked the streets of Damascus with a strange consciousness that I was in some other place at the same time, and with a constant effort to reunite my divided perceptions.
Previous to the experiment, we had decided on making a bargain with the shekh for the journey to Palmyra. The state, however, in which we now found ourselves, obliged us to relinquish the plan. Perhaps the excitement of a forced march across the desert, and a conflict with the hostile Arabs, which was quite likely to happen, might have assisted us in throwing off the baneful effects of the drug; but all the charm which lay in the name of Palmyra and the romantic interest of the trip, was gone. I was without courage and without energy, and nothing remained for me but to leave Damascus.
Yet, fearful as my rash experiment proved to me, I did not regret having made it. It revealed to me deeps of rapture and of suffering which my natural faculties never could have sounded. It has taught me the majesty of human reason and of human will, even in the weakest, and the awful peril of tampering with that which assails their integrity. I have here faithfully and fully written out my experience, on account of the lesson which it may convey to others. If I have unfortunately failed in my design, and have but awakened that restless curiosity which I have endeavored to forestall, let me beg all who are thereby led to repeat the experiment upon themselves, that they be content to take the portion of hasheesh which is considered sufficient for one man, and not, like me, swallow enough for six. 
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Poetry: The Divine Hafiz
Ghazal 417
Forever joy is my prize
With the wine of desire
Thankfully God gratifies
What I wish or require
O unpredictable fate
Embrace me like your mate
Sometimes golden cup and plate
Sometimes wine acquire
Drunk and insane is my game
It is my name and my fame
Unwise Elders will blame
And the Leaders for hire
From the recluse and devout
Loudly I repent and shout
The works of the pious doubt
“God forbid!” is my choir
O soul what can I say
Of pain of being away?
My eyes tearfully play
And my soul is on fire
To doubters it will not show
Such pain, who’ll ever know?
The spruce will long to grow
Your face the moon inspire
Longing for your lips
Has Hafiz in its grips
Forget the night-school’s tips
And prayers of morning crier
—-
Saghi Nameh
ساقی نامه
O Bearer, bring the wine that brings joy
To increase generosity, & let perfection buoy
Give me some, for I have lost my heart
Both traits from me have kept apart
Bring the wine whose reflection in the cup
Signals to all the kings whose times are up
Give me wine, and with the reed-flute I will sing
When was Jamshid, and when Kavoos was king
Bring me the elixir whose grace and alchemy
Bestows treasures, from bonds of time sets free
Give me so they’ll open the doors once again
Of long life and the bliss that will remain
Bearer give the wine that the Holy Grail
Will make claims of sight in the Void and thus fail
Give me so that I, with the help of the Grail
All secrets, like Jamshid, themselves avail
Speak of the tale of the wheel of fate
proclaim to the kings and heroes of late
This broken world is in the same state
As seen by Afrasiab, the mighty, the great
Whence his mobilizing army generals
Whence cunning heroes’ war cries and calls
Not only his palace has gone to the dust
Even his tomb is destroyed and long lost
This barren desert is in the same stage
As the armies of Salm & Toor were lost in its rage
Bring the wine whose reflection in the cup
Signals to all the kings whose times are up
Well said Jamshid, the old majestic king
Worthless is this transient stage and ring
Come Bearer, that fire, radiant, bright
Zarathushtra, beneath the earth, seeks so right
Give me wine, in the creed of the drunk
Whether fire-worshipper or worldly monk
Come Bearer, that wholesome drunk
Who is forever in the tavern sunk
Give me, ill repute bring to my name
The cup and the wine I shall only blame
Bring Bearer, the water that burns the mind
If lion drinks, forest will burn and grind
Courageous, I’ll go hunting lions of fate
Mess up this old wolf’s trap and bait
Bring Bearer, that high heavenly wine
That angels with their scent would entwine
Give me wine, I’ll burn it like sweet incense
Its wise aroma I will sense now and hence
Bearer, give me the wine that makes kings
Witnessing its virtues, my heart sings
Give me wine to wash away all my flaws
Joyous rise above this rut’s deadly claws
When the spiritual garden is my abode
Why have me bound to a board on this road
Give me wine and then see the Ruler’s face
Ruin me & see treasures of wisdom and grace
And when I hold the cup in my hand
In the mirror everything I understand
In my drunken state, kingship proclaim
A monarch, when I am drunken and lame
Drunken, pearls of wisdom unveil
In hiding secrets, the selfless fail
Hafiz, drunken, songs will compose
From its melody Venus’ song flows
O singer, with the sound of the stream
Of that majestic song muse and dream
Till I make my work joy and ecstasy
I will dance and play with robe of piety
Given a crown and throne by his fate
The fruit of the kingly tree of this estate
Ruler of the land, and Lord of the time
The grand and fortunate King of the clime
He is the greatness vested in the Throne
comfort of bird and fish from Him alone
For the blessed, he is light of the eyes
Yet he is the gift of the soul of the wise
Behold, O, auspicious bird
The happy inspiration to be heard
The world has no pearls in its shells like Thee
Fereydoon and Jamshid had no heirs like Thee
Instead of Alexander, be here many a year
Know thy heart and discover joy is near
But seditious fate many plans may devise
Me and my drunkenness troubled by Beloved’s eyes
One, for his work, may pick up the sword
Another’s business only deals with the word
O Player, play the song of the new creed
To music of the stream tell to my rival breed
Finally with my enemy I have a chance
At victory, in the skies I can glance
O Player, play something pleasing to the ear
With a song and a Gahzal begin a story, dear
My sorrows have tied me to the ground
Raise me with my principles that are sound
O singer, with the sound of the stream
Play and sing that majestic song I dream
Make the great souls happy with you
Parviz and Barbad remember too
O Player, paint a picture of the veil
Listen, inside, they tell a tale
Sing a minstrel’s song, such
That Venus’ harp dances with her touch
Play so the Sufi goes into a trance
Drunken, in Union, leaves his stance
O Player, tambourine and harp play
With a lovely tune, sing and sway
Deceptions of the world make a vivid tale
The night is pregnant, what will it entail
O Player, I’m sad, play one or two
In his Oneness, as long as you can, play too
I am astounded by the revolving fate
I don’t know who will next degenerate
And if the Magi set one on fire
Don’t know whose light will then expire
In this bloody resurrection field
Let the cup and jug their blood yield
To the drunk, of a good song, give a sign
To friends bygone, a salutation divine…
—-
Wild Deer
الا ای آهوی وحشی کجایی
Where are you O Wild Deer?
I have known you for a while, here.
Both loners, both lost, both forsaken
The wild beast, for ambush, have all waken
Let us inquire of each other’s state
If we can, each other’s wishes consummate
I can see this chaotic field
Joy and peace sometimes won’t yield
O friends, tell me who braves the danger
To befriend the forsaken, behold the stranger
Unless blessed Elias may come one day
And with his good office open the way
It is time to cultivate love
Individually decreed from above
Thus I remember the wise old man
Forgetting such a one, I never can
That one day, a seeker in a land
A wise one helped him understand
Seeker, what do you keep in your bag
Set up a trap, if bait you drag
In reply said I keep a snare
But for the phoenix I shall dare
Asked how will you find its sign
We can’t help you with your design
Like the spruce become so wise
Rise to the heights, open your eyes
Don’t lose sight of the rose and wine
But beware of your fate’s design
At the fountainhead, by the riverside
Shed some tears, in your heart confide
This instrument won’t tune to my needs
The generous sun, our wants exceeds
In memory of friends bygone
With spring showers hide the golden sun
With such cruelty cleaved with a sword
As if with friendship was in full discord
When flows forth the crying river
With your own tears help it deliver
My old companion was so unkind
O Pious Men, keep God in mind
Unless blessed Elias may come one day
Help one loner to another make way
Look at the gem and let go of the stone
Do it in a way that keeps you unknown
As my hand moves the pen to write
Ask the main writer to shed His light
I entwined mind and soul indeed
Then planted the resulting seed
In this marriage the outcome is joy
Beauty and soulfulness employ
With hope’s fragrant perfume
Let eternal soul rapture assume
This perfume comes from angel’s sides
Not from the doe whom men derides
Friends, to friends’ worth be smart
When obvious, don’t read it by heart
This is the end of tales of advice
Lie in ambush, fate’s cunning and vice.
—-
Ghazal 407
The green fields of fate were fully grown
While the new moons sickle hung in the west.
I remembered the crops I had sown
It was now time for my harvest.
I said O fate, when will you awake?
The sun is up, it is now dawn-break.
Said, you have made many a mistake,
Yet keep hope and faith within your breast.
If like the Christ, this world you depart
With integrity and with a pure heart,
Your brightness will give a new start
To the sun, even shinning at its crest.
Dont seek your guidance in the skies
It is deceitful, though it seems wise.
It helped many kings majestically rise
Then brought them down at its own behest.
Though many jewels and rings of gold,
Necks and ears of many elegantly hold;
All the good times will one day fold.
With a clear mind listen, and a beating chest.
Dont sell the harvest that you reap
In the market of love, for so cheap;
For the moon, a nickel you keep,
And for the stars a dime at best.
From evil eyes may you be freed;
Fate rode the sun and moons steed.
Hypocrites ruin their own creed and nest
Hafiz leaves without his dervishs vest.
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sigur ros – Svefn-g-englar
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So this past Friday we attended the wedding of our friends Julie and Mike. We have known Julie for 16 years, and Mike for 3-4 years. They have been the best of friends, and constant parts of our lives. The wedding was a wonderful event, and I am very happy that we were invited. We saw many friends, Randy and Deirdre with their daughter Bailey were up from Medford, John Gunn and Sebong were there, and up from Ashland: Karen and Emil, along with their daughter Alex, and son CoCo. Our friends the Rizzo’s were in attendance, and it was a very happy time. We met Mike’s parents up from Chattanooga, and Julies’ brother for the first time. 
Born on Feb. 28th, 1865 at Milford Haven, Wales. Arthur Symons was the son of a Wesleyan minister.
Rowan turned 18 today! Time has flown, and here it all is, from a child to a man. He is heading off this next week to Ashland for a bit of adventure at the Seminar finals in Ashland that he attended last year with the Shakespearean Festival. His friend Ivy is attending, and he is going to be there to cheer her on and to celebrate the two weeks that she just went through. Truly, the seminar changes young lives, and Rowan is still feeling the effects from last year.
In the great city of Isfahan lived Ahmed the cobbler, an honest and industrious man, whose wish was to pass through life quietly; and he might have done so, had he not married a handsome wife, who, although she had condescended to accept of him as a husband, was far from being contented with his humble sphere of life.
The thief, hearing these words, hastened in consternation to the gang, and told them that the moment he took his post he had been perceived by the supernatural knowledge of Ahmed, who immediately told his wife that one of them was there. The spy’s tale was not believed by his hardened companions; something was imputed to his fears; he might have been mistaken;in short, it was determined to send two men the next night at the same hour. They reached the house just as Ahmed, having finished his prayers, had received the second date, and heard him exclaim, “My dear wife, to-night there are two of them!”
The king and all his nobles followed the cobbler to the ruins of the old Hemmâm. There, casting his eyes towards heaven, Ahmed muttered some sounds, which were supposed by the spectators to be magical conjurations, but which were in reality the prayers and thanksgivings of a sincere and pious heart to God for his wonderful deliverance. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the southern wall, and requested that his majesty would order his attendants to dig there. The work was hardly begun, when the whole forty chests were found in the same state as when stolen, with the treasurer’s seal upon them still unbroken.
Milarepa (often referred to as Jetsun Milarepa, meaning Milarepa the Revered One) is the central figure of early Tibetan Buddhism. He was a Buddhist saint, a yogi, a sorceror, a trickster, a wanderer, and a poet. He is both folk hero and cultural preceptor, the embodiment of the ideal in Tibetan Buddhism.
Cesar Vallejo (March 16, 1892 – April 15, 1938) published only three books of poetry but is nonetheless considered one of the great poetic innovators of the 20th century. Always a step ahead of the literary currents, each of his books was distinct from the others and in its own sense revolutionary.
