Short Entries…

I am working on another entry and it is taking a bit of time…

Here are some gems that I have been gifted with (Thank You Dale!), others that jumped forward almost yelling Pick Me, Pick Me! Well, how can you refuse?

I have a soft spot for Folk Tales, Myths Stories. In their interiors lurk pure gold. We have just to look.

Off to a customers…

Hope you enjoy this entry.

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

The Links

Ainu Tales: How a Man got the better of two Foxes

Koans

Poetry: Dale Pendell – 2 New Poems

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The Links:

Super kids: Indigo kids debate

Strange story of the king and hypnotist doctor

Life on Mars?

Racer Recovers From Severed Head

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Ainu Tales: How a Man got the better of two Foxes

A man went into the mountains to get bark to make rope with, and found a hole. To this hole there came a fox, who spoke as follows, though he was a fox, in human language: “I know of something from which great profit may be derived. Let us go to the place to-morrow!” To which the fox inside the hole replied as follows: “What profitable thing do you allude to? After hearing about it, I will go with you if it sounds likely to be profitable; and if not, not.” The fox outside spoke thus: “The profitable thing to be done is this. I will come here to-morrow about the time of the mid-day meal. You must be waiting for me then, and we will go off together. If you take the shape of a horse, and we go off together, I taking the shape of a man and riding on your back, we can go down to the shore, where dwell human beings possessed of plenty of food and all sorts of other things. As there is sure to be among the people some one who wants a horse, I will sell you to him who thus wants a horse. I can then buy a quantity of precious things and of food. Then I shall run away; and you, having the appearance of a horse, will be led out to eat grass, and be tied up somewhere on the hillside. Then, if I come and help you to escape, and we divide the food and the precious things equally between us, it will be profitable for both of us.” Thus spoke the fox outside the hole; and the fox inside the hole was very glad, and said: “Come and fetch me early to-morrow, and we will go off together.”

The man was hidden in the shade of the tree, and had been listening. Then the fox who had been standing outside went away, and the man, too, went home for the night. But he came back next day to the mouth of the hole, and spoke thus, imitating the voice of the fox whom he had heard speaking outside the hole the day before: “Here I am. Come out at once! If you will turn into a horse, we will go down to the shore.” The fox came out. It was a big fox. The man said: “I have come already turned into a man. If you turn into a horse, it will not matter even if we are seen by other people.” The fox shook itself, and became a large chestnut [lit. red] horse. Then the two went off together, and came to a very rich village, plentifully provided with everything. The man said: “I will sell this horse to anybody who wants one.” As the horse was a very fine one, every one wanted to buy it. So the man bartered it for a quantity of food and precious things, and then went away.

Now the horse was such a peculiarly fine one that its new owner did not like to leave it out-of-doors, but always kept it in the house. He shut the door, and he shut the window, and cut grass to feed it with. But though he fed it, it could not (being really a fox) eat grass at all. All it wanted to eat was fish. After about four days it was like to die. At last it made its escape through the window and ran home; and, arriving at the place where the other fox lived, wanted to kill it. But it discovered that the trick had been played, not by its companion fox, but by the man. So both the foxes were very angry, and consulted about going to find the man and kill him.

But though the two foxes had decided thus, the man came and made humble excuses, saying: “I came the other day, because I had overheard you two foxes plotting; and then I cheated you. For this I humbly beg your pardon. Even if you do kill me, it will do no good. So henceforward I will brew rice-beer for you, and set up the divine symbols for you, and worship you,—worship you for ever. In this way you will derive greater profit than you would derive from killing me. Fish, too, whenever I make a good catch, I will offer to you as an act of worship. This being so, the creatures called men shall worship you for ever.”

The foxes, hearing this, said: “That is capital, we think. That will do very well.” Thus spake the foxes. Thus does it come about that all men, both Japanese and Aino, worship the fox. So it is said.—(Translated literally. Told by Ishanashte, 15th July, 1886.)

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Koans…

If You Love, Love Openly

Twenty monks and one nun, who was named Eshun, were practicing meditation with a certain Zen master.

Eshun was very pretty even though her head was shaved and her dress plain. Several monks secretly fell in love with her. One of them wrote her a love letter, insisting upon a private meeting.

Eshun did not reply. The following day the master gave a lecture to the group, and when it was over, Eshun arose. Addressing the one who had written to her, she said: “If you really love me so much, come and embrace me now.”

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The Last Rap

Tangen had studied with Sengai since childhood. When he was twenty he wanted to leave his teacher and visit others for comparitive study, but Sengai would not permit this. Every time Tangen suggested it, Sengai would give him a rap on the head.

Finally Tangen asked an elder brother to coax permission from Sengai. This the brother did and then reported to Tangen: “It is arranged. I have fixed it for you to start on your pilgrimage at once.”

Tangen went to Sengai to thank him for his permission. The master answered by giving him another rap.

When Tangen related this to his elder brother the other said: “What is the matter? Sengai has no business giving premission and then changing his mind. I will tell him so.” And off he went to see the teacher.

“I did not cancel my permission,” said Sengai. “I just wished to give him one last smack over the head, for when he returns he will be enlightened and I will not be able to reprimand him again.”

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2 New Poems From Dale Pendell

This Day Like Any Other

–for Utah Phillips

I refuse to obey. I refuse the medal, the bullets, I

Countermand, I will not fire, I will not pay, I refuse,

I, we, together, we refuse, we won’t, we’ll sit,

We’ll stand, we won’t work. Sir, I refuse

To obey, great God, I refuse, I won’t, again, anymore,

This day, a jaguar day, this rattling of winds day,

This bread in the trampled landfill day, this,

Wounded and clawing, we won’t, I won’t, I refuse

To obey, Sir, it’s important, this fine day,

This turning and terrible day, this day the books

Litter the streets like washing, this day

The wall wails from rebuilding, this day the angels

Shudder in hiding, this day when the dead

Are too many, this day I refuse, Sir, to obey.

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The Ballad of the Hungry Ghosts

They have no breath, nor bones, nor blood;

They appear, and then dissolve.

Their only drive is for more and more

Until they own it all.

They have no children or family,

Neighbors, or sense of shame;

Their birth is a limited charter

Solely conceived for gain.

They’re called a corporate body

And given the rights of men:

Denizens of a nether world

To whom all flesh must bend.

Pixies’ Revel…

Radio Station Is In Test Mode! Cut and Paste!

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio

http://87.194.36.124:8001/radio-low

(Spoken Word coming soon!)

A late start… this is a second attempt on this blog. I somehow wrenched my shoulder; and the pain factor has been a bit silly. Distracting, that is the word.

Sunshine today, I am out for a walk.

Hope this finds you in a good place!

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

Fire Poker Zen

The Pixies of Dartmoor: The Pixies’ Revel

Poetry in the Indigenous World…

Art: Arthur Wardle (British, 1864-1949)

I have used his art in various projects over the years. Almost forgotten now days, he was one of the greats!

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The Links

I Have Leary Surrounded – An Interview with John Higgs

BRITAIN’S LAST WITCH TRIAL

Did starving Neanderthals eat each other?

Legend of the sword in the lake halts plans to build huge dam in Manipur

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Fire-Poker Zen

Hakuin used to tell his pupils about an old woman who had a teashop, praising her understanding of Zen. The pupils refused to believe what he told them and would go to the teashop to find out for themselves.

Whenever the woman saw them coming she could tell at once whether they had come for tea or to look into her grasp of Zen. In the former case, she would server them graciously. In the latter, she would beckon to the pupils to come behind her screen. The instant they obeyed, she would strike them with a fire-poker.

Nine out of ten of them could not escape her beating.

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I spent a lot of time on Dartmoor. Wonderful place, deeply haunted!

The Pixies of Dartmoor: The Pixies’ Revel

Once upon a time–we will begin the story in the orthodox fashion–an old farmer and his wife dwelt in a lonely house on the moor. Fortune could not exactly be said to have frowned upon them, for the couple might have been very much worse off than they were, but yet she had not turned towards them her brightest of smiles, they having rather more than their full share of toil. The farmer was out in his fields from morning till night, and when he reached the house was glad, after his supper and a short rest by the fire, to take himself off to his bed. But unfortunately, although he so much needed sleep, he was at length unable to obtain it, in consequence of the pixies having suddenly taken a fancy to visiting his house at night, and keeping up an incessant chattering in the kitchen, which was situated immediately underneath his bedroom. And so he frequently lay tossing about, not able to get a wink of sleep until far into the night, and sometimes never closed his eyes at all. He was reluctant to incur the enmity of the “little people” by driving them away, and so he bore this state of things for some time, till one night the noise was so great, that he jumped out of bed, determined to put a stop to it.

“What be the matter?” asked his dame, to whom he had not communicated his intention.

“‘Way, these here pisgies be a makin’ sich a rattle that I want put up wi’t no more. I’ll zee what they he up to; I can zee mun droo the ‘all in the planchin’.”

The farmer peeped down through the hole in the floor, and unobserved by the pixies was able to become a spectator of their proceedings. In the middle of the kitchen a number of them were dancing in a ring, while others were running and jumping about the room, at the same time all were shouting and making a great noise. On the shelves of the dresser several were perched, to the imminent danger of the good wife’s cups and plates, while some were climbing up the clock-case, and mounting the deal table, and jumping again to the floor, to run in and out of the circle of merry dancers. They were evidently enjoying themselves heartily, and the farmer felt almost inclined to let them alone, till the many sleepless nights he had endured came to his recollection. As he was considering the best means of ridding himself of his unwelcome company, he observed a pixy perched upon a stool immediately beneath him, and thinking how greatly he should frighten the noisy party if he could but strike one of them, he took up a steel-pronged fork which lay near him, and noiselessly putting his arm through the hole in the floor, let it drop right on to the pixy. The little fellow happened to commence capering about just as the farmer did this, and luckily for him the fork did not enter his body, but pinned him by the leg to the stool. He set up a great cry, and the pixies seeing what had happened, flew towards the door and rapidly made their exit through the keyhole. The unfortunate victim of the farmer’s vengeance attempted to follow, but while he was able to reduce his own size so as to go through the smallest of crevices without difficulty, he had no power to alter that of the stool, and consequently he stuck fast in the keyhole. Here he was captured by the master of the house, who had hurried down stairs when he saw the effect of his aim, and speedily released from his encumbrance.

The rural narrator from whom I had this story was unable to say what the farmer did with his prize, but let us hope that he merely intimated to him his desire to be permitted to sheep quietly in the future, and let him go.

The foregoing are but a few examples of the many tales that are related of the pixies, but they will serve to illustrate the various parts played by that fairy race when interesting themselves in the affairs of mortals. While they often manifest a readiness to assist in the work of the farmer, their actions were certainly somewhat erratic. A spirit of mischief seems not infrequently to have ruled them, though it would generally appear that unless some cause had been given them to tease or punish those who dwelt near their haunts, the latter were more likely to receive good than harm at their hands.

We have said that the age of the pixies is gone. And that they have almost disappeared before “the march of intellect ” is indeed the case; but while this is so, the exploits which are yet related of them remain as a not uninteresting portion of our folk-lore.

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[a] While these sheets were passing through the press, an instance of superstitious belief was reported in the Western Daily Mercury, of 6th June, 1890. It appears that a few days previous to that date, some labourers were engaged in ripping bark in a wood at a short distance from Torrington, in North Devon. When the time arrived for them to leave their work, one of them separating himself from his companions went to another part of the wood, in order to fetch a tool which he had left there. As he stooped to pick it up, a most strange feeling came over him, and he felt himself utterly unable to regain an upright position. Around him he heard peals of discordant laughter, and became seized with the conviction that he had fallen under a spell of the pixies. In this uncomfortable predicament he averred that he remained for the space of five hours, and was even then only able to crawl away on his hands and knees. Not knowing in what direction he was proceeding, he fell at length into a stream, and on pulling himself out of it, recognized his whereabouts, and made the best of his way home. Here he was remonstrated with by his wife for not having turned his pocket inside out, a charm which could not fail to counteract the magic power of the pixies. It is stated that a man named Short–a tailor–was a few years since pixy-led in the same wood, and continued under the spells of the goblins until morning.

[b] It is somewhat interesting to note that in the story which comes to us from Torrington. the man was unable to find his way home until he met with a stream.

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Poetry in the Indigenous World…

A Shaman Climbs Up the Sky

Altaic, Siberia

The Shaman mounts a scarecrow in the shape of a goose

above the white sky

beyond the white clouds

above the blue sky

beyond the blue clouds

this bird climbs the sky

The Shaman offers horsemeat to the chief drummer

the master of the six-knob

drum he takes a small piece

then he draws closer he

brings it to me in his hand

when I say “go” he bends

first at the knees when I

say “scat” he takes it all

whatever I give him

The Shaman fumigates nine robes

gifts no horse can carry

that no man can lift &

robes with triple necks

to look at & to touch

three times: to use this

as a horse blanket:

sweet

prince ulgan

you are my prince

my treasure

you are my joy

—–

Invocation to Markut, the bird of heaven

this bird of heaven who keeps

five shapes & powerful

brass claws (the moon

has copper claws the moon’s

beak is made of ice) whose

wings are powerful &

strike the air whose tail

is power & a heavy wind

markut whose left wing

hides the moon whose

right wing hides the sun

who never gets lost who flies

past that-place nothing tires her

who comes toward this-place

in my house I listen

for her singing I wait

the game begins

falling past my right eye landing

here

on my right shoulder

markut is the mother of five eagles

The Shaman reaches the 1st sky

my shadow on the landing

I have climbed to (have reached

this place called sky

& struggled with its summit)

I who stand here

higher than the moon

full moon my shadow

The Shaman pierces the 2nd sky

to reach the second landing

this further level

look!

the floor below us

lies in ruins

At the end of the Climb: Praise to Prince Ulgan

three stairways lead

to him three flocks

sustain him PRINCE ULGAN!

blue hill where no hill

was before: blue sky

everywhere: a blue cloud

turning swiftly

that no one can reach

a blue sky that no one

can reach (to reach it

to journey a year by water

then to bow before him

three times to exalt him)

for whom the moon’s edge

shines forever PRINCE ULGAN!

you have use for the hoofs

of our horses you who give us

flocks who keep pain from us

sweet

prince ulgan

for whom the stars & the sky

are turning a thousand times

turning a thousand times over

Translation after French version in Roger Caillois and Jean-Clarence Lambert, Trésor de la poésie universelle, 1958. The subtitles are derived from Mircea Eliade’s Shamanism.

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15 Flower World Variations

Yaqui

o flower fawn

about to come out playing

in this flower water

out there

in the flower world

the patio of flowers

in the flower water

playing

flower fawn

about to come out playing

in this flower water

in wilderness I am

that only melon

flowering

& splitting

sending vines out

everywhere

you are

in wilderness

I am that only

melon flowering

& splitting

sending vines out

in the flower world

out there

under the dawn

a pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

on the flower ground

& shining

reaching bottom

where you are

in wilderness

that only melon flowering

I am

& splitting

sending vines out

everywhere

when the fresh night comes

o night hawk

you fly up

o night hawk

out there

in the flower world

under the dawn

the light beyond us

you fly up

o night hawk

from a branch of mesquite

you fly up

o night hawk

(where is the rotted stick that screeches lying?)

the screeching rotted stick is lying over there

(where is the rotted stick that screeches lying?)

the screeching rotted stick is lying over there

there in the flower world

beyond us

in the tree world

the screeching rotted stick

is lying

over there the screeching

rotted stick is lying

over there

ah brother

look at you

a deer with flowers

brother

shake your antlers

little brother

shake your antlers

deer with flowers

why not let your belt

your deer hoofs

shake? why not vibrate

cocoons

strapped to your ankles

brother

shake them

little brother

shake & roll

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

there in the flower world

the tree world

you do not have my

long grey body

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

what’s this tree bent down with

flowers?

surely

it’s this flower stick

bent down

with flowers surely

what’s this tree bent down with

flowers?

surely

it’s this flower stick

bent down with

flowers surely

out there

in the flower world

the floral world

among the sagebrush

there’s a flower bush bent down with

flowers

surely it’s this flower stick

bent down with flowers

surely

out in the mountain there

these look like

doves

& in the flower water

three of them

are grey & bobbing

three of them are walking

grey & side by side

there in the flower world

the dawn

out in the flower water

three of them

are grey & bobbing

in the mountain there

these look like doves

out there

& in the flower water

three are grey

& bobbing

three of them are walking

grey & side by side

you

like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

sounding large

& like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

there in the flower world

the dawn

there in its light

that big place over there

that mountain canyon

sounding large

& like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

sounding large

to sleep in

these flowers

to crawl there

I who am flower-world creeper

who sleep there

who crawl in these flowers

out there

in the tree world

climbing this branch

I crawl up it

to sleep in

these flowers

I who am flower-world creeper

who sleep there

where are you standing

in the wind

dead grasses

grey & shaking in the wind

dead grasses

where are you standing

in the wind dead grasses

grey & shaking in the wind

dead grasses

there in the wilderness

the flower world

a pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

on the flower ground

& shining

reaching bottom

where you are

where you are only

standing in the wind

dead grasses

grey & shaking in the wind

dead grasses

ah brother

they want us to kill

this beaver

they want us to kill

ah brother

this beaver

this beaver

ah brother

they want us to kill

with a bow & arrow

they want us to kill it

ah brother

with hair standing up

they were waiting

& ran from us

broke down their doors to get in

now they want us

to kill it

ah brother

with a bow & arrow

ah brother

they want us to kill it

flower

with the body of a fawn

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending

turning where you stand to rub

your antler

in the flower world

the dawn

there in its light

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending turning where you stand

to rub your antlers

flower

with the body of a fawn

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending

turning where you stand to rub

your antlers

——-

Song of a Dead Man

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

out in the flower world

the dawn

over a road of flowers

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

the flowers

want to move

now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

& now

the cloud will break

the cloud

will break

& now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

there in the flower world

under the dawn

this pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

shining

& reaching bottom

now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

& now

the cloud will break

the cloud

will break

The Flower World settings were derived from traditional Yaqui Deer Dance songs in literal translations by Carleton Wilder, et al.

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KIOWA “49″ SONGS

(1)

I don’t care if you’re married, I’ll still get you,

I’ll get you yet.

I don’t care if you’re married sixteen times,

I’ll get you yet.

When the dance is over, sweetheart,

I will take you home in my one-eyed Ford.

(2)

If you really love me honey, hey-yah.

If you really love me honey, hey-yah.

Come back, come back if you really love me honey.

I’m from Oklahoma, far away from my home,

Down here looking for you.

If you’ll be my honey, I will be your sugarpie.

I’m from Carnegie, so far away from my home,

Down here looking for you.

If you’ll be my snag, I’ll be your snag-a-roo.

(3)

You know that I love you, sweetheart, but every time I come around

You always say you got another one.

You know damn good and well that I love you.

To heck with your ole man.

Come up and see me sometime.

(4)

She said she don’t love me anymore because I drink whiskey,

I don’t care, I got a better one.

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Commentary

A popular form of contemporary Indian lyric, “49″ songs show up throughout the States “at powwows and other social gatherings, usually late in the evening after other types of dances and songs are completed.” The origin of the name has been various explained, in Alan R. Velie’s version, as derived from a burlesque show of the 1920s that toured Kiowa country with a California gold rush theme & the repeated refrain, “See the girls of ’49, see the ’49 girls.” Applied to Kiowa women who were singing semitraditional “war-journey songs” with transformed lyrics, the name (so they say) stuck & passed into the pan-Indian culture. “In singing ’49′ songs” – writes Velie – “the singers chant a nonverbal refrain to an accompanying drum beat. After an extended period of chanting, they sing the short lyric once, either in Kiowa or in English.” The words of the present versions are the original English – a good example of how a feeling for the “luminous detail” & for the ironies of language & behavior can be brought into an altered context. It should be noted, however, that the songs presented here as texts aren’t identical to those presented on the accompanying recording.

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On Morgans’ Suggestion…

How Poetry Comes to Me

It comes blundering over the

Boulders at night, it stays

Frightened outside the

Range of my campfire

I go to meet it at the

Edge of the light

-Gary Snyder

(Emily Carr – Totem Walk At Sitka)

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Don’t let the minute spoil the hour. — Ted Joans

Working on projects and the like… Went out last night late with Morgan Miller for a birthday drink. He just turned 49. Hard to believe, as I met him when he was just a lad of 39! This entry came from a suggestion that Morgan made…

I spent lots of time trying to find poetry of Ted Joans perhaps the most under represented Beat/Surrealist Poet… (how does this happen?) Amazing stuff. Humbled by his dexterity with words.

Emily Carr work was a revelation to me. She paints the Northwest that I see inside! Wonderful work!

I want to thank Morgan for his turning me on to both artist who are featured today… I am always amazed at his depth of knowledge. Thanks Morgan for the good times, poetry and prodding.

Here is to our Northwest, and to the peoples who inhabit it. Be they Human, Raven Orca or Others.

On The Menu:

The Links

Emily Carr

AnêktcXô’lEmiX – A Chinook Story

Ted Joans – Poetry

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The Links:

The man I had drinks with last night: An Interview with Morgan Miller

W3- ANONYMOUS REMAILER

Teams Explore Roots of Angkor Civilization

Tropical forest biochemistry, the driving force in human evolution

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Emily Carr (December 13, 1871 – March 2, 1945) was a Canadian artist and writer.

She was born in Victoria, British Columbia, and moved to San Francisco in 1890 to study art after the death of her parents. In 1899 she travelled to England to deepen her studies, where she spent time at the Westminster School of Art in London and at various studio schools in Cornwall, Bushey, Hertfordshire, San Fransisco, and elsewhere. In 1910, she spent a year studying art at the Académie Colarossi in Paris and elsewhere in France before moving back to British Columbia permanently the following year.

Carr was most heavily influenced by the landscape and First Nations cultures of British Columbia, and Alaska. Having visited a mission school beside the Nuu-chah-nulth community of Ucluelet in 1898, in 1908 she was inspired by a visit to Skagway and began to paint the totem poles of the coastal Kwakwaka’wakw, Haida, Tsimshian, Tlingit and other communities, in an attempt to record and learn from as many as possible. In 1913 she was obliged by financial considerations to return permanently to Victoria after a few years in Vancouver, both of which towns were, at that time, conservative artistically. Influenced by styles such as post-impressionism and Fauvism, her work was alien to those around her and remained unknown to and unrecognized by the greater art world for many years. For more than a decade she worked as a potter, dog breeder and boarding house landlady, having given up on her artistic career.

In the 1920s she came into contact with members of the Group of Seven (artists) after being invited by the National Gallery of Canada to participate in an exhibition of Canadian West Coast Art, Native and Modern. She travelled to Ontario for this show in 1927 where she met members of the Group, including Lawren Harris, whose support was invaluable. She was invited to submit her works for inclusion in a Group of Seven exhibition, the beginning of her long and valuable association with the Group. They named her ‘The Mother of Modern Arts’ around five years later.

The Nuu-chah-nulth of Vancouver Island’s west coast had nicknamed Carr Klee Wyck, “the laughing one.” She gave this name to a book about her experiences with the natives, published in 1941. The book won the Governor General’s Award that year.

Her other titles were The Book of Small (1942),The House of All Sorts (1944) and Growing Pains (1946) Pause and The Heart of a Peacock (1953), and in 1966, Hundreds and Thousands. They reveal her to be an accomplished writer. Though mostly autobiographical, they have been found to be unreliable as to facts and figures if not in terms of mood and intent.

Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design, Emily Carr Elementary School in Vancouver, British Columbia, Emily Carr Middle School in Ottawa, Ontario and Emily Carr Public School in London, Ontario are named after her.

Emily Carr is interred in the Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria. Her gravestone inscription reads “Artist and Author / Lover of Nature”.

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From the First Peoples of our land…

AnêktcXô’lEmiX – A Chinook Story

There was a town the chief of which had died. His two children were grown up; one was a girl and one a, boy. Early every morning the people went out to hunt sea-otters. The girl was always in the stern of the canoe. At dark they returned home. Five times they had gone hunting, then it grew foggy. Her hair became wet and she swallowed the water which dripped down from her hair. A long time the people remained there. Then she became pregnant. Blue-Jay was the first to observe it. He said: “Don’t you notice it? He made his sister pregnant.” Robin said: “Be quiet, Blue-Jay, you will make our chief’s children ashamed.” “Ha, he is the elder of us two and he ought to know better than I.”

After some time she became stouter. “Heh, we will run,” said Blue-Jay. “I am ashamed because her brother made her pregnant. We will leave them; we will move!” Then, indeed, the people believed Blue-Jay. Again the brother and sister went hunting sea-otters. In the evening they came home. Now there were no people and no houses. “Lo, they deserted us. Blue-Jay advised them to do so.” Then the brother continued: “Tell me who made you pregnant?” She replied, “I do not know.

Once when we went out hunting sea otters a mist came up and I swallowed the water which made me Qualmish.” Then they searched for fire. But the people had poured water into all the fires. The last house was that of their aunt, the Crow. It also was taken away. They walked about and there they heard the crackling of fire. The brother said to his sister: “Do you hear the fire?” After awhile it crackled again.

They found the place from where the sound appeared to come. They dug into the ground and found a shell. In the shell there was burning coal. “Oh,” they said to each other, “our aunt pitied us; she put the fire into the shell for us.” Now they started a fire. The next day they built a small house. There they lived for a long time.

One day a sea breeze arose. Early in the morning the man rose and went down to the beach. There he found ten cedar planks, each ten fathoms long, which had drifted ashore. He went up to the house and said to his sister: “I have found ten planks, each ten fathoms long.” They went to the beach, hauled them up to their house, and the brother made a large house. Then the brother said: “What kind of a blanket will you make for your son?”

In the morning he went down to the beach and there he found two small sea-otters. He said: “Oh, my poor nephew, this will be your blanket.” “He took them up to the house and said to his sister: “I found these sea-otters.” Then she was very glad. The brother said: “What soup are you going to make for your son?” In the morning he arose and went down to the beach. There he found a sea-lion. He skinned it and cut it, and then they boiled it.

Every day he went down to the beach, and every time he found two sea-otters. And their house was full of sea-otter skins. One morning he went to the beach; there was a whale. Then he ran back to his sister and cried: “A whale is on the beach!” His sister said in reply: “Every night the people on the other side of the ocean send us food. Those supernatural people love me. My boy’s father came. Now cut the whale.” Then he skinned it and cut it and they carried up the meat.

Now the Crow made herself ready to look for her nephew and her niece. She launched her canoe and paddled across, wailing all the time. When she had almost crossed the bay she discovered a house and saw smoke rising. She went on. When she was near the shore she saw a chief sitting on the roof of the house. [The latter said to his sister, when he saw the Crow coming:] “Our aunt who pitied us is coming there.”

She arrived and saw the whale on the beach. She [was very hungry,] went to the whale and pulled at the meat. Then her nephew said: “Come up to the house; why do you touch that rotten meat?” She replied: “Oh, I only looked at it,” and went up to the house. She entered and saw that it was full of whale meat. She went right up to the child [and wanted to take it in her arms], but the child began to cry. The sister said: “Oh, he is afraid of your tears.” They gave her water and she washed her face.

Then she tried again to take him, but still he cried. The sister said “He, is afraid of your breath.” Then she took water, cleaned her mouth and took him again, but still he cried. Then the sister said to her aunt: “Do you think he is a human being? Look here, he is the son of a supernatural being. They gave us that whale to eat.” “Oh,” said the Crow. They boiled whale meat for her and she ate it. After she had finished eating she went home. They gave her two pieces of blubber which she put into her mat.

The Crow went across the bay; and when she approached the town she cried: “O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, birds flew up from you many times; eagles were eating you. O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, gulls were eating you. Ravens were eating you, O, my sister’s children.” Now she came still nearer the town. Blue-Jay was sitting outside and saw her coming. When she had nearly arrived she cried again: “O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, birds flew up from you; crows were eating you.”

Then Blue-Jay shouted: “Do you not notice? She names the Crow; she names the Crow.” Now she landed and went up to the house. Now all the people came into the Crow’s house. They asked her how she had found her sister’s children. She replied and told much. “I went across and I found their bodies full of birds which ate them. All kinds of birds ate them.” After she had finished, Blue-Jay was the first to leave the house. He went to the rear of the house, where he stayed.

Now, the Crow was silent. Robin, who was her deceased husband’s brother, remained with her. They sat on opposite sides of the fire. She had five children. Then she told him everything in a low voice, and Blue-Jay listened outside. She pulled out the food which she had carried home, cut it to pieces, and gave it to her children and to Robin. Her youngest daughter choked [when eating the blubber].

Then Blue-Jay, who had been peeping through the chinks of the wall, entered and slapped her nape. The piece of whale, meat flew out of her month. Blue-Jay took it up, went out, showed it to the people, and said: “Do you see? The Crow fed me.” He went to three houses showing it around, then he ate it. After some time it grew dark. The people were very hungry.

Then Blue-Jay said to the chief of the town: “O, chief, the house [of the young man whom we deserted] is full of whale meat. A supernatural being loved his sister. He invites me, and he has invited the Crow and Robin.” Late in the evening Blue-Jay came out of the house, took his large blanket [and went to his elder brother, Robin,] saying, “Robin, let us sleep under one blanket; I always get cold.” Robin replied: “Ya-a, I always sleep alone, and do not want anyone with me; sleep there at my feet.”

Now Blue-Jay lay down at Robin’s feet. Blue-Jay remained awake. When it was nearly morning Blue-Jay fell asleep. Now Robin and Crow made a canoe [ready]. Then Robin and the Crow went to their canoe and carried their property into it. Now Robin took a sharp stick and put it in the ground at Blue-Jay’s feet. Then Robin and the Crow went across to the young man and to his sister, and left Blue-Jay alone. Early in the morning when he awoke, he said: “Wake up, Robin,” and kicked him; but his feet struck the stick, and he hurt himself. “O, my feet!” he cried. “They left me here alone.” Then he went home to his children. Crow and Robin crossed the bay and went up to the house of the young man.

Early next morning Blue-Jay said: “Now, let us all go across.” They made themselves ready and went across. When they were in the middle of the bay a heavy gale arose, and the people almost died. They had to turn back. Five days [they tried to cross the bay], but every time they were driven back. Then they got across. Now it began to snow, and the people were covered with snow. They became very cold.

Thus their chief took revenge upon them. Then Blue-Jay went up to the house. [He found a knothole and called to Robin, who was in the house:] “Robin, open for me, I am cold. Bring me food, Robin, I am starving.” Robin did not reply. “Robin, take the tongs and put some food through this hole.” Robin was boiling meat. Then he took the tongs and put them into the boiling kettle. He pushed the tongs through the knothole. Blue-Jay [was so hungry that he] licked the fat off from the tongs.

He said: “Robin, Robin, tell the chief that I will give him my daughter in marriage, but let him open the door.” “Ya-a,” said Robin; “What shall he do with her? He wants your chief’s daughter [not yours].” Then Blue-Jay ran down to the beach and said to his chief: “The young man asks for your daughter and for my daughter.” The chief did not reply, and Blue-Jay ran back to the house and said: “Robin, the chief says he will give him his daughter.” Five times Blue-Jay ran down to the beach and back to the house.

Then his chief spoke; he made his daughter ready, and put on her dentalia, and so did Blue-Jay. Once more he ran up to the house and said: “Robin, I have made my daughter ready.” “Ya,” replied Robin; “She shall look after the chamber.” Now they brought the chief’s daughter up to the house and they opened the door.

On the following morning the sister had disappeared. Lo! The supernatural beings had taken her and her child away. The people remained in this place and made new houses.

Once upon a time the Crow gathered many potentilla roots [put them into her canoe] and crossed the sea. When she arrived at the country of the supernatural beings they all came down to the beach. They searched among her roots and found one ôguê’mEskôtit and one LE’môksin among them. These they ate, and threw away the Crow’s potentilla roots.

Then she went up to the house and met her niece, who said: “Do you think they are men, that you bring them potentilla, roots? Gather ôguê’mEskôtit and LE’môksin. When you come again bring all kinds of nice smelling roots, and bring one small basket of potentilla roots for me.” Then she said to her: “Take this bitch along; it belongs to your grandson. When you come near the shore say: ‘Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.’” “Yes,” said the Crow, and then she went home. When she was in the middle of the ocean she said to the dog: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX. Do you know indeed how to catch whales?”

Then the bitch who lay in the stern of the boat arose. A whale came up. She bit it. Then the canoe rocked violently. “Hold it fast, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then the Crow became afraid and said: “Let go, let go, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then she let go the whale and lay down to sleep. The Crow landed [and when she arrived], she had lost her dog. She ran about and searched for it in. all the houses, but did not find it. Then she [was very sad and] did not eat because she liked her dog.

The Crow stayed here five days, and then again she gathered many roots of plants. She gathered ôguê’mEskôtit and LE’môksin. She gathered all kinds of nice smelling roots. She put potentilla roots in to one small basket. Then she crossed again to the country of the supernatural beings. Then they all came down to the beach. They [took the nice smelling roots and] ate them right there at the beach. She carried the potentilla roots up to her niece.

Now she saw her dog, which was in the house. [Her niece said:] “Do you think this is a common bitch? She returns. Why did you say in the middle of the ocean: ‘Take the whale?’ Therefore you became afraid. You must not say so until you are near the shore. Do you think they gave her to you as a present? She always returns. You will take her again when you go home. Do not search for her when you have lost her. She provides you with food when you are going.”

The Crow replied: “Yes.” And when she went back she carried that bitch along. “When you approach the land say: ‘Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.’” Then she went home. The dog lay in the stern of the canoe. When they were near the town the Crow said: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” She did not move.

Then the Crow took some water, poured it over her and said: “Catch a whale; are you indeed able to catch a whale? “When they were quite near the shore she said again: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then she arose and caught a whale.

Again the canoe rocked. She said: “Hold it fast, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Sometimes she did not say it right and cried: “Let go the whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then the whale drifted ashore. The people went down to the beach and cut the whale. They carried the meat up to house.

After some time the chief said: “I desire to go and see my sister.” Now the people made themselves ready and started in a large canoe. When they came near the country of the supernatural beings their chief said: “Take care, they will test us.” [When they had gone a little farther] the whole sea was covered with ice. He said to his people: “We will land after awhile.”

Now Blue-Jay became very cold, but he said: “I never get cold, I will stay in the canoe.” He jumped into the water and sank out of sight at once. Then a person shouted on shore: “Ehehiu, [Blue-Jay] killed himself.” Then the chief arose in the canoe; he took the ice and threw it away. Then that person shouted: “Ehehiu, how he threw away the ice of the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu,’ you say, I threw it away; what made me fall down?,” [said Blue-Jay]. Then they went up to the house. The chief said: “Do not enter at once. After a while they will open their house.”

Now there was a sea-lion and a sea-cow (?), one at each side of the door. They stood in the doorway. Now Blue-Jay became very cold. He tried to jump into the house and the animals bit him. They had almost been unable to recover him. Then the chief stepped up and he took one sea monster in each hand and threw them away. “Ehehiu,” shouted the person [“how he throws away the sea lions of the supernatural people”]. “‘Ehehiu’, you say; I threw away those who bit me,” said Blue-Jay.

Then they all entered the house and stayed there. There were no people in it except the chief’s sister. [Blue-Jay said to his brother Robin:] “What will they give us to eat, Robin?” “Oh, be quiet,” replied Robin. Then said Blue-Jay: “Our chief’s fire makes noise just as this here.” There was only one log in the house. Then the person shouted: “Come down to the fire you who splits wood with his beak.”

Then a being came out [from under the bed] with a long beak who split the log. “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, “that was our great-great-grandfather’s slave.” “I do not know that he was our slave; you alone have slaves.” Then a fire was made and the whole house was full of smoke. The person shouted: “Come down to the fire, Smoke-eater.” “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, he also was our (great-great-grandfather’s) slave; he always carried me on his back and led you by the hand.” “I do not know that he was our slave; you alone have slaves.”

Then the smoke man came down and [they saw that] he had an enormous belly. He stepped into the middle of the house and swallowed all the smoke. The house became light. Then they brought a small dish and one cut of meat was in it. “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, “that is too little; that is not enough for all of us; I certainly shall not get enough.” Then a person shouted: “Come down to the fire you who cuts whale with his beak.”

Then a person came to the fire with a very sharp beak, who began to cut meat. He cut and cut until the whole dish was full. Then he blew upon it and it became a large canoe full of meat. They boiled it, and when it was nearly done they all went out and their chief took reeds. These he put into their months [and pushed them right through them] so that they came out at the anus. They all did so, also Blue-Jay.

Then they entered again and sat down. They made small holes where they sat and began to eat. They swallowed the meat and it went right out at the anus. Blue-Jay arose and there lay his anus. “Look here, Robin, my anus fell down right here!” Then the people took him by his arms, carried him out of the house, and pulled the reed out of his mouth. Then the chief and Blue-Jay entered again; he took three spoonfuls and he had enough.

Then the people continued to eat and the whale meat became less and less. Then they went out, took out the reeds and reentered. They continued to eat. Now they ate in the right way and finished all they had boiled. Then a person cried: “Ehehiu, how they eat all the meat of the supernatural beings!” Then Blue-Jay said: “Did you think I could not finish what you gave me to eat?”

Now they stayed in the house. Blue-Jay went out. He was oversatiated. He looked and saw a patch of kinnikinnik berries. He began to eat them, when a person called: “Oh, Blue-Jay eats the excrements of the supernatural people;” whereupon Blue-Jay said: “‘Ehehiu’, you say; do you think I eat them? I merely look at your kinnikinnik berries.”

They stayed there. After awhile a person came out of the house and said: “They wish to play with you; you will dive.” Blue Jay said: “We always dive in our country.” “Do you think they do as you are accustomed to?” said the woman. “When they dive the one dies and the other one has won.” She said to them: “Blue-Jay shall dive.” Blue-Jay went down to the water and threw the bushes out of his canoe into the water.

Then he and the diver fought against each other. They dived. Blue-Jay hid his club under his blanket. They jumped into the water and after awhile Blue Jay’s breath gave out. He came up and hid under the bushes which he had thrown out of his canoe. There he breathed and dived again. He said to the diver: “Where are you?” “Here I am,” she replied. After awhile his breath gave out again.

Once more he came up under the bushes. Four times he did so, and then he became tired. He went to look for the diver. He found her biting the bottom of the sea. She had her eyes closed. Blue-Jay took his club and hit her on the nape. The people saw something floating on the water and then a person said: “There is Blue-Jay.” He was, however, in the bushes which he had thrown out of his canoe. After a little while Blue-Jay jumped ashore and a person shouted: “Ehehiu, how Blue-Jay won over the diver of the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu’, you say; we always dive so in our country,” said Blue Jay.

Then again a person stepped out and said: “They want to play with you; you will climb up a tree together.” Then Blue-Jay said: “We climb every day in our country.” But the young woman remarked: “Do you think they are just like Indians? They will place a piece of ice upright, then you will have to climb up the ice. When a climber falls down he breaks to pieces and the other one wins.”

Then they said to Blue Jay: “You shall climb up.” They placed upright a piece of ice which was so long that it reached to the sky. Blue-Jay made himself ready and tied his bearskin blanket around his belly. [The supernatural beings sent a] chipmunk who made himself ready [to climb up the ice]. They began to climb, and when they had reached a certain height Blue-Jay grew tired.

[Then he let go of the ice] and flew upward. [When he had rested] he again took hold of the ice. Then he grew tired again. He looked back to the one with whom he was racing and saw her climbing up with her eyes shut. She did not grow tired. Then Blue-Jay took his club [from under his blanket] and struck her on the nape. The chipmunk fell down. The people looked up and saw a person falling down. “Ah, that is Blue-Jay! There he falls down.” [But when they saw the chipmunk] a person shouted: “Ehehiu, how they won over the chipmunk of the supernatural beings.”

“‘Ehehiu’, you say; we always climb in our country.” Then their chief won two sea-otters.

Then they stayed awhile longer. Then again a person came out and said: “They want to have a shooting match with you.” Blue-Jay said: “We have shooting matches every day in our country.” The young woman said: “Do you think they are like Indians? They place people against each other. One stands on one side, the other on the other. [They shoot at each other,] the one dies, and the other wins.” Then they said to the Beaver: “You stand up [on our side].” They took a grindstone and tied it to his belly. They took another one and tied it to his back. The supernatural beings made the loon stand up on their side.

Then [the beaver and the loon] took their arrows and the loon shot at the beaver. The arrow broke and fell down. Then the beaver shot at the loon. “Uhû,” said he when he was struck by the arrow. Then the loon shot again. “Ha,” he said, and the arrow broke and fell down. Then he shot again at the loon. “Uhû,” he said, then fell on his back and died. “Ehehiu! How they won over the bird of the supernatural people.” Blue-Jay spoke: “You say ‘ehehiu’; we have shooting matches in our country every day.”

They stayed there some time longer. Then again a person came out of the house and said: “They want to play with you; you will sweat in the sweat house.” Blue-Jay spoke: “We always sweat in our country.” Then the young woman said: “They always heat caves, and when they are hot, they enter them. The one party will die, the other will win.” Then their chief said: “We must go into the cave.” Now the supernatural beings heated the caves. They got hot. There were two caves in a rock. [The chief and some of his people] went into one, the supernatural beings went into the other.

Then the caves were closed. The chief, however, took some ice and put it under their feet. They stood on it. After a little while a sound was heard like the bursting of a shell that is being roasted. Five times that sound was heard. Then the caves were opened; first that of Blue Jay’s people–they were all alive; next that of the supernatural beings–five of them were dead. They had won again. “Ehehiu! How they won over the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu’, you say,” replied Blue-Jay, we use the sweat house every day in our country.

“Now the chief’s brother-in-law said: “Let us catch whales.” The sister told him: “Take care; they will try to put you to shame. This is their last attempt at you.” In the evening they went to catch whales. She took Blue-Jay and put him into her right armpit. Then she took Robin and put him into her left armpit [and told them]: “Now I shall keep you here; do not say ‘ehehiu,’ do not look!”

Then in the evening they all went down to the beach. She said to her elder brother: “Four whales will pass you, but do not throw your harpoon; when the fifth comes, then harpoon it.” Now the supernatural people stood there. The young woman took a torch in order to help her brother.

After a while a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, a flatfish whale comes.” [The chief did not stir.] After a while a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, an albatross whale comes; raise your harpoons.” Blue-Jay tried to look [from under the arms of the woman]. At once her torch began to flicker, and she pressed Blue-Jay, saying: “Do not look!” Then again a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, an elk whale comes; raise your harpoons.” [The chief did not stir.] Next a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, a sperm-whale comes; raise your harpoons.”

Then the sister said to him: “Now, look out; now the real whale will come.” Then a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, the whale of the supernatural people comes.” Blue-Jay tried to look [from his hiding place]. Then the torch of the young woman began to flicker and was almost extinguished. The people said: “Why does AnêktcXô’lEmiX’s torch always flicker?” The person shouted once more: “Yuyayuya, the whale of the supernatural people comes.”

Then AnêktcXô’lEmiX said to her brother: “Now the real whale will come.” The chief harpooned it and threw it ashore. “Ehehiu! How they threw ashore the whale of the supernatural people.” Blue-Jay replied: “Ehehiu,” and at once the torch was extinguished, and Blue-Jay [fell down from the armpit of the woman and] was drowned. He drifted away. Thus they won again. Their chief won again. Then they went home.

AnêktcXô’lEmiX said: “Coil up this rope in your canoe; when you get across tie Robin’s blanket to it.” [Then they started. When they were in the middle of the ocean the supernatural people] created a strong gale against those going home. Now they tied [Mink] on to the gunwale of their canoe [thus making it higher and preventing its being swamped]. They almost perished; finally they reached their home [safely. Then they tied Robin’s blanket to the rope. AnêktcXô’lEmiX pulled it back, and when she found the blanket at the end of the rope she knew that her brother had reached home safely].

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Ted Joans Poetry

“Let’s play that we all work from 9 to 5 and we are trying to pay for that split level home in Westchester and the wall to wall carpets and the never- ending payments on the flashy car, color TV, hi-fi, wash’n dry, deep freeze and other keeping up with the Joans deals.” —–”Playmate” -Ted Joans

‘The Sax Bit’

This poem is

just a poem of

thanks

This bent metal serpent/ holy horn with lids like beer

mug/ with phallic tail why did they invent you

before Coleman Hawkins was born ?

This curved shiney tune gut/ hanging lynched like/ J

shaped intitial of jazz/ wordless without a reed when

Coleman Hawkins first fondled it/kissed it with Black

sound did COngo blood sucking Belges frown ?

This tenor/alto/bass/baritone/soprano/moan/cry &

shout-a-phone ! sex-oh-phone/tell-it-like-damn-

sho-isa-phone !What tremors ran through Adolphe

Saxe the day Bean grabbed his ax ?

This golden mine of a million marvelous sounds/black

notes with myriad shadows/or empty crooked tube of

technical white poor-formance/calculated keys that

never unlock soul doors/white man made machine saved

from zero by Coleman Hawkins !

This saxophone salvation/modern gri gri hanging from

jazzmen’s necks placed there by Coleman Hawkins

a full body & soul sorcerer whose spirit dwells eternally

in every saxophone NOW and all those sound-a-phones

to be

Watermelon

It’s got a good shape / the outside color is green / it’s one of them

foods from Africa

It’s got stripes sometimes like a zebra or Florida prison pants

It’s bright red inside / the black eyes are flat and shiny / it won’t

make you fat

It’s got heavy liquid weight / the sweet taste is unique / some people

are shamed of it /

I ain’t afraid to eat it / indoors or out / it’s a soul food thing / Watermelon

is what I’m

Talking about Yeah watermelon is what I’m talking about

Watermelon

——

Airport Security

Mismanage your child care

To insure softer mattresses

From smoke stacking

Due to fast food fever

Shake all airplane underwear

To destroy wheelbarrow seeds

From sprouting

Due to altitudinal changes

—–

Above Him’

I saw Senghor

I was above him

Not hovering

Like a cloud

or a helicopter

but just a

High-lofty-observing

Poet

Looking down

At Senghor the poet

Who hovers high

Like a cloud

or a heavenly

helicopter

filled with leaflets

that shame betterflies’ wings

And rainbows end

I saw Senghor

the poet

Dressed in contradiction.

My Ace of Spades

MALCOLM X SPOKE TO ME and sounded you

Malcolm X said this to me & THEN TOLD you that!

Malcolm X whispered in my ears but SCREAMED on you!

Malcolm X praised me & thus condemned you

Malcolm X smiled at me & sneered at you

Malcolm X made me proud & so you got scared

Malcolm X told me to HURRY & you began to worry

Malcolm X sang to me but GROWLED AT YOU!!

Malcolm X words freed me & they frightened you

Malcolm X tol’ it lak it DAMN SHO’ IS!!

Malcolm X said that everybody will be F R E E ! !

Malcolm X told both of us the T R U T H . . . . . .

now didn’t he?

in: “For Malcolm”, p.5, in “Part I. The Life”

_____

Ted Joans (1928-2003), born Theodore Jones on July 4 on a riverboat in Cairo, Illinois, was a painter, a trumpeter, a jazz poet, travel writer, author of more than thirty-five books, including Teducation, The Hipsters (a book of collages), Black Pow Wow Jazz Poems, Funky Jazz Poems, Beat Poems, All of T.J. and No More, The Truth, The Truth, Afrodisia. After marrying a woman named Joan, he changed his name from Jones to Joans.

His parents had worked on Mississippi river runs. According to the story told, his father, a riverboat entertainer, put him off the boat in Memphis at age twelve and gave him a trumpet. In 1943, Joans’ father was pulled off a streetcar and killed by white workers during the Detroit race riots.

He earned a BFA degree in Fine Arts from Indiana University in 1951 and then joined “the Bohemia of Greenwich Village, USA,” where he was associated with the Beat generation of the 1950s. Along with Kerouac, Corso, Ginsberg, and Amiri Baraka, Joans began his poetic career in the artistic haven of Greenwich Village in the late fifties and early sixties. He was a friend of Beat icons Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. Joans was mentored by Langston Hughes and encouraged by Allan Ginsberg but never received early fame during a career that spanned more than 40 years.

Apart from Beat (surrealistic) influences, Joans expanded his work and embraced more serious jazz-inflected sounds. As a jazz afficionado, Joans often wrote in the spirit and idiom of jazz. He considered himself a jazz missionary. His work is characterized by a black consciousness, a strong rhythm, and a musical language and sensibility closely linked to the blues and to the best of the avant-garde jazz. His style is thus associated with the oral tradition of African-American writing which exemplifies oral and jazz traditions. He explored many themes, including anti-militarism, life of a black expatriate, and the black American in search of African roots.

In 1955 he and some friends stunningly denied the death of jazz great Charlie Parker by scrawling “BIRD LIVES” all over New York.

“He used to rent himself out to upper-middle class parties as a beatnik,” recalled George Bowering, Canada’s poet laureate. “He was very comic.” Joans lived in Paris for several decades and traveled widely, often with a pocket full of garlic cloves because, he once said, they were “powerful preventative medicine.”

Though one of the the originals, Joans has been rarely included in Beat anthologies. He can be found in Ann Charters’ The Beat Reader, the hardcover version but not the paperback versions, yet one of his phrases is the title of one of Charters’ sections. Joans is a surrealist writer, one of the originals, but he is not to be found in those anthologies either. Most anthologies of African American writing (including the big Norton Anthology of African American Literature, edited by Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Nellie Y. McKay) exclude him. Yet, he is considered an influential figure in American and African-American literature. Amazingly, you will find him in Women of the Beat Generation, edited by Brenda Knight.

Joan was not a careerist; he was in search of the marvelous. He was an independent thinker.

A wanderer, he recited his poems in coffeehouses in New York and in the middle of Sahara Desert. He has lived in Harlem, New York, Bloomington, Indiana, Haarlem of The Netherlands, and even Timbuktu. His poetry has achieved international acclaim, and it is widely respected throughout Africa, Europe, and the United States. Joans is a considerable visual artist, one of his paintings, “Bird Lives,” hangs in San Francisco’s de Young Museum.

For the past few decades Joans spent summers in Europe and winters in Africa. At his death he was living in Canada.

He had moved to Vancouver several years ago and remained a prolific writer until his death. Joans was found dead in his Vancouver, British Columbia, apartment on May 7, said T. Paul St. Marie, an entertainer and family friend. He had been in poor health with diabetes. Joans was survived by 10 children. He was cremated with no funeral, as he wished.

(Emily Carr – Totem Forest)

Pagan Times…

“There is something Pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.” – Lord Byron

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Running a bit late, painting our bedroom late into the night…

Hope you enjoy,

G

On The Menu:

Balkan Beat Box

The Links

Road-spraying ‘releases spirits’

Indigenous Poetry: Eskimo and Others…

The Art: Lord Frederick Leighton

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Discovered this highly original band the other day. Turns out they have been getting lots of attention, only I seem to have been in the dark about them… anyway, here is there web site addy:

Balkan Beat Box Web Site

Go check out their music!

Great Stuff!

It is a marriage of several distinct streams, and truly danceable…

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Balkan Beat Box Live Video…

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“Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn” – William Wordsworth

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The Links:

Experts Reconstruct Leonardo Fingerprint

A Stunning New Look At Déjà Vu

Icelandic Museum of the Occult & Witchcraft

Bizarre deep-sea creatures imaged off New Zealand

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“Scratch the Christian and you find the pagan – spoiled” – Israel Zangwil

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Road-spraying ‘releases spirits’

A police-led initiative of spraying water on state highways to release the trapped spirits of those killed in motor crashes has been declared a success.

Yesterday a special police convoy carrying Maori elders sprayed 10,000 litres of Waikato River water on SH1 and SH2 in a bid to free the spirits of crash victims.

Dick Waihi, iwi liaison officer for the Counties-Manukau police district, today said the operation had been successful.

“About 35 people turned up to support us,” Mr Waihi said. “It was very successful.

“It was a first for the country and we have had some really good feedback.”

Maori elders consider the combination of blessed river water and prayers to be a trigger for the release of the spirits of those trapped by violent deaths on the roads.

Water was pumped from the Waikato River into a tanker at Tuakau by the New Zealand Fire Service.

From 5.30am the convoy drove south from Mt Wellington to Mercer on SH1, and then along SH2 to Maramarua.

The ceremonial spraying was interrupted at Mercer and Maramarua, where a karakia was performed.

Mr Waihi said the 2½-hour exercise was cost-free, with people donating labour and resources.

Despite the prayers, Mr Waihi said the exercise was non-religious and not just for Maori fatalities.

“Some people don’t have an understanding why we are doing it. They should find out more about Maori protocols before making comment.”

Waikato road policing manager Inspector Leo Tooman had no problems with the initiative.

“Anything that helps is worthwhile, isn’t it?”

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“Popular culture is the new Babylon, into which so much art and intellect now flow. It is our imperial sex theater, supreme temple of the western eye. We live in the age of idols. The pagan past, never dead, flames again in our mystic hierarchies of stardom.” – Camille Paglia

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“Christian Hell, fire. Pagan hell, fire. Muslim Hell, fire. Hindu hell, flames. According to religions, God was born a grill-room owner.”– Victor Hugo

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Indigenous Poetry: Eskimo and Others…

spring fjord

(after Paul Emil Victor, Poèmes Eskimo)

I was out in my kayak

I was out at sea in it

I was paddling

very gently in the fjord Ammassivik

there was ice in the water

and on the water a petrel

turned his head this way that way

didn’t see me paddling

Suddenly nothing but his tail

then nothing

He plunged but not for me:

huge head upon the water

great hairy seal

giant head with giant eyes, moustache

all shining and dripping

and the seal came gently toward me

Why didn’t I harpoon him?

was I sorry for him?

was it the day, the spring day, the seal

playing in the sun

like me?

the old man’s song, about his wife

(after Paul Emil Victor, Poemes Eskimo)

husband and wife we loved each other then

we do now

there was a time

each found the other

beautiful

but a few days ago maybe yesterday

she saw in the black lake water

a sickening face

a wracked old woman face

wrinkled full of spots

I saw it she says

that shape in the water

the spirit of the water

wrinkled and spotted

and who’d seen that face before

wrinkled full of spots?

wasn’t it me

and isn’t it me now

when I look at you?

song of the old woman

(after Paul Emil Victor, Poemes Eskimo)

all these heads these ears these eyes

around me

how long will the ears hear me?

and those eyes how long

will they look at me?

when these ears won’t hear me any more

when these eyes turn aside from my eyes

I’ll eat no more raw liver with fat

and those eyes won’t see me any more

and my hair my hair will have disappeared

moon eclipse exorcism

(after Leo J. Trachtenberg, Alsea Texts and Myths)

come out come out come out

the moon has been killed

who kills the moon? crow

who often kills the moon? eagle

who usually kills the moon? chicken hawk

who also kills the moon? owl

in their numbers they assemble

for moonkilling

come out, throw sticks at your houses

come out, turn your buckets over

spill out all the water don’t let it turn

bloody yellow

from the wounding and death

of the moon

o what will become of the world, the moon

never dies without cause

only when a rich man is about to be killed

is the moon murdered

look all around the world, dance, throw your sticks, help out,

look at the moon,

dark as it is now, even if it disappears

it will come back, think of nothing

I’m going back into the house

and the others went back

—–

what the informant said to Franz Boas in 1920

(after Franz Boas, Keresan Texts)

long ago her mother

had to sing this song and so

she had to grind along with it

the Corn People have a song too

it is very good

I refuse to tell it

the little random creatures

(after William Jones, Fox Texts)

Found a hole with a light in it, and saying

Whose?

set a trap

with a bowcord for a noose.

A giant of light, something alive, dazzled the path

on its slow way up, blinding

the little random creatures

o something alive was dying in the bowcord and it said

Allow me to choke to death

And you’ll have night forever

and they let the Sun go

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Treat the earth well. It was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children. – Ancient Native American Proverb

Red Lands…

Maldito (cursed)

Within the Love of the world

I sing about you

for the love of mankind

I sing about you

And those who take the

mickey out of us

the love of mankind

how dare they talk?

Who those powers make

us suffer?

we’re sick of submitting…

-Orange Blossom

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The Saturday Adventures

Our day on Saturday started off with Mary and Sophie discovering that we had a new resident in the house, namely Mr. Squirrel. I was on the phone to our friend Mike Crowley at that time, laughing away when Mary pointed out our new resident. Mike proceeded to tell me the time that he rescued a baby squirrel only to have it chomp on a digit when he went to fish it out of his shirt…

Mary first suggested that we try to coax it with peanuts, and I pointed out that it had already finished off the dog food… it was looking rather plump but in a paranoid sense of mind… But I gave it a try. As I went towards the peanuts the squirrel made a break for it, over my feet into the dining room past Mary and her dry-mop, then past us again into the corner where it freaked for awhile…

We finally got the poor sod out to the enclosed front porch and I opened the door assuming he would leave.

When we checked an hour or so later, there he was, digging up the plants looking for nuts or something. It ended with me coaxing him out the door….

—-

I picked this album up….

ORANGE BLOSSOM – Everything Must Change:

French Algerian Leila Bounos’ provocative vocals, and PJ Chabot’s attacking punkish strings give this real drive from the outset: blending a catchy, dark upfront mixture of West Africa, Europe, Mexico and the Middle East.

There’s no easing-in period either. Everything Must Change, released eight years after the group’s first album, kicks off as it means to continue, ‘Habibi’ breaks out into a rock versus electronica standoff, clashing heavily overdriven guitars battling the incessant electro-beats, building into an intense wall of sound. ‘Souffrance’ — the only French track — is full of sadness, soft and meditative, and one of only a few pauses for breath the album takes, a moment of calm in a storm of an album.

Infectious melodies and Bounos’ sensual and soaring Arabic vocals as well as some haunting samples such as those on ‘Cheft El Khof’ make it music to get lost in. The beats and sequencing are reminiscent of Leftism, but there is so much in here.

If Everything Must Change, then it sounds as though it will be done with much clashing, conflict and unease. If you have been waiting for this follow-up to Orange Blossom’s first release it will definitely have been worth the wait.

www.wrasserecords.com

—Wyl Menmuir

Listen To Some Of Their Music Here!

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I discovered Orange Blossom at my local Music Store: Timbuktunes. Andy runs it, who is quite the devotee to world and ethnic music.

I got to play the album for these characters….

Bryan, Spencer, Jah Lizard, Andy…

Bryan and Spenc came down from Seattle to meet up with the Lizard and Andy… They visited for awhile before heading out to see New Model Army at the Fez Ballroom.

It was a great visit!

___

The evening ended up with our friend Tom coming over, having some dinner and some drinks after.

A great day all in all!

Pax,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

New Book By Dale Pendell: Inspired Madness: The Gifts of Burning Man

The Links:

Cities of the Red Night – Foreword

Cities of the Red Night

Poetry:Revisiting Hafiz

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Dale Pendell: Inspired Madness: The Gifts of Burning Man

I haven’t seen it yet, but here is a short Publishers Comment:

Publisher Comments:

In part a nonfiction discussion of the Burning Man festival, in part a poetic romp through Nevada’s Black Rock desert, Inspired Madness is both an irreverent introduction for those curious about the notorious event and an exhilarating reminiscence for veteran “burners.” Loosely structured around a week at Burning Man, the book combines a history of the festival with personal stories and social commentary, juxtaposing images and stories to capture a sense of the wild and unpredictable nature of life on the Playa. Throughout the week, readers are taken on a memorable ride, exploring the festival itself and meeting Owl, an eccentric beatnik and one of the organizers of the Delphic Delirium Camp: Lolo, Jah, Scarlett, and other larger-than-life figures. Interweaving dialogue, anecdotes, and stream-of-consciousness narrative with historical, sociological, and political observation, Inspired Madness evokes the half-waking, half-dreaming quality of the Burning Man experience.

If you want to pick it up, just find your way there through our link at:

Click on The Powell’s Banner…

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The Links:

Study: Marijuana may affect neuron firing

ONE MORE NIGHT AT THE BARICADES – BRAD WILL (1970-2006)

Study Shows Better Quality Marijuana Preferred by Patients

Startling Discovery: The First Human Ritual

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Some of you may have read this a few years ago… What we have is the foreword to Cities of the Rednight, and a bit of the book itself. I fell in love with it again, couldn’t help myself… Anyway, enjoy the read.

Cities of the Red Night – Foreword

The liberal principles embodied in the French and American revolutions and later in the liberal revolutions of 1848 had already been codified and put into practice by pirate communes a hundred years earlier. Here is a quote from Under the Black Flag by Don C. Seitz:

“Captain Mission was one of the forbears of the French Revolution. He was one hundred years in advance of his time, for his career was based upon an initial desire to better adjust the affairs of mankind, which ended as is quite usual in the more liberal adjustment of his own fortunes. It is related how Captain Mission, having led his ship to victory against an English man-of-war, called a meeting of the crew. Those who wished to follow him he would welcome and treat as brothers; those who did not would be safely set ashore. One and all embraced the New Freedom. Some were hoisting the Black Flag at once but Mission demurred, saying that they were not pirates but liberty lovers, fighting for equal rights against all nations subject to the tyranny of government, and bespoke a white flag as the more fitting emblem. The ship’s money was put in a chest to be used as common property. Clothes were now distributed to all in need and the republic of the sea was in full operation.

Mission bespoke them to live in strict harmony among themselves; that a misplaced society would adjudge them still as pirates. Self-preservation, therefore, and not a cruel disposition, compelled them to declare war on all nations who should close their ports to them. “I declare such a war and at the same time recommend to you a humane and generous behavior towards your prisoners, which will appear by so much more the effects of a noble soul as we are satisfied we should not meet the same treatment should our ill fortune or want of courage give us up to their mercy…” The Nieustadt of Amsterdamn was made prize, giving up two thousand pounds and gold dust and seventeen slaves. The slaves were added to the crew and clothed in the Dutchman’s spare garments; Mission made an address denouncing slavery, holding that men who sold others like beasts proved their religion to be no more than a grimace as no man had power of liberty over another…”

Mission explored the Madagascar coast and found a bay ten leagues north of DiИgo-Suarez. It was resolved to establish here the shore quarters of the Republic – erect a town, build docks, and have a place they might call their own. The colony was called Libertatia and was placed under Articles drawn up by Captain Mission. The Articles state, among other things:

All decisions with regard to the colony to be submitted to vote by the colonists; the abolition of slavery for any reason including debt; the abolition of the death penalty; and freedom to follow any religious beliefs or practices without sanction or molestation.

Captain Mission’s colony, which numbered about three hundred, was wiped out by a surprise attack from the natives, and Captain Mission was killed shortly afterwards in a sea battle. There were other such colonies in the West Indies and in Central and South America, but they were not able to maintain themselves since they were not sufficiently populous to withstand attack. Had they been able to do so, the history of the world could have been altered. Imagine a number of such fortified positions all through South America and the West Indies, stretching from Africa to Madagascar and Malaya and the East Indies, all offering refuge to fugitives from slavery and oppression: “Come to us and live under the Articles.”

At once we have allies in all those who are enslaved and oppressed throughout the world, from the cotton plantations of the American South to the sugar plantations of the West Indies, the whole Indian population of the Amreican continent peonized and degraded by the Spanish into subhuman poverty and ignorance, exterminated by the Americans, infected with their vices and diseases, the natives of Africa and Asia – all these are potential allies. Fortified positions supported by and supporting guerilla hit-and-run bands; supplied with soldiers, weapons, medicines and information by the local populations… such a combination would be unbeatable. If the whole American army couldn’t beat the Viet Cong at a time when fortified positions were rendered obsolete by artillery and air strikes, certainly the armies of Europe, operating in unfamiliar territory and susceptile to all the disabling diseases of tropical countries, could not have beaten guerrilla tactics plus fortified positions. Consider the difficulties which such an invading army would face: continual harassment from the guerrillas, a totally hostile population always ready with poison, misdirection, snakes and spiders in the general’s bed, armadillos carrying the deadly earth-eating disease rooting under the barracks and adopted as mascots by the regiment as dysentery and malaria take their toll. The sieges could not but present a series of military disasters. There is no stopping the Articulated. The white man is retroactively relieved of his burden. Whites will be welcomed as workers, settlers, teachers, and technicians, but not as colonists or masters. No man may violate the Articles.

—-

Cities of the Red Night

The Cities of Red Night were six in number: Thamaghis, Ba’dan, Yass-Waddah, Waghdas, Naufana and Ghadis. These cities were located in an area roughly corresponding to the Gobi Desert, a hundred thousand years ago. At that time the desert was dotted with large oases and traversed by a river which emptied into the Caspian Sea.

The largest of these oases contained a lake ten miles long and five miles across, on the shores of which the university town of Waghdas was founded. Pilgrims came from all over the inhabited world to study in the academies of Waghdas, where the arts and sciences reached peaks of attainment that have never been equaled. Much of this ancient knowledge is now lost.

The towns of Ba’dan and Yass-Waddah were opposite each other on the river. Tamaghis, located in a desolate area to the north on a small oasis, could properly be called a desert town. Naufana and Ghadis were situated in mountainous areas to the west and south beyond the perimeter of usual trade routes between the other cities.

In addition to the six cities, there were a number of villages and nomadic tribes. Food was plentiful and for a time the population was completely stable: no one was born unless someone died.

The inhabitants were divided into and elite minority known as the Transmigrants and a majority known as the Receptacles. Within these categories were a number of occupational and specialized strata and the two classes were not in practice separate: Transmigrants acted as Receptacles and Receptacles became Transmigrants.

To show the system in operation: Here is an old Transmigrant on his deathbed. He has selected his future Receptacle parents, who are summoned to the death chamber. The parents then copulate, achieving orgasm just as the old Transmigrant dies so that his spirit enters the womb to be reborn. Every Transmigrant carries with him at all times a list of alternative parents, and in case of accident, violence or sudden illness, the nearest parents are rushed to the scene. However, there was at first little chance of random or unexpected deaths since the Council of Transmigrants in Waghdas had attained such skill in the art of prophecy that they were able to chart a life from birth to death and determine in most cases the exact time and manner of death.

Many Transmigrants preferred not to wait for the infirmities of age and the ravages of illness, lest their spirit be so weakened as to be overwhelmed and absorbed by the Receptacle child. These hardy Transmigrants, in the full vigor of maturity, after rigorous training in concentration and astral projection, would select two death guides to kill them in front of the copulating parents. The methods of death most commonly employed were hanging and strangulation, the Transmigrant dying in orgasm, which was considered the most reliable method of ensuring a successful transfer. Drugs were also developed, large doses of which occasioned death in erotic convulsions, smaller doses being used to enhance sexual pleasure. And these drugs were often used in conjunction with other forms of death.

In time, death by natural causes became a rare and rather discreditable occurrence as the age for transmigration dropped. The Eternal Youths, a Transmigrant sect, were hanged at the age of eighteen to spare themselves at he coarsening experience of middle age and the deterioration of senescence, living their youth again and again.

Two factors undermined the stability of their system, The first was perfection of techniques for artificial insemination. Whereas the traditional practice called for one death and once rebirth, now hundreds of women could be impregnated from a single sperm collection, and territorially oriented Transmigrants could populate whole areas with their progeny. There were sullen mutters of revolt from the Recepacles, especially the women. At this point, another factor totally unforeseen was introduced.

In the thinly populated desert area north of Tamaghis a portentous event occurred. Some say it was a meteor that fell to earth leaving a crater twenty miles across. Others say that the crater was caused by what modern physicists call a black hole.

After this occurrence the whole northern sky lit up red at night, like the reflection from a vast furnace. Those in the immediate vicinity of the crater were the first to be affected and various mutations were observed, the commonest being altered hair and skin color. Red and yellow hair, and white, yellow, and red skin appeared for the first time. Slowly the whole area was similarly affected until the mutants outnumbered the original inhabitants, who were as all human beings were at the time: black.

The women, led by an albino mutant known as the White Tigress, seized Yass-Waddah, reducing the male inhabitants to salves, consorts, and courtiers all under sentence of death that could be carried out at any time at the caprice of the White Tigress. The Council in Waghdas countered by developing a method of growing babies in excised wombs, the wombs being supplied by vagrant Womb Snatchers, This practice aggravated the differences between the male and female factions and war with Yass-Waddah seemed unavoidable.

In Naufana, a method was found to transfer the spirit directly into an adolescent Receptacle, thus averting the awkward and vulnerable period of infancy. This practice required a rigorous period of preparation and training to achieve a harmonious blending of the two spirits in one body. These Transmigrants, combining the freshness and vitality of youth with the wisdom of many lifetimes, were expected to form an army of liberation to free Wass-Waddah. And there were adepts who could die at will without nay need of drugs or executioners and project their spirit into a chosen Receptacle.

I have mentioned hanging, strangulation, and orgasm drugs as the commonest means of effecting the transfer. However, many other forms of death were employed. The Fire Boys were burned to death in the presence of the Receptacles, only the genitals being insulated, so that the practitioner could achieve orgasm in the moment of death. There is an interesting account by a Fire Boy who recalled his experience after transmigrating in this manner:

“As the flames closed around my body, I inhaled deeply, drawing fire into my lungs, and screamed out flames as the most horrible pain turned to the most exquisite pleasure and I was ejaculating in an adolescent Receptacle who was being sodomized by another.”

Others were stabbed, decapitated disemboweled shot with arrows, or killed by a blow on the head. Some threw themselves from cliffs, landing in front of the copulating Receptacles.

The scientists at Waghdas were developing a machine that could directly transfer the electromagnetic field of one body to another. In Ghadis there were adepts who were able to leave their bodies before death and occupy a series of hosts. How far this research may have gone will never be known. It was a time of great disorder and chaos.

The effects of the Red Night on Receptacles and Transmigrants proved to be incalculable and many strange mutants arose as a series of plagues devastated the cities. It is this period of war and pestilence that is covered by the books. The Council had set out to produce a race of supermen for the exploration of space. They produced instead races of ravening idiot vampires.

Finally, the cities were abandoned and the survivors fled in all direction, carrying the plagues with them. Some of these migrants crossed the Bering Strait into the New World, taking the books with them. They settled in the area later occupied by the Mayans and the books eventually fell into the hands of the Mayan priests.

The alert student of this noble experiment will perceive that death was regarded as equivalent not to birth but to conception and go in to infer that conception is the basic trauma. In the moment of death, the dying man’s whole life may flash in front of his eyes back to conception. In the moment of conception, his future life flashes forward to his future death. To reexperience conception is fatal.

This was the basic error of the Transmigrants: you do not get beyond death and conception by reexperience any more than you get beyond heroin by ingesting larger and larger doses. The Transmigrants were white literally addicted to death and they needed more and more death to kill the pain of conception. They were buying parasitic life with a promissory death note to be paid at a prearranged time. The Transmigrants then imposed these terms on the host child to ensure his future transmigration. There was a basic conflict of interest between host child and Transmigrant. So the Transmigrants reduced the Receptacle class to a condition of virtual idiocy. Otherwise they would have reneged on a bargain from which they stood to gain nothing but death. The books are flagrant falsifications. And some of these basic lies are still current.

“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.” The last words of Hassan i Sabbah, Old Man of the Mountain. “Tamaghis … Ba’dan … Yass-Waddah … Waghdas … Naufana… Ghadis.” It is said that an initiate who wishes to know the answer to any question need only repeat these words as he falls asleep and the answer will come in a dream.

Tamaghis: This is the open city of contending partisans where advantage shifts from moment to moment in a desperate biological war. Here everything is as true as you think it is and everything you can get away with is permitted.

Ba’dan: This city is given over to competitive games, and commerce. Ba’dan closely resembles present-day America with a precarious moneyed elite, a large disaffected middle class and an equally large segment of criminals and outlaws. Unstable, explosive, and swept by whirlwind riots. Everything is true and everything is permitted.

Yass-Waddah: This city is the female stronghold where the Countess de Gulpa, the Countess de Vile, and the Council of the Selected plot a final subjugation of the other cities. Every shade of sexual transition is represented: boys with girls’ heads, girls with boys’ heads. Here everything is true and nothing is permitted except to the permitters.

Waghdas: This is the university city, the center of learning where all questions are answered in terms of what can be expressed and understood. Complete permission derives from complete understanding.

Naufana and Ghadis are the cities of illusion where nothing is true and therefore everything is permitted.

The traveler must start in Tamaghis and make his way through the other cities in the order named. This pilgrimage may take many lifetimes.

William S Burroughs

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More of those guys, with me poking my head in… 80)

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Like a well of cool water, there is always joy in return to the poetry of Hafiz. Here is a bit for you to dwell over, to drink in, and to submerge yourself if you so desire…..

G

Poetry: Hafiz

Ghazal 12

The bright moon reflects your radiant face

Your snowcapped cheekbones supply water of grace

My heavy heart desires an audience with your face

Come forward or must return, your command I will embrace.

Nobody for good measures girded your fields

Such trades no one in their right mind would chase.

Our dormant fate will never awake, unless

You wash its face and shout brace, brace!

Send a bouquet of your face with morning breeze

Perhaps inhaling your scent, your fields we envision & trace.

May you live fulfilled and long, O wine-bearer of this feast

Though our cup was never filled from your jug or your vase.

My heart is reckless, please, let Beloved know

Beware my friend, my soul your soul replace.

O God, when will my fate and desires hand in hand

Bring me to my Beloved hair, in one place?

Step above the ground, when you decide to pass us by

On this path lie bloody, the martyrs of human race.

Hafiz says a prayer, listen, and say amen

May your sweet wine daily pour upon my lips and my face.

O breeze tell us about the inhabitants of city of Yazd

May the heads of unworthy roll as a ball in your polo race.

Though we are far from friends, kinship is near

We praise your goodness and majestic mace.

O Majesty, may we be touched by your grace

I kiss and touch the ground that is your base.

Ghazal 22

When you hear the lovers’ words, think them not a mistake

You don’t recognize these words, the error must be your take.

The here and hereafter cannot tame my spirit and soul

Praise God for all the intrigue in my mind that is at stake.

I know not who resides within my heart

Though I am silent, he must shake and quake.

My heart went through the veil, play a song

Hark, my fate, this music I must make.

I paid no heed, worldly affairs I forsake

It is for your beauty, beauty of the world I partake.

My heart is on fire, I am restless and awake

To the tavern to cure my hundred day headache.

My bleeding heart has left its mark in the temple

You have every right to wash my body in a wine lake.

In the abode of the Magi, I am welcome because

The fire that never dies, in my heart is awake.

What was the song the minstrel played?

My life is gone, but breathing, I still fake!

Within me last night, the voice of your love did break

Hafiz’s breast still quivers and shakes for your sake.

Ghazal 35

Keep to your own affairs, why do you fault me?

My heart has fallen in love, what has befallen thee?

In the center of he, whom God made from nothing

There is a subtle point that no creature can see.

Until His lips fulfill my lips like a reed

From all the worldly advice I must flee.

The beggar of your home, of the eight heavens has no need

The prisoner of your love, from both worlds is thus free.

Though my drunkenness has brought forth my ruin

My essence is flourished by paying that ruinous fee.

O heart for the pain and injustice of love do not plead

For this is your lot from the justice of eternity.

Hafiz don’t help magic and fantasy further breed

The world is filled with such, from sea to sea.

Ghazal 41

Though the wine is joyous, and the wind, flowers sorts

Harp music and scent of wine, the officer reports.

If you face an adversary and a jug of wine

Choose the wine because, fate cheats and extorts.

Up your ragged, patched sleeves, hide & keep your cup

Like this flask of wine, fate too bleeds and distorts.

With my teary eyes, I cleanse my robe with wine

Self-restraint and piety is what everyone exhorts.

Seek not your joy in the turn of the firmaments

Even my filtered clear red fluid, dregs sports.

This earth and sky is no more than a bleeding sieve

That sifts and sorts kingly crowns and courts.

Hafiz, your poems invaded Fars and Iraqi ports

It is now the turn of Baghdad and Tabrizi forts.

A Visit With A Mutual Friend

Those who understand history are condemned to watch other idiots repeat it.—Peter Lamborn Wilson

This Entry is a small stroll down memory lane…

November was a good month for Turfing.

With encouragement from readers, I was able to reach into the stash bag and find wee joys and novelties. Big Thanks to all who wrote in with suggestions, and thanks for the kind compliments.

Much Appreciated.

Here is our first entry for December.

As it is the fading season, I thought a visit with a mutual friend would be nice. (I miss his wit and wisdom!)

The Mazatec Poetry from the Rituals are especially wonderful, read past the glossing over, and there are wonders to behold!

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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The Links

The Quotes

Such Things Are Memories Made Of: A psychedelic trip up the ladder of evolution

Poetry:Shamanistic Songs Of Roman Estrada

Art: Alchemical Arts… Poetry Section: Bruce Rimell – “At The Edge Of The Milky Way”

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The Links:

Ancient body prompts new theories

Older than the sun, The meteorite scientists call ‘the real time machine’

Rocketeer Captures Strange Ariel Object

Astrology 101: Researchers see link between moon cycles and stock market

<img width='450' height='540' border='0' hspace='5' align='left' src='http://www.earthrites.org/turfing2/uploads/zodiacus03.jpg' alt=''

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The Quotes:

“It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.”

“There is no pleasure in having nothing to do; the fun is in having lots to do and not doing it.”

“We are at the very beginning of time for the human race. It is not unreasonable that we grapple with problems. But there are tens of thousands of years in the future. Our responsibility is to do what we can, learn what we can, improve the solutions, and pass them on.”

“To err is human; to forgive, infrequent.”

“Hard work never killed anybody, but why take a chance?”

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A psychedelic trip up the ladder of evolution

This article culled from The Independent On Sunday, a ‘quality paper’.

Read, be entertained and enlightened, or whatever. 11th July 1993

I think we should deal only with the facts when we talk of Terence McKenna, don’t you? I mean the Californian scholar with the theory about psilocybin mushrooms and the development of human consciousness – that the psychedelic experience triggered sentience in foraging, omnivorous apes and led them, in the evolutionary wink of an eye, to put rockets on the moon.

Mr. McKenna contends that hallucinogenic fungi inspired our primate forbears to develop language, boot-strapping us up the evolutionary ladder to the brink of self-realization, and that this humble mushroom is now ready and waiting for us to complete our ontological correspondence course, if we would only tear ourselves away from smack, crack, coke, caffeine, tobacco, alcohol, sugar, cocoa, uppers, downers and all the other bad substances we are addicted to.

He believes that hallucinogenic-plant gnosis is the lost key to our intellectual, moral and spiritual development as a race; that all subsequent drug abuse is merely an attempt to satisfy our primeval urge for psychedelic union with nature (‘an itch we cannot scratch’); and that cataclysmic change or certain extinction awaits us. His theory states : ‘No perception without hallucination.’

We are in a small house in west London. There are 40 people sitting on cushions around the room, which is large and airy, full of plants, and dominated by a huge skylight. We all face McKenna, who sits cross-legged on a black leather armchair, wearing a pair of baggy no-brand jeans and a T-shirt that says ‘DMT’. This stands for dimethyltriptamine, the strongest and fastest-acting organic hallucinogen known to man (Mr. McKenna will defend only DMT, psilocybin and marijuana – nothing man-made). His Birkenstock sandals are placed neatly nearby, and he wears black woollen socks.

Terence McKenna

A bearded academic type, Mr. McKenna does not need fashion to prop up his arguments. His learning and powers of language slowly unwind and coil around us, until eventually we are mesmerised, our token resistance crushed by the irresistible force of his rationale. History and nature; the psychedelic experience; prohibition of same by religion and capitalism; human proclivity for ‘altered states’; Oriental and Western philosophies; it is everything you have ever read and more.

Botany, biology, mathematics, quantum and Newtonian physics, chemistry – if you had trouble with it at school, he is sure to be au fait – all trip lightly off his tongue, along with classical quotations. This is the McKenna ‘rap’, the reason why people have paid $30 a head to be here. ‘Hallucinogens are data about reality,’ he says. ‘They are as dependable and as ‘true’ as any other source.’

‘We have to recognise that the world is not something sculptured and finished, which we as perceivers walk through like patrons in a museum; the world is something we make through the act of perception.’ He talks like a man reading out his own thoughts in essay form; at one point he actually says ‘paragraph break’. Only he has no notes, no prompts.

Things move gradually at first but accelerating all the time as his imagery resonates more powerfully. When he answers questions his words are vivid and his thinking clear and unhurried. He describes the Logos, where language is visible, a higher form of communication, a type of linguistic and spiritual evolution and I’m damned if you are not getting a glimpse behind the dusty old drapes of ‘meaning’ and ‘reality’ even as he speaks.

And it looks very appealing, this alternative world he imagines for us, this higher form of consciousness to which we are all party but which we so rarely explore, largely because of our cultural taboos and farcical drug laws.

As we break for food and drink, I realise how fast his argument has proceeded and how far we have climbed, until we are right at the peak of this man’s thinking, way up there, floating off and gliding over such dense concepts. And he has taken us all this way without so much as a cigarette paper in sight. Forty people, soaring on one man’s imagination, logic and humour. Two hours have passed like magic. ‘But the point is not to listen to Terence McKenna,’ he says. ‘The point is to go home and get loaded.’ You don’t need telepathy to know that forty people are thinking : that’s my kinda guru.

After the break Mr. McKenna resumes with his theories about our evolutionary path, involving a lengthy description of communication between octopuses. It is dark, and on the wall behind him our host Danny, who runs an audio- visual company called Project Love, is screnning sub-aquatic imagery. ‘Stronger doses, more often,’ is Mr McKenna’s chilling, or, if you prefer, exhilarating advice.

You probably know what I found most disturbing about Mr. McKenna’s lecture – apart from his voice, nasal yet piercing, a laid-back call to reckoning. What bothers me is that, as a tax-paying professional, with Significant Other and five year-old daughter, great friends, a good home and neighbours, I certainly do not think of myself as a radical. So I was worried because nearly everything he said seemed to make sense.

Somehow I knew he would dare me to act on my beliefs, and he did. Commitment, that is what he wanted. ‘When are we going to come out of the closet?,’ he asked. And that is where I finally saw reason. I could get in a lot of trouble if people thought I took hallucinogenic drugs. Ha, the psychedelic experience! But he almost talked me into it. Phew, that was close.

Alix Sharkey

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SHAMANISTIC SONGS OF ROMAN ESTRADA

(Bruce Rimell – “At The Edge Of The Milky Way”)

Translation from Mazatec by Alvaro Estrada

Translation into English by Henry Munn

Medicinal herb, remedial herb

Cold herb, Lord Christ

Free this person from his sickness

Where is his spirit trapped?

Is it trapped in the mountain?

Is it enchanted in some gully?

Is it trapped in some waterfall?

I will search and I will find the lost spirit

Ave María!

I will follow his tracks

I am the important man

I am the man who gets up early

I am he who makes the mountains resound

I am he who makes their sides resound

I am he who makes the spirit resound

I make my tracks resound

I make my nails resound

Christ Our Lord

Lord Saint Martin is present

The Lord of the Dry Tree is present

The Lord of the Lake is present

Santa María Zoquiapan

I am the dawn

I am he who speaks with the mountains

I am he who speaks with the echo

There in the atmosphere

There amid the vegetation

I will make my sound felt

Father Saint John the Evangelist

We see how the dolls and eagles

Already play on the mountains

Already play between the clouds

Whoever curses us won’t do us any harm

Because I am the spirit and the image

I am Christ the Lord

I am the spirit

The serpent is present

It is coiled up

It is alive

I give relief

I give life

I am the tall and handsome one

I am Jesus Christ

I am Lord Saint Martin

I am Lord Saint Mark

In whose dominion there are tigers

Whoever curses us has no influence on us

I give strength to the sick

I am the medicine

I am the damp cloth

Come back lost spirit

I will whistle to guide you

[He whistles]

Return!

May there come with you

Thirteen deer

Thirteen eagles

Thirteen white horses

Thirteen rainbows

Your steps move thirteen mountains

The big clown is calling you

The master clown is calling you

I will make the mountains sound

I will make their abysses sound

I will make the dawn sound

I will make the day sound

I will make the Jar Mountain sound

I will make Mount Rabon sound

I will make the Stone Mountain sound

I will make the Father Mountain sound

I am the big man

The man who gives relief

The man of the day

It is time for the sick one to recuperate

It is time the miracle happens

The miracle of the Holy Trinity

Like the miracle of the creation

Like the miracle of lunar light

Like the miracle of the starlight

Of the Morning Star

Of the Cross Star

The dawn is coming

The horizon is already reddening

There is nothing bad outside

Because I am he who gives relief

I am he who gives the dawn

Santa María Ixtepec speaks

Santa María Ixcatlan speaks

There is the drought and the thorn

This is only a small part of the chant of the Wise Man. He has told me that the day his initiation ended — Roman explained this in Spanish — he received a diploma from the hands of the Principal Ones.

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Blinding Light Of Heaven…

The whole folderol and whoop-de-do about the 1960s was that the crypto-fascist bullshit agenda was damn near overthrown by a bunch of 19 and 20 year olds on campuses scattered around the high tech world. The male dominant agenda is so fragile that any competitor is felt as a deadly foe.—Terence McKenna

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Freezing rain, early morning, just past midnight… Off to bed. Hope all is well with you and the world…

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Sylvian &amp; Fripp – Jean The Birdman

The Links

The Quotes

Sufi Tales… Part 1

David Sylvian &amp; Robert Fripp – God’s Monkey

Sufi Tales Part 2

Poetry: More Robinson Jeffers…

David Sylvian &amp; Robert Fripp – Blinding Light Of Heaven

All Art: Gustave Klimt

Enjoy!

Gwyllm

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Sylvian &amp; Fripp – Jean The Birdman

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The Links:

I could have told you that!

Devil Plant!

The Spicy Cauldron…!

Wandering Wandjina…

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The Quotes:

“Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.”

“One of the most obvious facts about grownups to a child is that they have forgotten what it is like to be a child.”

“Advertisements… contain the only truths to be relied on in a newspaper.”

“You can only be young once. But you can always be immature.”

“Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.”

“If we were not all so interested in ourselves, life would be so uninteresting that none of us would be able to endure it.”

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Sufi Tales… Part 1

THE FOUR MEN AND THE INTERPRETER

Four people were given a piece of money.

The first was a Persian. He said: ‘I will buy with this some angur.’

The second was an Arab. He said: ‘No, because I want inab.’

The third was Turk. He said: ‘I do not want inab, I want uzum.’

The fourth was a Greek. He said: ‘I want stafil.’

Because they did not know what lay behind the names of things, these four started to fight.

They had information but no knowledge.

One man of wisdom present could have reconciled them all, saying: ‘I can fulfil the needs of all of you, with one and the same piece of money. If you honestly give me your trust, your one coin will become as four; and four at odds will become as one united.’

Such a man would know that each in his own language wanted the same thing, grapes.

– taken from the sufi Jalal-Uddin Rumi (d.1273)

—-

Mahmud of Ghazna

It is related that Mahmud of Ghazna was once walking in his garden when he stumbled over a blind dervish sleeping beside a bush.

As soon as he awoke, the dervish cried, “You clumsy oaf! Have you no eyes, that you must trample upon the sons of men?”

Mahmud’s companion, who was one of his courtiers, shouted, “Your blindness is equaled only by your stupidity! Since you cannot see, you should be doubly careful of whom you are accusing of heedlessness.”

“If by that you mean”, said the dervish, “that I should not criticize a sultan, it is you who should realize your shallowness.”

Mahmud was impressed that the blind man knew that he was in the presence of the king, and he said mildly, “Why, O dervish, should a king have to listen to vituperation from you?”

“Precisely”, said the dervish, “because it is the shielding of people of any category from criticism appropriate to them which is responsible for their downfall. It is the burnished metal which shines most brightly, the knife struck with the whetstone which cuts best, and the exercised arm which can lift the weight.”

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David Sylvian &amp; Robert Fripp – God’s Monkey

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Sufi Tales Part 2

The Frogs

A group of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them fell into a deep pit. All the other frogs gathered around the pit. When they saw how deep the pit was, they told the unfortunate frogs they would never get out. The two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit.

The other frogs kept telling them to stop, that they were as good as dead. Finally, one of the frogs took heed to what the other frogs were saying and simply gave up. He fell down and died.

The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again, the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and suffering and just die. He jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the other frogs asked him, “Why did you continue jumping. Didn’t you hear us?”

The frog explained to them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the entire time.

This story holds two lessons:

1. There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day.

2. A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them. Be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your path.

The power of words… it is sometimes hard to understand that an encouraging word can go such a long way. Anyone can speak words that tend to rob another of the spirit to continue in difficult times.

Special is the individual who will take the time to encourage another.

Why Are You Here?

One day Nasrudin was walking along a deserted road. Night was

falling as he spied a troop of horsemen coming toward him. His

imagination began to work, and he feared that they might rob him,

or impress him into the army. So strong did this fear become that

he leaped over a wall and found himself in a graveyard. The other

travelers, innocent of any such motive as had been assumed by

Nasrudin, became curious and pursued him.

When they came upon him lying motionless, one said, “Can we help

you? And, why are you here in this position?”

Nasrudin, realizing his mistake said, “It is more complicated

than you assume. You see, I am here because of you; and you, you

are here because of me.”

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Poetry: More Robinson Jeffers…

Birth-Dues

Joy is a trick in the air; pleasure is merely

contemptible, the dangled

Carrot the ass follows to market or precipice;

But limitary pain — the rock under the tower

and the hewn coping

That takes thunder at the head of the turret-

Terrible and real. Therefore a mindless dervish

carving himself

With knives will seem to have conquered the world.

The world’s God is treacherous and full of

unreason; a torturer, but also

The only foundation and the only fountain.

Who fights him eats his own flesh and perishes

of hunger; who hides in the grave

To escape him is dead; who enters the Indian

Recession to escape him is dead; who falls in

love with the God is washed clean

Of death desired and of death dreaded.

He has joy, but Joy is a trick in the air; and

pleasure, but pleasure is contemptible;

And peace; and is based on solider than pain.

He has broken boundaries a little and that will

estrange him; he is monstrous, but not

To the measure of the God…. But I having told

you–

However I suppose that few in the world have

energy to hear effectively-

Have paid my birth-dues; am quits with the

people.

Fawn’s Foster-Mother

The old woman sits on a bench before the door and quarrels

With her meagre pale demoralized daughter.

Once when I passed I found her alone, laughing in the sun

And saying that when she was first married

She lived in the old farmhouse up Garapatas Canyon.

(It is empty now, the roof has fallen

But the log walls hang on the stone foundation; the redwoods

Have all been cut down, the oaks are standing;

The place is now more solitary than ever before.)

“When I was nursing my second baby

My husband found a day-old fawn hid in a fern-brake

And brought it; I put its mouth to the breast

Rather than let it starve, I had milk enough for three babies.

Hey how it sucked, the little nuzzler,

Digging its little hoofs like quills into my stomach.

I had more joy from that than from the others.”

Her face is deformed with age, furrowed like a bad road

With market-wagons, mean cares and decay.

She is thrown up to the surface of things, a cell of dry skin

Soon to be shed from the earth’s old eye-brows,

I see that once in her spring she lived in the streaming arteries,

The stir of the world, the music of the mountain.

The Broken Balance

I. Reference to a Passage in Plutarch’s Life of Sulla

The people buying and selling, consuming pleasures, talking in the archways,

Were all suddenly struck quiet

And ran from under stone to look up at the sky: so shrill and mournful,

So fierce and final, a brazen

Pealing of trumpets high up in the air, in the summer blue over Tuscany.

They marvelled; the soothsayers answered:

“Although the Gods are little troubled toward men, at the end of each period

A sign is declared in heaven

Indicating new times, new customs, a changed people; the Romans

Rule, and Etruria is finished;

A wise mariner will trim the sails to the wind.”

I heard yesterday

So shrill and mournful a trumpet-blast,

It was hard to be wise…. You must eat change and endure; not be much troubled

For the people; they will have their happiness.

When the republic grows too heavy to endure, then Caesar will carry It;

When life grows hateful, there’s power …

II To the Children

Power’s good; life is not always good but power’s good.

So you must think when abundance

Makes pawns of people and all the loaves are one dough.

The steep singleness of passion

Dies; they will say, “What was that?” but the power triumphs.

Loveliness will live under glass

And beauty will go savage in the secret mountains.

There is beauty in power also.

You children must widen your minds’ eyes to take mountains

Instead of faces, and millions

Instead of persons; not to hate life; and massed power

After the lone hawk’s dead.

III

That light blood-loving weasel, a tongue of yellow

Fire licking the sides of the gray stones,

Has a more passionate and more pure heart

In the snake-slender flanks than man can imagine;

But he is betrayed by his own courage,

The man who kills him is like a cloud hiding a star.

Then praise the jewel-eyed hawk and the tall blue heron;

The black cormorants that fatten their sea-rock

With shining slime; even that ruiner of anthills

The red-shafted woodpecker flying,

A white star between blood-color wing-clouds,

Across the glades of the wood and the green lakes of shade.

These live their felt natures; they know their norm

And live it to the brim; they understand life.

While men moulding themselves to the anthill have choked

Their natures until the souls the in them;

They have sold themselves for toys and protection:

No, but consider awhile: what else? Men sold for toys.

Uneasy and fractional people, having no center

But in the eyes and mouths that surround them,

Having no function but to serve and support

Civilization, the enemy of man,

No wonder they live insanely, and desire

With their tongues, progress; with their eyes, pleasure; with their hearts, death.

Their ancestors were good hunters, good herdsmen and swordsman,

But now the world is turned upside down;

The good do evil, the hope’s in criminals; in vice

That dissolves the cities and war to destroy them.

Through wars and corruptions the house will fall.

Mourn whom it falls on. Be glad: the house is mined, it will fall.

IV

Rain, hail and brutal sun, the plow in the roots,

The pitiless pruning-iron in the branches,

Strengthen the vines, they are all feeding friends

Or powerless foes until the grapes purple.

But when you have ripened your berries it is time to begin to perish.

The world sickens with change, rain becomes poison,

The earth is a pit, it Is time to perish.

The vines are fey, the very kindness of nature

Corrupts what her cruelty before strengthened.

When you stand on the peak of time it is time to begin to perish.

Reach down the long morbid roots that forget the plow,

Discover the depths; let the long pale tendrils

Spend all to discover the sky, now nothing is good

But only the steel mirrors of discovery . . .

And the beautiful enormous dawns of time, after we perish.

V

Mourning the broken balance, the hopeless prostration of the earth

Under men’s hands and their minds,

The beautiful places killed like rabbits to make a city,

The spreading fungus, the slime-threads

And spores; my own coast’s obscene future: I remember the farther

Future, and the last man dying

Without succession under the confident eyes of the stars.

It was only a moment’s accident,

The race that plagued us; the world resumes the old lonely immortal

Splendor; from here I can even

Perceive that that snuffed candle had something . . . a fantastic virtue,

A faint and unshapely pathos . . .

So death will flatter them at last: what, even the bald ape’s by-shot

Was moderately admirable?

VI Palinode

All summer neither rain nor wave washes the cormorants’

Perch, and their droppings have painted it shining white.

If the excrement of fish-eaters makes the brown rock a snow-mountain

At noon, a rose in the morning, a beacon at moonrise

On the black water: it is barely possible that even men’s present

Lives are something; their arts and sciences (by moonlight)

Not wholly ridiculous, nor their cities merely an offense.

VII

Under my windows, between the road and the sea-cliff, bitter wild grass

Stands narrowed between the people and the storm.

The ocean winter after winter gnaws at its earth, the wheels and the feet

Summer after summer encroach and destroy.

Stubborn green life, for the cliff-eater I cannot comfort you, ignorant which color,

Gray-blue or pale-green, will please the late stars;

But laugh at the other, your seed shall enjoy wonderful vengeances and suck

The arteries and walk in triumph on the faces.

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Sylvian &amp; Fripp – Blinding Light Of Heaven

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Mid Week Dance…

I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance. Socrates, from Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers

Running a bit late, so no real comments today. Testing with radio again today, check it if you like….

On The Menu:

The Links

The Golden Fly

Ancient Cornish Poetry

Ancient Welsh Poetry

Various Alchemical Paintings…

Enjoy!

Gwyllm

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The Links:

The Synergy Project: If you are in London UK around the 2nd of December…

The Twelfth Bag of Xmas…

Something For The Little Scientist…

Something For The Little Monkey!

Tornado Tears Up Welsh Village!

Research Proves Fish Have Personalities…

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Regard your good name as the richest jewel you can possibly be possessed of – for credit is like fire; when once you have kindled it you may easily preserve it, but if you once extinguish it, you will find it an arduous task to rekindle it again. The way to gain a good reputation is to endeavor to be what you desire to appear. Socrates

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The Golden Fly

Ethaun, Angus, Fuamach, and Midyir lived in the World of the Gods. Ethaun said to Angus:

“I am weary of everything that I see; let me go into the other worlds with you.”

Angus said:

“When I go into the other worlds I wander from place to place and people do not know that I am a god. In the earth they think I am a juggler or a wandering minstrel or a beggar-man. If you come with me you will seem a poor singing woman or a strolling player.”

Then Ethaun said:

“I will ask Midyir to make a world for myself–all the worlds are full of weariness.”

She went to find Midyir, and as she went she saw below her the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach, and the World of the Dark Shadow that is called Earth. Midyir was looking down at the Earth, and a brightness grew on it as he looked. Ethaun was angry because Midyir cared to make a brightness on the Earth, and she turned away from him, and said:

“I wish the worlds would clash together and disappear! I am weary of everything I can see.”

Then Fuamach said:

“You have the heart of a fly, that is never contented; take the body of a fly, and wander till your heart is changed and you get back your own shape again.”

Ethaun became a little golden fly, and she was afraid to leave the World of the Gods and wished she could get back her shape again. She flew to Midyir and buzzed round him, but he was making a brightness on the Earth and did not hear her; when she lit on his hand he brushed her away.

She went to Angus, and he was making music on the strings of his tiompan; when she buzzed about him he said: “You have a sweet song, little fly,” and he made the tiompan buzz like a fly. She lit on his hand, and he said: “You are very beautiful, little golden fly, and because you are beautiful I will give you a gift. Now speak and ask for the gift that will please you best.” Then Ethaun was able to speak, and she said:

“O Angus, give me back my shape again. I am Ethaun, and Fuamach has changed me into a fly and bidden me wander till I get back my shape.”

Angus looked sadly at the little golden fly, and said:

“It is only in Ildathach that I am a Shape-Changer. Come with me to that land and I will

make a palace for you and while you are in it you will have the shape of Ethaun.”

“I will go with you,” said Ethaun, “and live in your palace.”

She went with him, and he brought her into a beautiful palace that had all the colours of the rainbow. It had four windows to it, and when she looked out of the window to the West she saw a great wood of pine trees and oak trees and trees that had golden apples; when she looked out of the window to the North she saw a great mountain shaped like a spear, and white like flame; and when she looked to the South she saw a far-stretching plain with many little gleaming lakes; but the window to the East was fast closed, and Angus said she must never unbar it.

Ethaun was happy for a long time in the rainbow-palace and Angus came and played to her and told her tales of all the worlds; but at last the old longing came to her and she grew weary of everything she could see.

“I wish the walls of the palace would fall and the trees wither,” she said, “for they are always the same!”

She went to the window in the East and unbarred it. She saw the sea outside it, wind-driven and white with foam, and a great wind blew the window open and caught Ethaun and whirled her out of the palace, and she became again a little golden fly. She wandered and wandered through the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach till she came to the World of the Dark Shadow that is Earth, and she wandered there for a long time, scorched by the sun and beaten by the rain, till she came to a beautiful house where a king and queen were standing together. The king had a golden cup full of mead and he was giving it to the queen. Ethaun lit on the edge of the cup, but the queen never saw the little golden fly, and she did not know that it slipped into the mead, and she drank it with the mead.

Afterwards there was a child born to the queen–a strange beautiful child, and the queen called her Ethaun. Every one in the palace loved the child and tried to please her but nothing pleased her for long and as she grew older and more beautiful they tried harder to please her but she was never contented. The queen was sad at heart because of this, and the sadness grew on her day by day and she began to think her child was of the Deathless Ones that bring with them too much joy or too much sorrow for mortals.

One day Ethaun said the Queen’s singer had no songs worth listening to and she began to sing one of her own songs; as she sang, the queen looked into her eyes and knew that Ethaun was no child of hers, and when she knew it she bowed herself in her seat and died. The king said Ethaun brought ill-luck and he sent her away to live in a little hut of woven branches in a forest where only shepherds and simple people came to her and brought her food.

She grew every day more beautiful and walked under the great trees in the forest and sang her own songs. One day the king of all Ireland came riding by. His name was Eochy, and he was young and beautiful and strong. When he saw Ethaun he said:

“No woman in the world is beautiful after this one!” and he got down from his horse and came to Ethaun. She was sitting outside the little hut and combing her hair in the sunshine, and her hair was like fine gold and very long.

“What is your name? ” said the king, “and what man is your father? “

“Ethaun is my name,” said she, “and a king is my father.”

“It is wrong,” said Eochy, “that your beauty should be shut in this forest, come with me and you shall be the High Queen of Ireland.”

Then Ethaun looked at Eochy, and it seemed to her that she had known him always. She said:

“I have waited here for you and no other. Take me into your house, High King.”

Eochy took her with him and made her his queen, and all the country that he ruled was glad because the High Queen was so beautiful. Eochy made a wonderful house for her. It had nine doors of carved red yew, and precious stones were in the walls of it. Ethaun and the king lived in it, and the harpers sang to them, and the noblest warriors in Erin stood about their doors. The king was happy, but there was always in the mind of Ethaun a beauty that made the rich hangings seem poor and the jewels dull and she had a song in her heart that took the music out of all other songs. The harpers of the Five Provinces of Ireland came into the feast hall of Eochy at Samhain, but there was weariness on the face of Ethaun while they played, and though the High King gave them gold rings and jewels and high seats of honour they had no joy in coming to his house.

The warriors clashed their swords when the High Queen passed but any one who looked into her eyes dreamed of strange countries and had in him the longing to go over seas, and Eochy was grieved because the noblest of his chiefs became like the lonely bird of the waves that never builds a nest.

One day Ethaun leaned against the carved yew door of her sunny-palace and watched the sea-gulls wheeling in the blueness of the sky. Inside, the Fool was strewing green rushes and scented leaves and buds before her chair. The Fool was always in the palace because his wits had gone from him, and people say that fools have the dark wisdom of the, gods. Ethaun could hear him singing:

“I had a black hound and a white.

The Day is long, and long the Night.

A great wave swallowed up the sea,

And still the hounds were following me.

The white hound had a crown of gold,

But no one saw it, young or old.

The black hound’s feet were swift as fire–

‘Tis he that was my heart’s desire.

The Sun and Moon leaned from the sky

When I and my two hounds went by.”

Ethaun turned from the door and went into the room where the Fool was. Her dress swept the young green leaves but she had no thought of them or of the little flowers the Fool had put with the rushes.

“Go on singing!” she said. “I wish my heart were as lightsome as yours.”

“How could your heart be lightsome, Queen,” said the Fool, “when you will not give the flower a chance to blossom, or the hound a chance to catch his prey, or the bird a clear sky to sing in? If you were of the Deathless Ones you would burn the world to warm your hands!”

The redness of shame spread itself in Ethaun’s face. She stooped and lifted a little bud from the. floor.

“I think the Deathless Ones could make this bud blossom,” she said, “but all the buds that I break off wither in my hands. I will break no more buds, Fool.”

While she spoke there was a noise outside, and Ethaun asked her women what it was.

“Only a beggar-man they are driving away. He says he is a juggler and can do tricks.”

“Let him stay,” said Ethaun, “and I will see his tricks.”

“O Queen,” said the women, “he is a starveling and ignorant; how could he please you when Incar, the King’s juggler, did not please you?”

“Let the man stay,” said Ethaun; “if he has the will to please me he will please–and tonight Incar will please me too.”

She stepped out through the carved yew door and bade the beggar-man do his tricks. He was clumsy and his tricks were not worth looking at, but the Queen gave him a ring from her finger and the little bud she had in her hand, and said:

“Stay here to-night and the King’s juggler will teach you good feats.”

The beggar-man put the ring in his bosom but he kept the bud in his hands and suddenly it blossomed into a rose and he plucked the petals apart and flung them into the air and they became beautiful white birds and they sang till every one forgot the sky above them and the earth beneath them with gladness, but Ethaun put her hands before her eyes and the tears came through her fingers.

The birds circled away into the air, singing, and when the people looked for the beggar-man he was gone. Ethaun called after him: “Angus Angus! Come back!” but no one answered, and there was only the far-off singing of the birds.

That night the King’s juggler did feats with golden balls and with whirling swords and Ethaun praised him so that for gladness he thought of new feats, and while the people were shouting with delight a tall dark man in the robes of a foreigner came into the hall. Now the king loved to speak with men from far countries and he called the stranger to him, and said:

“What knowledge have you, and what skill is in your fingers?”

“I know,” said the stranger, “‘where the sun goes when the earth does not see it, and I have skill in the playing of chess.”

Gladness was on the king when he heard of the chess-playing, for he himself had such skill that no one could beat him.

I will play a game with you,” he said. “Let the chess-board be brought.”

“O King,” said the attendants, “there is only the Queen’s chess-board, and it is locked away because she said it was not beautiful.”

“I will go myself for the board,” said the king, and he rose up to get it.

The stranger brought out a chess-board that had the squares made of precious stones brighter than any stones of the earth and he set the men on it. They were of gold and ivory, but the ivory was whiter than the whiteness of a cloud and the gold brighter than the sunset.

“I will give you this board in exchange for yours,” he said to the queen.

“No,” said Ethaun, “the board that Eochy made for me I will keep.”

“I will make something for you, too,” said the stranger. “I will make worlds for you.”

Ethaun looked into his eyes, and she remembered the World of the Gods, and Midyir, and Angus, and Fuamach, and how she had been a little golden fly.

“O Midyir,” she said, “in all the worlds I would be nothing but a little fly. I have wandered far, but I have learned wisdom at last from a Fool. I am going to make a world for myself.”

As she was speaking Eochy came back with the board.

“The first games on my board,” said Midyir, “the last on yours.”

“Be it so,” said Eochy. Midyir began to set out the men. “What are we playing for?” said Fochy.

“Let the winner decide,” said Midyir.

Eochy won the first game, and he asked for fifty horses out of fairyland.

“I will get them,” said Midyir, and they played again. Eochy won, and he said:

“I will ask for four hard things. Make a road over Mom Lamraide; clear Mide of stones; cover the district of Tethra with rushes; and the district of Darbrech with trees.”

“When you rise in the morning stand on the little hill near your house and you will see all these things done,” said Midyir. They played again, and Midyir won.

“What do you ask?” said Eochy.

“I ask Ethaun,” said Midyir.

“I will never give her!” said Eochy.

“The horses of fairyland are trampling outside your door, O King,” said Midyir, “give me my asking.” And he said to Ethaun: “Will you come into your own world again?”

Ethaun said:

“There is no world of all the worlds my own, for I have never made a place for myself, but Eochy has made a place for me and all the people have brought me gifts, and for the space of a year I will stay with them and bring them gladness.”

I will come at the year’s end,” said Midyir, and he left the hall, but no man saw him go.

After that there was never such a year in Ireland. The three crowns were on the land–a crown of plenty, a crown of victory, and a crown of song. Ethaun gave gifts to all the High King’s people, and to Eochy she gave a gladness beyond the dream of a man’s heart when it is fullest; and at Samhain time Eochy made a great feast and the kings of Ireland and the poets and the druids were there, and gladness was in the heart of every one.

Suddenly there was a light in the hall that made the torches and the great candles that are lit only for kings’ feasts burn dim, and Midyir the Red-Maned, stood in the hall. Then the ollavs and the poets and the druids and chiefs bowed themselves, and the king bowed himself, because Midyir had come. Midyir turned his eyes to where Ethaun sat in a seat of carved silver by the king. He had a small cruit such as musicians carry and he made a sweet music on it and sang:

Come with me! Come with me! Ethaun,

Leave the weary portals of life, leave the doon, leave the bawn.

Come! Come! Com e! Ethaun.

Lo! the white-maned untamable horses, out-racing the wind,

Scatter the embers of day as they pass, and the riders who bind

The suns to their chariot wheels and exult are calling your name,

Are calling your name through the night, Ethaun, and the night is a-flame,

Ethaun! Ethaun! Ethaun!

Come with us, Ethaun, to Moy-Mell where the star-flocks are straying

Like troops of immortal birds for ever delaying, delaying

The moment of flight that would take them away from the honey-sweet plain.

Surely you long for waves that break into starry rain

And are fain of flowers that need not die to blossom again.

Why have you turned away from me your only lover?

What lure have you seen in the eyes of a mortal that clay must cover?

Come back to me! come back, Ethaun! The high-built heavenly places

Mourn for you, and the lights are quenched, and for you immortal faces

Grow wan as faces that die. O Flame-Fair Swan of Delight,

Come with me, leave the weary portals of sleep-heavy Night;

The hosts are waiting, their horses trample the ashes of day;

Come, Light of a World that is Deathless, come away! Come away!

Midyir stretched his hands to Ethaun, and she turned to Eochy and kissed him.

“I have put into a year the gladness of a long life,” she said, ” and to-night you have heard the music of Faery, and echoes of it will be in the harp-strings of the men of Ireland for ever, and you will be remembered as long as wind blows and water runs, because Ethaun–whom Midyir loved–loved you.”

She put her hand in Midyir’s and they rose together as flame rises or as the white light rises in the sky when it is morning; and in the World of the Gods Angus waited for them, and Fuamach; and they walked together again as they had walked from the beginning of time.

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I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons or your properties, but and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by money, but that from virtue comes money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, I am a mischievous person. Socrates, quoted by Plato, ‘The Death of Socrates’

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Ancient Cornish Poems…

The Pool of Pilate

Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe

mos the wolhy ow dule

a Thesempes

me a vyn omma yn dour

may fons y guyn ha glan lour

a vestethes

+ + + + + + +

Ellas pan fema gynys

ancow sur yw dynythys

Scon thy’mmo vy

ny’m bus bywe ma fella

an dour re wruk thy’m henna

yn pur deffry.

The Pool of Pilate

It is best to me that it be so

Go to wash my hands

Immediately

I will, here in the water,

That they may be white, and clean enough

From dirt.

[He washes his hands in the water and dies

immediately.]

Alas that I was born!

Death surely is come

Soon to me.

Life is no longer for me,

The water has done that to me

Very clearly.

Merlin the Diviner

Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going

So early in the day, with thy black dog?

Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!

Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!

I have come here to search the way,

To find the red egg;

The red egg of the marine serpent,

By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.

I am going to seek in the valley

The green water-cress, and the golden grass,

And the top branch of the oak,

In the wood by the side of the fountain.

Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;

Leave the branch on the oak,

And the green water-cress in the valley,

As well as the golden grass;

And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,

In the foam by the hollow of the stone.

Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,

There is no diviner but God.

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Poems from The Ancient Welsh…

To the Lark – T’R Ehedydd

Sentinel of the morning light!

Reveller of the spring!

How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,

Thy boundless journeying:

Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone,

A hermit chorister before God’s throne!

Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,

Yon rampart’s starry height,

Thou interlude of melody

‘Twixt darkness and the light,

And seek with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest,

My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?

No woodland caroller art thou;

Far from the archer’s eye,

Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow,

Thy music in the sky:

Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,

Thou earthly denizen of angel song.

To the Fox. – RHYS GOCH (of ERYRI)

The wretch my starry bird who slew,

Beast of the flameless ember hue,

Assassin, glutton of the night,

Mixed of all creatures that defile,

Land lobster, fugitive of light,

Thou coward mountain crocodile;

With downcast eye and ragged tail,

That haunt’st the hollow rocks,

Thief, ever ready to assail

The undefended flocks,

Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks

Shall not protect thee from the hound,

When with unbaffled eye he mocks

Thy mazy fortress underground,

Whilst o’er my peacock’s shattered plumes shall shine

A pretty bower of faery eglantine.

The Song of the Thrush – RYHS GOCH

I was on the margin of a plain,

Under a wide spreading tree,

Hearing the song

Of the wild birds;

Listening to the language

Of the thrush cock,

Who from the wood of the valley

Composed a verse–

From the wood of the steep,

He sang exquisitely.

Speckled was his breast

Amongst the green leaves,

As upon branches

Of a thousand blossoms

On the bank of a brook,

All heard

With the dawn the song,

Like a silver bell;

Performing a sacrifice,

Until the hour of forenoon;

Upon the green altar

Ministering Bardism.

From the branches of the hazel

Of green broad leaves

He sings an ode

To God the Creator;

With a carol of love

From the green glade,

To all in the hollow

Of the glen, who love him;

Balm of the heart

To those who love.

I had from his beak

The voice of inspiration,

A song of metres

That gratified me;

Glad was I made

By his minstrelsy.

Then respectfully

Uttered I an address

From the stream of the valley

To the bird.

I requested urgently

His undertaking a message

To the fair one

Where dwells my affection.

Gone is the bard of the leaves

From the small twigs

To the second Lunet,

The sun of the maidens!

To the streams of the plain

St Mary prosper him,

To bring to me,

Under the green woods

The hue of the snow of one night,

Without delay.

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Divine Proportion…

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New Radio Show on Now! Just cut and paste these streams into your media player…

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio

http://87.194.36.124:8001/radio-low

Ice, Rain, Snow. Oh, and let’s not forget the hail. Winter is coming early and hard to P-town. Nasty stuff, kinda fun, but dark days outside. Rowan and his friends have been praying for massive snow… I have been doing a series of counter spells… 8o)

A friend who I met at mindstates, Adele moved to Portland. She brought her friend Grace by yesterday. A quick half hour but very enjoyable. Grace is looking for a room probably in the SE of Portland. She is a reflexologist. If anyone knows of a place, let me know, ‘kay?

The Time Element

I have been a bit conflicted with the time I spend on Turf in the past. It is long, but the conflict comes in with my perceived views that it is in competition with painting or design. It hit me though, that Turfing takes on some of the forms of Art… It reminds me a bit of when I was working as a keyboardist. Maybe that is the wrong name, how about Synthesist? (possibly a made up word, unless you work exclusively with synthesizers.) I would spend as much time on sound patches, aka sound design as I often would on composing. I think that this is where I find myself with this little project… it is in the melding of diverse elements, even though I cannot claim any of them as my own that makes it work in my mind.

More on this later if I sort it out it out a bit better…

Todays’ entry is pretty diverse, although its emphasis is on the art of Otto Runge. Perhaps one of the most influential painters of the late 18th, and early 19th centuries, his influence is mainly on painters themselves… His paintings have an interesting sense of proportion and colour sense… 8o)

His works have found themselves in the dialog of early 19th century Alchemy….

Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Otto Runge

So That His Actions Will Not Be Forgot – Malachi Ritscher’s Death

The Links

Religion and Revolution -Hakim Bey

Poetry: Anna Akhmatova

Art: Otto Runge

Phillip Otto Runge (1777-07-23-1810-12-02) was a Romantic German painter and draughtsman. Although he made a late start to his career and died young, he ranks second only to Friedrich among German Romantic painters.

Life and work

Born within a family of shipbuilders, Runge, after the reading of poet Ludwig Tieck, decided to pursue an artistic career. Runge studied under Jens Juel at the Copenhagen Academy (1799-1801), then moved to Dresden, where he knew Caspar David Friedrich. In 1803 he settled in Hamburg. Runge was of a mystical, pantheistic turn of mind, and in his work he tried to express notions of the harmony of the universe through symbolism of colour, form, and numbers.He also wrote poetry and to this end he planned a series of four paintings called The Times of the Day, designed to be seen in a special building and viewed to the accompaniment of music and poetry.This concept was common romantic artistics trying to achieve “total art”, or a fusion between all forms of art. He painted two versions of Morning (Kunsthalle, Hamburg), but the others did not advance beyond drawings. Runge was also one of the best German portraitists of his period; several examples are in Hamburg. His style was rigid, sharp, and intense, at times almost naïve. In 1810, after researching colour for several years and corresponding with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, he published Die Farbenkugel (The Colour Sphere), in which he describes a three-dimensional schematic sphere for organizing all conceivable colors according to hue, brightness, and saturation. Pure hues were displayed around its equator. Through the central axis was a gray value scale, from black at the bottom to white at the top. Across the surface of the sphere, the colors were graded from black to the pure hue to white, in seven steps. Intermediate mixtures theoretically lay inside the sphere. Runge died, due to tuberculosis. His sphere was adopted 150 years later by the great german teacher Johannes Itten. Itten opened the sphere into a star to display the entirety at once in 2-D.

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Thanks to Bryan W. for bringing this to my attention…

So That His Actions Will Not Be Forgot – Malachi Ritscher’s Death

War Protestor’s Public Suicide in Chicago Went Unnoticed by Media Malachi Ritscher’s apparent suicide

Malachi Ritschers Suicide Note

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The Links:

The Sacred Corporate…

Christian Coalition Leader Resigns

Ethics experts warm to dead heat…

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Religion and Revolution -Hakim Bey

Real money &amp; hierarchic religion appear to have arisen in the same mysterious moment sometime between the early Neolithic and the third millennium BC in Sumer or Egypt; which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was one a response to the other or is one an aspect of the other?

No doubt that money possesses a deeply religious implication since from the very moment of its appearance it begins to strive for the condition of the spirit — to remove itself from the world of bodies, to transcend materiality, to become the one true efficacious symbol. With the invention of writing around 3100 BC money as we know it emerges from a complicated system of clay tokens or counters representing material goods &amp; takes the form of written bills of credit impressed on clay tablets; almost without exception these “cheques” seem to concern debts owed to the State Temple, &amp; in theory could have been used in an extended system of exchange as credit-notes “minted” by the theocracy. Coins did not appear until around 700 BC in Greek Asia Minor; they were made of electrum (gold and silver) not because these metals had commodity value but because they were sacred — Sun &amp; Moon; the ratio of value between them has always hovered around 14:1 not because the earth contains 14 times as much silver as gold but because the Moon takes 14 “suns” to grow from dark to full. Coins may have originated as temple tokens symbolizing a worshipper’s due share of the sacrifice — holy souvenirs, which could later be traded for goods because they had “mana”, not use-value. (This function may have originated in the Stone Age trade in “ceremonial” stone axe-heads used in potlach-like distribution rites.) Unlike Mesopotamian credit-notes, coins were inscribed with sacred images &amp; were seen as liminal objects, nodal points between quotidian reality &amp; the world of the spirits (this accounts for the custom of bending coins to “spiritualize” them and throwing them into wells, which are the “eyes” of the otherworld.) Debt itself — the true content of all money — is a highly “spiritual” concept. As tribute (primitive debt) it exemplifies capitulation to a “legitimate power” of expropriation masked in religious ideology — but as “real debt” it attains the uniquely spiritual ability to reproduce itself as if it were an organic being. Even now it remains the only “dead” substance in all the world to possess this power — “money begets money”. At this point money begins to take on a parodic aspect vis-à-vis religion — it seems that money wants to rival god, to become immanent spirit in the form of pure metaphysicality which nevertheless “rules the world”. Religion must take note of this blasphemous nature in money and condemn it as contra naturam. Money &amp; religion enter opposition — one cannot serve God &amp; Mammon simultaneously. But so long as religion continues to perform as the ideology of separation (the hierarchic State, expropriation, etc.) it can never really come to grips with the money-problem. Over &amp; over again reformers arise within religion to chase the moneylenders from the temple, &amp; always they return — in fact often enough the moneylenders become the Temple. (It’s certainly no accident that banks for along time aped the forms of religious architecture.) According to Weber it was Calvin who finally resolved the issue with his theological justification for “usury” — but this scarcely does credit to the real Protestants, like the Ranters &amp; Diggers, who proposed that religion should once &amp; for all enter into total opposition to money — thereby launching the Millennium. It seems more likely that the Enlightenment should take credit for resolving the problem — by jettisoning religion as the ideology of the ruling class &amp; replacing it with rationalism (&amp; “Classical Economics”). This formula however would fail to do justice to those real illuminati who proposed the dismantling of all ideologies of power &amp; authority — nor would it help to explain why “official” religion failed to realize its potential as opposition at this point, &amp; instead went on providing moral support for both State &amp; Capital.

Under the influence of Romanticism however there arose — both inside &amp; outside of “official” religion — a growing sense of spirituality as an alternative to the oppressive aspects of Liberalism &amp; its intellectual/artistic allies. On the one hand this sense led to a conservative-revolutionary form of romantic reaction (e.g. Novalis) — but on the other hand it also fed into the old heretical tradition (which also began with the “rise of Civilization” as a movement of resistance to the theocracy of expropriation) — and found itself in a strange new alliance with rationalist radicalism (the nascent “left”); William Blake, for example, or the “Blaspheming Chapels” of Spence &amp; his followers, represent this trend. The meeting of spirituality &amp; resistance is not some surrealist event or anomaly to be smoothed out or rationalized by “History” — it occupies a position at the very root of radicalism; — and despite the militant atheism of Marx or Bakunin (itself a kind of mutated mysticism or “heresy”), the spiritual still remains inextricably involved with the “Good Old Cause” it helped create.

Some years ago Regis Debray wrote an article pointing out that despite the confidant predictions of 19th century materialism, religion had still perversely failed to go away — and that perhaps it was time for the Revolution to come to terms with this mysterious persistence. Coming from a Catholic culture Debray was interested in “Liberation Theology”, itself a projection of the old quasi-heresy of the “Poor” Franciscans &amp; the recurrent rediscovery of “Bible communism”. Had he considered Protestant culture he might have remembered the 17th century, &amp; looked for its true inheritance; if Moslem he could have evoked the radicalism of the Shiites or Ismailis, or the anti-colonialism of the 19th century “neo-Sufis”. Every religion has called forth its own inner antithesis over &amp; over again; every religion has considered the implications of moral opposition to power; every tradition contains a vocabulary of resistance as well as capitulation to oppression. Speaking broadly one might say that up until now this “counter-tradition” — which is both inside &amp; outside religion — has comprised a “suppressed content”. Debray’s question concerned its potential for realization. Liberation Theology lost most of its support within the church when it could no longer serve its function as rival (or accomplice) of Soviet Communism; &amp; it could no longer serve this function because Communism collapsed. But some Liberation theologians proved to be sincere — and still they persist (as in Mexico); moreover, an entire submerged &amp; related tendency within Catholicism, exemplified in the almost Scholastic anarchism of an Ivan Illich, lingers in the background. Similar tendencies could be identified within Orthodoxy (e.g. Bakunin), Protestantism, Judaism, Islam, and (in a somewhat different sense) Buddhism; moreover, most “surviving” indigenous forms of spirituality (e.g. Shamanism) or the Afro-american syncretisms can find common cause with various radical trends in the “major” religions on such issues as the environment, &amp; the morality of anti-Capitalism. Despite elements of romantic reaction, various New Age &amp; post-New-Age movements can also be associated with this rough category.

In a previous essay we have outlined reasons for believing that the collapse of Communism implies the triumph of its single opponent, Capitalism; that according to neo-liberal global propaganda only one world now exists; &amp; that this political situation has grave implications for a theory of money as the virtual deity (autonomous, spiritualized, &amp; all-powerful) of the single universe of meaning. Under these conditions everything that was once a third possibility (neutrality, withdrawal, counter-culture, the “Third World”, etc.) now must find itself in a new situation. There is no longer any “second” — how can there be a “third”? The “alternatives” have narrowed catastrophically. The One World is now in a position to crush everything which once escaped its ecstatic embrace — thanks to the unfortunate distraction of waging an essentially economic war against the Evil Empire. There is no more third way, no more neither/nor. Everything that is different will now be subsumed into the sameness of the One World — or else will discover itself in opposition to that world. Taking this thesis as given, we must now ask where religion will locate itself on this new map of “zones” of capitulation &amp; resistance. If “revolution” has been freed of the incubus of Soviet oppression and is now once again a valid concept, are we finally in a position to offer a tentative answer to Debray’s question?

Taking “religion” as a whole, including even those forms such as shamanism that belong to Society rather than the State (in terms of Clastres’s anthropology); including polytheisms, monotheisms, &amp; non-theisms; including mysticisms &amp; heresies as well as orthodoxies, “reformed” churches, &amp; “new religions” — obviously the subject under consideration lacks definition, borders, coherence; &amp; it cannot be questioned because it would only generate a babel of responses rather than an answer. But “religion” does refer to something — call it a certain range of colors in the spectrum of human becoming — &amp; as such it might be considered (at least pro tem) as a valid dialogic entity &amp; as a theorizable subject. In the triumphant movement of Capital — in its processual moment so to speak — all religion can only be viewed as nullity, i.e. as a commodity to be packaged &amp; sold, an asset to be stripped, or an opposition to be eliminated. Any idea (or ideology) that cannot be subsumed into capital’s “End of History” must be doomed. This includes both reaction &amp; resistance — &amp; it most certainly includes the non-separative “re-linking” (religio) of consciousness with “spirit” as unmediated imaginal self-determination &amp; value-creation — the original goal of all ritual &amp; worship. Religion in other words has lost all connection with worldly power because that power has migrated off-world — it has abandoned even the State &amp; achieved the purity of apotheosis, like the God that “abandoned Anthony” in Cavafy’s poem. The few States (mostly Islamic) wherein religion holds power are located precisely within the ever-shrinking region of national opposition to Capital — (thus providing them with such potential strange bedfellows as Cuba!). Like all other “third possibilities” religion is faced with a new dichotomy: total capitulation, or else revolt. Thus the “revolutionary potential” of religion clearly appears — although it remains unclear whether resistance might take the form of reaction or radicalism — or indeed whether religion is not already defeated — whether its refusal to go away is that of an enemy, or a ghost.

In Russia &amp; Serbia the Orthodox Church appears to have thrown in its lot with reaction against the New World Order &amp; thus found new fellowship with its old Bolshevik oppressors, In Chechnya the Naqshbandi Sufi Order continues its centuries-old struggle against Russian imperialism. In Chiapas there’s a strange alliance of Mayan “pagans” &amp; radical Catholics. Certain factions of American Protestantism have been driven to the point of paranoia &amp; armed resistance (but even paranoids have some real enemies); while Native-american spirituality undergoes a small but miraculous revival — not a Ghost Shirt uprising this time, but a reasoned &amp; profound stand against the hegemony of Capital’s monoculture. The Dalai Lama sometimes appears as the one “world leader” capable of speaking truth both to the remnants of the Communist oppression &amp; the forces of Capitalist inhumanity; a “Free Tibet” might provide some kind of focus for an “interfaith” bloc of small nations &amp; religious groups allied against the transcendental social darwinism of the consensus. Arctic shamanism may re-emerge as an “ideology” for the self-determination of certain new Siberian republics — and some New Religions (such as Western neo-paganism or the psychedelic cults) also belong by definition or default to the pole of opposition.

Islam has seen itself as the enemy of imperial Christianity &amp; European imperialism almost from the moment of its inception. During the 20th century it functioned as a “third way” against both Communism &amp; Capitalism, &amp; in the context of the new One World it now constitutes by definition one of the very few existing mass movements which cannot be englobed into the unity of any would-be Consensus. Unfortunately the spearhead of resistance — “fundamentalism” — tends to reduce the complexity of Islam into an artificially coherent ideology — “Islamism” — which clearly fails to speak to the normal human desire for difference &amp; complexity. Fundamentalism has already failed to concern itself with “empirical freedoms” which must constitute the minimal demands of the new resistance; for example, its critique of “usury” is obviously an inadequate response to the machinations of the IMF &amp; World Bank. The “gates of Interpretation” of the Shariah must be re-opened — not slammed shut forever — and a fully-realized alternative to Capitalism must emerge from within the tradition. Whatever one may think of the Libyan Revolution of 1969 it has at least the virtue of an attempt to fuse the anarcho-syndicalism of ’68 with the neo-Sufi egalitarianism of the North African Orders, &amp; to create a revolutionary Islam — something similar could be said of Ali Shariati’s “Shiite socialism” in Iran, which was crushed by the ulemocracy before it could crystallize into a coherent movement. The point is that Islam cannot be dismissed as the puritan monolith portrayed in the Capitalist media. If a genuine anti-Capitalist coalition is to appear in the world it cannot happen without Islam. The goal of all theory capable of any sympathy with Islam, I believe, is now to encourage its radical &amp; egalitarian traditions &amp; to substruct its reactionary &amp; authoritarian modes of discourse. Within Islam there persist such mythic figures as the “Green Prophet” and hidden guide of the mystics, al-Khezr, who could easily become a kind of patron saint of Islamic environmentalism; while history offers such models as the great Algerian Sufi freedom-fighter Emir Abdul Qadir, whose last act (in exile in Damascus) was to protect Syrian Christians against the bigotry of the ulema. From outside Islam there exists the potential for “interfaith” movements concerned with ideals of peace, toleration, &amp; resistance to the violence of post-secular post-rationalist “neo-liberalism” &amp; its allies. In effect, then, the “revolutionary potential” of Islam is not yet realized — but it is real.

Since Christianity is the religion that “gave birth” (in Weberian terms) to Capitalism, its position in relation to the present apotheosis of Capitalism is necessarily more problematic than Islam’s. For centuries Christianity has been drawing in on itself &amp; constructing a kind of make-believe world of its own, wherein some semblance of the social might persist (if only on Sundays) — even while it maintained the cozy illusion of some relation to power. As an ally of Capital (with its seeming benign indifference to the hypothesis of faith) against “Godless Communism”, Christianity could preserve the illusion of power — at least until five years ago. Now Capitalism no longer needs Christianity &amp; the social support it enjoyed will soon evaporate. Already the Queen of England has had to consider stepping down as the head of the Anglican Church — &amp; she is unlikely to be replaced by the CEO of some vast international zaibatsu! Money is god — God is really dead at last; Capitalism has realized a hideous parody of the Enlightenment ideal. But Jesus is a dying-&-resurrecting god — one might say he’s been through all this before. Even Nietzsche signed his last “insane” letter as “Dionysus &amp; the Crucified One”; in the end it is perhaps only religion that can “overcome” religion. Within Christianity a myriad tendencies appear (or have persisted since the 17th century, like the Quakers) seeking to revive that radical messiah who cleansed the Temple &amp; promised the Kingdom to the poor. In America for instance it would seem impossible to imagine a really successful mass movement against Capitalism (some form of “progressive populism”) without the participation of the churches. Again the theoretical task begins to clarify itself; one need not propose some vulgar kind of “entryism” into organized Christianity to radicalize it by conspiracy from within. Rather the goal would be to encourage the sincere &amp; widespread potential for Christian radicalism either from within as an honest believer (however “existentialist” the faith!) or as an honest sympathizer from the outside.

To test this theorizing take an example — say Ireland (where I happen to be writing this). Given that Ireland’s “Problems” arise largely from sectarianism, clearly one must take an anti-clerical stance; in fact atheism would be at least emotionally appropriate. But the inherent ambiguity of religion in Irish history should be remembered: — there were moments when Catholic priests &amp; laity supported resistance or revolution, &amp; there were moments when Protestant ministers &amp; laity supported resistance or revolution. The hierarchies of the churches have generally proven themselves reactionary — but hierarchy is not the same thing as religion. On the Protestant side we have Wolfe Tone &amp; the United Irishmen — a revolutionary “interfaith” movement. Even today in Northern Ireland such possibilities are not dead; anti-sectarianism is not just a socialist ideal but also a Christian ideal. On the Catholic side… a few years ago I met a radical priest at a pagan festival in the Aran Islands, a friend of Ivan Illich. When I asked him, “What exactly is your relation to Rome?” he answered, “Rome? Rome is the enemy.” Rome has lost its stranglehold on Ireland in the last few years, brought down by anti-puritan revolt &amp; internal scandal. It would be incorrect to say that the Church’s power has shifted to the State, unless we also add that the government’s power has shifted to Europe, &amp; Europe’s power has shifted to international capital. The meaning of Catholicism in Ireland is up for grabs. Over the next few years we might expect to see both inside &amp; outside the Church a kind of revival of “Celtic Christianity” — devoted to resistance against pollution of the environment both physical &amp; imaginal, &amp; therefore committed to anti-Capitalist struggle. Whether this trend would lead to an open break with Rome and the formation of an independent church — who knows? Certainly the trend will include or at least influence Protestantism as well. Such a broad-based movement might easily find its natural political expression in socialism or even in anarcho-socialism, &amp; would serve a particularly useful function as a force against sectarianism &amp; the rule of the clerisy. Thus even in Ireland it would seem that religion may have a revolutionary future.

I expect these ideas will meet with very little acceptance within traditionally atheist anarchism or the remnants of “dialectical materialism”. Enlightenment radicalism has long refused to recognize any but remote historical roots within religious radicalism. As a result, the Revolution threw out the baby (“non-ordinary consciousness”) along with the bathwater of the Inquisition or of puritan repression. Despite Sorel’s insistence that the Revolution needed a “myth”, it preferred to bank everything on “pure reason” instead. But spiritual anarchism &amp; communism (like religion itself) have failed to go away. Indeed, by becoming an anti-Religion, radicalism had recourse to a kind of mysticism of its own, complete with ritual, symbolism, &amp; morality. Bakunin’s remark about God — that if he existed we would have to kill him — would after all pass for the purest orthodoxy within Zen Buddhism! The psychedelic movement, which offered a kind of “scientific” (or at least experiential ) verification of non-ordinary consciousness, led to a degree of rapprochement between spirituality &amp; radical politics — &amp; the trajectory of this movement may have only begun. If religion has “always” acted to enslave the mind or to reproduce the ideology of the ruling class, it has also “always” involved some form of entheogenesis (“birth of the god within”) or liberation of consciousness; some form of utopian proposal or promise of “heaven on earth”; and some form of militant &amp; positive action for “social justice” as God’s plan for the creation. Shamanism is a form of “religion” that (as Clastres showed) actually institutionalizes spirituality against the emergence of hierarchy &amp; separation — &amp; all religions possess at least a shamanic trace.

Every religion can point to a radical tradition of some sort. Taoism once produced the Yellow Turbans — or for that matter the Tongs that collaborated with anarchism in the 1911 revolution. Judaism produced the “anarcho-zionism” of Martin Buber &amp; Gersholm Scholem (deeply influenced by Gustav Landauer &amp; other anarchists of 1919), which found its most eloquent &amp; paradoxical voice in Walter Benjamin. Hinduism gave birth to the ultra-radical Bengali Terrorist Party — &amp; also to M. Gandhi, the modern world’s only successful theorist of non-violent revolution. Obviously anarchism &amp; communism will never come to terms with religion on questions of authority &amp; property; &amp; perhaps one might say that “after the Revolution” such questions will remain to be resolved. But it seems clear that without religion there will be no radical revolution; the Old Left &amp; the (old) New Left can scarcely fight it alone. The alternative to an alliance now is to watch while Reaction co-opts the force of religion &amp; launches a revolution without us. Like it or not, some sort of pre-emptive strategy is required. Resistance demands a vocabulary in which our common cause can be discussed; hence these sketchy proposals.

Even assuming we could classify all the above under the rubric of admirable sentiments, we would still find ourselves far from any obvious program of action. Religion is not going to “save” us in this sense (perhaps the reverse is true!) — in any case religion is faced with the same perplexity as any other former “third position”, including all forms of radical non-authoritarianism &amp; anti-Capitalism. The new totality &amp; its media appear so pervasive as to fore-doom all programs of revolutionary content, since every “message” is equally subject to subsumption in the “medium” that is Capital itself. Of course the situation is hopeless — but only stupidity would take this as reason for despair, or for the terminal boredom of defeat. Hope against hope — Bloch’s revolutionary hope — belongs to a “utopia” that is never wholly absent even when it is least present; &amp; it belongs as well to a religious sphere in which hopelessness is the final sin against the holy spirit: — the betrayal of the divine within — the failure to become human. “Karmic duty” in the sense of the Bhagavad Gita — or in the sense of “revolutionary duty” — is not something imposed by Nature, like gravity, or death. It is a free gift of the spirit — one can accept or refuse it — &amp; both positions are perilous. To refuse is to run the risk of dying without having lived. To accept is an even more dangerous but far more interesting possibility. A version of Pascal’s Wager — not on the immortality of the soul this time, but simply on its sheer existence.

To use religious metaphor (which we’ve tried so far to avoid) the millennium began five years before the end of the century, when One World came into being &amp; banished all duality. From the Judao-Christiano-Islamic perspective however this is the false millennium of the “Anti-Christ”; which turns out not to be a “person” (except in the world of Archetypes perhaps) but an impersonal entity, a force contra naturam — entropy disguised as life. In this view the reign of iniquity must &amp; will be challenged in the true millennium, the advent of the messiah. But the messiah is also not a single person in the world — rather, it is a collectivity in which each individuality is realized &amp; thus (again metaphorically or imaginally) immortalized. The “people-as-messiah” do not enter into the homogenous sameness nor the infernal separation of entropic Capitalism, but into the difference &amp; presence of revolution — the struggle, the “holy war”. On this basis alone can we begin to work on a theory of reconciliation between the positive forces of religion &amp; the cause of resistance. What we are offered here is simply the beginning of the beginning.

Dublin, Sept. 1, 1996

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Poetry: Anna Akhmatova

Muse

1924

When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient,

Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread.

What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation,

When compared with the gentle piper’s tread?

And she came in, threw out the mantle’s edges,

Declined to me with a sincere heed.

I say to her, “Did you dictate the Pages

Of Hell to Dante?” She answers, “Yes, I did.”

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!

The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.

This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.

My husband, returning, had quietly said,

“He’d left for his hunting; they carried him home;

They’d found him under the old oak’s dome.

I pity the queen. He, so young, past away!…

During one night her black hair turned to grey.”

He found his pipe on a warm fire-place,

And quietly left for his usual race.

Now my daughter will wake up and rise –

Mother will look in her dear grey eyes…

And poplars by windows rustle as sing,

“Never again will you see your young king…”

Our Native Earth

1961

There are not any people in the world –

So simple, lofty, tearless — like us.

1922

We do not carry it in lockets on the breast,

And do not cry about it in poems,

It does not wake us from the bitter rest,

And does not seem to us like Eden promised.

In our hearts, we never try to treat

This as a subject for the bargain row,

While being ill, unhappy, spent on it,

We even fail to see it or to know.

Yes, this dirt on the feet suits us fairly,

Yes, this crunch on the teeth suits us just,

And we trample it nightly and daily –

This unmixed and non-structural dust.

But we lay into it and become it alone,

And therefore call this earth so freely — my own.

“You, Who Was Born…”

1956

You, who was born for poetry’s creation,

Do not repeat the sayings of the ancients.

Though, maybe, our Poetry, itself,

Is just a single beautiful citation.

“They Didn’t Meet Me…”

1913

They didn’t meet me, roamed,

On steps with lanterns bright.

I entered quiet home

In murky, pail moonlight.

Under a lamp’s green halo,

With smile of kept in rage,

My friend said, “Cinderella,

Your voice is very strange…”

A cricket plays its fiddle;

A fire-place grew black.

Oh, someone took my little

White shoe as a keep-sake,

And gave me three carnations,

While casting dawn eyes –.

My sins for accusations,

You couldn’t be disguised.

And heart hates to believe in

The time, that’s close too,

When he will ask for women

To try on my white shoe.

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Have A Good One!

Event Horizons: Dreaming Future

Some kind of dialog is now going on between individual human beings and the sum total of human knowledge and…nothing can stop it.—Terence McKenna

On The Music Box EarthRites Radio Testing! Both High and Low ends. Cut and Paste these into your media player. New Stuff on Later Today!

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio for DSL/Cable

http://87.194.36.124:8001/radio-low for Dial-Up

So Radio Testing has been going on this weekend, and various projects. Had a great Thanksgiving, and then celebrated our friend Randy’s 50th Birthday on Friday night… lots of people in and out, generally a very good time for all this weekend.

I had long been fascinated with a series of collages that I had seen in various publications/on record covers and on-line over the years. Thanks to Derek Robinson, who dropped The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons into my e-mailbox, I now know who was the artist of these various bits, “James Koehnline. If you have seen a Bill Laswell cover, or Hakim Beys’ “Taz” you would recognize his works. We are featuring his art and his poem/article today.

later,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

The Links

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone

Koans

The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons

Art: James Koehnline

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The Links:

Drunken Swedish moose drowns after fermented apple binge…

Zombies Sue Police…

The first remarkable close-up pictures of animals in the womb

From Rob on TribeNet: Virtual Aurora in Finland…

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Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part1)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part2)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part3)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part4)

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Koans:

The Subjugation of a Ghost

A young wife fell sick and was about to die. “I love you so much,” she told her husband, “I do not want to leave you. Do not go from me to any other woman. If you do, I will return as a ghost and cause you endless trouble.”

Soon the wife passed away. The husband respected her last wish for the first three months, but then he met another woman and fell in love with her. They became engaged to be married.

Immediately after the engagement a ghost appeared every night to the man, blaming him for not keeping his promise. The ghost was clever too. She told him exactly what had transpired between himself and his new sweetheart. Whenever he gave his fiancee a present, the ghost would describe it in detail. She would even repeat conversations, and it so annoyed the man that he could not sleep. Someone advised him to take his problem to a Zen master who lived close to the village. At length, in despair, the poor man went to him for help.

“Your former wife became a ghost and knows everything you do, ” commented the master. “Whatever you do or say, whatever you give your beloved, she knows. She must be a very wise ghost. Really you should admire such a ghost. The next time she appears, bargain with her. Tell her that she knows so much you can hide nothing from her, and that if she will answer you one question, you promise to break your engagement and remain single.”

“What is the question I must ask her?” inquired the man.

The master replied: “Take a large handful of soy beans and ask her exactly how many beans you hold in your hand. If she cannot tell you, you will know that she is only a figment of your imagination and will trouble you no longer.”

The next night, when the ghost appeared the man flattered her and told her that she knew everything.

“Indeed,” replied the ghost, “and I know you went to see that Zen master today.”

“And since you know so much,” demanded the man, “tell me how many beans I hold in this hand!”

There was no longer any ghost to answer the question.

—–

No Attachment to Dust

Zengetsu, a Chinese master of the T’ang dynasty, wrote the following advice for his pupils:

Living in the world yet not forming attachments to the dust of the world is the way of a true Zen student.

When witnessing the good action of another encourage yourself to follow his example. Hearing of the mistaken action of another, advise yourself not to emulate it.

Even though alone in a dark room, be as if you were facing a noble guest. Express your feelings, but become no more expressive than your true nature.

Poverty is your treasure. Never exchange it for an easy life.

A person may appear a fool and yet not be one. He may only be guarding his wisdom carefully.

Virtues are the fruit of self-discipline and do not drop from heaven of themselves as does rain or snow.

Modesty is the foundation of all virtues. Let your neighbors discover you before you make yourself known to them.

A noble heart never forces itself forward. Its words are as rare gems, seldom displayed and of great value.

To a sincere student, every day is a fortunate day. Time passes but he never lags behind. Neither glory nor shame can move him.

Censure yourself, never another. Do not discuss right and wrong.

Some things, though right, were considered wrong for generations. Since the value of righteousness may be recognized after centuries, there is no need to crave an immediate appreciation.

Live with cause and leave results to the great law of the universe. Pass each day in peaceful contemplation.

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The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons

(Swamp Rats of the World Unite! A Secret History of “The Other America”)

James Koehnline

I. Oh, My Brothers

Freemasonry arose as a white, middle-to-upper class male conspiracy against God and King which sought to establish a new deal of the ages, a wholly rational infrastructure, administered by white male land-owners of the merchant class, so beautifully logical in its operations as to cause order to reign forever, in spite of human nature. White because the child-races were not ready. Male because logic was alien to women. Landowners because they alone knew responsibility. Merchants because they knew how to balance the books. The celestial clockwork of the church was to be anchored firmly in the earth. The royal monopoly on nobility was to be smashed and redistributed among all who could pass the entrance exam and return the secret handshake. So constituted, Freemasonry was not so much a body as a big fat head in search of a muscular mass to ride into the perfectible future. It succeeded with a vengeance in realizing the glorious dream: A racist, sexist, reductivist, venal order, headed by lawyers and accountants; an order so universally established that its logic is almost inescapable. Nearly everyone serves the planetary work and war machine, and a great many subscribe to its religion of profits and progress, persuaded by its logic– Ya gotta work to survive. Freemasonry, hybrid seed of the Renaissance quest to reassemble the potsherds of the Golden Age, spent its l7th-Century adolescence sifting through sand-piles of symbols, searching for portents, seeking the future in the detritus of the past. America opened her arms and offered herself as an only-slightly-smudged slate on which to write the New Jerusalem. In the eighteenth century, after Newton fused heaven and earth, the project began to seem more practical than philosophical. Gravity was the key by which their mad celestial schematics could be drawn down to enshroud the earth, to impose the map upon the unruly territory. No matter that the fit was imprecise, that the great, green riot of life was forever poking through the gaps, mocking from beyond the edges. No matter that our movement and speech were infected with its mad jazz patterns. When you live IN the map you hardly notice these things, any more than you notice the nameless ones silently slipping beyond the pale, leaving the map behind. Who cares who goes there, who goes nowhere?

II. Beyond The Pale.

In 1717 the Grand Lodge of England was formed and the “respectable” half of masonry began pushing the “irregulars” off the map. Tradesmen, including any stone masons who might have been in Freemasonry, were among the exiles. In 1741 members of the black-listed lodges staged a wild masonic parade in London to ridicule the Grand Lodge. They called themselves Scald Miserable Masons. By this time numbers of exiled masons were washing up on the American shores- convicts, vagrants, rebels, Irish- sentenced or sold into plantation servitude from which they escaped at their earliest convenience. Most headed west of the seaboard colonies, keeping ahead of the advancing map, (the great wagon road making its way, north to south and west,) joining the multi-racial maroon communities of the South Carolina hills and elsewhere, some whole communities calling themselves Freemasons. But we may safely assume that at least a few of these Scald Miserable Masons were guided to the secret maroon capital of the upper south, there to become citizen-warriors of the Great Dismal Swamp, on the Atlantic coast where Virginia and Carolina meet, the heart of the New World.

III. The Other America

Ever since 1524 when the Spanish founded the first European (and African) settlement in what is now the U.S., slaves had been walking away from bondage, joining or forging alliances with friendly Indian nations. In the early days most of these Maroons were white- at least from among the English colonies- Irish and poor English convicts, indentured servants and slaves. There were also a great many Americans who had been taken as slaves and escaped, only to find their tribes decimated. The growth of the African slave trade brought increasing numbers of Africans into the Maroon camps. In 1586 Sir Francis Drake, returning north from the wars with Spain in the Caribbean, carried a shipload of former Spanish slaves- 300 South American Indians, 200 Guinea Coast Africans, 200 Moors- as a sort of gift to the English colonists on Roanoke Island, (Raleigh’s second attempt to establish a colony there). No sooner had they arrived than a great storm blew up, frightening the English back to England with Drake. When they returned a year later to try again they were dismayed to find that their servants had deserted, joined the Indians on the mainland. A year later, when Raleigh’s ships returned to reprovision the colony the white colonists had also deserted. Raleigh’s agents could find no trace of them on the mainland and the Indians just shrugged their shoulders. Perhaps they were hiding out in the nearly impenetrable Great Dismal Swamp nearby. Perhaps, four hundred years ago, these Maroons of four continents held a big pow-wow, dedicating themselves to the fight against slavery even then As the English colonies up and down the Atlantic seaboard bustled with new settlement and commerce, North Carolina, the ancient Albemarle, was strangely silent. The lords proprietors collected enough rent to keep themselves comfortable and left the inhabitants to their own devices. The Tuscarora nation still exercised considerable influence in the region, and the settlers, it seems, had no objection to this arrangement. The settlers were, by and large, Maroons. By 1650 they had their own government under Nathaniel Batts, who converted to the Tuscarora religion and was accepted as an honored member of the tribe. The settlers had full representation in the governing councils of the Tuscarora nation. New fugitives arrived regularly to join them. They lived at their ease, hunting, fishing, trapping, adventuring together and generally celebrating their good fortune to live free and among friends. By 1708 political forces in England had determined that the time had arrived to develop North Carolina as a commercial plantation slavery colony. This necessitated a full-scale war against the old settlers, which was followed by a full-scale war with their allies, the Tuscarora nation. The British declared victory and established their colony. The Maroons never admitted defeat. They retreated to the depths of the Great Dismal Swamp and from their sanctuary waged a 160 year guerrilla war against slavery. In the end, they won. They fought alongside the British under Lord Duninore in the revolution, because Dunmore promised an end to slavery and gave them uniforms with a special sash that read “Freedom For Slaves”. They fought as “Buffalo Soldiers” on the side of the Union in the Civil War, holding all the surrounding territory without army support. In between, they sent out continuous raiding parties to free slaves and discourage slavers. They established an extensive communication system throughout the upper south through a network of plantation preachers and conjuremen and women. The swamp had been considered a holy place by the Indians since time immemorial. It was now doubly’so for the slaves and Maroons. There were many Maroon enclaves up and down the coast in the swamps and pine barrens but none larger or more militant than the Great Dismal. Here was the original Rainbow Coalition. With Emancipation they left the swamp to make a life in the open, but their triumph was short-lived. Some were absorbed into the African-American community, some went to the reservations and a few passed for white, but the majority had no desire to be so segregated. This was true of the other maroon enclaves as well. They emerged to find slavery being replaced by a rigid caste system that had no place for them. They were marginalized, isolated and despised. Some even went back to the swamps. They were our Dark Secret, an enormous blind-spot in our collective psyche. Within twenty years liberal progressive Christians had launched a “scientific” crusade to deal with the problem:the American Eugenics movement. By the early years of this century they were promoting a Final Solution- compulsory sterilization. In 1907 Indiana was the first state to pass a compulsory sterilization law. It was aimed at a nomadic, tri-racial tribe in that state, the Tribe of Ishmael. Rather than submit to this the Ishmaelites dispersed. This law, which came to be known as “The Indiana Plan,” seemed like such a great idea that within twenty years 29 states had adopted similar Eugenic laws and the Indiana Plan had been adopted by seven European countries, most notably Germany, where it served as the legal foundation for an escalating series of racial laws that led, ultimately, to the Nazi Final Solution. At Nuremburg after the war there was much debate over whether or not forced sterilization could be prosecuted as a war crime. Of course, they decided it could not be, as it was still legal in the U.S. Today the descendants of the Maroons are still with us, some still living in the cracks, many more have blended into the crowds of the nameless. You may be one, in blood, or spirit, or both. Search the dark, rough recesses of your heart and mind. See if you can find traces of that Other America, the one that did not build its celestial city on a foundation of cruelty, murder and deceit, but gathered the exiles of four continents in its Great Dismal City of Refugee.

IV. Toward The Swamp – The Way Home

Trapped between faith and fear, progressive liberalism is adrift in the current of modernity which eats away at faith and builds fear, moving toward an end which is only that: Finis. Lacking an articulate alternative, lacking, too, the communal basis of alienation, ours is a vague search for something which is missing. What is it? The counter-culture has always been just that. A negation bound up with what it rejects; the underside of liberalism. Its notions of human communion are tied to the immediate realization of something very like the old liberal utopia- total private liberty and gratification of desire. That old utopia is wholly blind to the nature of communion, rooted in self-loathing and fear of the other; hostility to the ego, a desire to blot it out; fraternity as alliance of embattlement again. The possibility of citizenship has been eclipsed, and, having been eclipsed, it waits to be bloom anew. It awaits a new polity, and in the dismal swamp heart of the “inner” city something stirs. Still we hide our bones for fear of being born because birth’s first lesson is loneliness. To build a new city among these multitudes of strangers we must learn to recognize our fellow citizens when chance shall throw us together, and find the means for affirming our mutual “patriotism.” We are obliged to set an example, to be the preachers and poets and tellers of tales of the great dismal city of refuge. We must steer clear of the Jeffersonian fraternal ideal which, in the name of unity, blows up such a cloud of sentiment as to obscure a dark and violent city. We must avoid charity as the plague it is, with its ethic of condescension. We must remember that war is no medicine for loneliness. Try love-laughter-song-dance, the tonics, before resort to narcotics and final solutions. In the lonely crowds of the urban wilderness there is mingled a saving remnant, a band of brothers and sisters, mostly unknown to each other, whose lavish hearts still accommodate the possibility of The Other America- who are holding the pass, so to speak, until we are ready, each in his or her own time, to go back over all the rough, dark places, to try, and finally, to fathom our old love-America. We must make the pilgrimage of Huck Finn, back to the beginning, divesting ourselves of false romance, disciplining our imagination in the school of nature, seeking fraternity with the strong victim, one to one, with the strength of personal character and devotion such that both of us are stretched toward our full stature. Then we shall find ourselves in the Great Dismal City of Refuge, candidates for citizenship. If we have learned well to recognize ignorance and dependence in ourselves and the world at large, and if we have learned to draw on the inexhaustible well of humor within which laughs aside our fears and pretensions, cheering us in our search for a true humanity, then we shall be the shining citizens of the Great Dismal City of Refuge, brothers and sisters in the global swamp-rat communion.

________

Biography – James Koehnline – Born in Columbus, Ohio, Dec. 6, 1955.

Childhood in Flint, Michigan, Cleveland, Ohio and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Family moved to Chicago area in 1970, where I began to think of myself as an artist. Inherited my father’s love of surrealism, fantastic art, William Blake, science fiction, etc., to which I added psychedelia, anarchism, sound collage, Eastern philosophy, etc.

Hung around with Chicago Surrealist Group during their International Exhibition at Gallery Black Swan in 1976, where I premiered my animated film, “Dogs Shall Eat Their Masters”. Took a class with Harry Bouras in 1978 and he remained a friend and mentor until his death in 1990.

In the early 80s my old friend Scott Marshall drew me into radio work (WZRD) and a noisy band we called the Burden of Friendship. For a while the band’s extended family formed the North Shore Industrial League, which held late-night noise orgies at a derelict steel foundry.

In 1985 I got together with six activist-artist friends to rent the huge top floor of an old department store in the Logan Square neighborhood and open the Axe Street Arena, a gallery and performance space for art and politics, with plenty of room left over for studios, and living space for 9+.

While curating the Haymarket Centennial International Mail Art Exhibition with Ron Sakolsky, I made the acquaintance if the mysterious Hakim Bey. I have been collaborating and conspiring with him ever since. Through Bey I was introduced to and joined the Brooklyn-based publishing collective Autonomedia, and the Moorish Orthodox Church. I worked as a librarian for three and a half years, spending much of my time at work doing historical research which eventually became the book GONE TO CROATAN, and most of my time away from work creating hundreds of black and white collages for the zine scene, 46 of which were collected in the book MAGPIE REVERIES.

In 1991, my girlfriend (now my wife), Andrea Frank and I moved to Seattle for a change of scenery. Here I got started doing book and magazine covers and illustrations, cooking up the Autonomedia Calendar of Jubilee Saints, working with Antero Alli on his quarterly journal of imaginative trouble, Talking Raven, doing a continuing series of CD covers for various projects of Bill Laswell’s, and trying to make ends meet by dealing in used books and painting houses.

In 1995 I got a computer and started working in Photoshop.