Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

Psychedelic Saint


Well, Mary and I celebrated 27 years of being married on Sunday. We basically messed around the house, working on projects. Well, it is a work in progress isn’t it?
Sundays’ Guilty Pleasure= Listening To Abba’s “Gold”. Yep, I swear.
Monday again of course, with some tweaking done to the Weblog and all. We have a fairly tasty start to the week, so read on Dear Reader, read on…
In The Links:
Video Links ~ Claude Francois to Ecstasy of Saint Theresa – HappyR
Print Links ~ Biggest Wi-Fi Cloud Is in Rural Oregon – Collapsing the Walls of Reality
Article: Psychedelic Saint – Ganesh Baba (his story) and many of his quotes, recorded by Ira Cohen. I wish I had met Ganesh. He sounded like a wonderful guy.
Poetry: Ira Cohen (One of the great Bohemians!)
This is a fun one. If you have not heard of Ganesh, then you will enjoy his wild wisdom.

Video Links:
Claude Francois
Alien the road again
YoKo Visuel Samourai
Ecstasy of Saint Theresa – HappyR
Regular Links:
Biggest Wi-Fi Cloud Is in Rural Oregon
Early 20th Century Yiddish Post Cards….
A creative Link from Victor…
Cyberspace, R.I.P.
Collapsing the Walls of Reality

‘To take psychedelics without having learned to meditate is like going to sea in a boat without a rudder’
This Indian swami was fascinated by the visitors who started to come to India in the 1960s, convinced it was inevitable that Eastern wisdom would spread worldwide.
‘I saw you people coming in my dreams,’ he said, he was only wondering when the Russians would arrive.
Certainly he was revered by the true sadhus or holy men and he had nothing but scathing denunciations for the politicians.
He has been called ‘one of the wisest people I ever met’ by Jasper, a long time follower. He died in 1987 after finally visiting and spending 7 years in America. He is buried at Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh, India.
He is reputed to have been one of the four spiritual rulers of India and was a ‘researcher’ loosely attached to the Divine Life Society in Darjeeling.
When he died he was at least 86 but could easily have been over 100, so supercharged was he with energy and wisdom.
Supposedly, he was 102 when he died, having been born in 1885.
The sayings of Ganesh Baba

These were gathered by American poet Ira Cohen at the Kumbha Mela held at Allahabad in 1977….
Beware of the non-psychedelic.
Wise men don’t love wise men, wise men love fools. And you are such divine fools.
Anyone who does not do his duty by the mothers will be fucked by the Tantric forces.
Real saints are mad. In fact, there are no saints only sinners. Real saints won’t be declared.
One will have to have an uncanny sense of humour. Abandon your languages, especially the French, Dutch and Germans.
Somebody must write a book ‘Kings with Straw Mats’.
God is the supreme shopkeeper, his market is infinite.
Kriya Yoga is cosmic communion through cosmic action. Cosmic action is already going on within you.
It is alright to remain a stranger.
The beads of the rosary are inside your own body. God did this in order to impinge the inner rosary.
In Tantra, if one is a meat eater, we give him so much meat he will ask for dal and chapati.
Let philosophies flourish or be demolished.
We must express the dignity of poverty.
Polar switchback: when you reach the highest point of positivity you’ll swing back immediately into negativity.
Real yogis sleep by day and fuck the night.
There is food everywhere, I tell you.
Why is the Westerner coming here to dig our dust?
Let one mystery remain.
A non-psychedelic can never enlighten a psychedelic.
I am a Naga hipster, we don’t bother with petty formalities.
Whether they give us one blanket or two blankets it doesn’t matter, you see we know this body will not last.
Don’t count time if you want to evolve; if you count time you will revolve.
Ganesh Baba says he studied under Dale Carnegie: he was a great master, greater than those modern Indian phonies. He said, ‘Stop fucking, start living’.
On sex: ‘We cannot be thunderstruck by these tissues.’
Buck up or fuck up.
Once a psychedelic, always a psychedelic.
Sensation should not affect you but the principle behind the sensation.
Ram is the rest point of the mind or soul, not the man with bow and arrow.
No sucking in our ashram.
If you have to pay five rupees to see Rajneesh, then you can pay five rupees to see my doodoo.
I look upon you as a skeleton, then as a complementary circuit.
The history of India is a continuous stream of high hoax.
‘Beware of India’ this is my last comment.
Another comment: ‘India is OK, beware of Indians’.
The first lesson from India you can learn: We will all die.
I have died four or five times and I am still alive and kicking.
Don’t cut the vegetables, make them whole.
We will always fuck the mothers of the spiritual, three orgasms an hour, the older the better.
A fool laughs three times. The first time when others are laughing. The second time when they understand the joke.The third time when they wonder why they laughed when they didn’t understand the joke.
Ganesh Baba on himself: He is not only the goofy Himalayan psychedelic yoga teacher, but he was a student under Einstein, Schrodinger, Jung, Max Planck, not second or third hand but hot hand, asker of the most insidious questions under the sun. Only by asking the silliest questions can you get the wisest answers.
Ganesh Baba’s guru said to Ganesh, ‘Sit with your back straight until you drop dead. Then you will be sitting in my lap and I will be sitting in the lap of God.’ I believe him and I am still going that way.
Ganesh Baba says all faiths pretend surreptitious knowledge is divine knowledge.
For the true psychedelic the marriage bed becomes the surgical table.
Dharma can fuck everybody. If Dharma can’t fuck there will be only goody goodies.
Life is like a fruit. Any place it finds a gradient, that way it will go.
Fuck two hundred Western women and nothing will happen. Fuck one Indian woman and she will suck you through and through. Beware of Indian women. One fuck will affect your grandmother in heaven.
Bhaktivedanta used to come and take Bhang with me secretly. Now he wants to fuck psychedelics.
I once had eighteen posh theatres, then I went to one of the theatres and I thought it was the bathroom.
On the Nagas: ‘ We are the oldest monks in the world, no one can compare with us in our phoniness, we will outshout you all the time, we are not ordinary monks but hipster monks.’
Suggested prayer for Ganeshian aspirants: Dear God, if there is a God, please help me, if you can help me.
Ganesh is gnosis.
In our camp food is given only to the starving.Then when you are fed, you are fed up.
Ask your guru. He reads the paper between the lines.
I want to love people at a distance.
A man who does not know grammar cannot know God who is the most refined principle.
Do mirror yoga.
The underbeard is a huge Ganeshian joke.
We wizards want witches to fuck.
The most powerful speaker, if he is not boring, is no speaker, I tell you, a very sweet boring to the centre.
The body will die, the personal psyche will die, the cosmic psyche will die, but the cosmic spirit will never die.
Your women are fucked up so the men are being sucked up. Buck up and pick up. (Translation: keep your back straight and pick up the cosmic energies)
Reversal of reality is Maya’s job. The reversal of that reversal is the guru’s job.
You are the nearest to yourself.
Just as strong women want strong men, wicked witches desire great wizards.
Our natural state is eternity.
Without fucking we are fucked up.
Materialism is morbidity.
The soul is the only censor.
People who have not felt God do not know how cool is his laugh.
What Marx called synthesis, Christ called God.
There is no playboy only dull boy, I tell you. It is a quarter past twelve by my Playboy watch.
We are sun worshippers; we live the simple life. Look, we have just one light and yet see these exhibition halls!
Live it light. Only a touch. It is all in here.
For simple men God is spirit.
Ganesh Baba says he blew Winston Churchill’s mind with slick English on horseback.
Ganesh psychedelic message: Yankee, stop your hanky-panky, don’t be so swanky.
You are only mad. He is madder. I am maddest.
I want to forsake myself before the true image and to fuck the mother of the devil if need be.
In Indian poetry you don’t have to ask who wrote the poem, it comes in a line.
I don’t care what a man does or does not do, as long as he does well.
Remind me to tell you about extra-cerebal nostalgia.
As a wizard I have beaten out your witch. As a baba, I love you.
Bring my saffron robe.Today I will match my colour with everybody. (From Tagore)
The Site of Ganesh’s Grave:

To know more about Ganesh Babas’ Life, go here.
With Great Pleasure, I introduce to Turfing in general and Turfettes everywhere, Ira Cohen, Bohemian extraordinaire. From Tangiers, To London, Goa and further along, if it has been happening Ira Cohen was there. Poet, Photographer, Chronicler of all things Beat and Beyond, Ira….
POETRY: Ira Cohen…

Imagine Jean Cocteau
Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
a Rock and Roll Band
Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges
disguised as Wm Shakespeare
Imagine that I’m the cousin of the Mayor
of New York or the King of Nepal
(I didn’t say Napoleon!)
Imagine what it is like to be in the glare
of hot lights when you are longing for dark
Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal
Orchestra —
Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica
or someone weighing out bones on the edge
of the desert in Afghanistan
Imagine that these poems are recorded moments
of temporary sanity
Imagine that the clock was just turned back —
or forwards — a hundred years instead of an hour
Let us pretend that we have no place to go,
that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,
that our bags are packed & that we have one hour
to checkout time
Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not
imagination but experience which makes poetry,
and that behind every image,
behind every word there is something
I am trying to tell you,
something that really happened.
An Act of Jeopardy for Garcia Lorca

A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the sex of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of sperm on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of opium
in the long night’s dreaming
& memory of water poured between
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the vulgar sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
(Ira Cohen Photo of Angus Maclise)

From The Moroccan Journal – 1987
My heart feels like an uncut diamond
Though it is still the same, it is not the same
Someone speaks of a bridge to be built from Tangier
to Algeciras or is it Gibraltar?
“Yes & then a highway to the stars or more likely
an elevator to the Underworld,” says Yellow Turban
To White Jellaba as the exhaust fumes from the bus
engulf them, leaving behind not even a single
Is that Mel Clay in a white jacket turning the corner?
No, it is a figment of my imagination escaped from the
Is that Ian Sommerville walking backwards up the street
as if pulled by a giant magnet?
No, that is Wm. Burroughs making electricity
from dead cats.
Is that Tatiana glistening on Maxiton?
No, that is the sun dancing in the sugar bowl.
Is that Marc Schelfer wavering on the cliffedge?
No, it is a promontory in the wind of time
about to fall in the sea.
Is that Beethoven’s 9th Symphony being played
up the street?
No, it is the sound of the breadwagons
rumbling over cobblestones
Is that George Andrews with two girls in hand
looking for bread?
No, it is an unidentified flying object about to land.
Is that One-eyed Mose hanging by his heels?
No, that is the hanged man inventing the Taro.
Are the dead really so fascinated by lovemaking?
Yes, that is how they travel.
Is that Irving in short pants looking for trouble?
No, that’s me unable to stop thinking.
Is that Kenneth Halliwell looking for Joe Orton?
Is that Jane Bowles looking for Sherifa, Rosalind looking
for her baby, Alfred searching for his lost hair?
Is that the wig of it all, the patched robe of my brain,
the wind talking to itself?
Brion is dead and Yacoubi is dead, and I am a not unhappy
ghost remembering everything, the warp & woof of memories,
her yellow slip, her shaved cunt, her idiot child.
Dream shuttle makes me exist everywhere at once.
The blind beggars led by children keep coming.
“They all have many houses in the Casbah,”
chant the unbelievers sucking on sugar.
Words keep coming back like Bezezel for tits, Lictcheen
for oranges, like Mina, like Fatima, like Driss Berrada
dropping his trousers for an injection in the middle
of his shop.
The trunk is full of old sepia postcards,
barebreasted girls smoking hookahs etcetera.
We speak of the cataplana, the mist which obscures
even the cielo you cannot even see the hand in front
of your face.
We embrace, he says he thought of me only yesterday,
he says there are always nine such men who look like us
in the world and that we are the tenth.
We speak of the gold filets in the sky over Moulay Absalom.
The garbage men in rubber boots go thru the Socco pushing
wheeled drums of collected garbage.
An unveiled woman wobbles out of a taxi and heads home
before sunrise.
Paul couldn’t believe that was a Karma Street,
but I will never forget it.
And Billy Batman, who made the best hash in the world,
he dropped a loaded pistol in Kabul, shot himself in the balls,
took some heroin and lay down to die.
Now I must get up from my table in the allnight Café Central.
No more Dr. Nadal, no more window with red crosses & red
The water thrown from buckets runs across the café floors
& over the sidewalks & I drop a dirham into the hand
of a blind beggar singing in the dark on the American stairs
Ira Cohen

Ira Cohen is a poet, photographer and traveller. A juggler of myth and perception, humour and surprise, he’s has been known to avant-garde audiences worldwide for decades. Although now based in New York, Cohen’s peripatetic lifestyle continues unchecked.
More on Ira….
Ira Cohen is an “electronic multimedia shaman” who has travelled with those in the Beat Generation, but who remains a less talked-about, universal visionary and solider–across time, space, dimension, and light. His sashays into other cultures have brought us great and sometimes shocking photographs from the “other side”. His works with mylar photography brought the word home. He has photographed Jimi Hendrix, Herbert Huncke, and myriad of others in strange twisting colors. He has published people like Gregory Corso and Angus MacLise in his rice-paper presses.
He uses phrases like: “Electronic/Multimedia/Shamanism” and Akashic Record and they are cool names if you know what they mean or can get past them. He is not a “Beat” and resents association with the Beats though he has been called “post-beat” which is important for our knowledge. But I see him as being in the heart and belly of the 60’s doing the real work–camera, pen, dope, exploration of mysticism, a multi-faceted phenomenological mystic with real visionary powers. And I want to open people up to him. Bring them through a friendly door and then let them descend into Ira’s world without knowing it is happening, and then finally find themselves in this mystic paradise of life and death, his “revolving door”. And then ask themselves “how in the world could I have not known Ira Cohen?” Or have not known how key he is and was to the understanding of the old and the new, the hallucinatory mind-expanding layers of reality that frighten and amuse us, the panorama of the traveling circus of all physical and non-physical things. Cohen is a true and unquestionable original innovator, friend of Gysin, Burroughs, Bowles, and Charles Henri Ford, the absolute geniuses of transformation, transmigration, and the cosmic joke. And then when the audience walks away they will say, where is that monument to Ira Cohen, the one we built for Rimbaud and Baudelaire, for Burroughs and Valery, for Genet and Gertrude Stein. Ira Cohen must be made accessible! But he has made it absolutely impossible to penetrate the organic construct of his spirit, without running the risk that you will sell him out in the process–or maybe not. Maybe something gentle to begin with, a pale lavender, a dash of blue and fluff of white, then the slow spinning of Gods and Gurus and Shamans and Mythologies, the painted faces, deformed limbs, the broken erections, the flaming corpse of his dearest friend Angus MacLise and then settling everyone down to say: Hey, it’s alright. There is life, laughter, love and humanity in these strange visions, no need to come down from your trip, be cool with it, it is the inside of a beetle’s shell, life in a termite nest, air rushing through the lungs and jaws of a lion, a hoot!
– Michael Rothenberg
1935: Born to deaf parents; learned to spell on his fingers when he was one.
1964: Edited and published GNAOUA in Tangier featuring William Burroughs, Brion Gysin, Jack Smith, and Irving Rosenthal.
1966-1970: Started the Universal Mutant Repertory Company and became “The Father of Mylar Photography,” making celebrated photographs in bendable mirrors of Jimi Hendrix, Charles Ludlam, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Robert LaVigne, etc.
1966: Brought out The Hashish Cookbook under the name of Panama Rose, and Jilala, an LP record of Moroccan trance music. Wrote The Goblet of Dreams for Playboy Magazine.
1968: Directed and starred in the award winning film The Invasion of Thunderbolt Pagoda. Appeared in Jack Smith’s Reefers of Technicolor Island. Produced Paradise Now in Amerika, a film of the Living Theater’s historic 1968 American tour.
1970s: Went to Kathmandu and started the Starstreams Poetry Series under the Bardo Matrix imprint, publishing on rice paper the work of Gregory Corso, Charles Henri Ford, Angus MacLise, and Paul Bowles (among others). Also published his own work including Poems From The Cosmic Crypt, Seven Marvels and Gilded Splinters.
1980-1985: Three photos by Ira Cohen (of Jules Deelder, William Burroughs, and Allen Ginsberg) were produced as part of a limited-edition silkscreen series (1980-1993) by Kirke Wilson, and published by Ins & Outs Press, Amsterdam, Holland. Ira and Kirke Wilson later collaborated independently on an Akashic Silkscreen Edition print, a portrait of Charles Henri Ford from Ira’s photograph. Ins & Outs Press also published a series of postcards, which included many of Ira’s photographs, most notably the Bandaged Poets series.
1980 to present: Moved back to New York.
More at site…..

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