Gwyllm.com

Leonel Rugama was 20 years old.

Of friends, he preferred chess players.

Of chess players, those who lose because of the girl happening by.

Of those that pass by, the one who remains.

Of those who stay, the one who has yet to come.

Of heroes, he preferred those who don’t say they are dying for their mother country.

Of countries, the one born of his death.

The times are always changing, but I have felt a quickening in the last couple of weeks. Moving in to what Alvin Toffler once referred to as “Future Shock”, the boundaries of the world and the current event horizon are in upheaval.
To address this, I have ventured forth bringing disparate elements together, from the past, and what is current… to bring this period into focus… (IMPOV)
So with that said, may I present: It’s Political…
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

Honoré Daumier – Bio

Bob Marley & The Wailers – Get Up, Stand Up

Dan Rather Slams Press Coverage Of War And Corporate News

Links: Does This Rise To Criminal Neglect By The Current Administration?

Vandana Shiva: Why We Face Both Food and Water Crises

I’m Voting Republican!

Poet Of The Revolution: Leonel Rugama

A Poem about Leonel Rugama

Pieces Of A Biography: Leonel Rugama

Art:Honoré Daumier
Born in Marseille on February 26, 1808, Honoré Daumier showed in his youth an irresistible inclination towards the artistic profession, which his father vainly tried to check by placing him first with a huissier and subsequently with a bookseller. Having mastered the techniques of lithography, Daumier started his artistic career by producing plates for music publishers, and illustrations for advertisements; followed by anonymous work for publishers, in which he followed the style of Charlet and displayed considerable enthusiasm for the Napoleonic legend.
When, during the reign of Louis Philippe, Charles Philipon launched the comic journal, La Caricature, Daumier joined its staff, which included such powerful artists as Devéria, Raffet and Grandville, and started upon his pictorial campaign of scathing satire upon the foibles of the bourgeoisie, the corruption of the law and the incompetence of a blundering government. His caricature of the king as Gargantua led to Daumier’s imprisonment for six months at Ste Pelagic in 1832. Soon after, the publication of La Caricature was discontinued, but Philipon provided a new field for Daumier’s activity when he founded the Le Charivari.
Daumier produced his social caricatures for Le Charivari, in which he holds bourgeois society up to ridicule in the figure of Robert Macaire, hero of a popular melodrama. In another series, L’histoire ancienne, he took aim at a pseudo-classicism which held the art of the period in fetters. In 1848 Daumier embarked again on his political campaign, still in the service of Le Charivari, which he left in 1860 and rejoined in 1864.
In spite of his prodigious activity in the field of caricature — the list of Daumier’s lithographed plates compiled in 1904 numbers no fewer than 3,958 — he also painted. Except for the searching truthfulness of his vision and the powerful directness of his brushwork, it would be difficult to recognize the creator of Robert Macaire, of Les Bas bleus, Les Bohémiens de Paris, and the Masques, in the paintings of Christ and His Apostles (Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam), or in his Good Samaritan, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Christ Mocked, or even in the sketches in the Ionides Collection at South Kensington.
But as a painter, Daumier, one of the pioneers of naturalism, did not meet with success until a year before his death in 1878, when M. Durand Ruel collected his works for exhibition at his galleries and demonstrated the range of the talent of the man who has been called the “Michelangelo of caricature”. At the time of the exhibition, Daumier was blind and living in a cottage at Valmondois, which Corot placed at his disposal. It was there that he died on February 10, 1879.

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Bob Marley & The Wailers – Get Up, Stand Up

Dan Rather Slams Press Coverage Of War And Corporate News

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Links:Does This Rise To Criminal Neglect By The Current Administration?
This IMNSHO is criminal. Line them up against the wall. (the administration of course)
The Accusations…

The Stats…

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Vandana Shiva: Why We Face Both Food and Water Crises
By Maria Armoudian and Ankine Aghassian, AlterNet. Posted May 15, 2008.
Policy-makers are finally grappling with the growing global food and water crises that are upon us. While they grope for answers, Vandana Shiva reminds them that it was their wild economic schemes that created these crises in the first place.
The globalized economic structure is simply incompatible with the basic physics of the planet and the principles of democratic governance, she says. And until we align the economic system with those of the ecological system, the problems will only get worse. While many of Shiva’s books address some aspect of this fundamental problem, one title captures it most succinctly, Earth Democracy, Justice, Sustainability and Peace.
Shiva is a physicist, author, director of the Research Foundation on Science, Technology and Ecology and the founder of Navdanya.
AlterNet: Much of your writing and speaking has focused on our economic structure’s incompatibility with the ecological functioning of the earth. Talk about that incompatibility.
Vandana Shiva: One aspect of the inconsistency is between the principles of Gaia, the principles of soil, the ecology, renewability, how the atmosphere cleans itself and the laws of the global marketplace. The global marketplace is driven by the World Bank and the World Trade Organization (WTO) and the illogic of so-called “free trade,” which is totally not free. [The result of this incompatibility] is the current food crisis: The more agriculture is “liberalized,” the greater the food scarcity, the higher the food prices and the more people will go hungry.
Never has there been this rate of escalation in food prices worldwide as we witness now with the global integration of the food economies under the coercive and bullying force of the WTO.
AlterNet: You have said, in the past, that these activities are done in the name of improving human welfare. But instead, poverty and dispossession have increased. Where do we see this the most?
VS: We see the worst dispossession in the countries of the South — tragically — those countries that could feed themselves. India, for example, was food self-sufficient. We were able to feed our people with a universal distribution system, affordable food for all, and agriculture policies that put food first. Small farmers could make a living.
But a decade and a half of globalization’s perverse rules have led to 200,000 farmers committing suicide because they can’t make a living anymore — all their money goes to make profit for Monsanto or Cargill. Meanwhile, with the economy’s so-called growth, people are starving. Per capita entitlement to food has dropped in a decade and half from 177 kg to 152 kg per year.
This contradicts the false propaganda being spread about the reason prices are rising. They say it is because Indians are getting richer and Indians are eating more. Well, some Indians are getting richer, but they’re not eating more. There’s a limit to how much you can eat. And the handful of billionaires buys a few more private jet planes and builds a few more private mansions. [But in reality], the average Indian is eating less. The average child has a bigger chance today of dying of hunger. The Cargill’s of the world have a stranglehold of the world’s economy; they’re harvesting super-profits while people die of hunger.
AlterNet: You talk about India being worse off, but many economists — including those on the political left — say that places like China and India are, overall, actually improving. But you say that is not true.
VS: It’s not true. India, under the perverse growth of globalization, has beaten out Africa in the number of hungry people. While we have 9.2 percent growth measured by GNP and GDP, 50 percent of our children have very severe malnutrition. Fifty percent of deaths for children under five are due to lack of food. That’s about a million kids per year.
AlterNet: That is a considerable change that I don’t think the world is seeing.
VS: That’s because the media orchestrates every analysis and interpretation. They would like this crisis to look like a success of globalization, and they would like to offer more globalization as a solution. In fact, the World Bank has said there should be more liberalized trade. Before the WTO was formed, we had protests with 500,000 farmers on the streets of Bangalore in 1993 to say that this is a recipe for starvation, for destroying agriculture, self-reliance and food security. And the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs — before the WTO was born — had a press conference to say that globalization will make food affordable for all.
They forget that food ultimately is not produced in the speculation and commodity exchanges controlled by Cargill in Chicago. It is produced by hard working women and men working with the soil and sun. And if you destroy the capacity of the people to work the land and the capacity of soil to produce, you’re going to have hunger. The tragedy is that the hunger of today and the rise of food [prices] is the result of globalization policies, and it is being implemented on a global scale. Unless we bring local food sovereignty and “food democracy” back into the picture, we will not have a solution to this.
AlterNet: You’re talking about basic ecological principles here. But there are two other aspects about food shortages that are being discussed. One of them is that among some societies, such as China, the diet is changing, which contributes to food shortage. Reportedly, after being exposed to western diets, they are eating more meat which requires an enormous amount of grain — normally fed to people — to instead be fed to cattle. Do you see this as part of the problem?
VS: Well, I can definitely say that is not true for India. Vegetarian India will stay vegetarian India — rich or poor, integrated globally or not integrated globally. And the Chinese have always eaten meat. The difference is that now they are integrated into the global production system: It is factory farming that feeds grain to chicken and pigs and cows.
No indigenous culture — not China or India — has fed grain to animals. Animals have fed on what humans could not eat. Global agribusiness, which makes huge money out of the feed industry, is creating this pressure while destroying what I would call the “real free economy” — the free-range cattle, the free range chicken — and replacing it with prison factories for animals. In fact, in my interpretation, even the Avian flu is being used to violently shut down small economies, the free economies of Asian peasants, and turning them into Tyson and Cargill factory farming systems.
AlterNet: What about the role of climate change in this global food crisis?
VS: Climate change and agricultural food crises do have a connection. In fact, my next book is precisely about this connection. Industrial farming — driven by agribusiness in order to sell more chemicals, pesticides, and costly seeds to farmers — is heavily responsible for emissions of greenhouse gases such as methane from factory farms nitrogen oxide from chemically fertilized soil and fossil fuels from mechanized farming systems.
Further, the long distance trade is responsible for adding food miles, which adds more carbon emissions. Taken together, more than 25 percent of climate instability is being caused by unsustainable farming that [simultaneously] displaces small peasants, creates poverty and bad food. So, tomorrow we could solve 25 percent of the planet’s climate instability if we returned to ecological agriculture as the earth wants
it, farming according to 10,000 years of wisdom that evolved from the third world.
Research that we are undertaking now shows a 200 percent higher level of carbon return and 10 times higher level of moisture retention. So if increased drought is one consequence of climate change, what you need is sorted organic matter, not more chemical fertilizers. We have two issues pertaining to climate change: We need to get rid of emissions from agriculture and long-distance transport.
This means ecological farming, localization of the food system and only importing what can’t be grown locally — not forcing imports as the U.S has done on India. It has forced us to buy wheat, give up our mustard and coconut oil and to live on soya. These trade factors are “forcings” that are causing more damage to our climate and destroying our food culture, nutrition and access to food.
Finally, biodiverse systems actually produce more food. It is an illusion that because there’s a food crisis, we must have [genetically modified food] spread around the world. First, genetically-engineered crops don’t produce more food. And secondly, they make the soil more vulnerable to climate change. They are herbicide resistant and toxin traps. That is not a yield increase.
AlterNet: So the genetic altering of food ultimately exacerbates the already difficult circumstances with food shortages.
VS: Absolutely. I think any recipe today offered in agriculture should be measured against the test of whether it will enhance the food production capacity of the poor and if it will reduce the pressure on the planet.
AlterNet: Let’s also incorporate another concept that you feature in your writing — “biopiracy.”
VS: Biopiracy is the strange phenomenon whereby the richest and biggest of corporations steal genetic resources and traditional knowledge from poor little women and peasants who have shared it for free for over a millennium. The first case I had to fight was against the United States government with W.R. Grace, which became infamous in the film A Civil Action, when it polluted the groundwater outside of Boston.
They stole Neem, which is a tree that gives us [natural] pest and fungal control through its oil. The USDA along with Grace claim to have invented Neem. Of course, my grandmother and my mother used it. Then, I popularized it after Bopal with a campaign called “No more Bopal. Plant a Neem.” When I saw this patent, I had to fight it. We fought for 11 years, and eventually the biggest governmental powers and one of the biggest chemical companies were beaten out by a coalition of civic society groups and movements.
Another case of biopiracy is the famous Basmati rice that comes from my valley. A company in Texas claims to have invented it. The third case was Monsanto, which claimed to have invented an ancient wheat variety, which is very low in gluten. The problem with biopiracy is not simply that they’re taking genetic material and knowledge for free, but that they are claiming an exclusive right to it and then demanding royalty, claim and fame from the very communities and societies [from which they have taken it], communities that have had this biodiversity and this knowledge for years.
AlterNet: Speaking of Monsanto, you have done considerable research on this company and published a report, “Peddling Life Sciences or Death Sciences.”
VS: If I had to rank criminality of corporations, Monsanto will easily walk away with the highest award. Monsanto has taken over the control of world’s seed supply. It has bought up every small seed company in India, Brazil and the United States and become the biggest seed corporation. But its entire model of functioning is through corruption. They corrupted the United States decision-making such that U.S. citizens no longer have a right to know what they are eating, whether milk has bovine growth hormone in it or if soybeans and corn are genetically engineered. They are spreading this corruption worldwide.
I am fighting them through three cases in our supreme court. And we’ve managed to hold them at the level of Bt cotton. They have not yet managed to invade into our food economy with genetically modified food crop. But the worst thing Monsanto is doing is buying Delta and Pine Land, a company that has the patent for terminator technology that designs seeds to be sterilized. It is genetically engineering life for life’s extinction.
AlterNet: We should also talk about water scarcity. There are major water wars occurring and considerable concern about the future of water. Do you think that water scarcity is being created largely by the phenomenon of privatization or is it resulting from climate change and other such phenomena?
VS: Water scarcity [is] being created by non-sustainable systems of production for both food and textile. Every industrial activity has huge water demands. Industrial agriculture requires ten times more water to produce the same amount of food than ecological farming does. And the “green revolution” was not so green because it created demand for large dams and mining of groundwater.
Industrial agriculture has depleted water resources. In addition, as water has become polluted and depleted, a handful of industry saw water as a way of making super-profits by privatizing it. They are privatizing it in two ways. The first is through buying up entire civic, municipal distribution. The big players in this are Bechtel, Suez and Vivendi.
And interestingly, wherever they go, they face protests. Bechtel was thrown out of Bolivia. Suez wanted to take Delhi’s water supply, but we had a movement for water democracy and did not allow them to take over. But there’s a second kind of privatization, which is more insidious — and that is the plastic water bottle. Coca-Cola and Pepsi are leading in this privatization. But in India where Coca-Cola was stealing water, I worked with a small group of village women, and they shut their plant down. Across India, these giant corporations are taking between 1.5 to 2 million liters of water a day and leaving behind a water famine.
AlterNet: Given what is happening as a result of climate change, would we still face a water crisis without these practices?
VS: We would not be facing water problems if people have been allowed to have their economies, to practice sustainability and to live their lives. Every step in the water crisis is due to greed. As the water becomes increasingly scarce, the corporations who control the water become richer. It is the same with food. As food becomes scarce, the corporations controlling food become richer. That is the paradox of the global economy. Growth shows up in the profits of corporations while in the real world, the resources from which they make their profits, shrink.
AlterNet: You have also suggested that these same economic principles are incompatible with the sustenance of democratic governance.
VS: There are many levels at which a market economy called corporate globalization has to kill democracy in order to survive. Take the birth of World Trade Organization (WTO), an undemocratic institution. There are no negotiations on the rules it imposes. These rules are created undemocratically. Then, every time these rules are implemented, there are protests. Normally in democracy, if the will of people say change this policy, governments change. Unfortunately, governance today is run by corporations not the people. Every step of deepening the market economy is a depletion of democracy. Our very governments have been stolen from us, and we have to use democracy to counter these rules, this paradigm, and the absolute destruction [it causes].
AlterNet: Describe your alternative vision that could replace what we currently have.
VS: I try to articulate an alternative vision in terms of a democracy. Global market economy makes the first citizen the corporation. The rest of us are slaves, second class citizens. Secondly, it cre
ates an identity for the human species as consumers in a global supermarket. We are no longer creators and producers. We are just consumers of goods that corporations bring to us from the place where they can manufacture them — at the highest cost to the environment and workers.
What we need is a reclaiming of who we are as human beings. We are first and foremost citizens of this beautiful planet. Our first duty is to protect this planet. And out of that flows the rights to the earth, air, water and food that the earth gives us. Those gifts are common resources, not commodities, private property or intellectual property. They are the commons of the earth and all of us have equal access to it. Nobody can interfere in the access of a person to their share of water, land and air. That interference is a violation of the rules of Gaia and the rules of democracy.
But the polluting industry has privatized even the air by first putting their pollutants into it and then by the carbon trade. They’re basically are saying that because we polluted the atmosphere, we own it. So we can pollute as much as we want and then buy up clean credits from someone else who is not polluting. The commons and the recovery of commons is vital to earth democracy. It’s at the heart of sustainability of the earth and democratic functioning of society.
AlterNet: Do property rights fit into this vision of the commons?
VS: Most private property rights have been carved out of the shared resources of the earth. In India we say “land belongs to creation.” We can use it and have “use rights,” but that is different from ownership and tradable rights. It is British colonialism that created private property in land the way it is now practiced.
Now, the World Bank is trying to create private property in land among indigenous communities. Water was never property either, but today, they are trying to change that. Seeds were meant to be shared and distributed, not treated as property. Intellectual property rights are as recent as the World Trade Organization and need to be eliminated because they are inconsistent with life [principles]. A world of the future governed by intellectual property rights over seed in Monsanto’s hands is a future where biodiversity will be destroyed, farmers will be wiped out and there will be no food worth eating.
AlterNet: You’ve also been involved in the “slow food” movement and organic farming.
VS: I was just elected Vice President of Slow Food [International], and I chair an international commission on the future of food, a commission started by the region of Tuscany in Italy. I convinced the [founder], Carlo Petrini, to recognize that food does not begin in the kitchen or in the chef’s hands. It begins in the farmers’ fields. One of the contributions that I and my colleagues have made in the seed-saving and organic farming movements is the recognition that biodiversity, organic farming and small-scale agriculture produces more food. It is a myth created by industrial agriculture and agribusiness that monocultures and chemical farming produce more food. They use more energy and chemicals, and do not produce more nutrition per acre. In fact, they use ten times more energy inputs than they produce as food. So with the food crisis, it is vital that we move to efficient food systems that also give us better quality food.
AlterNet: How would we carry your vision and language into actual political and farming structure?
VS: In countries like India, it’s not a case of vision being translated into practice. It’s defending a practice that’s being destroyed by a perverse vision. For us, it is defending the rights of small peasants. That’s where lot of my energy goes. An India of the villages was Gandhi’s dream and is my dream. But I do not see India surviving if her villages and her food capacity are wiped out. In the Northern countries like the United States farmers have already been uprooted. We need more farms producing more locally-grown foods. This country that can subsidize biofuel and chemicals should instead subsidize the return of small farmers to the land. This would solve much of the unemployment problem too.

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I’m Voting Republican!

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Poet Of The Revolution: Leonel Rugama

Biography
His name was never written

on the old walls of the school john.

When he left the classroom for good

nobody noticed he was gone.

The sirens of the world kept silent,

never detecting his blood on fire.

His fiery intensity

became more and more unbearable,

until the shadow of the mountains

embraced the sound of his footsteps.

That virgin land nurtured him with its mystery.

Each breeze cleansed his ideal

and left him like a child, naked and white

trembling, newly bathed.

The whole world was deaf, and where

the battle began to be born

no one listened.

—

El “Che”
“Ni un tanque

ni una bomba de hidrógeno

ni todas las bolitas del mundo”

lucha en todas partes

y en todas partes

florecen las higueras

del río bajan montones de guerrilleros

en Higueras del Río dicen que lo mataron

“CHE” comandante

nosotros somos el camino

y vos el caminante.

—
The Earth Is A Satellite Of The Moon
Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 4 cost more than Apollo 3

Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 8 cost a fortune, but no one minded

because the astronauts were Protestant

they read the Bible from the moon

astounding and delighting every Christian

and on their return Pope Paul VI gave them his blessing.
Apollo 9 cost more than all these put together

including Apollo 1 which cost plenty.
The great-grandparents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the grandparents.

The great-grandparents died of hunger.

The grandparents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the parents.

The grandparents died of hunger.

The parents of the people of Acahualinca were less

hungry than the children of the people there.

The parents died of hunger.
The people of Acahualinca are less hungry than the children

of the people there.

The children of the people of Acahualinca, because of hunger,

are not born

they hunger to be born, only to die of hunger.

Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the moon.

—
Sandino
“Había un nica de Niquinohomo

que no era ni político

ni soldado”

luchó en Las Segovias

y una vez que le escribió a Froylán Turcios

le decía que si los yanquis

por ironía del destino

le mataban a todos su guerrilleros

en el corazón de ellos

encontraría el tesoro más grande de patriotismo

y que eso humillaría a la gallina

que en forma de águila

ostenta el escudo de los norteamericanos

y más adelante le decía

que por su parte al verse solo (cosa que no creía)

se pondría en el centro de cien quintales de dinamita

que tenía en su botín de guerra

y que con su propia mano daría fuego

y que dijeran a cuatrocientos kilómetros a la redonda:
SANDINO HA MUERTO.

—
Take out all the skeletons

(Fragment of “Como los santos”)
To all the skeletons that may die

in Los Cauces (in The River Bottoms)

in Miralagos

in the Valle Maldito (in the Damned Valley)

in Acahualinca

in La Fortaleza (in the Fortress)

in El Fanguito (in The Little Mud)

in the Calles del Pecado (in the Streets of Sin)

in La Zona (in The Zone)

in La Perla (in The Pearl)

in the neighborhood of Altavista

in the neighborhood of Lopez Mateos

in La Salinera (in The Salt Mine)

in Cabo Haitiano (in Haitian Cape)

in La Fossette

all of them bringing their kids

kids who aren´t born because of hunger

and who are hungry to be born

only to die of hunger

Let all the women come

the greengrocer with the big buttocks

and the asthmatic old lady with the basket

the black woman selling “vigoron”

the one in hat selling “baho”

the one selling iced “chicha”

and the one selling barley

the one selling orange juice

and the one who washes clothes with her whitish hands because of soap

the ones serving “ponche” at the fiesta

and the ones selling spotted rooster and roast meat

the ones selling innards

and the greasy “nacatamaleras”

the maids

the ones carrying “picheles”

the procuresses

with their bitches

and that gorgeous girl who sells bread and butter

and the young girl

who is just blossoming with breasts

and the one selling cakes

and all the kids who sell “guineos”

oranges

and tangerines

at one peso

per bag

Also, let the pickpockets

the cantina chicks

and the whores

and the old whores with big tits

and the brand new whores come

Call the spiritualists

and the mediums

and the evil-possessed ones

and the ones chased by gnomes

and by the evil spirits

and the witches

and the bewitched

and the ones selling filters

and the ones buying filters.

Now that you are all here

that you are all together in here

together and listening to me

now I want to talk to you all

or in other words

now that I am speaking to you

I want to start a conversation

and I want you to have a conversation

with all the ones that did not come

and that you speak loud to them when you be alone with them

and that you talk to them on the streets

in the houses

on the buses

in the movie theaters

in the parks

in the churches

in the billiard halls

in all weeded yards

in the neighborhoods without electricity

and from every edge of the fences

which are falling down

and from the river banks

sitting on the pavement

standing tight at the doors

and gazing through the windows

and, finally,

everywhere

and that you speak quietly

when you are not alone with them

or in other words when there´s a rich man near

or when a rich man´s guard is around.
I wanted to tell you

that now I am living in the catacombs

and that I have decided to kill the hunger that is killing us

when you talk about this

say it hard

when one of those who spreads the hunger be absent

or “one of their ears ” be

or one of their guards be.
Everybody shut up

and keep listening to what I am saying

in the catacombs

late in the evening when there´s less work

I paint on the walls

on the catacomb walls

the images of the saints

the saints who have died killing the hunger

and in the morning I imitate the saints.

Now I want to tell you about the saints. […]

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A Poem about Leonel Rugama…
R.I.P. Leonel L Rugama
One afternoon Leonel recommended

– to improve my vitality, strength — that I exercise

going on to say that by this he did not mean

“spiritual exercises.”

We talked also about the girls

who passed on their way from work or school

about others that went into and came out of a certain

shoe store

about another on the corner selling fried pork

then he read me a poem about a young girl

who had died in Vietnam.

Today, another afternoon,

I see on the front page of a daily

the photo of his body riddled by the G.N.

and recall how José Coronel Urtecho

once said to me,

“Poets? They’re good for nothing.”

R.I.P. Leonel L Rugama
Una tarde Leonel me recomendó

– para la flacura — hacer ejercicios

aclarándome que no se trataba de

“ejercicios espirituales”

Hablamos acerca de las muchachas

que iban o venían del trabajo o del colegio

de las que entraban o salían de una tienda

de zapatos

de otra que pasaba vendiendo chancho

también me leyó un poema sobre una guerrillera

Vietnamita.

Ahora — otra tarde que veo su cuerpo acribillado

por la G.N. en la foto de un diario

recuerdo que José Coronel Urtecho

una vez me dijo: “Los poetas no sirven para nada.”

– Francisco Santos

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Pieces Of A Biography: Leonel Rugama
Leonel Rugama is Nicaragua’s most famous guerrilla poet. His poems in praise of liberation appeared as graffiti on walls in Nicaragua during his life and after his tragically early death at the age of 20. He was killed holding off an entire battalion of Army regulars, refusing to surrender.
From this Blog: Sherman’s Centroamerica Travel Journal “Leonel Rugama Rugama was a university student studying (and writing) poetry when he joined the Sandinistas in the 60s. He was eventually became the bodyguard for the Sandinista “architect,” Carlos Fonseca. In January 1970, Rugama and Fonseca were caught in a trap set by the National Guard. They were both chased into an abandoned building in Managua. Outside, the Guardia had about 300 soldiers with a couple of (American) helicopters providing support. Rugama single handedly held off an attack while Fonseca slipped into the sewer system and escaped to safety. The commander of the Guardia reportedly yelled “Surrender Sandinista.”
Rugama replied with words that will probably outlive his beautiful poetry. He said “Surrender your mother!”
The Guardia then stormed the building and shot him. A lot, I would presume.

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Bob Marley- One Love

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“To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.” -Robert Graves

Saturday…

Well, Mary got ill late yesterday, and the Rose Parade is off now for us. I do love wandering through the crowds on the way to the hotel to party with friends and watch the floats and bands go by. What is it about the parade that captures our attention? Humans seem to love getting dressed up, and trooping together in celebration. We seem to enjoy the movement and sounds. Wonderful really. A pleasure!
Rowan is in and out of the house, on his non-stop social whirl. It is kinda fun watching him go through this transition period. He is starting work soon, so more power to him for making the most of it.
Tomorrow has an event here in Portland, Gary Ewing Memorial Bash At The Crystal Ballroom I attended one of Gary’s LightShows back in 1969 at the student union at Reed College. It was pretty cool. All the lights were focused on a large inflatable dome, which you could wander into sit, or dance… This is a benefit for the family, so if you are in Portland, this promises to be a sweet event, originally organized by Gary for the 40th anniversary of the Portland Zoo Electric Band. I hope to be there, with Morgan and maybe others if I can be persuasive…
Tha is it for today, hope your life is sweet! Working today on the next issue of The Invisible College, and programming Radio Free EarthRites!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Loreena McKennitt – The Stolen Child (William Butler Yeats Poem)

Robert Graves Quotes

The Links

Two Countries

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet: To Any Would-Be Terrorist

From The Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock Poems…

Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai

Art: Lawrence Alma-Tadema

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Loreena McKennitt – The Stolen Child

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Robert Graves Quotes:
“There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.”
“Intuition is the supra-logic that cuts out all the routine processes of thought and leaps straight from the problem to the answer.”
“If I were a girl, I’d despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.”
“I believe that every English poet should read the English classics, master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them, travel abroad, experience the horror of sordid passion and-if he is lucky enough-know the love of an honest woman.”
“Love is a universal migraine / A bright stain on the vision / Blotting out reason.”
“We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall”
“Poetry is no more a narcotic than a stimulant; it is a universal bittersweet mixture for all possible household emergencies and its action varies accordingly as it is taken in a wineglass or a tablespoon, inhaled, gargled or rubbed on the chest . . .”

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The Links:

New Club Drug…

Shallal Brings ‘Poets’ Vision to EMU

Israeli peace activist wounded during a protest against roadblocks in Hebron

Preview of the Republican Convention…

Hope For The Future?

_________________________

Two Countries

Skin remembers how long the years grow

when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel

of singleness, feather lost from the tail

of a bird, swirling onto a step,

swept away by someone who never saw

it was a feather. Skin ate, walked,

slept by itself, knew how to raise a

see-you-later hand. But skin felt

it was never seen, never known as

a land on the map, nose like a city,

hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque

and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.
Skin had hope, that’s what skin does.

Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.

Love means you breathe in two countries.

And skin remembers–silk, spiny grass,

deep in the pocket that is skin’s secret own.

Even now, when skin is not alone,

it remembers being alone and thanks something larger

that there are travelers, that people go places

larger than themselves.
Naomi Shihab Nye

Letter from Naomi Shihab Nye, Arab-American Poet: To Any Would-Be Terrorists
I am sorry I have to call you that, but I don’t know how else to get your attention. I hate that word. Do you know how hard some of us have worked to get rid of that word, to deny its instant connection to the Middle East? And now look. Look what extra work we have. Not only did your colleagues kill thousands of innocent, international people in those buildings and scar their families forever, they wounded a huge community of people in the Middle East, in the United States and all over the world. If that’s what they wanted to do, please know the mission was a terrible success, and you can stop now.
Because I feel a little closer to you than many Americans could possibly feel, or ever want to feel, I insist that you listen to me. Sit down and listen. I know what kinds of foods you like. I would feed them to you if you were right here, because it is very very important that you listen. I am humble in my country’s pain and I am furious.
My Palestinian father became a refugee in 1948. He came to the United States as a college student. He is 74 years old now and still homesick. He has planted fig trees. He has invited all the Ethiopians in his neighborhood to fill their little paper sacks with his figs. He has written columns and stories saying the Arabs are not terrorists, he has worked all his life to defy that word. Arabs are businessmen and students and kind neighbors. There is no one like him and there are thousands like him – gentle Arab daddies who make everyone laugh around the dinner table, who have a hard time with headlines, who stand outside in the evenings with their hands in their pockets staring toward the far horizon.
I am sorry if you did not have a father like that. I wish everyone could have a father like that.
My hard-working American mother has spent 50 years trying to convince her fellow teachers and choir mates not to believe stereotypes about the Middle East. She always told them, there is a much larger story. If you knew the story, you would not jump to conclusions from what you see in the news. But now look at the news. What a mess has been made. Sometimes I wish everyone could have parents from different countries or ethnic groups so they would be forced to cross boundaries, to believe in mixtures, every day of their lives. Because this is what the world calls us to do. WAKE UP!
The Palestinian grocer in my Mexican-American neighborhood paints pictures of the Palestinian flag on his empty cartons. He paints trees and rivers. He gives his paintings away. He says, “Don’t insult me” when I try to pay him for a lemonade. Arabs have always been famous for their generosity. Remember? My half-Arab brother with an Arabic name looks more like an Arab than many full-blooded Arabs do and he has to fly every week.
My Palestinian cousins in Texas have beautiful brown little boys. Many of them haven’t gone to school yet. And now they have this heavy word to carry in their backpacks along with the weight of their papers and books. I repeat, the mission was a terrible success. But it was also a complete, total tragedy and I want you to think about a few things.
1. Many people, thousands of people, perhaps even millions of people, in the United States are very aware of the long unfairness of our country’s policies regarding Israel and Palestine. We talk about this all the time. It exhausts us and we keep talking. We write letters to newspapers, to politicians, to each other. We speak out in public even when it is uncomfortable to do so, because that is our responsibility. Many of these people aren’t even Arabs. Many happen to be Jews who are equally troubled by the inequity. I promise you this is true. Because I am Arab-American, people always express these views to me and I am amazed how many understand the intricate situation and have strong, caring feelings for Arabs and Palestinians even when they don’t have to. Think of them, please: All those people who have been standing up for Arabs when they didn’t have to. But as ordinary citizens we don’t run the government and don’t get to make all our government’s policies, which makes us sad sometimes. We believe in the power of the word and we keep using it, even when it seems no one large enough is listening. That is one of the best things about this country: the free power of free words. Maybe we take it for granted too much. Many of the people killed in the World Trade Center probably believed in a free Palestine and were probably talking about it all the time.
But this tragedy could never help the Palestinians. Somehow, miraculously, if other people won’t help them more, they are going to have to help themselves. And it will be peace, not violence, that fixes things. You could ask any one of the kids in the Seeds of Peace organization and they would tell you that. Do you ever talk to kids? Please, please, talk to more kids.
2. Have you noticed how many roads there are? Sure you have. You must check out maps and highways and small alternate routes just like anyone else. There is no way everyone on earth could travel on the same road, or believe in exactly the same religion. It would be too crowded, it would be dumb. I don’t believe you want us all to be Muslims. My Palestinian grandmother lived to be 106 years old, and did not read or write, but even she was much smarter than that. The only place she ever went beyond Palestine and Jordan was to Mecca, by bus, and she was very proud to be called a Hajji and to wear white clothes afterwards. She worked very hard to get stains out of everyone’s dresses — scrubbing them with a stone. I think she would consider the recent tragedies a terrible stain on her religion and her whole part of the world. She would weep. She was scared of airplanes anyway. She wanted people to worship God in whatever ways they felt comfortable. Just worship. Just remember God in every single day and doing. It didn’t matter what they called it. When people asked her how she felt about the peace talks that were happening right before she died, she puffed up like a proud little bird and said, in Arabic, “I never lost my peace inside.” To her, Islam was a welcoming religion. After her home in Jerusalem was stolen from her, she lived in a small village that contained a Christian shrine. She felt very tender toward the people who would visit it. A Jewish professor tracked me down a few years ago in Jerusalem to tell me she changed his life after he went to her village to do an oral history project on Arabs. “Don’t think she only mattered to you!” he said. “She gave me a whole different reality to imagine – yet it was amazing how close we became. Arabs could never be just a “project” after that.”
Did you have a grandmother or two? Mine never wanted people to be pushed around. What did yours want? Reading about Islam since my grandmother died, I note the “tolerance” that was “typical of Islam” even in the old days. The Muslim leader Khalid ibn al-Walid signed a Jerusalem treaty which declared, “in the name of God, you have complete security for your churches which shall not be occupied by the Muslims or destroyed.” It is the new millenium in which we should be even smarter than we used to be, right? But I think we have fallen behind.
3. Many Americans do not want to kill any more innocent people anywhere in the world. We are extremely worried about military actions killing innocent people. We didn’t like this in Iraq, we never liked it anywhere. We would like no more violence, from us as well as from you. HEAR US! We would like to stop the terrifying wheel of violence, just stop it, right on the road, and find something more creative to do to fix these huge problems we have. Violence is not creative, it is stupid and scary and many of us hate all those terrible movies and TV shows ma
de in our own country that try to pretend otherwise. Don’t watch them. Everyone should stop watching them. An appetite for explosive sounds and toppling buildings is not a healthy thing for anyone in any country. The USA should apologize to the whole world for sending this trash out into the air and for paying people to make it.
But here’s something good you may not know – one of the best-selling books of poetry in the United States in recent years is the Coleman Barks translation of Rumi, a mystical Sufi poet of the 13th century, and Sufism is Islam and doesn’t that make you glad?
Everyone is talking about the suffering that ethnic Americans are going through. Many will no doubt go through more of it, but I would like to thank everyone who has sent me a consolation card. Americans are usually very kind people. Didn’t your colleagues find that out during their time living here? It is hard to imagine they missed it. How could they do what they did, knowing that?
4. We will all die soon enough. Why not take the short time we have on this delicate planet and figure out some really interesting things we might do together? I promise you, God would be happier. So many people are always trying to speak for God – I know it is a very dangerous thing to do. I tried my whole life not to do it. But this one time is an exception. Because there are so many people crying and scarred and confused and complicated and exhausted right now – it is as if we have all had a giant simultaneous break-down. I beg you, as your distant Arab cousin, as your American neighbor, listen to me. Our hearts are broken, as yours may also feel broken in some ways we can’t understand, unless you tell us in words. Killing people won’t tell us. We can’t read that message. Find another way to live. Don’t expect others to be like you. Read Rumi. Read Arabic poetry. Poetry humanizes us in a way that news, or even religion, has a harder time doing. A great Arab scholar, Dr. Salma Jayyusi, said, “If we read one another, we won’t kill one another.” Read American poetry. Plant mint. Find a friend who is so different from you, you can’t believe how much you have in common. Love them. Let them love you. Surprise people in gentle ways, as friends do. The rest of us will try harder too. Make our family proud.

__________________________
From The Irish: Gabriel Rosenstock Poems…

Cé HÍ?………………………………. Who Is She?
‘Cé hí an bandia seo agat? ‘……………Who is this goddess of yours?

Cé hí? …………………………………………Who is she?

Fantaisíocht, cuirfidh me geall.’………..‘Pure fantasy, I wager.’
‘An é nach léir duit í?’……………………..‘Is she not clear to you?’

‘Ní léir!’…………………………………………‘No, she is not.’
‘Is léire ná an lá í……………………………’Clearer than day is she’

‘is léire ná an oíche…’………………………’clearer than night …’
‘Ní léir domsa í …’ …………………………….‘Not clear to me …’
‘Sí an lá san oíche í……………………………‘Day in night is she

an oíche sa lá …’ ………………………………’night in day …’
‘Ní fheicim í …’ …………………………………. ‘I see her not …’

‘Féach ionat féinig!’ ………………………….. ‘Look inside yourself!’
‘Deacair …’ ………………………………………..‘Difficult …’
‘Féach mar sin…………………………………….‘Then look

ar shioc an bhandé………………………………at her frost

ar an bhféar.’………………………………………covering the grass.’
—–
A Daisy Picked

Nóinín a phiocas
Nóinín a phiocas Duit

Agus ba ghrian chomh millteach sin é

Gur dalladh mé

Ach chneasaigh na piotail

I gceann na haimsire mé

Do ghéaga áthasacha

Ina gceann is ina gceann
A daisy picked
A daisy picked for You

Such a massive sun

I was blinded

But the petals healed me

In time

Your joyous limbs

One by one

—-
For More Than A Thousand Years
Le Breis is Míle Bliain
Mo ghrá Thú!

Gach soicind.

Nuair a chorraíonn an ghaoth an féar

Lingim Chugat ionam

Id bharróg dhorcha soilsím

Is mé Aimhirghin – cé eile? –

Mholas T’ainm thar chách
For More than a Thousand Years
I love You!

Every second

When wind rustles the grass –

Now and tomorrow –

I leap to You in me

In your dark embrace I shine

I am Amergin – who else –

I have praised Your name over all.

—-

You Are In Me
Taoi ionam
A bhé luisneach

A ghrian gan choinne i mí Feabhra

A bhláth roimh am

Soilsíonn Tú an oíche

Titeann Tú Id réalta reatha

Sprais i ndiaidh spraise

Is tá mo spéirse anois lom
Taoi ionam
You are in me
Brightest of beings

In sun-surprised February

Flower out of season

You illuminate the night

A falling star

Shower after shower

My sky is empty now
You are in me

__

Gabriel Rosenstock
Born in Kilfinane, Co. Limerick in 1949, he studied at University College Cork, where he associated with the Innti group of poets. He has written or translated more than 100 books, principally in Irish. Rogha Rosenstock, a selection from 10 different volumes of his poetry, appeared in 1994, and a selection of his children’s poetry, Dánta Duitse, was published in 1998. More recently, he published another volume of poetry, Syójó, and A Treasury of Irish Love, a compilation. A former chairman of Poetry Ireland, he is a member of several international haiku associations, and holds an honorary life membership of the Irish Translators’ and Interpreters’ Society. He is assistant editor with An Gúm, an Irish language publisher. He lives in Dublin.

From: Arts Council of Ireland

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Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai

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First Friday: A quick one… I just got back from my friend Christa Grimm’s opening down at 537 SE Ash. She has some great art, you should pop in and check it out. Great Landscapes! Her kids were there, Bonnie, Autumn & Sam. They are all in their 20′s now, in their teens when we first met them. Christa comes from an artistic background, her father and mother are well known Portland artist…
I stopped in at the Muralist Show, saw several of the artist, and saw the new pieces that have been put up. Talked with Joanne, and we are making plans for some new murals… so stay tuned!!
Lots on this entry, and we may as well delve into it on this wonderful evening in Portland… Tomorrow is the Rose Parade, and we are going down town to a hotel to hang with friends watching the parade pass below… good fun!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Fairy Thorn – An Ulster Ballad

Within’s Within: Scenes from the Psychedelic Revolution: 6/7/2008 Broadcast

The Orb: Vuja De (thanks Peter!)

A Few Words From Idries Shah

The Piper And The Puca

For Winter Rose & Mimi…. William Butler Yeats

The Orb – Fluffy Clouds (an oldie but goldie!)

Art: Edmund Dulac

_____________
The Fairy Thorn – An Ulster Ballad
“Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;

For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep;

Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland-reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep.”
At Anna Grace’s door ’twas thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.
They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air:
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head grey and dim

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,

Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,

And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,

Oh, never caroll’d bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,

And dreamily the evening has still’d the haunted braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky

When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,

Are hush’d the maiden’s voices, as cowering down they he

In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, the grassy ground beneath,

And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,

A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,

They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasp’d and prostrate all, with their heads together bow’d,

Soft o’er their bosom’s beating–the only human sound–

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three–

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,

By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold

And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they may not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll’d her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,

The maidens’ trance dissolveth go.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain–

They pined away and died within the year and day,

And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.

– Sir Samuel Ferguson

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Within’s Within: Scenes from the Psychedelic Revolution: 6/7/2008 Broadcast

Show #273

Time: 07 June 2008 (Saturday) at

19:00 UTC | PST-11am | EST-2pm | UK- 7pm | NZ-8am
High speed listen at: http://yage.net:9000/listen.pls

Dial-up listen at: [currently disabled]

Now Podcasting at: [currently disabled]

Duration: ~3h
On this week’s show:
New Rock Album: Elbow, The Seldom Seen Kid (2008)…been since 2005

that this UK band has been on this show…they’re back with a strange,

sometimes pretty, sometimes hauntingly melodic new record, full of

love songs and weirdness…very tasty…
Classic Rock Album: Brainticket, Cottonwoodhill (1971)…this band

formed in 1968 with Swiss, German, and Italian members, and in the

early ’70s released three amazing lysergic journeys…this was the

first of them…turn on…tune in…
Storybook Time: Chapter Twenty of Breaking Open the Head: A

Psychedelic Journey into the Heart of Contemporary Shamanism by

Daniel Pinchbeck…
Readings from Labyrinthine fixtion & Many Musics poems…& this

week’s featured artist is The Rolling Stones, music from their

fantastic 1970 live album, *Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!*…they say all sorts

of excitement is gathering together, all kinds of hope wiggling

through the door, hurry, don’t miss it! Don’t…miss…it…
Webcasting to the globe & beyond from the People’s Republic of

Portland, Oregon!

____________

Thanks To Peter For This!

The Orb: Vuja De

___________
A Few Words From Idries Shah

A quote from: ‘A Perfumed Scorpion’
Hindsight shows how often yesterday’s so-called truth may become today’s absurdity. Real ability is to respect relative truth without damaging oneself by refusing to realize that it will be superseded. When you observe that today’s controversies often reveal not relevance but the clash of the untaught with the wrongly taught, and when you can endure this knowledge without cynicism, as a lover of humankind, greater compensations will be open to you than a sense of your own importance or satisfaction in thinking about the unreliability of others.

—

Quotes from: ‘The Commanding Self ‘
Nowadays, few people contest the importance of knowing about conditioning in order to examine belief-systems. Why, therefore, is it so difficult to communicate with so many people along these lines? The answer is very simple. We are at a stage in understanding human behaviour analogous to that which obtained when people began to try to talk of chemistry to those who were fixated upon the hope of untold wealth (or, sometimes, spiritual enlightenment) through alchemy. Like the alchemist or those who want easy riches, people want dramatic inputs (emotional stimuli, excitement, reassurance, authority-figures and the rest) rather than knowledge.
It is only when the desire for knowledge and understanding becomes as effective as the craving for emotional stimulus that the individual becomes accessible to change, to knowledge, to more than a very little understanding.
So learning must be preceded by the capacity to learn. THAT, in turn, comes about at least in part by right attitude. And THAT, again, is where the would-be learner has to exercise effort.
Surely there is not, cannot be, any better proof of imagination confused with real experience, than something which happened to me during a tour of holy places in the Middle East.
I was with a party of very devout people belonging to a certain faith, we need not say which one. They were visiting places reputed for their spiritual history and atmosphere, mostly belonging to another religious tradition.
Their guide was new to the job. To help matters, he read in detail from a Michelin guide as we went from place to place. ‘Here martyrs were killed …. Here is the site of the cell of a certain holy monk …. Here such-and-such a person had a holy vision ….’
Every single time the devotees stood respectfully, showing every sign of appreciating the deep spiritual feelings which suffused the places ….
Then, one day, we were taken to a site where the guide read out about the horrors which had been perpetrated there, how a certain tyrant had murdered scores of good men of God, and how the whole area was reputed to be cursed. All shivered and eagerly discussed how they felt the ‘very essence of evil’ surrounding them.
They were still exchanging accounts of their own bloodcurdling experiences at the hotel that evening when the guide shamefacedly called us together in the foyer and admitted that he had been mistakenly reading from the wrong page. In spite of the ‘very essence of evil’ which all had experienced, we had in fact been standing in the middle of a burial-place of saints ….

___________

The Piper And The Puca

Douglas Hyde
Translated literally from the Irish of the Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta.
In the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the “Black Rogue.” He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother’s house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the “Black Rogue” (an rógaire dubh). The Púca came behind him, and flung him up on his own back. There were long horns on the Púca, and the piper got a good grip of them, and then he said–
“Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I have a ten-penny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.”
“Never mind your mother,” said the Púca, “but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes.” Then the Púca said to him, “Play up for me the ‘Shan Van Vocht’ (an t-seann-bhean bhocht).”
“I don’t know it,” said the piper.
“Never mind whether you do or you don’t,” said the Púca. “Play up, and I’ll make you know.”
The piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder.
“Upon my word, you’re a fine music-master,” says the piper then; “but tell me where you’re for bringing me.”
“There’s a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric tonight,” says the Púca, “and I’m for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you’ll get the price of your trouble.”
“By my word, you’ll save me a journey, then,” says the piper, “for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me, because I stole the white gander from him last Martinmas.”
The Púca rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric. Then the Púca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they passed in together, into a fine room.
The piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women (cailleacha) sitting round about it. The old woman rose up, and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you Púca of November (na Samhna). Who is this you have brought with you?”
“The best piper in Ireland,” says the Púca.
One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William.
“By my conscience, then,” says the piper, “myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Moy-rua (Red Mary), and it’s she told the priest I stole his gander.”
The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Púca said, “Play up music for these ladies.”
The piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the Púca said to pay the piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece, and gave it to him.
“By the tooth of Patric,” said he, “I’m as rich as the son of a lord.”
“Come with me,” says the Púca, “and I’ll bring you home.”
They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Púca, the gander came up to him, and gave him a new set of pipes. The Púca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to him, “You have two things now that you never had before–you have sense and music (ciall agus ceól). The piper went home, and he knocked at his mother’s door, saying, “Let me in, I’m as rich as a lord, and I’m the best piper in Ireland.”
“You’re drunk,” said the mother.
“No, indeed,” says the piper, “I haven’t drunk a drop.”
The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, “Wait now,” says he, “till you hear the music, I’ll play.”
He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music, there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He awakened the neighbours and they all were mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after that he told them all he had gone through that night.
The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.
The piper went to the priest, and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and geese began.
“Leave my sight, you thief,” said the priest.
But nothing would do the piper till he would put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.
He buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death, there was never a piper in the county Galway was as good as he was.

___________
For Winter Rose & Mimi…. William Butler Yeats

The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water-rats;

There we’ve hid our faery vats,

Full of berries

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim grey sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances,

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight;

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And is anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car,.

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To to waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For to world’s more full of weeping than you

can understand.
Away with us he’s going,

The solemn-eyed:

He’ll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal-chest.

For be comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

from a world more full of weeping than you.

—

To A Child Dancing In The Wind
Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind.

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

—
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.
—

The Cap And Bells

The jester walked in the garden:

The garden had fallen still;

He bade his soul rise upward

And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,

When owls began to call:

It had grown wise-tongued by thinking

Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;

She rose in her pale night-gown;

She drew in the heavy casement

And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,

When the owls called out no more;

In a red and quivering garment

It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming

Of a flutter of flower-like hair;

But she took up her fan from the table

And waved it off on the air.

‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,

‘I will send them to her and die’;

And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,

Under a cloud of her hair,

And her red lips sang them a love-song

Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,

And the heart and the soul came through,

To her right hand came the red one,

To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,

A chattering wise and sweet,

And her hair was a folded flower

And the quiet of love in her feet.

—
The Delphic Oracle Upon Plotinus
Behold that great Plotinus swim,

Buffeted by such seas;

Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,

But the Golden Race looks dim,

Salt blood blocks his eyes.

Scattered on the level grass

Or winding through the grove

plato there and Minos pass,

There stately Pythagoras

And all the choir of Love.

_____________
The Orb – Fluffy Clouds

_________

“Love becomes perfect only when it transcends itself –Becoming One with its object; Producing Unity of Being.” -Hakim Jami
If any project is worth doing, it should be done in beauty, and with thoughtfulness. A hard lesson for someone who was once always in a hurry, but an apt lesson as well. Sloooow down. Take your time, create it with love, thoroughness and patience. We are about to start to prepare at long last to release Issues 1 and 2 of The Invisible College in print… followed by Issue 5. Can I say…. Submissions? Let me know!
We have uploaded new music to the radio station, and have begun to start to eliminate older tracks… If you get a chance give it a listen. The spoken word channel has been hopping as well, so take some time, relax and check the different streams out.

Radio Free EarthRites!
I just want to wish my sister Rebecca a happy birthday… a day late, but my thoughts go out to her. It has been a couple of years since we last saw her, and with the cost of fuel and all the attending circus of capitalism’s collapse, we may have to get down to Cali via hopping freights, or bicycle….
Anyway, Rebecca if you see this, drop us a line!

________
On The Menu:

Brian Eno & Nitin Sawhney – Prophesy

Commercial Break: The Hymn to Ninkasi

The Sorceress (La Sorcière) Part One – Death of the Gods

Poetry: Maulana Jami on the Path

Sunset – Nitin Sawhney
Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

_________
Brian Eno & Nitin Sawhney – Prophesy

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—–

Commercial Break: At the celebration for Rowan’s graduation, our friend Morgan (who reps beer locally brought over some excellent samples from a brewery in Eugene – Ninkasi-
He brought 3 samples…

Total Domination IPA

Tricerahops Double IPA

Quantum Pale Ale
The Tricerahops Double IPA is to die for, and the others are excellent… so in honor of the Beery goodness of Ninkasi, I have included a little ditty from Sumeria about the deity herself!

The Hymn to Ninkasi – Making Beer

The Hymn to Ninkasi, inscribed on a nineteenth-century B.C. tablet, contains a recipe for Sumerian beer.)
Translation by Miguel Civil

Borne of the flowing water (…)

Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Borne of the flowing water (…)

Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Having founded your town by the sacred lake,

She finished its great walls for you,

Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,

She finished its great walls for you

Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,

Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake,

Ninkasi, Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,

Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.

You are the one who handles the dough,

[and] with a big shovel,

Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,

Ninkasi, You are the one who handles

the dough, [and] with a big shovel,

Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date]-honey.

You are the one who bakes the bappir

in the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes

the bappir in the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

You are the one who waters the malt

set on the ground,

The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,

Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt

set on the ground,

The noble dogs keep away even the potentates.

You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar

The waves rise, the waves fall.

Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks

the malt in a jar

The waves rise, the waves fall.

You are the one who spreads the cooked

mash on large reed mats,

Coolness overcomes.

Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads

the cooked mash on large reed mats,

Coolness overcomes.

You are the one who holds with both hands

the great sweet wort,

Brewing [it] with honey and wine

(You the sweet wort to the vessel)

Ninkasi, (…)

(You the sweet wort to the vessel)

The filtering vat, which makes

a pleasant sound,

You place appropriately on [top of]

a large collector vat.

Ninkasi, the filtering vat,

which makes a pleasant sound,

You place appropriately on [top of]

a large collector vat.

When you pour out the filtered beer

of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of

Tigris and Euphrates.

Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the

filtered beer of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of

Tigris and Euphrates.

_________
The Sorceress (La Sorcière)

by Jules Michelet

Part One – Death of the Gods
There are authors who assure us that a little while before the final victory of Christianity a mysterious voice was heard along the shores of the Ægean Sea, proclaiming: “Great Pan is dead!”
The old universal god of Nature is no more. Great the jubilation; it was fancied that, Nature being defunct, Temptation was dead too. Storm-tossed for so many years, the human soul was to enjoy peace at last.
Was it simply a question of the termination of the ancient worship, the defeat of the old faith, the eclipse of time-honoured religious forms? No! it was more than this. Consulting the earliest Christian monuments, we find in every line the hope expressed, that Nature is to disappear and life die out—in a word, that the end of the world is at hand.
The game is up for the gods of life, who have so long kept up a vain simulacrum of vitality. Their world is falling round them in crumbling ruin. All is swallowed up in nothingness: “Great Pan is dead!”

It was no new evangel that the gods must die. More than one ancient cult is based on this very notion of the death of the gods. Osiris dies, Adonis dies—it is true, in this case, to rise again. Æschylus, on the stage itself, in those dramas that were played only on the feast-days of the gods, expressly warns them, by the voice of Prometheus, that one day they must die. Die! but how?—vanquished, subjugated to the Titans, the antique powers of Nature.
Here it is an entirely different matter. The early Christians, as a whole and individually, in the past and in the future, hold Nature herself accursed. They condemn her as a whole and in every part, going so far as to see Evil incarnate, the Demon himself, in a flower. 1 So, welcome—and the sooner the better—the angel-hosts that of old destroyed the Cities of the Plain. Let them destroy, fold away like a veil, the empty image of the world, and at length deliver the saints from the long-drawn ordeal of temptation.
The Gospel says: “The day is at hand.” The Fathers say: “Soon, very soon.” The disintegration of the Roman Empire and the inroads of the barbarian invaders raise hopes in St. Augustine’s breast, that soon there will be no city left but the City of God.
Yet how long a-dying the world is, how obstinately determined to live on! Like Hezekiah, it craves a respite, a going backward of the dial. So be it then, till the year One Thousand,—but not a day longer.
Is it so certain, as we have been told over and over again, that the old gods were exhausted, sick of themselves and weary of existence? that out of sheer discouragement they as good as gave in their own abdication? that Christianity was able with a breath to blow away these empty phantoms?
They point to the gods at Rome, the gods of the Capitol, where they were only admitted in virtue of an anticipatory death, I mean on condition of resigning all they had of local sap, of renouncing their home and country, of ceasing to be deities representative of such and such a nation. Indeed, in order to receive them, Rome had had to submit them to a cruel operation, that left them poor, enervated, bloodless creatures. These great centralised Divinities had become, in their official life, mere dismal functionaries of the Roman Empire. But, though fallen from its high estate, this Aristocracy of Olympus had in nowise involved in its own decay the host of indigenous gods, the crowd of deities still holding possession of the boundless plains, of woods and hills and springs, inextricably blended with the life of the countryside. These divinities, enshrined in the heart of oaks, lurking in rushing streams and deep pools, could not be driven out.
Who says so? The Church herself, contradicting herself flatly. She first proclaims them dead, then waxes indignant because they are still alive. From century to century, by the threatening voice of her Councils, 2 she orders them to die. . . . And lo! they are as much alive as ever!
“They are demons . . .”—and therefore alive. Unable to kill them, the Church suffers the innocent-hearted countryfolk to dress them up and disguise their true nature. Legends grow round them, they are baptised, actually admitted into the Christian hierarchy. But are they converted? Not yet by any means. We catch them still on the sly continuing their old heathen ways and Pagan nature.
Where are they to be found? In the desert, on lonely heaths, in wild forests? Certainly, but above all in the house. They cling to the most domestic of domestic habits; women guard and hide them at board and even bed. They still possess the best stronghold in the world—better than the temple, to wit the hearth.

History knows of no other revolution so violent and unsparing as that of Theodosius. There is no trace elsewhere in antiquity of so wholesale a proscription of a religion. The Persian fire-worship, in its high-wrought purity, might outrage the visible gods of other creeds; but at any rate it suffered them to remain. Under it the Jews were treated with great clemency, and were protected and employed. Greece, daughter of the light, made merry over the gods of darkness, the grotesque pot-bellied Cabiri; but still she tolerated them, and even adopted them as working gnomes, making her own Vulcan in their likeness. Rome, in the pride of her might, welcomed not only Etruria, but the rustic gods as well of the old Italian husbandman. The Druids she persecuted only as embodying a national resistance dangerous to her dominion.
Victorious Christianity, on the contrary, was fain to slaughter the enemy outright, and thought to do so. She abolished the Schools of Philosophy by her proscription of Logic and the physical extermination of the philosophers, who were massacred under the Emperor Valens. She destroyed or stripped the temples, and broke up the sacred images. Quite conceivably the new legend might have proved favourable to family life, if only the father had not been humiliated and annulled in St. Joseph, if the mother had been given prominence as the trainer, the moral parent of the child Jesus. But this path, so full of rich promise, was from the first abandoned for the barren ambition of a high, immaculate purity.
Thus Christianity deliberately entered on the lonely road of celibacy, one the then world was making for of its own impulse—a tendency the imperial rescripts fought against in vain. And Monasticism helped it on the downward slope.
Men fled to the desert; but they were not alone. The Devil went with them, ready with every form of temptation. They must needs revolutionise society, found cities of solitaries,—it was of no avail. Everyone has heard of the gloomy cities of anchorites that grew up in the Thebaïd, of the turbulent, savage spirit that animated them, and of their murderous descents upon Alexandria. They declared they were possessed of the Devil, impelled by demons,—and they told only the truth.
There was an enormous void arisen in Nature’s plan. Who or what should fill it? The Christian Church is ready with an answer: The Demon, everywhere the Demon—Ubique Dæmon. 3
Greece no doubt, like all other countries, had had its energumens, men tormented, possessed by spirits. But the similarity is purely external and accidental, the resemblance more apparent than real. In the Thebaïd it is no case of spirits either good or bad, but of the gloomy children of the pit, wilfully perverse and malignant. Everywhere, for years to come, these unhappy hypochondriacs are to be seen roaming the desert, full of self-loathing and self-horror. Try to realise, indeed, what it means,—to be conscious of a double personality, to really believe in this second self, this cruel indweller that comes and goes and expiates within you, and drives you to wander forth in desert places and over precipices. Thinner and weaker grows the sufferer; and the feebler his wretched body, the more fiercely the demon harries it. Women in particular are filled, distended, inflated by these tyrants, who impregnate them with the infernal aura, stir up internal storm and tempest, make them the sport and plaything of their every caprice, force them into sin and despair.
Nor is it human beings only that are demoniac. Alas! all Nature is tainted with the horror. If the devil is in a flower, how much more in the gloomy forest! The light that seemed so clear and pure is full of the creatures of night. The Heavens full of Hell,—what blasphemy! The divine morning star, that has shed its sparkling beam on Socrates, Archimedes, Plato, and once and again inspired them to sublimer effort, what is it now?—a devil, the great devil Lucifer. At eve, it is the devil Venus, whose soft and gentle light leads mortals into temptation.
I am not surprised at such a society turning mad and savage. Furious to feel itself so weak against the demons, it pursues them everywhere, in the temples and altars of the old faith to begin with, later in the heathen martyrs. Festivals are abolished; for may they not be assemblages for idolatrous worship? Even the family is suspect; for might not the force of habit draw the household together round the old classic Lares? And why a family at all? The empire is an empire of monks.
Yet the individual man, isolated and struck silent as he is, still gazes at the skies, and in the heavenly host finds once more the old gods of his adoration. “This is what causes the famines,” the Emperor Theodosius declares, “and all the other scourges of the Empire,”—a terrible dictum that lets loose the blind rage of the fanatic populace on the heads of their inoffensive Pagan fellow-citizens. The Law blindly unchains all the savagery of mob-law.
Old gods of Heathendom, the grave gapes for you! Gods of Love, of Life, of Light, darkness waits to engulf you! The cowl is the only wear. Maidens must turn nuns; wives leave their husbands, or if they still keep the domestic hearth, be cold and continent as sisters.
But is all this possible? Who shall be strong enough with one breath to blow out the glowing lamp of God? So reckless an enterprise of impious piety may well bring about strange, monstrous, and astounding results. . . . Let the guilty tremble!
Repeatedly in the Middle Ages shall we find the gloomy story recurring of the Bride of Corinth. First told in quite early days by Phlegon, the Emperor Hadrian’s freedman, it reappears in the twelfth century, and again in the sixteenth,—the deep reproach, as it were, the irrepressible protest of outraged Nature.

“A young Athenian goes to Corinth, to the house of the man who promises him his daughter in marriage. He is still a Pagan, and is not aware that the family he hopes to become a member of has just turned Christian. He arrives late at night. All are in bed, except the mother, who serves the meal hospitality demands, and then leaves him to slumber, half dead with fatigue. But hardly is he asleep, when a figure enters the room,—a maiden, clad in white, wearing a white veil and on her brow a fillet of black and gold. Seeing him, she raises her white hand in surprise: ‘Am I then already so much a stranger in the house? . . . Alas! poor recluse. . . . But I am filled with shame, I must begone.’ ‘Nay! stay, fair maiden; here are Ceres and Bacchus, and with you, love! Fear not, and never look so pale!’ ‘Back, back, I say! I have no right to happiness any more. By a vow my sick mother made, youth and life are for ever fettered. The gods are no more, and the only sacrifices now are human souls.’ ‘What! can this be you? You, my promised bride I love so well, promised me from a child? Our fathers’ oath bound us indissolubly together under Heaven’s blessing. Maiden! be mine!’ ‘No! dear heart, I cannot. You shall have my young sister. If I groan in my chill prison-house, you in her arms must think of me, me who waste away in thoughts of you, and who will soon be beneath the sod.’ ‘No! no! I call to witness yonder flame; it is the torch of Hymen. You shall come with me to my father’s house. Stay with me, my best beloved!’ For wedding gift he offers her a golden cup. She gives him her neck-chain; but chooses rather than the cup a curl of his hair.
“’Tis the home of spirits; she drinks with death-pale lips the dark, blood-red wine. He drinks eagerly after her, invoking the God of Love. Her poor heart is breaking, but still she resists. At last in despair he falls weeping on the bed. Then throwing herself down beside him: ‘Ah! how your grief hurts me! Yet the horror of it, if you so much as touched me! White as snow, and cold as ice, such alas! and alas! is your promised bride.’ ‘Come to me! I will warm you, though you should be leaving the very tomb itself. . . .’ Sighs, kisses pass between the pair. ‘Cannot you feel how I burn?’ Love unites them, binds them in one close embrace, while tears of mingled pain and pleasure flow. Thirstily she drinks the fire of his burning mouth; her chilled blood is fired with amorous ardours, but the heart stands still within her bosom.
“But the mother was there, though they knew it not, listening to their tender protestations, their cries of sorrow and delight. ‘Hark! the cock-crow! Farewell till to-morrow, to-morrow night!’ A lingering farewell, and kisses upon kisses!
“The mother enters furious, to find her daughter! Her lover strives to enfold her, to hide her, from the other’s view; but she struggles free, and towering aloft from the couch to the vaulted roof: ‘Oh! mother, mother! so you begrudge me my night of joy, you hunt me from this warm nest. Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the cold shroud, and borne me so untimely to the tomb? But a power beyond you has lifted the stone. In vain your priests droned their prayers over the grave; of what avail the holy water and the salt, where youth burns hot in the heart? Cold earth cannot freeze true Love! . . . You promised; I am returned to claim my promised happiness. . . .
“‘Alack! dear heart, you must die. You would languish here and pine away. I have your hair; ’twill be white to-morrow. 4 . . . Mother, one last prayer! Open my dark dungeon, raise a funeral pyre, and let my loving heart win the repose the flames alone can give. Let the sparks fly upward and the embers glow! We will back to our old gods again.’”

Footnotes
4:1 Compare Muratori, Script. It., i. 293, 545, on St. Cyprian; A. Maury, Magie, 435.
5:2 See Mansi, Baluze; Council of Arles, 442; Tours, 567; Leptines, 743; the Capitularies, etc. Gerson even, towards 1400.
6:3 See the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, and the authors quoted by A. Maury, Magie, 317. In the fourth century the Messalians, believing themselves to be full of demons, were constantly blowing their noses, and spitting unceasingly, in their incredible efforts to expectorate these.
10:4 At this point of the story I suppress an expression that may well shock us. Goethe, so noble in the form of his writings, is not equally so in the spirit. He quite mars the wonderful tale, fouling the Greek with a gruesome Slavonic notion. At the instant when the lovers are dissolved in tears, he makes the girl into a vampire. She curses because she is athirst for blood, to suck his heart’s blood. The poet makes her say coldly and calmly this impious and abominable speech: “When he is done, I will go on to others; the new generation shall succumb to my fury.”
The Middle Ages dress up this tradition in grotesque garb to terrify us with the devil Venus. Her statue receives from a young man a ring, which he imprudently places on her finger. Her hand closes on it, she keeps it as a sign of betrothal; then at night, comes into his bed to claim the rights it confers. To rid him of his hellish bride, an exorcism is required (S. Hibb., part iii. chap. iii. 174). The same story occurs in the Fabliaux, but absurdly enough applied to the Virgin. Luther repeats the classical story, if my memory serves me, in his Table-talk, but with great coarseness, letting us smell the foulness of the grave. The Spaniard Del Rio transfers the scene from Greece to Brabant. The affianced bride dies shortly before the wedding-day. The passing-bell is tolled; the grief-stricken bridegroom roams the fields in despair. He hears a wail; it is the loved one wandering over the heath. . . . “See you not,” she cries, “who my guide is?” “No!” he replies, and seizing her, bears her away to his home. Once there, the account was very near growing over tender and touching. The grim inquisitor, Del Rio, cuts short the thread with the words, “Lifting the veil, they found a stake with a dead woman’s skin drawn over it.” The Judge Le Loyes, though not much given to sensibility, nevertheless reproduces for us the primitive form of the legend. After him, there is an end of these gloomy story-tellers, whose trade is done. Modern days begin, and the Bride has won the day. Buried Nature comes back from the tomb, no longer a stealthy visitant, but mistress of the house and home.

_________

Maulana Jami on the Path (of Tasawwuf)
It is recorded in the tradition of the Shaykhs that Jami once said, when asked about hypocrisy and honesty:
“How wonderful is honesty and how strange hypocrisy! I wandered to Mecca and to Baghdad, and I made a trial of the behavior of men.
When I asked them to be honest, they always treated me with respect, because they had been taught that good men always speak thus, and they had learned that they must have their eyes downcast when people speak of honesty.
When I told them to shun hypocrisy, they all agreed with me.
But they did not know that when I said ‘truth’, I knew that they did not know what truth was, and that therefore both they and I were then being hypocrites.
They did not know that when I told them not to be hypocrites they were being hypocrites in not asking me the method. They did not know that I was being a hypocrite in merely saying, ‘Do not be hypocrites’, because words do not convey the message by themselves.
They respected me, therefore, when I was acting hypocritically. They had been taught to do this. They respected themselves while they were thinking hypocritically; for it is hypocrisy to think that one is being improved simply by thinking that it is bad to be a hypocrite.
The Path (of Tasuwwuf) leads beyond: to the practice and the understanding where there can be no hypocrisy, where honesty is there and not something which is man’s aim.

__
One who travell’d in the Desert

Saw MAJNUN where he was sitting

All alone like a Magician

Tracing Letters in the Sand.

‘Oh distracted Lover! writing

What the Sword-wind of the Desert

Undeciphers so that no one

After you shall understand’.

MAJNUN answer’d — ‘I am writing

Only for myself, and only

“LAILA” —if for ever “LAILA”

Writing, in that Word a Volume,

Over which for ever poring,

From her very Name I sip

In fancy, till I drink, her Lip’.

—
God said to the Prophet David–

‘David, whom I have exalted

From the sheep to be my People’s

Shepherd, by your Justice my

Revelation justify.

Lest the mis-believing—yea,

The Fire-adoring Princes rather

Be my Prophets, who fulfill,

Knowing not my WORD, my WILL’.

translated by Edward Fitzgerald

—

Verses from the book Jami: Yusuf And Zulaikha

“No one ever suffered on the path of faith, who did not find the remedy for his pain. Let the remedy for Jami’s pain be that pain itself: let his medicine be his own ever-sorrowing heart.”

————-
“It has long been known in this ancient abode that without bitterness, life can never become sweet. For nine long months the child must drink blood in its mother’s womb; and how many tortures must the ruby endure, imprisoned in rock, before the sun finally illuminates its gorgeous hue!”

————-
“The lover who sincerely commits himself to the path of love will himself ultimately attain to the title of beloved.”

————-
“Happy is he who is able to escape from self, and feel the gentle breeze of frienship. His heart is so full of the beloved, that there is no longer room for anyone else. It is the beloved flowing through his every vein and nerve like his very life: there is not an atom of his body that is not filled with the friend. The true lover can no longer perceive either the scent or the color of his own self: he has no interest, either friendly or hostile, in anyone other than the beloved. His heart is attached neither to thorne nor crown; all greed and lust have packed their bags and left his street. If he speaks, it is to the friend; if he seeks, it is from the friend. He no longer takes himself into account, and lives only for love. He leaves the raw and turns to the ripe, abandoning completely the abode of the self.”

_____________
Sunset – Nitin Sawhney

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“If the scissors are not used daily on the beard, it will not be long before the beard is, by its luxuriant growth, pretending to be the head.”-Hakim Jami

_____

Tonight, Rowan graduates from High School. We had a gathering of friends for him yesterday, and it went nicely. Sweet people, and a wonderful time. My thanks and love go out to you all.
It has been a long haul for the lad, but he came out of it well, finishing on the honor roll and with premiering a one act play this past week that has never been performed in the US… (Picnic on a Battlefield – originally from Spain)
We have been blessed with these last 4 years. It has gone quickly but there is a sweetness to it all.
Life goes swiftly, and so much has occurred… this one is for Rowan, and all that he brings into the world by his presence.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

On The Menu:

Rachid Taha – Bara Bara

The Poems of Paul Éluard

Rachid Taha – Rock El Casbah

Rachid Taha – Bara Bara

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The Poems of Paul Éluard

She is standing on my lids

And her hair is in my hair

She has the colour of my eye

She has the body of my hand

In my shade she is engulfed

As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes

And she does not let me sleep

And her dreams in the bright day

Make the suns evaporate

And me laugh cry and laugh

Speak when I have nothing to say

—

To Live

We both have our hands to give

Take mine I shall lead you afar
I have lived several times my face has changed

With every threshold I have crossed and every hand clasped Familial springtime was reborn

Keeping for itself and for me its perishable snow

Death and the betrothed

The future with five fingers clenched and letting go
My age always gave me

New reasons for living through others

For having the blood of man other’s heart in mine
Oh the lucid fellow I was and that I am

Before the pallor of frail blind girls

Lovelier than the delicate worn moon so fair

By the reflection of life’s ways

A trail of moss and trees

Of mist and morning dew

Of the young body which does not rise alone

To its place on earth

Wind cold and rain cradle it

Summer makes a man of it
Presences is my virtue in each visible hand

Only death is solitude

From delight to fury from fury to clarity

I make myself whole through all beings

Through all weather on the earth and in the clouds

Through the passing seasons I am young

And strong for having lived

I am young my blood rises over my ruins
We have our hands to entwine Nothing can ever seduce better

Tahn our bonding to each other a forest

Returning earth to sky and the sky to night
To the night which prepares an unending day.

—

Hunted

A few grains of dust more or less

On ancient shoulders

Locks of weakness on weary foreheads

This theatre of honey and faded roses

Where incalculable flies

Reply to the black signs that misery makes to them

Despairing girders of a bridge

Thrown across space

Thrown across every street and every house

Heavy wandering madnesses

That we shall end by knowing by heart

Mechanical appetites and uncontrolled dances

That lead to the regret of hatred
Nostalgia of justice

—

Head Against The Walls

There were only a few of them

In all the earth

Each one thought he was alone

They sang, they were right

To sing

But they sang the way you sack a city

The way you kill yourself.
Frayed moist night

Shall we endure you

Longer

Shall we not shake

Your cloacal evidence

We shall not wait for a morning

Made to measure

We wanted to see in other people’s eyes

Their nights of love exhausted

They dream only of dying

Their lovely flesh forgotten

Bees caught in their honey

They are ignorant of life

And we suffer everywhere

Red roofs dissolve under the tongue

Dog days in the full beds

Come, empty your sacks of fresh blood

There is still a shadow here
A shred of imbecile there

In the wind their masks, their cast-offs

In lead their traps, their chains

And their prudent blind-men’s gestures

There is fire under rocks

If you put out the fire

Be careful we have

Despite the night it breeds

More strength than the belly

Of your wives and sisters

And we will reproduce

Without them but by ax strokes

In your prisons
Torrents of stone labors of foam

Where eyes float without rancor

Just eyes without hope

That know you

And that you should have put out

Rather than ignore
With a safety pin quicker than your gibbets

We shall take our booty where we want it to be

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Rachid Taha – Rock El Casbah

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A quick one for Friday Night, Saturday Morning… Just got in from having dinner with Ed & Janice & Mary after we all went to Rowan’s school to watch the senior directed one acts (Rowan directed one!)
Excellent evening, spent with wonderful young people performing and creating. I do believe that the ball is still rolling, and we will see wonders from this generation.
I contemplate often what defines the Bohemian Aesthetic… I saw it formulating tonight with these young ones… dedicated to their art, their joy in creating, and their beauty in motion. Heady stuff.
Anyway, enough of my meanderings…
More Tomorrow, or Sunday….
Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Ray Soulard Jr.’s “Within Within”

Skateboarding in Eugene, “Saltarello”

Poetry of Perter Orlovsky

Medieval Music #1: “Rain Saltarello”

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Links:

This is fairly brilliant…!

It’s In the Blood…Amanda Feilding, Lady Neidpath

Jesus Made Me Puke….

and in theme…

Jesus has a runny nose…

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Ray Soulard Jr.’s “Within Within” Show #272
Time: 31 May 2008 (Saturday) at
19:00 UTC | PST-11am | EST-2pm | UK- 7pm | NZ-8am
High speed listen at:

http://yage.net:9000/listen.pls

Dial-up listen at: [currently disabled]

Now Podcasting at: [currently disabled]
Duration: ~3h
On this week’s show:
New Rock Album: Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs (2008)…it’s

been three years since this Seattle-area band blew up the world with

*Plans*, and now they’re back with a decided turn for the

dark…musically adventurous, lyrically strange…a longer time in

finding its deep fine groove, but it’s there…
Classic Rock Album: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Pendulum

(1970)…this was the final album by CCR as a quartet…they pulled

out every stop for it…the rockers, the rants, the beautiful crazy

music only this band made, and for too short a time…
Storybook Time: Chapter Twenty of Breaking Open the Head: A

Psychedelic Journey into the Heart of Contemporary Shamanism by

Daniel Pinchbeck…
Readings from Labyrinthine fixtion & Many Musics poems…& this

week’s featured artist is Led Zeppelin, more cuts from their recently

remastered 1976 live album, *The Song Remains the Same*…moving along

in time, back and forth, keep an eye for the sun, for the best grove

of trees, for what music becks you near, for dreams that linger all

day…
Webcasting to the globe & beyond from the People’s Republic of

Portland, Oregon!

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Skateboarding in Eugene, “Saltarello”

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Poetry of Perter Orlovsky

First Poem
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.

Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mystery fills

the air.

I look for my shoes under my bed.

A fat colored woman becomes my mother.

I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.

I grow a beard in one day.

I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.

I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to

talk to me.

I empty the garbage on the table.

I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.

I use the typewriter as my pillow.

A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.

Bums give all their money to me.

All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.

My first five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough

bacon.

My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of

blue beards.

My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.

I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a

bullet.

I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.

My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning

of life

All I needed was ink to be a black boy.

I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.

I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.

I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for

fresh butts.

My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.

I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,

look up at my window and see nobody.

So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking “Do you have bigger tears

then I do?”

Nobody around, I piss anywhere.

My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfullest,

my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris

—
Second Poem
Morning again, nothing has to be done,

maybe buy a piano or make fudge.

At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I’ve done flick

the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.

But first of all wipe my glasses and drink the water

to clean the smelly mouth.

A knock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo’s baby

elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these

hallucinations any more.

Time for another cigarette and then let the curtains rise, then I

knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan

No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.

Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink

maybe or install an elevator from the bed to the floor,

maybe take a bath on the bed?

Whats the use of living if I cant make paradise in my own

room-land?

For this drop of time upon my eyes

like the endurance of a red star on a cigarette

makes me feel life splits faster than scissors.

I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would

disappear forever.

The holes in my shoes are only temporary, I understand that.

My rug is dirty but whose that isn’t?

There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in

the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.

Throw a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just

innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the

table.

Before the mirror I look like a Sahara desert ghost,

or on the bed I resemble a crying mummy hollering for air,

or on the table I feel like Napoleon.

But now for the main task of the day – wash my underwear –

two months abused – what would the ants say about that?

How can I wash my clothes – why I’d, I’d, I’d be a woman if I did

that.

No, I’d rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor

its more creative to paint it then clean it up.

As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in

a luncheonette.

My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me

around the globe.

Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.

I was born to remember a song about love – on a hill a butterfly

makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of

flowers.
Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris

—
My Bed is Covered Yellow
My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you

Oh golden field I lay on you

Oh money I dream of you

More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more –

Oh bed that took the weight of the world –

all the lost dreams laid on you

Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked

or can be fucked

Oh bed crumbs of all ages spilled on you

Oh yellow bed march to the sun where yr journey will be done

Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-

how strong you are

Oh bed, only for man & not for animals

yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?

Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built

Oh yellow bed all the news of the world

lay on you at one time or another
1957, Paris

—

Peter Reading

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Snail Poem
Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired

& handsome felt,

Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at

blown up cloud.

Ear turns close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound

of rain dribble thru this layer

down to the roots that will tickle my ear.

Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away

in sound curve or

Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon

trickle in my ear –

no choice but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey

turned.

Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor

between weel & track.

So kitten string & ball, jump over this mound so

gently & cutely

So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely

on its way.
1958 NYC

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Medieval Music #1: “Rain Saltarello”

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Angus & Hetty

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So I pay the tab for the Website for another year, and go to check on Turfing, and it is a complete mess. I have spent 2 days trying to get someone awake over at the ISP, to no frickin’ avail… Thanks to Doug Fraser’s calming influence, I restored it from files on my computer. Bless Yer Cotton Soxs’ Doug…
I am featuring, well, Lots of stuff on this one. An entry or two from Memorial Day, rememberances of days darkly remembered, and a few hints to a better future. It is all here. Life barrels on, and we best jump on it…
Anyway, “The Exploding Plastic Inevitable…” which was the perfect antidote to early Hippiedom, with East Village modalities and Gerald Malanga’s bull-whip in-tow, defined itself in Mr. Warhols’ warped perceptions, and the Velvets… Oh yeah, the Big Banana. They were a preview of the big dark, Oh, they were the messengers who colonized my ears.
Enough of all of this, I am heading for a rest.
Talk Later!
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

I’m Waitin’ For My Man….

The Exploding Plastic Inevitable

The Botany Of Desire…. Michael Pollan – (Cannabis)

War Is A Racket

Poetry Of Resistance

Sunday Morning

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The Links:

The Rebellion Within…

Zombies!

Excellent News! People Driving Less!

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I’m Waitin’ For My Man….

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The Exploding Plastic Inevitable

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The Botany Of Desire…. Michael Pollan – (Cannabis)
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War Is A Racket

by Two-Time Congressional Medal of Honor Recipient

Major General Smedley D. Butler – USMC Retired
WAR is a racket. It always has been.
It is possibly the oldest, easily the most profitable, surely the most vicious. It is the only one international in scope. It is the only one in which the profits are reckoned in dollars and the losses in lives.
A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of the people. Only a small “inside” group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few, at the expense of the very many. Out of war a few people make huge fortunes.
In the World War [I] a mere handful garnered the profits of the conflict. At least 21,000 new millionaires and billionaires were made in the United States during the World War. That many admitted their huge blood gains in their income tax returns. How many other war millionaires falsified their tax returns no one knows.
How many of these war millionaires shouldered a rifle? How many of them dug a trench? How many of them knew what it meant to go hungry in a rat-infested dug-out? How many of them spent sleepless, frightened nights, ducking shells and shrapnel and machine gun bullets? How many of them parried a bayonet thrust of an enemy? How many of them were wounded or killed in battle?
Out of war nations acquire additional territory, if they are victorious. They just take it. This newly acquired territory promptly is exploited by the few – the selfsame few who wrung dollars out of blood in the war. The general public shoulders the bill.
And what is this bill?
This bill renders a horrible accounting. Newly placed gravestones. Mangled bodies. Shattered minds. Broken hearts and homes. Economic instability. Depression and all its attendant miseries. Back-breaking taxation for generations and generations.
For a great many years, as a soldier, I had a suspicion that war was a racket; not until I retired to civil life did I fully realize it. Now that I see the international war clouds gathering, as they are today, I must face it and speak out.
Again they are choosing sides. France and Russia met and agreed to stand side by side. Italy and Austria hurried to make a similar agreement. Poland and Germany cast sheep’s eyes at each other, forgetting for the nonce [one unique occasion], their dispute over the Polish Corridor.
The assassination of King Alexander of Jugoslavia [Yugoslavia] complicated matters. Jugoslavia and Hungary, long bitter enemies, were almost at each other’s throats. Italy was ready to jump in. But France was waiting. So was Czechoslovakia. All of them are looking ahead to war. Not the people – not those who fight and pay and die – only those who foment wars and remain safely at home to profit.
There are 40,000,000 men under arms in the world today, and our statesmen and diplomats have the temerity to say that war is not in the making.
Hell’s bells! Are these 40,000,000 men being trained to be dancers?
Not in Italy, to be sure. Premier Mussolini knows what they are being trained for. He, at least, is frank enough to speak out. Only the other day, Il Duce in “International Conciliation,” the publication of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, said:
“And above all, Fascism, the more it considers and observes the future and the development of humanity quite apart from political considerations of the moment, believes neither in the possibility nor the utility of perpetual peace… War alone brings up to its highest tension all human energy and puts the stamp of nobility upon the people who have the courage to meet it.”
Undoubtedly Mussolini means exactly what he says. His well-trained army, his great fleet of planes, and even his navy are ready for war – anxious for it, apparently. His recent stand at the side of Hungary in the latter’s dispute with Jugoslavia showed that. And the hurried mobilization of his troops on the Austrian border after the assassination of Dollfuss showed it too. There are others in Europe too whose sabre rattling presages war, sooner or later.
Herr Hitler, with his rearming Germany and his constant demands for more and more arms, is an equal if not greater menace to peace. France only recently increased the term of military service for its youth from a year to eighteen months.
Yes, all over, nations are camping in their arms. The mad dogs of Europe are on the loose. In the Orient the maneuvering is more adroit. Back in 1904, when Russia and Japan fought, we kicked out our old friends the Russians and backed Japan. Then our very generous international bankers were financing Japan. Now the trend is to poison us against the Japanese. What does the “open door” policy to China mean to us? Our trade with China is about $90,000,000 a year. Or the Philippine Islands? We have spent about $600,000,000 in the Philippines in thirty-five years and we (our bankers and industrialists and speculators) have private investments there of less than $200,000,000.
Then, to save that China trade of about $90,000,000, or to protect these private investments of less than $200,000,000 in the Philippines, we would be all stirred up to hate Japan and go to war – a war that might well cost us tens of billions of dollars, hundreds of thousands of lives of Americans, and many more hundreds of thousands of physically maimed and mentally unbalanced men.
Of course, for this loss, there would be a compensating profit – fortunes would be made. Millions and billions of dollars would be piled up. By a few. Munitions makers. Bankers. Ship builders. Manufacturers. Meat packers. Speculators. They would fare well.
Yes, they are getting ready for another war. Why shouldn’t they? It pays high dividends.
But what does it profit the men who are killed? What does it profit their mothers and sisters, their wives and their sweethearts? What does it profit their children?
What does it profit anyone except the very few to whom war means huge profits?
Yes, and what does it profit the nation?
Take our own case. Until 1898 we didn’t own a bit of territory outside the mainland of North America. At that time our national debt was a little more than $1,000,000,000. Then we became “internationally minded.” We forgot, or shunted aside, the advice of the Father of our country. We forgot George Washington’s warning about “entangling alliances.” We went to war. We acquired outside territory. At the end of the World War period, as a direct result of our fiddling in international affairs, our national debt had jumped to over $25,000,000,000. Our total favorable trade balance during the twenty-five-year period was about $24,000,000,000. Therefore, on a purely bookkeeping basis, we ran a little behind year for year, and that foreign trade might well have been ours without the wars.
It would have been far cheaper (not to say safer) for the average American who pays the bills to stay out of foreign entanglements. For a very few this racket, like bootlegging and other underworld rackets, brings fancy profits, but the cost of operations is always transferred to the people – who do not profit.

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Poetry Of Resistance

The Internationale:
Arise ye workers from your slumbers

Arise ye prisoners of want

For reason in revolt now thunders

And at last ends the age of cant.

Away with all your superstitions

Servile masses arise, arise

We’ll change henceforth the old tradition

And spurn the dust to win the prize.
So comrades, come rally

And the last fight let us face

The Internationale unites the human race.

So comrades, come rally

And the last fight let us face

The Internationale unites the human race.
No more deluded by reaction

On tyrants only we’ll make war

The soldiers too will take strike action

They’ll break ranks and fight no more

And if those cannibals keep trying

To sacrifice us to their pride

They soon shall hear the bullets flying

We’ll shoot the generals on our own side.
No saviour from on high delivers

No faith have we in prince or peer

Our own right hand the chains must shiver

Chains of hatred, greed and fear

E’er the thieves will out with their booty

And give to all a happier lot.

Each at the forge must do their duty

And we’ll strike while the iron is hot.
Eugene Pottier

—
Democracy
Democracy will not come

Today, this year

Nor ever

Through compromise and fear.
I have as much right

As the other fellow has

To stand

On my two feet

And own the land.
I tire so of hearing people say,

Let things take their course.

Tomorrow is another day.

I do not need my freedom when I’m dead.

I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.
Freedom

Is a strong seed

Planted

In a great need.
I live here, too.

I want freedom

Just as you.
Langston Hughes

—
England in 1819
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, –

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn, -mud from a muddy spring, –

Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,

But leech-like to their fainting country cling,

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, –

A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, –

An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, –

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless -a book sealed;

A Senate, -Time’s worst statute unrepealed, –

Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.
– Percy Shelley

—
Curfew

What else could we do, for the doors were guarded,

What else could we do, for they had imprisoned us,

What else could we do, for the streets were forbidden us,

What else could we do, for the town was asleep?

What else could we do, for she hungered and thirsted,

What else could we do, for we were defenceless,

What else could we do, for night had descended,

What else could we do, for we were in love?
-Paul Eluard

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Sunday Morning

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I remember seeing her first in Fellini’s Juliet of the Spirits, or 8 1/2… she fairly floated into the frame… ah, that beautiful visage…

Sweet Nico

Saturday Arrives… and we are heading off to work…. (sigh) and the weather has tipped back to cold n cloudy here in the North Lands. The hills are soft with clouds, and there is rain off and on. I went from shorts to sweats over the last couple of days.
Rowan’s final day of High School was yesterday (except for the one act plays this week and graduation) He is floating! He has progressed so far in the last couple of months, his take on the world and his dealings with people seems to be pretty right-on. He is all about prepping for college in the fall, when he will begin to start attending The Art Institute of Portland…
Lots of new music on the radio! Tune in at: http://78.105.9.201:8000/ We added 6 more hours of music, and more is on the way. Also, our spoken word channel is chock a block full of poetry, lectures and comedy… We are planning to start having featured radio-shows if time allows. (new magazine/journal coming up…) So check the station out!
(From what I understand Earthrites in general will be getting a facelift over the next couple of weeks, so stay tuned for that as well.)
Good news from Oz: Undergrowth Magazine Is about to launch their first printed publication: Journeybook Rak Razam and friends have received funding to get this little darling off the ground, and I am very excited about it! Hopefully we will have some of the crew over later this summer for a stop at Burning Man, and points around on a promotional tour. (That would be very cool!)
Well, gotta hop. Life beyond the screen is calling, and there is beauty to be revealed!
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Cultural Linkage: The Animated Mural…

Diegueño Creation Myth

Poetry From Mike Hoffman

Vibrasphere – Radio Edit In Control

Art: Lawrence Alma-Tadema

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The Links:

Vandals Attack Stonehenge

Sharks Face Extinction…

San Francisco Leads The Way…

Cannabis News From Oz

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From My Friend Paul R! Enjoy!

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

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Religious Practices of the Diegueño Indians, by T.T. Waterman, [1910],

Diegueño Creation Myth…

(- This is one of the few ethnographic studies of the original religious practices of the Native American residents of San Diego county. Called Diegueño by Europeans after the mission which named the city, they today call themselves Kumeyaay, a term of unknown meaning. Waterman wrote that his consultants called themselves Kawakipai, or ‘Southern People.’ This monograph includes songs with text in Diegueño and English, descriptions of ceremonies, ceremonial objects, gambling games, sand paintings and origin myths. This text will be of immense value to contemporary Native Californians as well as scholars and students.
Of note is what appears, in hindsight, to be an early description of the UFO activity that continues over southern California to this day. Waterman, with nothing to compare it to, decided that the being called Tcaup was actually ball-lightning. However, here is his description of the native accounts: “The being described in the myths is widely thought to be accompanied by thunderings, to have a ‘bright’ or ‘beaming’ appearance, and to fly about close to the surface of the ground.” -)
In the beginning there was no earth or land. There was nothing except salt water. This covered everything like a big sea. Two brothers lived under this water. The oldest one was Tcaipakomat.
Both of them kept their eyes closed, for the salt would blind them. The oldest brother after awhile went up on top of the salt water and looked around. He could see nothing but water. Soon the younger brother too came up. He opened his eyes on the way and the salt water blinded him. When he got to the top he could see nothing at all, so he went back. When the elder brother saw that there was nothing, he made first of all little red ants, miskiluwi (or ciracir). They filled the water up thick with their bodies and so made land. Then Tcaipakomat caused certain black birds with flat bills, xanyil, to come into being. There was no sun or light when he made these birds. So they were lost and could not find their roost. So Tcaipakomat took three kinds of clay, red, yellow, and black, and made a round, flat object. This he took in his hand and threw up against the sky. It stuck there. It began to give a dim light. We call it the moon now, halya. The light was so poor that they could not see very far. So Tcaipakomat was not satisfied, for he had it in mind to make people. He took some more clay and made another round, flat object and tossed that up against the other side of the sky. It also stuck there. It made everything light. It is the sun, inyau. Then he took a light-colored piece of clay, mutakwic, and split it up part way. He made a man of it. That is the way he made man. Then he took a rib 149 from the man and made a woman. This woman was Sinyaxau, First Woman. 150 The children of this man and this woman were people, ipai. They lived in the east at a great mountain called Wikami. 151 If you go there now you will hear all kinds of singing in all languages. If you put your ear to the ground you will hear the sound of dancing. This is caused by the spirits of all the dead people. They go back there when they die and dance just as they do here. That is the place where everything was created first.
A big snake lived out in the ocean over in the west. He was called Maihaiowit. 152 He was the same as Tcaipakomat but had taken another form. This big snake had swallowed all learning. All the arts were inside his body—singing, dancing, basket-making, and all the others. The place where the snake lived was called Wicuwul (Coronado Islands?) The people at this time at Wikami wished to have an Image Ceremony. They had made a wokeruk, ceremonial house, but did not know what else to do. They could neither dance nor make speeches. One man knew more than the others. He told them they ought to do more than just build the house, so that the people who came after them would have something to do. So they made up their minds to send to Maihaiowit and ask him to give them the dances. Another sea monster, Xamilkotat, was going to swallow everyone who tried to go out to Maihaiowit. So the people said the man who went had better change himself into a bubble.
So the man who had first spoken about the matter changed himself into a bubble. The monster swallowed him anyway. When he found himself down inside he first went north, but he could find no way out. Then he went south, east, and west but could find no way out. Then he reached his hand toward the north—he was a wonderful medicine-man—and got a blue flint, awi-haxwa. He broke this so as to get a sharp edge. Then he cut a hole through the monster and got out. Then he went on and on till he got to the place where Maihaiowit lived. The snake had a big circular house, with the door in the top. The man went in there. When the snake saw him he called out:
Mamapitc inyawa maxap meyo (Who-are-you my-house hole comes-in?)
The man answered:
Inyatc eyon enuwi (I it-is, Uncle) .
“Tell me what you want,” said the snake.
“I came over from Wikami,” said the man. “They are trying to make a wukeruk ceremony there, but they don’t know how to sing or dance.”
“All right,” said the snake, “I will come and teach them. You go ahead and I will come slowly.”
So the man went back. The monster came after him reaching from mountain to mountain. He left a great white streak over the country where he went along. You can still see it. The people at Wikami were expecting him, so they cleared a space. He came travelling fast as a snake travels. He went to the wukeruk. First he put his head in. Then he began slowly pulling his length in after him. He coiled and coiled, but there was no end to his length. After he had been coiling a long time the people became afraid at his size. So they threw fire on top of the house and burned him. When they put the fire on him he burst. All the learning inside of him came flying out. It was scattered all around. Each tribe got some one thing. That is the reason one tribe knows the wildcat dance and another the wukeruk and a third are good at peon. Some people got to be witches or medicine-men (kwusiyai), and orators, but not many.
The head of Maihaiowit was burned to a cinder. The rest of his body went back west. It did not go very far. In the Colorado river there is a great, white ridge of rock. That is his body. A black mountain near by is his head. The people go to the white rock and make spearheads.
After the house was burned up, the people were not satisfied, so they scattered in all directions. The people who went south were the oldest. They are called Akwal, Kwiliyeu, and Axwat. The rocks were still soft when the people scattered abroad over the earth. Wherever one of them stepped he left a footprint. The hollows around in all the rocks are where they set down their loads when they rested.
Even a hasty reading of this myth makes evident its dissimilarity with the ordinary Luiseño and Mohave accounts of creation. It may be well to add in this place that a systematic comparison of the narratives in detail confirms the impression of dissimilarity conveyed at first blush by the general structure and underlying idea of the story. 153 A certain external relation between the myth outlined above and the Mohave story 154 is of course apparent. The mountain Wikami, for instance in the present story, and the monster Maihaiowit, correspond to the Mohave “Avikwame” and the monster “Humasareha.” This relationship does not seem to extend down into the story-elements proper.
It is of course impossible to determine at this time, either from the myth just quoted or from other versions, just what elements enter properly into the Diegueño myth. All the evidence extant, however, points quite unmistakably to the conclusion that as far as the mythology of Creation is concerned, the Diegueño are thoroughly independent of the Shoshonean peoples north of them.
It must be noted in passing that the “meteor&#82
21; or electric fireball, Diegueño Tcaup or Kwiyaxomar (Cuyahomarr), Luiseño Takwish, Mohave Kwayu, is also prominent in all the mythologies of the Mission area. 155 As a corollary to the theme discussed just above, it is to be observed that the Diegueño give this subject, too, a characteristic treatment of their own. The physical phenomenon which is the basis of the stories is apparently the same everywhere, namely, ball-lightning. A certain confusion has arisen in this regard, owing to the use in various papers of the word “meteor” to describe the manifestation. The presence of this word in the literature of the subject is in all likelihood to be charged to a loose employment of the term, in the first place, by uneducated native informants. The being described in the myths is widely thought to be accompanied by thunderings, to have a “bright” or “beaming” appearance, and to fly about close to the surface of the ground. These traits unmistakably characterize ball-lightning rather than meteors. 156 The terrific action of the electric fireball would, at least in the mind of the present writer, account in part for the terror in which the being is held by all the Mission peoples. However this may be, the Luiseño and Mohave “cannibal meteor” stories offer almost no similarity (outside of concerning the same subject) to the corresponding Diegueño tale. This being, who as we have seen is the culture hero of the Diegueño, is apparently regarded as a malevolent demon among the Luiseño and Mohave.
It is perhaps too early to say that the Diegueño have no myths other than the Chaup and Creation stories. We may safely conclude however that these two are by far the most important types of myth. It is also safe to say concerning Diegueño mythology that while it seems to be restricted in scope, its affiliations are to be sought, not among the mythology of the Shoshoneans as has at times been suggested, but among that of the peoples, related linguistically to the Diegueño, who live to the south and east.

Footnotes
338:148 Miss DuBois gives Tuchaipa as the elder and Yokomat or Yokomatis as the younger, but says (Journ. Am. Folk-Lore, XXI, 229, 1908; and Congr. Intern. American., XV, Quebec, II, 131, 1906) that the two names are sometimes given in one: Chaipakomat.
339:149 This may be an original element and not a gloss from the Biblical myth. The informant is a “bronco” (unbaptized) Indian, who has never been under the influence of the missionaries.
339:150 From siny, woman, and axau, first; apparently the same as Miss DuBois’ Sinyohauch (Journ. Am. Folk-Lore, XVII, 222, 1904), in which the final ch is guttural.
339:151 Cf. present series, VIII, 123, 1908; Journ. Am. Folk-Lore, XIX, 315, 1906; Am. Anthropologist, n.s. VII, 627, 1905.
339:152 Journ. Am. Folk-Lore, XIX, 315, 1906; XXI, 235, 1908; Am. Anthr., n.s., VII, 627, 1905.
341:152a A full account of the Yuma creation story has been contributed by Mr. John P. Harrington to the Journal of American Folk-Lore, XXI, 324, 1908. The relationship between the above schematic account and Mr. Harrington’s full version of the Yuma story is at once evident.
341:153 See Am. Anthr., n.s. XI, 41-55, 1909. Thirteen prominent story elements are there chosen for study. Of these, it develops that the Mohave and Luiseño myths have nine in common. The Diegueño story, on the other hand, has only three elements in common with the Luiseño, and but two in common with the Mohave. This is quite insignificant, since any two totally unrelated mythologies might to this limited extent be similar.
341:154 Journ. Am. Folk-Lore, XIX, 314, 1906.
342:155 Ibid., 316. Ibid., XVII, 217, 1904. Ibid., XIX, 147, 1906.
342:156 The present writer has never met the word “meteor” in this connection among native informants, and has found the being in question identified both in Luiseño and Diegueño territory with the electric fireball.

________

________

Poetry From Mike Hoffman…
Light
Phantom photons, wily waves

everywhere, all at once.

Light knows the future,

because it’s already there,

alive and intelligent,

with philosophic qualities.

Light can see through you,

because it is you,

it will talk to you,

if you will listen,

with your mind’s eye.
We are sculptures of light

creating shadows,

and expressing ideas;

we are an idea.

Light purifies and cleanses,

dries our clothes,

and makes our garden grow.

Light is an invisible medium,

existing in other dimensions,

and in many colors.

Because of its intelligence,

light is infinite and knows all,

it can creep up on you,

tap you on the shoulder,

and step into you.
—
Into Your Own
Does anyone really know

the true definition

of a mistake?

Pulling out of trouble

is a calibrating realization,

it’s the decision that’s important,

not what you decide.

We only see a sliver

of what’s really going on,

decisions define us;

the recovery is what matters.
No-one has to know

why it is what it is.

It’s not possible to know

the complexity of a mistake

the little slips

will always be there

to refine us, into our own.

Wily events define our luminosity,

an indirect gaze

will let all the light in,

and it will come to you.

—
Life After Death
Give it up early

before the body falls away

Concerns of the flesh

will die with the flesh

Our lives begin every moment

willing the pain body

with a longing,

a feeling,

that leavens flesh,

with shining eyes,

to different points of reference.
The intent of awareness

is the will to do so.

Practice the move

into permeating presence

manifesting subtle realms.

With magical methods of engineering

the mutant’s form of intent

will find each other,

along with the certainty,

that the end,

can be your friend.

______
Vibrasphere – Radio Edit In Control

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The story of life is quicker than the wink of an eye. The story of love is hello and good-bye…

until we meet again.

– Jimi Hendrix

Working on art, houses, and re-integrating back into city life after a couple of days at the beach with good friends, good food, drink, and weather… beauty indeed!
I have found that I am being propelled along with the art work, and ideas. I need to journal again to start bringing it all back in focus…
I picked up a bike helmet, and started to ride again. I had forgotten what a pleasure it is. Back up at it, and hopefully keeping at it.
Politics everywhere it seems, Barack Obama took Oregon and Sam Adams took the job of Mayor. I am happy for Sam, he has long been an advocate for the local artist! I hope good things come from his administration.
Congrats to Obama, but please, may we have a platform to mull over?
Take care, and enjoy your Turfing!

________
On The Menu:

Chant Sephardic Andalou – Maroc

DMT ~ Water Spirit A Magical Link

The Sacred Poetry of Solomon ibn Gabirol

Tlemcen de Tetma le doux chant Andalou

Art: Rudolf Ernst
Enjoy Your Day!
Gwyllm

_______
Chant Sephardic Andalou – Maroc

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_________
DMT ~ WATER SPIRIT A MAGICAL LINK
Taken from The Essential Psychedelic Guide by D.M. Turner – Copyright 1994, Panther Press

In my descriptions of psychedelic experiences thus far, I have attempted to describe the range of effects that most users encounter. However, in some cases psychedelic experiences can become quite unique and personal. I’ve had a most unusual relationship with N.N. DMT, which has led to my discovering a magical alliance between N.N. DMT and the spirit of water.
When I first encountered N.N. DMT I quickly became an aficionado, and began smoking either 5-MEG or N.N. DMT two or three times each week. Over the next two years I used DMT approximately 100 times.
My natural curiosity has led me to take psychedelics in as many different settings as possible. I’ve taken psychedelics in the peaks of the Sierras and at mountain lakes, in desert wilderness and rugged canyons, in local parks and open space preserves, at the ocean, in tropical forests, in airplanes, even while hanging upside-down in amusement park rides. I’ve also had numerous experiences in a variety of indoor environments. Given this inclination, it’s an unlikely coincidence that I never smoked DMT near a body of water until I’d been using it for several years. It was the contrast between this experience and my many other DMT trips which provided the basis for my discovering this magical link.
When I began smoking N.N. DMT my experiences over the first few months were bright, positive, enjoyable, and ever touching new dimensions. Some aspects of certain experiences had been quite frightening. However, the scary episodes only led to a deeper understanding of myself and the realms to which DMT introduced me.
After about four months of use I began to lose some of the rapport I had experienced with DMT, accompanied by a reduction in the frequency of my use.
Shortly thereafter I took a vacation to Arizona with plans to take psychedelics while backpacking in several desert areas. The first leg of my journey brought me to the vicinity of Mt. Lemon, just south of Tucson. This was to be my first experience smoking DMT in the Southwest, and I was anticipating an experience as magical as my previous trips in the desert.
However, the results were entirely different than what I’d expected, and completely unlike any of my previous DMT experiences. I felt a deep fear which is hard to speak of. I sensed the presence of death, despair, and loneliness. I felt haunted by some mysterious evil, and I thought of the word “spooky” to describe the unsettling feeling this experience left me with. The feeling of “enchantment,” which is normally delightful on DMT, had become something sinister. And I was quite baffled as to how this occurred.
From Mt. Lemon I drove south to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, In this beautiful “green” desert I took Ketamine while outdoors for the first time. This proved to be an excellent journey, and I found that the environment entered into the Ketamine experience even though I was quite unaware of my body and surroundings. The next day’s “trip” entailed consuming a large section of Trichocereus macrogonus, which I had brought with me, and small pieces of two local cacti, the Organ Pipe cactus and the Saguaro. The latter of these is said to contain psychoactive alkaloids.
The third stop of my journey was in Sedona where I hiked into the red rock cliffs. Not one to be intimidated by any psychedelic experience, I tried smoking DMT again. This experience was even more frightening than the last. I was overwhelmed by dread and terror. And although it was a cool March evening at 7,000 ft. elevation, I produced so much sweat on my forehead that it dripped down my face while the rest of my body remained dry. I’ve heard the analogy of someone being so scared they produced beads of sweat on their forehead, but I never knew this was literally possible.
I saved the Grand Canyon for the last portion of my journey, since I knew that no other sight could match its spectacular beauty and intensity. A few years back I had a wonderful experience taking acid in the Grand Canyon, and I dropped a couple hits as I began my descent. I was again in awe as I walked through “God’s playground” where every rock became a jewel and each bend in the trail exposed more of this impossible work of art. Inside the Canyon I find that I enter a non-linear time state. While the erosion which created the canyon presents a vast timescape, I experience the ever-changing terrain as always alive within a continual state of flux. Formations that appear dead from one perspective are beginning a new phase of life from another. The music and lyrics of Hendrix capture the feeling of the moment. “I float in liquid gardens way down in Arizona’s new red sands. “,
Some people claim that LSD is too cold and synthetic to provide a mystical nature experience. I have not heard this from anyone who’s dropped acid and hiked into the Grand Canyon, although T noticed an even larger amount of synergy when I had the opportunity to take synthetic mescaline in the Canyon a couple years later.
After returning home from Arizona, whenever I smoked DMT I would do so with trepidation. I found it difficult to access the realms which I had previously enjoyed on DMT. Despite my determination to break through any barriers, I was not able to succeed. A brief flash of visuals was the highest attainment on most of my trips, and the feeling of magical enchantment had all but departed. I frequently felt that some metaphysical force was preventing my progress, and I now believe this must certainly have been the case. Although I continued to work with DMT, as the satisfaction of the experience diminished, so did the frequency of my use. I logged only 15 DMT tryps between my vacation to Arizona and my “water” experience over a year later.
It was a clear, cool May night beneath a new moon when my relation with DMT took a turn. I had joined a group of friends for a boat ride up the Petaluma River off of San Francisco Bay. I’m not much of a seafarer and had never tripped on a boat before. The majority of my boating experience has been on the choppy waters of the sea or the bay, and the thought of spending a trip puking over the side of a boat never much appealed to me. This evening I was in for a surprise!
I had brought along some acid and a bit of DMT. I had no intention of pre-dosing with Harmala alkaloids and smoking enough DMT for the full effects, but I thought that some light DMT “dusting” may be enjoyable for all. We cruised up the river for an hour or so and threw the anchor. There we would float for the next nine hours under a sky full of stars and where the current flowing downstream mingled with the ebb and flow of the tide in San Francisco Bay.
I began the evening by dropping 250 mics of acid. This was consumed by nearly all present. I then took a hit of ecstasy since they were being passed around. And after I mentioned that I brought some DMT, one of my friends whipped out some ground Syrian Rue seeds and a pipe.
Smoking non-extracted Syrian Rue can hardly be considered a satisfactory method of assimilating enough Harmala to act as a DMT potentiator, but it does produce an effect. Smoking just a few hits of these seeds while high on acid produced a pleasant buzz. And we figured that the small amount of Harmala would also act as a synergistic enhancement for the DMT.
I was the first to take a hit of DMT, probably about 15 mg. worth. I took my hit in the cabin of the boat and was rewarded with beautiful and enchanting visions. None of the menace that had plagued my recent DMT tryps was present, and the luxurious and magical qualities had returned. I continued to load small hits of DMT in the pipe and pass it amongst my friends, each of whom reported a serene and beautiful experience.
Before taking my second hit I left the cabin of the boat, snuggled under blankets with friends, and ventured into the brisk air outside on the deck. I had been planning to take my second hit lying on the roof of the
boat looking up at the stars. However, one member of our group just had his first-ever DMT experience while on the deck of the boat. And after listening to his fanatical hooting, hollering, and raving about how “it started with the patterns in the water and went up into the air, then it came down from the stars and connected in the sky…”, I decided to take my second hit while looking out over the water.
I smoked my hit and the effect was truly magical. Although I was not too high to observe my surroundings, the experience had all the qualities that I desire in DMT. The profound effect the water imparted to my experience was immediately obvious. The current, tide, and wind, playing with the surface of the water, and the reflected light from the sky was absolutely mesmerizing and enchanting. The synchronism between the visions I saw with my eyes open, and those seen with my eyes closed was phenomenally amazing. It seemed that the patterns on the water were responsible for these visions, as well as the profoundly magical and harmonious mental/emotional state to which I found myself transported.
At this time I was in the midst of reading Terence McKenna’s True Hallucinations. This book describes his psychedelic adventures in the Amazon jungle, many of which took place on the banks of the Amazon River. It immediately dawned on me that the river must have played a large part in creating the setting for his mystical trips. The harmony between DMT and the river was clearly present.
It was not until a day later that I became aware of the magical link between DMT and water, and that DMT is most compatible when used in the vicinity of water. This knowledge actually came to me not while high on DMT, but while tripping on Ketamine and a 2-CB-like substance, with Ketamine being the primary factor.
Both Ketamine and N.N. DMT can take me to a world where leprechauns and munchkins chatter with me, and I can understand the language of the birds chirping away. With Ketamine I enter this world frequently if I’m taking it in combination with psilocybin or 2-CB. It was while in such a state that one of these leprechaun creatures whispered in my ear that “DMT is a Water Spirit plant.
In addition to the “verbal” message, this elfin creature also transmitted thoughts, images, and knowledge, the essence being that the DMT spirit likes to be in the vicinity of water, that DMT is more likely to bestow peaceful visions and experiences on those who use it while maintaining this link, that DMT detests being away from water, and those who use DMT removed from water will often experience its wrath.
Simultaneous with this transmission I was able to see how my own experience with DMT fit this pattern. 1 have described my experiences using DMT in the desert in areas devoid of water. These were the negative extremes.
I’ve also smoked DMT in moist areas. I distinctly recall my two DMT tryps in Hana on Maul. My first experience was done indoors during the evening. The sliding door to the back patio was open, and through it floated the sounds of a stream with splashing pools and waterfalls that flowed by some 30 feet away. My second experience took place on the front yard of the estate during the daytime. The stream was still audible, and had I been sitting up I could have looked out over the ocean less than a mile away.
When I took this second hit I lay down under a giant coconut palm, staring up into its bountiful clusters of fruit while sunlight filtered through its giant drooping fronds. These were two of the most luxurious, peaceful, and magical DMT tryps I’ve had. In front of my closed eyelids the creative force was generating intricate visions of beauty at a rate approaching a billion per second! I saw harmonious and magically charged scenes which intermingled nature, plants, animals, spirits, people, and what I took to be ancient Hawaiian Gods.
I can also remember some experiences smoking DMT at home when it was raining outside. These tryps stood out from the norm as being delightfully enchanting, with the elfin energies being extremely abundant and rambunctious.
Another odd point that struck my awareness was the coincidence of the places I have not smoked DMT. I’ve already remarked that it was an unusual coincidence that I had never smoked DMT near water, given my penchant for taking psychedelics in a multitude of outdoor environments. This is exaggerated by the fact that I live near the ocean, and my normal routines take me jogging or bicycling along the beach once or twice each week.
There could be two logical explanations for this as well. One is that DMT is not something one tends to use in public, reducing the likelihood of my smoking DMT at the local beach. The second reason, which I discovered soon enough, is that with the normally windy conditions of the California coast it is difficult to keep a lighter burning, much less get a proper hit of DMT.
However, based on internal perceptions from my many DMT tryps, I feel that something which exists in a metaphysical realm was trying to prevent me from gaining knowledge of the DMT-Water Spirit connection. It seems that these energies are somehow threatened by my having this knowledge, and that my discovery of this information and subsequent spreading of this knowledge is an unleashing and upheaval of powerful shamanic forces. Indeed on the first evening following my discovery I had dreams throughout the night where I was battling or fending off malevolent non-physical entities.
One other occasion at which I did not smoke DMT should also be noted. Seven months prior to my “water” experience I went backpacking in Death Valley. Although I brought along Peyote, LSD, and Ketamine, I did not bring any DMT. This could have been due to the poor rapport I was experiencing with DMT at the time. But it may have been the result of some omen, instinct, or intuition, which caused me to avoid bringing DMT to the driest spot in the country.
Another notion which this leprechaun imparted to me is that in the Amazon region, where DMT has been used by the natives for millennia, it is most frequently consumed in the Ayahuasca beverage. Another traditional method of administration is the snorting of concentrated DMT snuffs. However, I’ve never heard of a native method of consumption which involves burning, or putting a flame to the DMT. Yet some of the native preparations would certainly have produced a strong effect if used in this manner. Up to this time all of my DMT journeys had been through smoking, but this would soon change.
My discovery of the DMT – Water Spirit connection took place shortly before I was to go to Hawaii. There I would have many opportunities to smoke DMT where waterfalls, streams, pools, and ocean abound.
While in Hawaii I smoked DMT twice along the awesome and beautiful Napali coast of Kauai. I was anticipating experiences similar to what I’d had on the boat. But I received another lesson that DMT experiences are never predictable, or subject to fitting into my preconceptions. The energy of natural environments seems to frequently affect a DMT tryp, and this was quite prevalent in this intense setting.
For my first hit I was sitting naked in the middle of a stream, on the ledge of a waterfall, with my legs dangling over the side and water flowing over my body from the waist down. As I took the hit I was looking seaward, and focusing on the stream. The sensation was peaceful, yet not the deep serenity I had experienced on the boat. As I lay down to submerge my back in the water I found myself staring up into a grove of Koa trees. The energy from these trees was sharp and lively, much more vibrant than any of the trees I’d been around when smoking DMT in California. The Koa trees’ energy shattered the sensations I’d experienced while looking at the water, but it was a pleasant, shimmering intensity. I then stood up, turned around, and looked into the majestic, silken-sheened mountains behind me. My response to the m
ountains’ energy nearly made me fall over. The mountains of the Napali coast are like no others in the world. The highest rainfall levels on earth have eroded these volcanic remains into sheer, razor-sharp contours covered with a dense blanket of tropical foliage. They rise to nearly 4,000 ft. in just a short distance from the sea. At the time of my visit these mountains were even more ferocious looking than usual. The hurricane which devastated Kauai the previous fall had stripped off nearly all foliage and branches above 10 feet, leaving thousands of silver tree skeletons in its wake.
The sight of these mountains invoked a fear in me. Not of something evil, but of something so powerful and durable that human frailty is greatly magnified. To get an idea of this feeling try to imagine an ant in the midst of an elephant stampede, suddenly becoming cognizant of the situation.
I then tried switching my vision between the mountains and the stream. I found that the water acted as a grounding force, preventing me from being overwhelmed by the intensity of the mountains.
A couple months later I began experiments with ingested DMT which I’ve found to be very significant. As mentioned before, DMT is never smoked or burned in the cultures where a shamanic tradition exists. It seems to me that DMT is adverse to fire. It may yield positive results to those who begin with, or only know of this method of use. But in my case at least, it eventually led me to this preferred ancient method of use.
Before ingesting the DMT I take four grams of Syrian Rue and wait until MAO inhibition is in effect. I’ve had good results using about 160 to 200 mg. of DMT. This is far more than is required for smoking, but it produces a three to four hour experience. I’ve found it best to consume the DMT over half an hour to allow for a more gradual inebriation. With smoked DMT the “flash” is part of its legendary effects. But a more gradual ascent allows the experience to unfold in a more natural manner, as occurs with LSD, mushrooms, mescaline, or the Ayahuasca beverage.
The content of an ingested DMT experience is quite different than the traditional psychedelics. And after my first such experience I came away with the conviction that this was deep and serious, making LSD and mushrooms seem like child’s play in comparison. The experience tends to unfold before me, and I find I must maintain sharp awareness to understand the messages being conveyed. The scenes are rich, vivid, emotionally charged, and filled with symbols and archetypal images that feel imbued with deep meaning and significance. The speed at which visual images develop is slower than with those that accompany the “flash” of smoked DMT. I’ve found that this allows me to absorb the content of the images more fully.
With ingested DMT I’ve had visions which challenge Ketamine visuals for vastness and cosmicity. Yet these DMT visuals had a degree of realism I’ve never before encountered. The images were so real, so alive, palpable, and tangible that I could almost taste them. And I nearly felt that I could reach into their dimension and physically touch them. At times it was as though I was a spectator watching a performance of the grand universal theater. But at other times entities in the visions were quite aware of my presence, and were able to metamorphose as a means of communicating to me. The play-like elfin chatter which accompanies many smoked DMT tryps has also been present during these journeys. In nearly all manners, these ingested DMT tryps have exceeded my experience of smoked DMT.
In order to find out if DMT affected other people similarly when used near water, I interviewed friends that have used DMT several times. I found that most of them have not used DMT outdoors at all, and only a few have used DMT near water or in a desert. None of these people knew what I was seeking when asking about their DMT experiences in different outdoor environments. Yet approximately 75% of those who had used DMT near water reported some of their most profound tryps in this environment. A couple people who had not smoked DMT near water also had water play an important role in their experiences. The one person who had smoked DMT in a desert had begun on a powerful shamanic journey, but had to disengage as the intensity and fear that he couldn’t handle the ride increased. And a few people reported experiences too intense to enjoy when using DMT in the presence of fire.
Since discovering this link I have spent lots of time thinking about its application. That this knowledge can be used by DMT smokers to increase the chances of a positive experience is the most obvious use. This may allow DMT smokers to gain reliable access to DMT’s magical aspects, and through developing this alliance, to enter into the shamanic world. However, since becoming aware of this connection I feel that mastery of the DMT experience is still many steps away, or that it may even be something which one can never truly have a firm grasp on.
Perhaps this is a stepping stone in humanity’s reestablishing its relationship with DMT. We may be at a turning point where DMT will be removed from obscurity and become a “mainstream” psychedelic.
I’m also curious as to what science will find in relation to this theory. Since DMT is normally present in the brain, blood, and spinal fluid of humans, it would be interesting to see how the levels change in people who live in dry or wet areas, or who travel between these areas. I’d also like to see how DMT is metabolized by the brain and the body in different climates. I suspect it would be different.
Another useful study would be to chart the numerous plants throughout the world that contain DMT. To my knowledge most of these plants grow in areas with abundant water, but a study done by an expert botanist would be more conclusive. And from a cultural perspective, do any of the native users of DMT ascribe a link between DMT and water, and is this link present in their rituals and practices?
Something else I’ve speculated about is whether DMT is one portion of an alchemical formula. If DMT corresponds to water, is it possible that some other substances correspond to earth, air, and fire? And would a combination of these substances bring one to the ultimate state of consciousness” ?
If this is so, there are many possible candidates for the other substances. Could the psilocybin mushroom be an Earth Spirit? What would happen if one were to take psilocybin away from earth, say in a space shuttle or an airplane? The Harmala alkaloids are also an important factor here. I should note that this link I’m describing exists between N.N. DMT and water. Whether a similar link exists for 5-MEO-DMT I can not presently say. And virtually all of my N.N. DMT experiences have been done in combination with Harmala alkaloids.
One of my courses for future study will be to continue psychedelic use in different areas. I will be looking for distinct differences in the experiences produced in different settings. In the past I have focused on combinations where I’d expect a positive synergy. This has often been the natural habitat of the substance I was consuming, like taking cactus in the desert or mushrooms in the forest. I have yet to try many opposing combinations such as mushrooms in the desert or cactus in snow-covered mountain peaks.
As of yet though, DMT is the only psychedelic to produce highly positive results in one natural environment, and equally negative results in a reversed environment. Since becoming aware of this connection my relationship with DMT has become strongly positive. I feel I now have an ally for venturing into this fascinating world of the unknown.

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The Sacred Poetry of Solomon ibn Gabirol

AT THE DAWN
At the dawn I seek Thee,

Rock and refuge tried,

In due service speak Thee

Morn and eventide.
‘Neath Thy greatness shrinking,

Stand I sore afraid,

All my secret thinking

Bare before Thee laid.
Little to Thy glory

Heart or tongue can do;

Small remains the story,

Add we spirit too.
Yet since man’s praise ringing

May seem good to Thee,

I will praise Thee singing

While Thy breath’s in me.

—
LET THE ISLES REJOICE
Let the numerous isles rejoice with trembling,

For He is high and exalted and acknowledged as One

In the height of the firmament.

The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice.

The clouds acclaim Thee beyond every other power,

In every mouth is thy unity uttered,

And by the people of God is Thy praise proclaimed.

And who is like to Thy people Israel,

The one nation on earth,

To give thanks to Thee upstanding,

O God inhabiting the heights,

And to proclaim Thee as One?

The Lord reigneth, let the nations quake.

He sitteth among the Cherubim, let the earth tremble.

The scattered shalt Thou assemble and the sighing redeem,

To Thy holy house Thou shalt lead them with rejoicing,

And from earth’s four corners gather the exiles.

—
TO MY SOUL
Be wise, my precious soul, and haste

To bow to God in reverence.

Let vanities no more be chased,

Bethink thee ere this world lies waste,

The world that waits thee going hence.
Thy life to God’s life is akin,

Concealed like His beneath a veil,

Since He is free of flaw or sin,

Like purity thou too canst win,

To reach perfection wherefore fail?
And as His arm upholds the sky,

Do thou thy dumb brute body lift,

Thou, soul, to which we can descry

No like on earth—O magnify

The God of whom thou art the gift.
Greet then, my soul, thy Rock with praise,

Hail him, my inmost heart, with song

Unceasingly throughout my days,

And let all souls their voices raise

My benediction to prolong.

—
INVOCATION
Root of our saviour,

The scion of Jesse,

Till when wilt thou linger,

Invisible, buried?

Bring forth a flower,

For winter is over!
Why should a slave rule

The lineage of princes,

A hairy barbarian

Replace our young sovran?
The years are a thousand

Since, broken and scattered,

We wander in exile,

Like waterfowl lost in

The depths of the desert.
No man in white linen

Reveals at our asking

The end of our Exile.

God sealed up the matter,

And closed up the knowledge.

—

THREE THINGS CONSPIRE
Three things conspire together in mine eyes

To bring the remembrance of Thee ever before me,

And I possess them as faithful witnesses:

Thy heavens, for whose sake I recall Thy name,

The earth I live on, that rouseth my thought

With its expanse which recalleth the expander of my pedestal,

And the musing of my heart when I look within the depths of myself.

Bless the Lord, O my soul, for ever and aye!

_________

Tlemcen de Tetma le doux chant Andalou

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Portland’s first sunny weekend, and I am typing away trying to get outside and enjoy the beauty that is Oregon in May. It was ungodly hot yesterday (97f well for me hot!), and may do the same today.. so hold onto your hats!
Lots on the weekend entry, and don’t forget Radio Free Earthrites! Much going on if you want to give it a listen.
Rowan has two weeks left in his High School Career. He is chuffed about it, but yet finds it hard to drag himself down to school every day. Off to college soon!
Have A Good Weekend!
Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Visions Of Frisco

Ah… Suze Rotolo

Suze Rotolo & Robert…

Apparitions from Fairyland

Poetry: Teixeira de Pascoaes-Portuguese Mystic…

A wee tip of the hat: Bertolt Brecht Collage

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Visions Of Frisco

Walter Medeiros has released the long anticipated opus of Wilfred Satty, ‘Visions Of Frisco’… Walter has assembled after long years doing research, and raising funding to finally publish his friends Satty’s last work. This is an amazing book, and being a limited edition very desirable for the collector. We have included a handy ordering form for you to order it with, or check out Amazon at this time. Hopefully it will soon be in at Powell’s.
Walter did the wordsmithing on this, and it reads beautifully, and is visually stunning. (of course) It is a rich assemblage, and does honor to Satty’s final collage project.
Pickit up for beauties sake, and to explore the early history of San Francisco in a wonderful hallucinogenic visual portrayal.
__________
Ah… Suze Rotolo. One of those iconic images from another time. Generally speaking I am not nostalgic for periods in my life. I mean, right now is pretty good, and I have much to be thankful for. Oh yeah, I ache in places where I used to party, and it does take me by surprise…
There are times I am nostalgic for, but they are generally removed from the period of our lifetime, or the moments I ponder are like this photo-shoot in New York, removed and so familiar.
I listen mostly to music that is very current. I abhor getting stuck in past periods, though I do dip into them on occasion. Edith Piaf, Bertolt Brecht, Bob Dylan, Moondog, Eric Satie… all visit the cd player. Yet, I sit now listening to Solar Fields, being transported to a place of bliss…. 80) Okay, I am rambling.
Suze Rotolo has a new book of interest, and this interview:Suze Rotolo on NPR
Check out the book:New York Times Review of Freewheelin’ Time…
and purchase it here: A Freewheelin’ TIme, by Suze Rotolo
I listened to the interview the other day, and I am considering buying the book… A wonderful time in our collective history.

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Suze Rotolo & Robert…

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Apparitions from Fairyland
[Note: This is taken from W.Y. Evans Wentz’s The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries.]
Clondalkin
THE TESTIMONY OF A COLLEGE PROFESSOR
Our next witness is the Rev. Father – ‘a professor in a Catholic college in West Ireland, and most of his statements are based on events which happened among his own acquaintances and relatives, and his deductions are the result of careful investigation :-
Apparitions from Fairyland.- ‘Some twenty to thirty years ago, on the borders of County Roscommon near County Sligo, according to the firm belief of one of my own relatives, a sister of his was taken by the fairies on her wedding-night, and she appeared to her mother afterwards as an apparition. She seemed to want to speak, but her mother, who was in bed at the time, was thoroughly frightened, and turned her face to the wall. The mother is convinced that she saw this apparition of her daughter, and my relative thinks she might have saved her.
‘This same relative who gives it as his opinion that his sister was taken by the fairies, at a different time saw the apparition of another relative of mine who also, according to similar belief, had been taken by the fairies when only five years old. The child-apparition appeared beside its living sister one day while the sister was going from the yard into the house, and it followed her in. It is said the child was taken because she was such a good girl.’
Nature of the Belief in Fairies.-
‘As children we were always afraid of fairies, and were taught to say “ God bless them! God bless them!” whenever we heard them mentioned.
‘In our family we always made it a point to have clean water in the house at night for the fairies.
‘If anything like dirty water was thrown out of doors after dark it was necessary to say “ Hugga, hugga salach!” as a warning to the fairies not to get their clothes wet.
‘Untasted food, like milk, used to be left on the table at night for the fairies. If you were eating and food fell from you, it was not right to take it back, for the fairies wanted it. Many families are very serious about this even now. The luckiest thing to do in such cases is to pick up the food and eat just a speck of it and then throw the rest away to the fairies.
‘Ghosts and apparitions are commonly said to live in isolated thorn-bushes, or thorn-trees. Many lonely bushes of this kind have their ghosts. For example, there is Fanny’s Bush, Sally’s Bush, and another I know of in County Sligo near Boyle.’
Personal Opinions.- ‘ The fairies of any one race are the people of the preceding race-the Fomors for the Fir Boigs, the Fir Boigs for the Dananns, and the Dananns for us. The old races died. Where did they go? They became spirits – and fairies. Second-sight gave our race power to see the inner world. When Christianity came to Ireland the people had no definite heaven. Before, their ideas about the other world were vague. But the older ideas of a spirit world remained side by side with the Christian ones, and being preserved in a subconscious way gave rise to the fairy world.’
EVIDENCE FROM COUNTY ROSCOMMON
Our next place for investigation will be the ancient province of the great fairy-queen Meave, who made herself famous by leading against Cuchulainn the united armies of four of the five provinces of Ireland, and all on account of a bull which she coveted. And there could be no better part of it to visit than Roscommon, which Dr. Douglas Hyde has made popular in Irish folk-lore.
Dr. Hyde and the Leprechaun.-
One day while I was privileged to be at Ratra, Dr. Hyde invited me to walk with him in the country. After we had visited an old fort which belongs to the ‘good people’, and had noticed some other of their haunts in that part of Queen Meave’s realm, we entered a straw-thatched cottage on the roadside and found the good house-wife and her fine-looking daughter both at home. In response to Dr. Hyde’s inquiries, the mother stated that one day, in her girlhood, near a hedge from which she was gathering wild berries, she saw a leprechaun in a hole under a stone :- ‘He wasn’t much larger than a doll, and he was most perfectly formed, with a little mouth and eyes.’ Nothing was told about the little fellow having a money-bag, although the woman said people told her afterwards that she would have been rich if she had only had sense enough to catch him when she had so good a chance.
The Death Coach.-
The next tale the mother told was about the death coach which used to pass by the very house we were in. Every night until after her daughter was born she used to rise up on her elbow in bed to listen to the death coach passing by. It passed about midnight, and she could hear the rushing, the tramping of the horses, and most beautiful singing, just like fairy music, but she could not understand the words. Once or twice she was brave enough to open the door and look out as the coach passed, but she could never see a thing, though there was
the noise and singing. One time a man had to wait on the roadside to let the fairy horses go by, and he could hear their passing very clearly, and couldn’t see one of them.
When we got home, Dr. Hyde told me that the fairies of the region are rarely seen. The people usually say that they hear or feel them only.
The ‘Good People’ and Mr. Gilleran.-
After the mother had testified, the daughter, who is quite of the younger generation, gave her own opinion. She said that the ‘good people’ live in the forts and often take men and women or youths who pass by the forts after sunset; that Mr. Gilleran, who died not long ago, once saw certain dead friends and recognized among them those who were believed to have been taken and those who died naturally, and that he saw them again when he was on his death-bed.
We have here, as in so many other accounts, a clear connexion between the realm of the dead and Fairyland.

THE TESTIMONY OF A LOUGH DERG SEER
Neil Colton, seventy-three years old, who lives in Tamlach Towniand, on the shores of Lough Derg, County Donegal, has a local reputation for having seen the ‘gentle folk’, and so I called upon him. As we sat round his blazing turf fire, and in the midst of his family of three sturdy boys-for he married late in life-this is what he related :-
A Girl Recovered from Faerie.-‘ One day, just before sunset in midsummer, and I a boy then, my brother and cousin and myself were gathering bilberries (whortleberries) up by the rocks at the back of here, when all at once we heard music. We hurried round the rocks, and there we were within a few hundred feet of six or eight of the gentle folk, and they dancing. When they saw us, a little woman dressed all in red came running out from them towards us, and she struck my cousin across the face with what seemed to be a green rush. We ran for home as hard as we could, and when my cousin reached the house she fell dead. Father saddled a horse and went for Father Ryan. When Father Ryan arrived, he put a stole about his neck and began praying over my cousin and reading psalms and striking her with the stole; and in that way brought her back. He said if she had not caught hold of my brother, she would have been taken for ever.’
The ‘Gentle Folk ‘.- ‘ The gentle folk are not earthly people; they are a people with a nature of their own. Even in the water there are men and women of the same character. Others have caves in the rocks, and in them rooms and apartments. These races were terribly plentiful a hundred years ago, and they’ll come back again. My father lived two miles from here, where there were plenty of the gentle folk. In olden times they used to take young folks and keep them and draw all the life out of their bodies. Nobody could ever tell their nature exactly.’

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Poetry: Teixeira de Pascoaes-Portuguese Mystic…

POET
When the first tear welled up

In my eyes, divine clarity

Lit up my village homeland

With the sad light of longing.
How I glow, poor humble things,

As sorrow in your darkness. . .

I am, in the future, time past.

In me, old times are new ages.
I’m a mountain cliff, an astral

Mist, a figment in the morning,

The earthen image of a soul.
I’m man fleeing from himself,

A raving phantom, a living mystery,

God’s delirium, dreams, nothingness.

—
THE MASK
That living and unfettered light

Arriving from a distant, mysterious star

And reflecting off our face,

Making it shine with a strange glow. . .

That hidden lamp which turns our mask

Transparent and radiant

With joy, sorrow or despair

And still other feelings arisen

From an angel’s or a demon’s heart. . .

That true and ideal portrait composed

Of soul and body and whose frame

We are, aimlessly wandering. . .

That’s it, yes, our apparition, us,

Made of stars, shadows, raging winds

And countless centuries, finally emerging

Out here, on earth, in the light of the sun.

—
WIND OF THE SPIRIT

I felt a mysterious wind pass by

In a profound and cosmic whirl.

It took me in its arms; I avidly

Went; and I saw the Spirit of the World.
Earth’s solitary things, glowing

Like an unconscious gaze of night,

Like a tear’s dead light, felt none

Of that tragic gust, which ruffled
Only my soul! O lofty wind!

Wind of Prophecy and Exaltation!

Wind that blows in waves of mystery,

Stirring me up, making me ecstatic!
Strange wind, raging without touching

The tenderest flower! But it inflames

My entire being, causing it to give off

God’s light, love’s light, infinite light!
O wind that nothing resists except

An invisible shadow. . . A forest

Or rough stone is, for you, a wispy

Essence, and I am a rugged cliff.
At night, O crazy wind, you pound

My troubled soul, and a loud whoosh wraps it

And swoops it away; and so it passes

From life to life, and from death to death.
Wind that took me to I don’t know where. . .

But I know I went, and I saw close up,

Before my eyes, the burning mist that hides

God’s ghost, hovering over the desert!
And I also saw the hazy light

That loomed out of the darkness, enlightening

My heart, which soars beyond life,

Shedding its burden of tears.
That great wind overturned

My calm existence; and ancient sorrow

Drenched my mean and feeble body,

Like rain the tatters of a beggar woman.
In a great wind I went; I went and saw:

I saw God’s Shadow. And in that shadow

I lay down, ravished, and felt within me

The earth in bloom and the sky aglitter.

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A wee tip of the hat: Bertolt Brecht Collage

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