Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

August 31, 2005
by gwyllm

Aubrey n Oscar

As a lad, I fell into odd circles, that did me well for my education… When tripping early on, I met Fat Harry the Buddha who introduced me to Larry Pulliam, and Frank the Werewolf. Frank really looked like Lon Chaney fully done up. Startling at times! Gentle soul though, as was Larry. Larry was living in Boulder, and on the weekends, we would visit with him. He introduced me to Bach Fugues, Handel, and especially to the art of Aubrey Beardsley. So we would sit around, listen to Bach and look at art books whilst tripping early on, before hitting the streets. Larry was a few years older than I, and was very concerned that someone my age be involved with what we were about. He took pains to see that I was okay, and handling the experience. A good soul.
Larry loved art, and especially Art Noveau, and the Symbolist. You couldn’t ask for a better guide. He left me with a deep appreciation of Beardsley, and today, I pass some of that on.
Sorry, no Bach, but someday, eh?
I have several volumes of Aubreys’ illustrations, and my pride is the recent reprint (early 90’s) of “Le Morte DaArthur”. Great Stuff… My hat is off to Larry who helped shaped my appreciation of this great artist, and I hope you appreciate Beardsley as well.
The second half of our Duo today is Oscar Wilde. I first became aware of Oscar in College, from working on a production of “The Importance of Being Earnest”. Wonderful stuff. His quotes travelled with me for many a year, and I still have a volume of them on my shelf.
The world is richer for Oscar, oh yes… Today we have his Quotes and some of his Poetry to ponder on,
Emerging Industrial Nation Home Entertainment…
One In Five…
For The Spiritually Hungry….
The Gift that just keeps giving…

“No man is rich enough to buy back his past.”
“Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.”
“Men become old, but they never become good.”
— “Lady Windermere’s Fan”
“I delight in men over seventy, they always offer one the devotion of a lifetime. “
— “A Woman of No Importance”
“How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them!”
— “An Ideal Husband”
“One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.”
— “A Woman of No Importance”
“Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.”
— “Lady Windermere’s Fan”
“Men know life too early. Women know life too late. That is the difference between men and women.”
— “A Woman of No Importance”
“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.”
— “The Sphinx Without a Secret”

Aubrey Beardsley was born on 21 August, 1872, in Brighton, England. The family, of middle and upper middle class origins, was often nearly destitute. His father, Vincent, having lost his inherited fortune, worked irregularly at London breweries. Beards ley’s mother, Ellen Pitt, provided a slender income by giving piano lessons. Both Beardsley and his sister, Mabel–who later became an actress–were considered artistic and musical prodigies.
The artist’s health was always fragile: at the age of nine, he had his first reported attack of tuberculosis, the disease which was to reduce him to an invalid several times and finally cause his death. When in 1884 his mother became too ill to care fo r him and his sister, they were both packed off to live with an aunt nearby. He attended Bristol Grammar School for four years as a boarder, indulging in his talents by drawing caricatures of his teachers. In 1889, he was sent to London as a clerk in an i nsurance office. His recovered mother soon followed and remained to nurse her son for the rest of his short life.
Beardsley first published work was “The Valiant,” a poem in the June 1885 issue of Past and Present, the Brighton Grammar School magazine. Two years later his first reproduced drawings, a series of sketches, “The Jubilee Cricket A nalysis,” appeared in the same journal, and he provided the program book illustrations for “The Pay of the Pied Piper,” his School’s 1888 Christmas entertainment. In 1889 his prose piece “The Story of a Confession Album,” was published in Tit Bits, a Reader’s Digest-type publication of the day. These and other works of juvenilia brought the artist little attention, however; increasingly frustrated by clerking, Beardsley sought entry into the art world. In a famous in cident, the artist and his sister went uninvited to see the studio of painter Sir Edward Burne-Jones. They were sent away by a servant, but as they left, Burne-Jones spotted Mabel’s red hair and asked them in. Impressed by the Pre-Raphaelite-influenced dr awings in Beardsley’s portfolio, he recommended that the young artist attend night classes at the Westminster School of Art — the only formal training he ever received.
The years 1893-4 were perhaps the most important in Beardsley’s career. He was hard at work producing illustrations and covers for books and periodicals, including his first commission, J. M. Dent’s edition of Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur (Beardsley had been introduced to the publisher in the summer of 1892). This massive work, issued first in 12 parts and later in volume form, contained over 300 different illustrations, chapter headings, and vignettes. Also in 1893 the artist formed an alliance with the person who was to catapult him to fame and prove his downfall — Oscar Wilde.

“…Burne-Jones in turn attracted the veneration of Aubrey Beardsley, probably the most remarkable English illustrator of the industrial age. He too was a precocious talent: at the age of fifteen he had illustrated his favourite books (Madame Bovary, Manon Lescaut). By the time of his death at the age of twenty-six (he died of tuberculosis, in Menton, where he had gone in search of a favourable climate), he had made a lasting impact on the art of illustration. It was a field in which a number of outstanding artists were then working, including Walter Crane, co-founder with William Morris of the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society.
“It was through Burne-Jones that, in 1891, Beardsley, then aged eighteen, met Oscar Wilde. Wilde was writing his Salome in French (Arthur Douglas subsequently translated it into English), and asked Beardsley to illustrate it.
“Beardsley’s drawings are admirably suited to the technical possibilities of industrial reproduction. Ambitious and supremely gifted, the young artist developed a perverse and playfully theatrical style partly inspired by Greek vase painting. The venomous elegance of his drawings has an ornamental rhythm akin to the abstract decorations of Islamic palaces. For Salome, Beardsley ironically appropriated the decadent theme of the evil, emasculating woman. His characters are often grotesque – notably in drawings he later described as “naughty”, representing, for example, grimacing “Gobbi” afflicted with monumentally tumescent phalluses. As a homosexual, Beardsley did not experience the anguish awoken in artists like Munch by the problematic state of relations between the sexes. Wilde described Beardsley’s muse as having “moods of terrible laughter”.”
– From Michael Gibson, “Symbolism”

“…The concern of Beardsley was not to create an illusion of reality, but, like the Eastern artist, to make a beautiful design or pattern within a given space.
“In character he was friendly and lovable, though witty and daring. He made many friends, though few enemies. There was but little rancour or bitterness in his make-up, though there was a streak of waywardness and perversity which he probably inherited from his mother. A medical friend has also pointed out that he may have inherited his uncanny ability to diagnose character from his maternal grandfather and great-grandfather who were both physicians and surgeons.
“He took his art with all the seriousness which is its due, and he often speaks with affection of a drawing that has just left his hands, or is on the point of completion. They were, indeed, his children.
“His eroticism is manifest, and must be accepted as simply as the fact that he had auburn hair and long hands. Much of it was due to his tuberculosis, with which it is often associated, and also to frustration due to that illness and the retired life he had to lead after 1895, and indeed earlier. For him it was from drawing-table, to sofa, to bed. Even a carriage to an evening concert was taken in great trepidation. How many of his drawings are of interiors,
or conceived in formal gardens. How few of them are set in the country, and this country is more derived from Claude than from the English landscape. And yet it is pathetic to read in his letters that he is having “a spell of warm weather, troubled only by the wasps, that bring however with them a sort of memory of orchards”, and again that “jolly winds are driving white clouds over the bluest sky”.
“Having mastered his medium he pushed it to the farthest degree, in fact as far as it had ever been taken or is likely to be. In this he resembles Meryon in his Eauxfortes sur Paris, or Rembrandt in his landscapes, or, Rowlandson’s tinted drawings. He is as much a master of pen and ink as Goya was of aquatint, or Handel was of the combination of voice and trumpet.
“To this consummate skill was added an imagination hitherto unknown and undreamt of in the staid, prosperous and smug later nineteenth century. Demon ridden it may be, but we have to go back to Hieronymus Bosch to find anything comparable. And he has a delicacy and refinement unknown to the Flemish painter. Over a blank white paper come a smirking, creeping, posturing devil horde of things, grotesque, weird, macabre, sinister, misgiving and alarming, before which the creatures in Comus and The End of Elphintown retreat abashed. And then with a seeming flick of his faery hand, we see only a harmless fop of George I, a charming little lady at her toilet, or a poor dead doll.
“If Art is to make us wonder and ponder, to revere and appreciate, if it is not merely to serve us with the surface prettiness of things, then surely the art of Aubrey Vincent Beardsley can be ranged beside that of the Great Ones.”
– From R. A. Walker, “The Best of Beardsley”
Aubrey Beardsley was the most controversial artist of the Art Nouveau era, renowned for his dark and perverse images and the grotesque erotic themes which he explored in his later work.
Beardsley was a close friend of Oscar Wilde and did illustrations and stage designs for Wilde’s play Salome. He also did extensive illustrations for books and magazines, including William Morris’ edition of Le Morte Arthur and magazines like The Savoy and The Studio. Beardsley’s most famous erotic illustrations were on themes of history and mythology, including his illustrations for Lysistrata and Salome. Beardsley was also a characiturist and even did some political cartoons, mirroring Wilde’s irreverant wit in art. Beardsley’s work reflected the decadence of his era and his influence was enormous, clearly visible in the work of the French Symbolists, the Poster Art Movement of the 1890s and the work of many later-period Art Nouveau artists like Pape, Mucha and Clarke.

Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin on 16 October 1854. His father, Sir William Wilde, was an eminent Dublin surgeon and his mother, Jane Francesca Elgee, agitated for Irish Independence and wrote revolutionary poems under the pseudonym “Speranza”.
In 1864 Wilde went to the Portora Royal School where he excelled in the classics, taking top prizes. He was awarded the Royal School Scholarship to Trinity College in Dublin where he earned a Foundation Scholarship. In 1874, he won the college’s Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek and was awarded a Demyship scholarship to Magdalen College in Oxford. There Wilde was awarded the Newdigate prize for his poem, Ravenna, and a First Class in both his “Mods” and “Greats. After graduation, he moved to London. In 1881, he published his first collection of poetry, Poems, which received mixed reviews by critics.
In 1881 and 1882 Wilde travelled across the United States giving over 140 lectures in 260 days. He spent the next couple of years in Britain and France, championing ‘Art Nouveau’-essentially the Aesthetic, art for art’s sake movement. In 1884, he married Constance Lloyd. They had two sons, Cyril in 1885 and Vyvyan in 1886. He worked on The Woman’s World magazine in 1887-1889. In the following six years he published two collections of childrens stories, The Happy Prince And Other Tales (1888), and The House Of Pomegranates (1892). His first and only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, was considered very immoral by the Victorians. The first of his witty and scandalous plays, Lady Windermere’s Fan, opened in February 1892 to critical acclaim. His subsequent plays included A Woman Of No Importance (1893), An Ideal Husband.(1895), and The Importance Of Being Earnest (1895).
His friendship with Lord Alfred ‘Bosie’ Douglas, the third son of the Marquis of Queensberry, was to prove his undoing. In 1895, Wilde sued Bosie’s father for libel as the Marquis had accused him of homosexuality. Although he withdrew the case he was himself arrested, convicted of gross indecency and sentenced to two years hard labour. His long, poignant and revealing letter, now known as De Profundus, written from prison to Alfred Douglas, was not published in full until 1962.
On his release, he wrote The Ballad of Reading Gaol, a response to the agony he experienced in prison. He spent the last three years of his life wandering Europe. He died of meningitis on November 30, 1900 and was buried in Bagneux. His remains were later transferred to the National Cemetery of Pere Lachaise in Paris, where, on the back of the ornate Epstein Tomb, is carved part of a verse from his last work.
“And alien tears will fill for him
Pity’s long-broken urn
For his mourners will be outcast men
And outcasts always mourn.”
Poems From Oscar….

by: Oscar Wilde
Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
In the still chamber of yon pyramid
Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.
by: Oscar Wilde
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
“The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”

But she–she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
by: Oscar Wilde
N melancholy moonless Acheron,
Far from the goodly earth and joyous day,
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying, wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,

When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned, — O why essay
To pipe again of love too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.

To venturous poesy O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings,
Till thou hast found the old Castilian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked down Sappho’s golden quill!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in thy loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded, — ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
Have a Great Wednesday!

August 31, 2005
by gwyllm

No Articles…

Yup, no articles. I wallowed through the web and nary an article that I wanted to share. Ack! I hope this improves tonight. It was all Dark, Dark, Dark… and there is enough of that to go around, like the swirling waters of the once and future New Orleans.
So we have Daily Quotes, The Links, as well as poetry by Nazim Hikmet, the great Turkish Poet.

Calling Dr. Who, Calling Dr. Who! A Tardis has landed in the East End!
A discovery in the East End of Glasgow…
Adam, Eve and T. Rex
Giant roadside dinosaur attractions are used by a new breed of creationists as pulpits to spread their version of Earth’s origins…
When it’s in the game, it’s in the brain!
Twenty oil rigs missing in Gulf of Mexico – Coast Guard
Uh Oh….. (Thanks to Ibn Foobar for pointing this out!)

“Laughing at our mistakes can lengthen our own life. Laughing at someone else’s can shorten it.”
“To my embarrassment I was born in bed with a lady.”
“Why isn’t there a special name for the tops of your feet?”
“When I was a kid my parents moved a lot, but I always found them.”
“My favorite animal is steak.”
“Middle age is when you’ve met so many people that every new person you meet reminds
you of someone else.”
“I could prove God statistically.”
“For centuries, theologians have been explaining the unknowable in terms of the-not-worth-knowing.”
“Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting.”
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.”
“The only thing that’s been a worse flop than the organization of non-violence has been the organization of violence.”
From Future Hi…
Breaking News:
“Today, a young woman on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one conciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we’re the imagination of ourselves… now here’s Tom with the weather… “

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

it’s 1962 March 28th
I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don’t like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird
I didn’t know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it
I’ve never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love
and here I’ve loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can’t wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before
and will be said after me
I didn’t know I loved the sky
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard
the guards are beating someone again
I didn’t know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
“the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high”
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
to a pine bough for luck
I never knew I loved roads
even the asphalt kind
Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from Moscow to the Crimea
formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I’ve written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I’m going to the shadow play
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand
his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
with a sable collar over his robe
and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand
and I can’t contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky
I didn’t know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison
I just remembered the stars
I love them too
whether I’m floored watching them from below
or whether I’m flying at their side
I have some questions for the cosmonauts
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t
be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract
well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad
I never knew I loved the cosmos
snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
I didn’t know I liked snow
I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren’t about to paint it that way
I didn’t know I loved the sea
except the Sea of Azov
or how much
I didn’t know I loved clouds
whether I’m under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts
moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
strikes me
I like it
I didn’t know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved
rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue
the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn’t know I loved sparks
I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return
19 April 1962
A Spring Piece Left In The Middle

Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
in capitals:
And me — poet, proofreader,
the man who’s forced to read
two thousand bad lines
every day
for two liras–
since spring
has come, am I
still sitting here
like a ragged
black chair?
My head puts on its cap by itself,
I fly out of the printer’s,
I’m on the street.
The lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket.
In the barbershops
they’re powdering
the sallow cheeks
of the pariah of Publishers Row.
And in the store windows
three-color bookcovers
flash like sunstruck mirrors.
But me,
I don’t have even a book of ABC’s
that lives on this street
and carries my name on its door!
But what the hell…
I don’t look back,
the lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket,

The piece got left in the middle.
It rained and swamped the lines.
But oh! what I would have written…
The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page
three-volume manuscript
wouldn’t stare at the window of the kebab joint
but with his shining eyes would take
the Armenian bookseller’s dark plump daughter by storm…
The sea would start smelling sweet.
Spring would rear up
like a sweating red mare
and, leaping onto its bare back,
I’d ride it
into the water.
my typewriter would follow me
every step of the way.
I’d say:
“Oh, don’t do it!
Leave me alone for an hour…”
my head-my hair failing out–
would shout into the distance:

I’m twenty-seven,
she’s seventeen.
“Blind Cupid,
lame Cupid,
both blind and lame Cupid
said, Love this girl,”
I was going to write;
I couldn’t say it
but still can!
But if
it rained,
if the lines I wrote got swamped,
if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket,
what the hell…
Hey, spring is here spring is here spring
spring is here!
My blood is budding inside me!

20 and 21 April 1929

Don Quixote

The knight of immortal youth
at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart
and on July morning went out to capture
the right, the beautiful, the just.
Facing him a world of silly and arrogant giants,
he on his sad but brave Rocinante.
I know what it means to be longing for something,
but if your heart weighs only a pound and sixteen ounces,
there’s no sense, my Don, in fighting these senseless windmills.
But you are right, of course, Dulcinea is your woman,
the most beautiful in the world;
I’m sure you’ll shout this fact
at the face of street-traders;
but they’ll pull you down from your horse
and beat you up.
But you, the unbeatable knight of our curse,
will continue to glow behind the heavy iron visor
and Dulcinea will become even more beautiful.
Seize The Day!

Enchantress 1878 ~ Luis Riccardo Faleo

August 30, 2005
by gwyllm

Immortal Beloved…

On The Music Box: Silence….
So it is Tuesday here in Portland… Monday, it rained finally! It feels more like the Northwest that I know and love. Watched “Immortal Beloved” last night. Wonderful Film and Story. See it, even if it is 11 years old! Gary is our guy!
We had some nice reactions to the Hampstead Heath article. Stay tuned, more excerpts from the work in progress on the way.
Just to remind you: Don’t Forget to get your Tickets for the Sacred Elixirs Conference!
Todays Blog has some interesting stuff in it…
Good Links:
The Prez and Cindy
UC sued by the Fundies
A note from Tool
The Secret Chief Revealed
(with foreward by our Albert!)
Sorcery ~ Hakim Bey
The Rossettis’ (Christina and Dante) in Poetry with Dantes’ paintings throughout.
See? A feast, laid out before you!
A big hello to our Harlan in L.A. Please Feel Better Harlan!
Rossetti – Lillith

Blueberry and related films….
This looks fascinating…
What are they up to now?
Suit Claims University Of California Biased Against Creationism
Imagine that….
The Secret Chief Revealed
About time, and isn’t this a great thing to happen?
The Forward:
Hardly any other science is as conservative and traditionbound as is medicine. Whenever a new treatment modality or an extraordinary medicine appears, in addition to interested acceptance in specialist circles there is also opposition to the novelty, which is emotional and vehement, in proportion as the innovation is significant and pioneering. Hypnosis may be cited as an example. It was denounced as dangerous charlatanism, and more than a century had to pass before it gained entry into mainstream medicine.
Today a novel group of psychoactive substances, which have come to be known under various designations — hallucinogens, psychotomimetics, psychedelics and recently entheogens — has evoked violent controversy in professional circles and the media. These are substances capable of profoundly affecting human consciousness. This explains the vehemence and the passion which accompany discussions of the `psychedelics,’ as these materials are mostly known today, since we are talking about the veritable inner core of our humanity, our consciousness.
On the other hand, one would imagine that the psychedelics might have gained especially easy entry into medicinal practice, since we are dealing here with active principles of drugs which for millennia have played a meaningful role in archaic cultures and which even today among primigenial peoples find beneficent application in social and medicinal fields. Had we from the outset harked back to these archaic experiences, we would have been able to avoid the misuse and improper use of these extremely potent psychopharmaceuticals, and they would not now be prohibited, but would rather have become valuable medicines in the contemporary pharmacopoeia.
The substances under discussion are above all mescaline, the active agent of a Mexican cactus which the Indians call péyotl or peyote; psilocybin, the active principle of the Mexican `magic mushrooms’ teonanácatl; and LSD (chemically Lysergsaure diethylamid or lysergic acid diethylamide), which is closely related to lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide, the active agent of the ancient Indian ‘magic drug’ ololiuhqui.
All of these drugs are integrated into tribal cultures and employed as `magic medicines’ in a religious-ceremonial context. Their use is in the hands of shamans or shamanesses, male or female priest-doctors, where they manifest a beneficent action. They are esteemed as sacred, and according to Indian belief, their misuse or profanation is punished by the gods with insanity or death. International research with these substances–especially in psychiatry, to investigate their use as pharmacological adjuncts to psychoanalysis and psychotherapy — commenced shortly after the 1943 discovery of LSD, which is by far the most potent representative of the psychedelics. Besides the greatest enthusiasm in response to outstanding results with LSD and other psychedelics, scepticism also manifested itself in conservative circles, particularly those in which any pharmacological intervention in the treatment process was rejected.
This very promising use of psychedelics in psychiatry and psychology came to an untimely end midway through the sixties, when this new class of pharmaceuticals was outlawed, with the complete prohibition of their manufacture, possession and use. Accidents involving psychedelics resulting from frivolous, uncontrolled use in the drug scene were the ostensible reason for this prohibition. The principal reason for the draconian prohibitive measures, however, was the goal of attacking the youth movement, hippies and the like, who opposed the Establishment and the Vietnam War, and whose `cult-drug’ was, above all, LSD.
Medicinal use of the psychedelics was prevented by the official prohibition, and further research in this field was interrupted, while consumption continued in the drug scene. This irrational situation still largely exists today (1). For therapists, the use of psychedelics became a criminal matter, for which they could face punishment.
One of the probably very few therapists who continued to use psychedelics, accepting the great risk of criminality, was the psychologist here referred to by the alias `Jacob’ and dubbed the `Secret Chief'(2). Jacob had obtained mostly excellent results from his speciallydeveloped techniques in the use of psychedelics, and he realized that this therapeutic method should not be withheld from sick people. His ethical obligation as a therapist, to help people, took priority for him over obedience to a dubious official prohibition.
In the illegality of his time it was unthinkable to publish the excellent results of his therapy. It is therefore praiseworthy that today, nine years after his death, a friend has undertaken the task of publishing the details of the therapeutic methodology of this intrepid Ph.D. psychologist. The therapeutic results attained from this method constitute an important argument in the current growing discussion challenging medical circles, whether again to liberate psychedelics for psychotherapeutic practice.
Albert Hofmann, Ph.D.
Rittimatte, Switzerland
Translation from German by Jonathan Ott
Hakim Bey

THE UNIVERSE WANTS TO PLAY. Those who refuse out of dry spiritual greed & choose pure contemplation forfeit their humanity–those who refuse out of dull anguish, those who hesitate, lose their chance at divinity–those who mold themselves blind masks of Ideas & thrash around seeking some proof of their own solidity end by seeing out of dead men’s eyes.
Sorcery: the systematic cultivation of enhanced consciousness or non-ordinary awareness & its deployment in the world of deeds & objects to bring about desired results.
The incremental openings of perception gradually banish the false selves, our cacophonous ghosts–the “black magic” of envy & vendetta backfires because Desire cannot be forced. Where our knowledge of beauty harmonizes with the ludus naturae, sorcery begins.
No, not spoon-bending or horoscopy, not the Golden Dawn or make-believe shamanism, astral projection or the Satanic Mass–if it’s mumbo jumbo you want go for the real stuff, banking, politics, social science–not that weak blavatskian crap.
Sorcery works at creating around itself a psychic/physical space or openings into a space of untrammeled expression– the metamorphosis of quotidian place into angelic sphere. This involves the manipulation of symbols (which are also things) & of people (who are also symbolic)–the archetypes supply a vocabulary for this process & therefore are treated as if they were both real & unreal, like words. Imaginal Yoga.
The sorcerer is a Simple Realist: the world is real–but then so must consciousness be real since its effects are so tangible. The dullard finds even wine tasteless but the sorcerer can be intoxicated by the mere sight of water. Quality of perception defines the world of intoxication–but to sustain it & expand it to include others demands activity of a certain kind–sorcery. Sorcery breaks no law of nature because there is no Natural Law, only the spontaneity of natura naturans, the tao. Sorcery violates laws which seek to chain this flow– priests, kings, hierophants, mystics, scientists & shopkeepers all brand the sorcerer enemy for threatening the power of their charade, the tensile strength of their illusory web.

A poem can act as a spell & vice versa–but sorcery refuses to be a metaphor for mere literature–it insists that symbols must cause events as well as private epiphanies. It is not a critique but a re-making. It rejects all eschatology & metaphysics of removal, all bleary nostalgia & strident futurismo, in favor of a paroxysm or seizure of presence.
Incense & crystal, dagger & sword, wand, robes, rum, cigars, candles, herbs like dried dreams–the virgin boy staring into a bowl of ink–wine & ganja, meat, yantras & gestures– rituals of pleasure, the garden of houris & sakis–the sorcerer climbs these snakes & ladders to a moment which is fully saturated with its own color, where mountains are mountains & trees are trees, where the body becomes all time, the beloved all space.
The tactics of ontological anarchism are rooted in this secret Art–the goals of ontological anarchism appear in its flowering. Chaos hexes its enemies & rewards its devotees…this strange yellowing pamphlet, pseudonymous & dust-stained, reveals all…send away for one split second of eternity.
Christina Rossetti

The poet Christina Rossetti, sister of the famous Pre-Raphaelite artist, Dante Gabrielle Rossetti. Christina’s own reputation has soared in recent years. Despite the reclusive piety of her biography, Rossetti’s 1862 poem, ‘Goblin market’, with its daringly explicit and sensual imagery, is regarded by many as a masterpiece of modern sexual radicalism.
English poet and a devout High Anglican (see Oxford movement). Her best-known work is Goblin Market and Other Poems (1862); among others are The Prince’s Progress (1866), Annus Domini (1874), and A Pageant (1881). She was the sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Michael Rossetti. Her verse expresses unfulfilled spiritual yearning and frustrated love. She was a skilful technician and made use of irregular rhyme and line length.
Christina was educated at home, and sharing in the youthful writings of her brothers. Her first recorded poem was completed at the age of 12. In 1847 a volume of her verses was privately printed, and in 1850, using the pseudonym Ellen Alleyne, she contributed to the famous but short-lived periodical The Germ (which was linked to the artistic theory of the group of painters the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood). The sadness that pervades her writing may be due to an unhappy love affair in her youth, and to the ill health she constantly suffered.
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

Christina Rosetti and her Mother…

I took my heart in my hand
(O my love, O my love),
I said: Let me fall or stand,
Let me live or die,
But this once hear me speak
(O my love, O my love)—
Yet a woman’s words are weak;
You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your hand
With a friendly smile,
With a critical eye you scann’d,
Then set it down,
And said, ‘It is still unripe,
Better wait awhile;
Wait while the skylarks pipe,
Till the corn grows brown.’
As you set it down it broke—
Broke, but I did not wince;
I smiled at the speech you spoke,
At your judgement I heard:
But I have not often smiled
Since then, nor question’d since,
Nor cared for cornflowers wild,
Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand,
O my God, O my God,
My broken heart in my hand:
Thou hast seen, judge Thou.
My hope was written on sand,
O my God, O my God:
Now let thy judgement stand—
Yea, judge me now.
This contemn’d of a man,
This marr’d one heedless day,
This heart take thou to scan
Both within and without:
Refine with fire its gold,
Purge Thou its dross away—
Yea, hold it in Thy hold,
Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand—
I shall not die, but live—
Before Thy face I stand;
I, for Thou callest such:
All that I have I bring,
All that I am I give,
Smile Thou and I shall sing,
But shall not question much.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was both a talented poet and artist. He is remembered today dually for his skills with a pen and a paintbrush.
Rossetti was born May 12, 1828 in London. His father, Gabriel Rossetti, was a controversial Dante scholar and an Italian political exile, while his mother, Frances, was Anglo-Italian. Rossetti’s three siblings were also talented writers. His sister, Christina, became a renowned poet, while his other sister, Maria Francesca, published a commentary on Dante. William Michael, his brother, was more influential to Dante’s works as he edited the latter’s works after his death; he also served as the first archivist and historian of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement.
Rossetti’s interest in writing and painting was encouraged at an early age by his family. All the children were writing at a very young age, and Rossetti’s drawings survive from the 1830s. In 1841, he attended Sass’s Drawing School, and in 1845 he moved to the Antique School of the Royal Academy. Unfortunately, he did not work well under academic supervision; in 1848 he dropped out of school completely.
After leaving the Academy, Rossetti apprenticed himself to Ford Madox Brown, a painter whose work he had seen and admired. With the help of William Holman Hunt, a fellow artist and friend, he developed more disciplined habits. Also at this time, he was consulting friend John Everett Millais over his writings and translations.
Together, Rossetti, Hunt, and Millais formed the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They also began a literary journal entitled The Germ. Unfortunately, the journal wasn’t successful–it ran only four numbers.

In 1850, Rossetti met and fell in love with Elizabeth Siddal. With her long, wavy, red hair, she was the inspiration for many of his drawings and paintings, as in the two shown on this page. They didn’t marry until 1860 due to financial issues. Sadly, Elizabeth died two years later of an overdose of laudanum.
Throughout his marriage to Elizabeth, he focused mainly on painting. Rossetti created some of his greatest works when he experimented with both oil and water-color paints. He also planned to publish a book of poetry but never issued the work. Romantically, he buried the work with his wife.
During the 1860’s, Rossetti wrote little but painted a great deal. The prices for his paintings grew with his reputation. In 1866 he began to write sonnets to accompany his art. During this time, he also had a desire to see his writing in print. As he buried the poetry with his late wife, it was great work exhuming the manuscripts from her grave. He published the writing in an 1870 volume Poems, and it was a great success.
In the early 1870’s, Rossetti fell in love with Jane Morris, his friend William Morris’s wife. He filled his poems with thoughts of both Jane and Elizabeth. The relationship died in July of 1874.
Throughout the last years of his life, Rossetti continued to paint. He battled the manias, eccentricities, and hallucinations that had control over his mind. In 1880, he published a longer version of his 1870 volume Poems. He died on Easter Sunday, April 9, 1882.
When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made known?
Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love! if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,–
How then should sound upon Life’s darkening slope
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,
The wind of Death’s imperishable wing?
The Sea-Limits
Consider the sea’s listless chime:
Time’s self it is, made audible, –
The murmur of the earth’s own shell.
Secret continuance sublime
Is the sea’s end: our sight may pass
No furlong farther. Since time was,
This sound hath told the lapse of time.
No quiet, which is death’s, – it hath
The mournfulness of ancient life,
Enduring always at dull strife.
As the world’s heart of rest and wrath,
Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
Grey and not known, along its path.
Listen alone beside the sea,
Listen alone among the woods;
Those voices of twin solitudes
Shall have one sound alike to thee:
Hark where the murmurs of thronged men
Surge and sink back and surge again, –
Still the one voice of wave and tree.
Gather a shell from the strown beach
And listen at its lips: they sigh
The same desire and mystery,
The echo of the whole sea’s speech
And all mankind is thus at heart
Not anything but what thou art:
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.
Talk Later!
Rossetti – Beatrix

August 29, 2005
by gwyllm

Hampstead Heath…

A slight departure from the recent Blog-O-Rama… a bit more personal, with some back up from Donovan and Keats… who are not so removed from each other after all.
It has been a magickal weekend, all one day of it for us. We had the joy to see “The Brothers Grimm” by Terry Gilliam. Screw the Critics, they never read fairy tales. Go see it, and I am sure you will enjoy it. We did.
Off to the CD store as well, where I picked up two CD’s by Donovan, “Fairytale”, and “Mellow Yellow”. Donovan gets a bad rap from lots of people, but I am of a different mind. He entertains, and his lyrics are sweet. There, I said it, “sweet”. Before Dylan for me as an influence, was Donovan. Hell, he is closer in age anyway.
I am not one prone to wallowing in nolstalgia, but I choose to do so with these albums. Both are great and well worth it….
So without further fanfare… Here is Hampstead Heath…

Mary and I used to ramble the Heath, first in the spring of 1978. To the Hampstead Tea Room for fresh strawberries, cream and scones (more in summer for these delights!), and then up the winding path to the crest of the heath to sit, or lie with each other.
At that time we were managing a club down in Saint John’s Wood at what I recollect was located at the Tennis Club. It was owned by a DJ named Greg from Capital Radio, and his very shady and dicey partner Robert from Birmingham… It was a Disco, Resturant and Pub kinda rolled into one in that crazy English Drinking Laws way. Philip, the Jewish Black Pope from Stockwell was the third spoke in our rather rattled wheel. Philips Dad was a Black GI from Detroit, and his Mum was a nice Girl from Golders Green (one of Londons’ Jewish areas) He discovered this all about this time. He was also a member of the Golden Dawn, and a fairly adept magician, though not too savvy with biz…
Anyway, back to the Heath. My first introduction to Hampstead Heath was from a film called “Blow Up” by Michelangelo Antonioni starring Vanessa Redgraves, Sarah Miles and David Hemmings, featuring the Yardbirds doing a Who take off midway through…. Hampstead Heath featured prominently, with a murder at the center of a swirling London Scene. It was captivating and a film that carried references for me until I ended up sitting in the grass of the Heath, viewing all of London at our feet as we smoked Hashish and giggled in early May, 1978. The Heath has long been celebrated in Poetry, Music, and Painting… always a Bohemian hold – out from the 1800’s, it still had an air of beauty when we hung there. (Former and present residents comprise a veri-table Who’s Who: Charles Dickens, Florence Night-ingale, John Constable, William Blake, H.G. Wells, D.H. Lawrence, Lillie Langtry, Sir Henry Moore and Piet Mondrian are just a few of the dozens of famous residents.)
My love for the Heath at first was a long distant affair but it became a part of me… a reference for what is best about London and South England..
I have provided two examples of its effects over the centuries… from Keats’ “Ode To A Mockingbird” to Donovans’ “Hampstead Incident”. Admittingly, I was first touched by Donovan’s Hampstead Incident. The melancholy nature of the place makes it achingly beautiful. If ever… go there. You’ll see our ghost images drifting past on the path…..
We continued to visit the Heath and especially the Tea Room for many years. It was a golden time, and I see it all fondly in my mind as I write…. Sitting, watching the sun go down over London, smoking together, giggling. Walking in the woods, holding onto each other. Good Times… Good Times…

“I was standing by the Everyman Cinema in Hampstead, in the soft misty rain, on mescaline; melancholic over the continued estrangement from Linda; philosophic comments on Zen and everlasting ‘now’ of the teachings. Thease are the main inspirations. The musical form is from the work of Nina Simone and the chord progresson of Davy Graham’s seminal folk-blues, “Anji”. (Donovan)
Hampstead Incident
Donovan Leitch

Standing by the Everyman, digging the rigging on my sail
Rain fell to sounds of harpsichords, to the spell of fairy tale.
The heath was hung in magic mists, enchanted dripping glades,
I’ll taste a taste until my mind drifts from this scene and fades
In the night time.
Crystals sparkle in the grass, I polish them with thought
On my lash there in my eye a star of light is caught.
Fortunes told in grains of sand, here I am is all I know
Candy stuck in children’s hair, everywhere I go
In the night time,
In the night time.
Gypsy is the clown of love, I paint his face a smile
Anyone we ever make we always make in style. Yeah!
Yeah, strange young girls with radar screenings, yeah,
And hands as quick as hate
I won’t just now, later on maybe and even then I’ll wait
In the night time,
In the night time.
Standing by the Everyman, digging the rigging on my sail
Rain fell to sounds of harpsichords, to the spell of fairy tale.

This ode was written in May 1819 and first published in the Annals of the Fine Arts in July 1819. Interestingly, in both the original draft and in its first publication, it is titled ‘Ode to the Nightingale’. The title was altered by Keats’s publishers. Twenty years after the poet’s death, Joseph Severn painted the famous portrait ‘Keats listening to a nightingale on Hampstead Heath’.
Critics generally agree that Nightingale was the second of the five ‘great odes’ of 1819 and its themes are reflected in its ‘twin’ ode, ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’. Keats’s friend and roommate, Charles Brown, described the composition of this beautiful work as follows:
‘In the spring of 1819 a nightingale had built her nest near my house. Keats felt a tranquil and continual joy in her song; and one morning he took his chair from the breakfast-table to the grass plot under a plum-tree, where he sat for two or three hours. When he came into the house, I perceived he had some scraps of paper in his hand, and these he was quietly thrusting behind the books. On inquiry, I found these scraps, four or five in number, contained his poetic feeling on the song of our nightingale. The writing was not well legible; and it was difficult to arrange the stanzas on so many scraps. With his assistance I succeeded, and this was his ‘Ode to a Nightingale’, a poem which has been the delight of everyone.’
Brown’s account was dismissed as ‘pure delusion’ by Charles Wentworth Dilke, the co-owner of Wentworth Place who visited Brown and Keats regularly. After reading the above account in Milnes’s 1848 biography of Keats, Dilke noted in the margin, ‘We do not usually thrust waste paper behind books’.
It should be noted that Brown wrote his account almost twenty years after the event. Some critics believe he may have confused the compositions of ‘Ode on Indolence’ and ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. The original manuscript of ‘Indolence’ is lost and the order of its stanzas remains doubtful (note Brown’s memory of arranging stanzas.)
The manuscript is actually on two sheets of paper, not ‘four or five’ as Brown recalled, and the stanzas are in relative order. But the work was written hastily on scrap paper. It is clear that Keats did not anticipate writing such a lengthy poem when he took just two sheets of paper into the garden, – and he did not dare interrupt his writing to fetch more later.
Ode to a Mockingbird

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, –
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain –
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?
The heath was hung in magic mists, enchanted dripping glades,
I’ll taste a taste until my mind drifts from this scene and fades
In the night time.
In the night time.

Keats’ House in Hampstead Heath

Oh… let us have another from Keats!

Ode on Melancholy

NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Happy Monday. May beauty dog your steps!… Pax ~ Gwyllm
Edward Robert Hughes

August 26, 2005
by gwyllm

The Friday Flicker….

Sweltering in Portland. 90 plus I think today. Took a fall off of a ladder yesterday, smacked the leg and elbow a good one sliding down the wall as the ladder slipped on cement. Not the brightest thing to do. Still, I count myself lucky for not buying it totally.
Rowan (my son) has taken an interest in Oracles lately. I introduced him to the Tarot recently, and the Rune System by Blum as well. Taken to the Runes like a duck to water. He is finding all kinds of applications.
A funny flash… I was driving across the Hawthorne Bridge yesterday morning, and I saw a guy with a kids seat on the back of his bike. Suddenly I was transported back 11 years taking Rowan to daycare on the bike with him rattling away with a new question every block. Time Flies, So Participate Fully.
Off to Rik Jensens’ and Cristel Behren’s wedding in a couple of weeks. I have known Rik since 1968 when I first moved to Mt. Shasta after living in Big Sur and The Haight. He was the first person to welcome me with friendship at the local high-school. (I had dropped out for two years while on the road… etc.)
After Rik and Cristel marry, they are moving to their home in the Languedoc, Cathar country in South Central France. I wish them all the best and we hope to visit them next summer if possible!
Well here is the massive missive of Friday…
Some great Links, including a message from the Utah Ravers (thanks to Will Penna for sharing this)… The DEA made unwelcome… Art from the end of history…
The Friday Quotes..
2 main articles:
Paul Krassner on the Starwood Gathering
Peter Lamborn Wilson’s “Introduction to the Sufi Path”…
Cleopatra Mathis is our featured Poetess (another big thank you to Laura Pendell…)
Have a good read!
Bye-bye, DEA
Art of the Apocalypse

A message from the Utah Ravers…
Friday Quotes
“If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk?”
“Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
“Confusion is always the most honest response.”
“Humor is everywhere, in that there’s irony in just about anything a human does.”
Life Among the Neo-Pagans
Paul Krassner

As a stand-up commentator, I rarely work the comedy-club circuit, preferring to appear at more offbeat venues. Several years ago, I performed at the Starwood Festival (“a Magickal, psychedelic & multi-cultural event”) in Sherman, New York–Amish country on the border near Ohio and Pennsylvania–on private campgrounds, where clothing was optional. Many women were bare-breasted, and several men and women were fully naked, a practice known as “going skyclad.”
On the outdoor pavilion stage, my opening line was: “I’m gonna start with two words that have been thought year after year at these festivals, but which have never actually been utterred out loud, and those two words are, ‘Nice tits.’ ” The audience hesitated a nanosecond, because in that context this could be a politically incorrect observation–I had deliberately taken that chance–but then they laughed and applauded, because they knew it was true.
The annual Starwood Festivals have been presented by the Cleveland-based Association for Consciousness Exploration, a group of about thirty friends. ACE’s co-directors, Jeff Rosenbaum and Joe Rothenberg, were both raised in traditional Jewish homes. Rosenbaum’s parents were Holocaust survivors. He calls himself a pantheistic social libertarian with a psychedelic spiritual orientation.
Everything is explored by altering it,” he says. “The way you explore temperature is by seeing how different temperatures affect something. The way you explore pressure is by changing the pressure to see how that affects different things. The way you study consciousness is by changing your consciousness.”
The first event was on a weekend, attended by 185 people, with twenty presentations and a bonfire built from an old split-rail fence. This July marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of Starwood; the weeklong event drew 1,600, with 150 presentations and twenty musical and theatrical performances. I attended several workshops, including “Shamans and Drugs” by Stanley Krippner, a psychology professor at Saybrook Institute, psychic researcher and co-author of Dream Telepathy. A member of the Rainforest Action Network, he mentioned a Brazilian tribe, the Guarani, whose members have hanged themselves from endangered trees. I related my participation at an ayahuasca ceremony in Ecuador where the shaman’s shrine included a sealed-beam headlight from an old Buick and a gray clamshell-like item that opens up, revealing a head of the Virgin Mary that can be used as a Jell-o mold.
Krippner’s explanation provided the missing link between indigenous shamans and contemporary politicians: “They take power from wherever they can find it.” Krippner and his colleagues once turned down the CIA’s offer of funding for their dream-telepathy work because of the Vietnam War, while other friends in remote-viewing projects accepted “tons of CIA money.”
“Raising Our Kids in a Sex Positive Environment” by LaSara FireFox, facilitator of exploration-based workshops, practitioner of Neuro-Linguistic Programming and author of Sexy Witch (a blurb begins, “Wake up and smell the pussy!”): She directed discussions ranging from the similar negative approaches to menstruation taken by the Bible and the Koran, to the dilemma parents face when their child misinterprets the sounds of love-making as being caused by the infliction of pain. One father described how his young son was dismayed in just such a situation, and he had to explain that these were “happy noises.” The boy repeated, “Happy noises,” then proceeded to mimic the hedonistic moans and shrieks of his parents. His dad advised him not to tell his grandmother.
“Bulldada, Excremeditation, Acubeating and Stuporstition” by the Rev. Ivan Stang, leader of the Church of the Subgenius, author of High Weirdness by Mail and host of a syndicated radio show, The Hour of Slack: His widely circulated prediction–that, at 7 AM on July 5, 1998, Pleasure Saucers would descend to Earth as part of the great Rupture, taking away all those SubGeniuses who had paid $30 for the privilege–was totally unfulfilled. Now, though still in embarrassment mode, Stang put a retroactive spin on that failure: “We gave them the gift of disbelief. They ought to thank us for ripping them off. Scientology started out the same way, but they can keep a straight face. Are you prepared for ‘pronoia’–being convinced that the whole world is out to make you happy?”
“The Growing Dangers of American Theocracy” by Phyllis Curott, First Amendment lawyer, Wiccan High Priestess, author of The Love Spell: An Erotic Memoir of Spiritual Awakening: She warned of the Christian right’s stealth desire for achieving “biblical law” that would require the death penalty for blasphemy, adultery, homosexuality and witchcraft. Already, teenage witches are expelled from school; Pagans in the military are harassed by religious fundamentalists; there have been public burnings of Harry Potter books; a Wiccan couple is challenging a court order that they must protect their 9-year-old son from “non-mainstream religious beliefs and rituals.”
Curott, named by Jane magazine as one of the Ten Gutsiest Women of the Year, told me that, according to her contacts, “Evangelical groups have been meeting with major chains to ‘advise’ them on marketing to their community, pointing out that Christian bestsellers like the Left Behind series, make the stores more dollars per square inch of shelf space than Wiccan, feminist or psychology books, and also that their community won’t come to those stores unless they’re not offended by what’s being shelved in the stores and unless they’re ‘made to feel welcome.’ The two groups I heard were spearheading the effort were Assembly of God and the Philadelphia Church. Pagans are in danger of becoming the new Jews in a culture that is increasingly fascist, however that fact may be obscured by being wrapped in red, white and blue bunting and religious platitudes.”
As I wandered around the grounds of the Starwood Festival, I could see plenty of children–in the pool, at the Kid Village area, in the Giant Puppet Parade–and teenagers who produced their own improv show. I stopped to chat with Pagan elder Oberon Zell, a world-renowned Wizard and co-founder of the Church of All Worlds in 1962–now he wants to launch the Church of Your Choice, since there are all those billboards urging you to attend it–and, in Green Egg magazine, the first to apply the term Neo-Pagan to the newly emerging Nature religions in the 1960s.
I got a therapeutic massage on Healers Row and a sarong on Merchants Row. At a booth called Practical Rabbit, a woman named Alley had crafted a few sistrums–a musical instrument that can be described as a slingshot-shaped tambourine–out of twigs from Prospect Park, picture-frame wire and bottle-caps from beer and soda bottles. Stephen Kent, who has blazed a musical trail across five continents, told her it was the best sistrum he’s seen since 1987, when he was in Senegal.
Kent, one of the foremost exponents of the Australian Aboriginal instrument called the didgeridoo in contemporary music, did a workshop at Starwood and performed in the pavilion. There were concerts every afternoon and evening–a truly eclectic selection of performers, including Incus (Tribal-Goth music for fire worshippers), the One Hat Band (an eight-member bluegrass family), the Prodigals (Celtic rock) and the founders and managers of Starwood, the Chameleon Club (medieval cover tunes and Pagan originals).
On Saturday night, one of the world’s greatest percussionists, Airto Moreira, and his Brazilian Jam Band, provided the prelude to the bonfire. It was constructed from whole trees during the week–carefully piled fifty feet wide and twenty-five feet high, with a Chinese tower on top–by the Woodbusters, aided by a derrick. Choreographed volunteers with torches ritualistically teased this pyramid, finally setting it aflame–ostensibly.
Actually, I learned, you can’t light a bonfire that size quickly with a few flaming sticks. When they’re being thrust into the stacks of wood, someone pushes a button which electronically ignites flash-pots within the bonfire. Then, fireworks buried inside whistle and zoom into the sky, and this living bonfire was encircled by folks of all ages, running, walking, skipping, cavorting, screaming with delight and, as so many had done every night, dancing, drumming and partying through the morning.
Neo-Paganism may well be a canary in the culture-wars coal mine. Child custody battles are taking place in courts equating witchcraft with Satanism (and therefore child endangerment), people are losing their jobs, trumped-up charges are leveled against witches who come “out of the broom closet.” There are now 130 members of Congress who are born-agains, and a President who thinks he’s the end result of an Intelligent Designer. As governor of Texas, Bush was part of a movement to deny access to religious facilities for soldiers at Fort Hood who were Pagan. He declared that Wicca wasn’t “a real religion.” A real religion, of course, believes that there was a pair of dinosaurs on Noah’s Ark.
Selena Fox, editor of Circle, a Nature Spirituality magazine, who had been a speaker and ritual leader at the first Starwood Festival, was stunned at the growth of this event, which, she told me, “was born in 1981 out of society’s cauldron of the bubbling brew of human-potentials exploration, humanistic psychology and multicultural shamanism–movements which grew and developed in the social-change times of the 1960s and 1970s. Today, twenty-five years later, it still embodies the joy and fun of a counterculture tribal be-in.”
As Sally, a librarian, who was at Starwood for the first time, observed, “It’s such a warm-hearted celebration of diversity.”
Introduction to the Sufi Path
by Peter Lamborn Wilson

Of all the strands of thought, tradition, and belief that make up the Islamic universe, Sufism in its doctrinal aspect stands out as the most intact, the most purely Islamic: the central strand. Opponents of Sufism often charge it with having originated outside Islam, but a close study of the various schools of philosophy and theology, and a comparison with “primordial” Islam as revealed in the Koran and hadith (authentic sayings of the Prophet Muhammad), will vindicate the Sufis’ claim of
centrality, of strict adherence to the original purity of the Revelation.
In the context of the history of thought, in fact, Sufism – always insisting on a return to the sources of the Tradition – can be seen to have functioned at times as a positive and healthy reaction to the
overly rational activity of the philosophers and theologians. For the Sufis, the road to spiritual knowledge – to Certainty – could never be confined to the process of rational or purely intellectual activity, without sapiential knowledge (zawq, “taste”) and the direct, immediate experience of the Heart. Truth, they believed, can be sought and found only with one’s entire being; nor were they satisfied merely to know this Truth. They insisted on a total identification with it: a “passing away” of the knower in the Known, of subject in the Object of knowledge. Thus, when the fourth/tenth century Sufi Hallaj proclaimed “I am the Truth” (and was martyred for it by the exoteric authorities), he was not violating the “First Pillar” of Islam, the belief in Unity (tawhid), but simply stating the truth from the mouth of the Truth. So the Sufis believe.
This insistence of total involvement in “mystical” realisation, and on a participative understanding of religious doctrine, sharply distinguished Sufism from other Islamic schools of thought. In fact, considering themselves the true core of Islam, Sufis appeared as outsiders not only to the philosophers and theologians, but even to “ordinary” Muslims. Their peculiarity, their distinctness, manifested itself in every aspect of their lives: their daily activities, their worship, social relations,
and even style or means of expression. Like mystics in all Traditions, they tended to remake language and form for their own purposes, and as in all Traditional civilisations, the potency and directness of their expression tended to flow out and permeate other areas not directly
related to mysticism in the narrow sense: literature, the arts and crafts, etc.

Leaving This World Behind
Buddha founded his Path on the human fact of suffering. Islam gives the basic situation in which we find ourselves a slightly different interpretation: man in his ordinary state of consciousness is literally
asleep (“and when he dies he wakes,” as Mohammad said). He lives in a dream, whether of enjoyment or suffering – a phenomenal, illusory existence. Only his lower self is awake, his “carnal soul.” Whether he feels so or not, he is miserable. But potentially the situation can be changed, for ultimately man is not identical with his lower self. (The Prince of Balkh, Ibrahim Adham, lost in the desert while hunting, chased a magic stag, which turned on him and asked, “Were you born for this?”) Man’s authentic existence is in the Divine; he has a higher Self, which is true; he can attain felicity, even before death (“Die before you die,” said the Prophet). The call comes: to flight, migration, a journey beyond the limitations of world and self.

Imprisoned in the cage of the world (the world in its negative, “worldly” sense, not in the positive sense of the world-as-icon or Divine Manifestation), man is exiled and forgetful of his true home. To
keep his part of the Covenant, to be faithful to his promise, he must set out on the Path from sleep to awakening. It is only the blessed few for whom this Path lasts no longer than a single step, although in theory all that is needed is to “turn around” or “inside out” and be what one is. For most seekers the Path is long; one Sufi speaks of “a thousand and one” different stages.
“Everything perishes save His Face”; the first step on the Path is to begin to contemplate the futility of the world of dust, the world in which one’s lower self is doomed. The seeker must renounce it all,
including his own self, and seek that which is Everlasting. He must travel from things to Nothing, from existence to Nonexistence.
How does one get lost on purpose? Our present state is one of forgetfulness toward the Divine – the true Self – and remembrance of worldly affairs and the lower self. The cure for this is a reversal:
remembrance of the true Self, the Divine within, and forgetfulness toward everything else.
In Sufism the basic technique for this is invocation or “remembrance” (zekr) of the Divine Name, which is mysteriously identical with the Divine Being. Through this discipline the fragments of our directionless minds are regathered, our outward impulse turned inward and concentrated. This is the act of a lover who thinks of nothing but his beloved.
Cleopatra Mathis

Cleopatra Mathis (b. 1947) was born in Ruston, Louisiana of Greek and Cherokee descent. She received her B.A. from Southwest Texas State University and an M.F.A. from Columbia University. She published three books of poetry, An Aerial View of Louisiana (1980), The Bottom Land (1983), and The Center for Cold Weather (1989), and has been the recipient of numerous awards including the Robert Frost Award, a National Endowment for the Arts grant, and the Lavin Award for Younger Poets. She is currently a professor of English and director of the creative writing program at Dartmouth College.
The Owl
How far did she fly to find
this pristine town on the edge of winter?
Crows have set up their kingdom—
a yacking flock louder than traffic
maims the morning air.
Day sends the coven screaming
in pursuit, black rags
haggling from clump to clump
of the decorous elms and oaks.
The dog’s mouth hangs.
I follow his gaze through the shudder
of limbs to the still source, the center
of their flapping. The barn owl
commands a branch, the crows scatter
and aim, cutting around her
placid weight, something more of earth
than air. She stares straight ahead
as if focused on something she alone
can hear, their outrage at who she is
no more than a furious snipping,
until in one motion, she heaves upward,
her body transformed by sky.
The crows gloat, their battering
closes her path, and she misses a beat,
stumbling in the air
like a silence disrupted. The crows’
fat riot, their mine, mine, mine
rules the sky. Call the owl
sadness, the one who watches
from the other side.

Old Trick
Spring wants me back,
and I should know better than to heed
that old hag, the goddess
disguising herself with the first green
she can muster. Her true self hanging around,
gray, icy, bent, gazing from the corners
while I glory in the fine scribble
skimming the trees. I let her
bear the weight of my heart,
not my first mistake: every year she promises
to bring back what I love, and for awhile
she does—a flower here, another there,
fast-talking me through the price
I’ll pay later. It’s one panorama
followed by the next, the returning
birds in a parade, finches
twittering at dawn. They too
make you think you can trust them:
look at those nests, their faith
at your feeder, but I can tell you this,
keep an eye on the children.
September will come, the ripe business
you can’t see in all the greenery,
its constancy already tinged: a slight cast,
a whine. Your own girl will vanish
under that yellowing wing.

A Text in Forgiveness
In the way of all his mornings, he sits there
smoking, having risen in the pre-dawn
shifting black. Awake to nothing but the over and over
of soap and running water, he has made his way
to the kitchen, the ritual of coffee. He sits,
watching the window glass give back his own reflection,
an older man waiting. Each hour
divides room shadow from outside shadow,
until the outer light is stronger than the inner,
and with the dimming vision of himself
he is taken into day. The cold light
rises to cream and violet; he watches
the minute variations take their toll.
And when finally his hand rises, it is hard to tell
if he wants to shatter something or to beckon
a greater presence, some other body of light
opposing whatever it is behind him.
For it has become a lifetime, this waiting—
this quitting the circumstance, the predicament.
Quitting the books, their plots and voices
that all add up to one: his life as a fiction
he has made, the craft of it
outside what he really wanted.
The scene he looks out on, trees and meadow
coming clear, is resonant, exposed;
so different from the dense magnolia in his childhood yard,
a vastness and height defined only
by the limitations of beauty. The showy leaves
snapped too easily, the blossoms stood up like wax.
Never understanding that delicacy, deliberate as a white lie,
forbidden to climb the available branches,
he crawled into the vast canopied underside.
In that leaf-dark world and its dim pattern of silt and bark,
the visible tree became no more than a shape,
pruned and determined, an artful cover
for the interior. That reverie now
is what he wants: his fingers playing the surface
until the end he reaches is prayer,
intermediary between the two worlds.
And if he has risen to quit the night,
to mark the confluence of word and step
with the deep close hours he entered as if they were velvet,
as if had buried his face in some ravishing solitude
with its reverberating no; then with enough
of these mornings he would forgive
the longing by which he lived.
Have a great weekend. Off to Rooster Rock in the Gorge for some star gazing tonight or tomorrow…

August 25, 2005
by gwyllm

Consulting The Oracle…

The Menu:
A Bit Of Zen
A couple of links
Silvia Polivoy makes some observations…
Poems by Michael Palmer
There is light steps about….
If people with a potential for enlightenment are willing to see in this way, they must investigate most deeply and examine most closely; all of a sudden they will gain mastery of it and have no further doubt. The reason you do not understand is just because you are taken away by random thoughts twenty-four hours a day. Since you want to learn business, you fall in love with things you see and fondly pursue things you read; over time, you get continuously involved. How can you manage to work on enlightenment then?
– Foyan (1067–1120)
There I was, hunched over office desk,
Mind an unruffled pool.
A thunderbolt! My middle eye
Shot wide, revealing – my ordinary self.
– Layman Seiken, 11th Century
Ecuador oil protesters threaten hunger strike
A little known fact.
Octi does his thing…

by Silvia Polivoy
The human being shows a remarkable disposition to seek spiritual transcendence.
Since the irrational cannot be erased from the human mind, the harder we try to deny it, the greater the power it will exert upon us. The spiritual experiences are associated to the occurrence of altered states of consciousness (ASC).
The society we live in considers (as opposed to shamanic knowledge) modified states of consciousness to be onanistic and vicious. Shamans argue that to satisfy our religious drive we have to experience the divine, and in order to achieve that, they use sacred plants. That is why the sacred plants are called entheogens, because they help experience the divine.

Abraham Maslow called these experiences “peak experiences”, but they are not limited to the altered states achieved through drugs or sacred plants. They can take place during meditation, hyperventilation, the practice of yoga, hypnosis, fast, physical suffering (such as the self-inflicted pain some saints underwent or the postures certain yoguis kept for months, etc). In short, it is a state that can be reached in many ways and, once there, we can explore aspects of reality which are different from those perceived in an ordinary state of consciousness. These different aspects of reality are well studied.
The orthodox branch of science considers these altered states subjective, therefore worthless. Then, these feelings of ecstasy, these other “dimensions” of reality, these occurrences of mystical reunion, of beauty, this crossing of the space-time barrier, can be catalogued as pathological. Traditional Psychiatry does not separate mysticism from psychosis. That is why Transpersonal Psychology blends science with the study of the spiritual capabilities of man using methods to alter the state of consciousness, because the spiritual phenomena seem to be incomprehensible in an ordinary state of consciousness.
Modified states of consciousness may have a dangerous side because, since they affect the defense mechanisms of the individual, they may pave the way for unacceptable, repressed material from the individual´s past to the conscious mind and cause restlessness, which could rise to terrifying levels if the individual is unable to cope with his anxiety (this is what is usually known as a “bad trip”). That is why previous psychological counseling is advised, for the individual to be able to tell what comes from the outside from what comes from the inside. It is recommended, also, to experience such modified states of consciousness in the context of psychotherapy, under the supervision of qualified, well trained proffesionals.
But, in spite of the risks, the spiritual experiences, the unconscious material, and the altered amplified of consciousness related to them, are too valuable to be ignored. Thus psychotherapy takes advantage of the information, available when the repression mechanism is weak, to modify unwanted patterns of behaviour.
Most psychoactive substances resemble (and sometimes are identical to) substances normally produced by the human body. Therefore, the individual has a built-in capacity to experiment psychedelic states, which are inherent to certain aspects of the human mind inaccessible during wakefulness. So, under the appropriate circumstances, these substances allow the individual (for a limited period of time) to gain access to deeper parts of his psyche.
Through dreams we get in touch with those aspects of our personality which are hidden from the conscious mind. The entheogenic or psychointegrative plants help reach those states that we experience while dreaming or while in the middle of those rare, ecstatic epiphanies that can happen while we are awake. Unlike most drugs, entheogenic plants do not produce physical dependence. A quick, time-limited tolerance (that does not increase with the dose administered) is also characteristic.
Their main use is to spot the individual’s conditionings and destroy them, to be unselfish by dissolving momentarily the limits of the ego, to expand the inner vision, to be more lucid, obtaining in that fashion very important insights. In short, to be able to recognize the forces, the impulses behind the individual’s actions and emotions, to track thoughts back to their source and to be in control of one´s life. That´s why they help the individual to become one.
Due to all this the sacred plants are called psychointegrative, or entheogenic. The list includes Ayahuasca, Peyote, Psilocybin mushrooms, Salvia divinorum, San Pedro (a cactus), Epena, Cebil, Brugmansia, among others.

Abraham Maslow in his book called “The psychology of Science” has shown how science might be the best neurotic defense mechanism invented by man, because the selective rejection wielded by human knowledge acts as a defense and therefore constitutes a neurotic maneuver which, out of fear, disqualifies transpersonal experiences as objects of study.
We´d all benefit if science became an open sistem oriented to personal growth.
Modern physics teaches us about the Universe´s unity, in which consciousness plays a role much closer to the one described by the great mystics.
When we transcend the ego for however brief, it is the beginning of an awakening to our true Self.
©Copyright Silvia Polivoy, 2003. All rights reserved.

Write this. We have burned all their villages
Write this. We have burned all the villages and the people in them
Write this. We have adopted their customs and their manner of
Write this. A word may be shaped like a bed, a basket of tears
or an X
In the notebook it says, It is the time of mutations, laughter at
jokes, secrets beyond the boundaries of speech
I now turn to my use of suffixes and punctuation, closing Mr.
Circle with a single stroke, tearing the canvas from its wall, joined
to her, experiencing the same thoughts at the same moment,
inscribing them on a loquat leaf
Write this. We have begun to have bodies, a now here and a now
gone, a past long ago and one still to come
Let go of me for I have died and am in a novel and was a lyric poet,
certainly, who attracted crowds to mountaintops. For a nickel I will
appear from this box. For a dollar I will have text with you and
answer three questions
First question. We entered the forest, followed its winding paths,
and emerged blind
Second question. My townhouse, of the Jugendstil, lies by
Third question. He knows he will wake from this dream,
conducted in the mother-tongue
Third question. He knows his breathing organs are manipulated by
God, so that he is compelled to scream
Third question. I will converse with no one on those days of the
week which end in y
Write this. There is pleasure and pain and there are marks and
signs. A word may be shaped like a fig or a pig, an effigy or an egg
but there is only time for fasting and desire, device and
design, there is only time to swerve without limbs, organs or face
into a scientific silence, pinhole of light
Say this. I was born on an island among the dead. I learned
language on this island but did not speak on this island. I am
writing to you from this island. I am writing to the dancers from
this island. The writers do not dance on this island
Say this. There is a sentence in my mouth, there is a chariot in my
mouth. There is a ladder. There is a lamp whose light fills empty
space and a space which swallows light
A word is beside itself. Here the poem is called What Speaking
Means to Say though I have no memory of my name
Here the poem is called Theory of the Real, its name is Let’s Call
This, and its name is called A Wooden Stick. It goes yes-yes, no-
no. It goes one and one
I have been writing a book, not in my native language, about
violins and smoke, lines and dots, free to speak and become the
things we speak, pages which sit up, look around and row
resolutely toward the setting sun
Pages torn from their spines and added to the pyre, so that they
will resemble thought
Pages which accept no ink
Pages we’ve never seen-first called Narrow Street, then Half a
Fragment, Plain of Jars or Plain of Reeds, taking each syllable in
her mouth, shifting position and passing it to him
Let me say this. Neak Luong is a blur. It is Tuesday in the
hardwood forest. I am a visitor here, with a notebook
The notebook lists My New Words and Flag above White. It
claims to have no inside
only characters like A-against-Herself, B,
C, L and N, Sam, Hans Magnus, T. Sphere, all speaking in the
dark with their hands
G for Gramsci or Goebbels, blue hills, cities,
cities with hills, modern and at the edge of time
F for
alphabet, Z for A, an H in an arbor, shadow, silent wreckage, W or
M among stars
What last. Lapwing. Tesseract. X perhaps for X. The villages are
known as These Letters — humid, sunless. The writing occus on
their walls
As a Real House
(Sarah’s third song)
“I said darkling and you said sparkling”
The play-house appears before us
as a real house in the dark
filled with people cut out
of magazines and postcards
and called real people at the start
Why is the curtain partly drawn
and why does the stair turn
to the left as you climb
and the right going down
Here all day it’s midwinter night
and the musicians will continue to play
in the music room
and sleep will never come
This is lesson three
where the fiddler is made real
by the sounds she hears
pouring from her fingers
Copyright © 1987 Michael Palmer
The Daily John William Waterhouse
Consulting the Oracle

Two come about because of One,
but don’t cling to the One either!
So long as the mind does not stir,
the ten thousand things stay blameless;
no blame, no phenomena,
no stirring, no mind.
The viewer disappears along with the scene,
the scene follows the viewer into oblivion,
for scene becomes scene only through the viewer,
viewer becomes viewer because of the scene.

– Seng-ts’an, 600
Hsin-Hsin-Ming: Inscription on Trust in the Mind

I Consulted the Oracle.
I saw a tailed star fly overhead
There are Mountains to the West.
We are filled with Light
We are filled with Dark…
Matter seeps out of the whole
There is more space in an atom
than the waves of light which compose it.
The Light is awfully bright.
First Memory.
I dreamed I was myself. (Ah… complications.)
Have a brilliant Thursday.

August 24, 2005
by gwyllm

Night Flight…

Wednesday, Hump Day, The Big Middle… Yup.
The biggest buzz around here is the Sacred Elixirs Conference Coming up in October down in San Jose. This is being put on by my friend Mike Crowley. I will be there to help out as I can. I cannot recommend it enough, the best line up for a conference I’ve seen in a long time, with speakers from the UK, Eugene and all points around. Here is the addy, check it out! SACRED ELIXIRS CONFERENCE!!!!

Lots to read and to see in this edition… so please proceed…!


Placebos trigger an opioid hit in the brain
Oh these times….
Raving In Utah…
Dance party broken up by police in Utah, USA
Run the Comparisons…
Klingon Fairy Tales
“Goldilocks Dies With Honor at the Hands of the Three Bears”
“Snow White and the Six Dwarves She Killed With Her Bare Hands and the Seventh Dwarf She Let Get Away as a Warning to Others”
“There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe With a Big Spike on It”
“The Three Little Pigs Build an Improvised Explosive Device and Deal With That Damned Wolf Once and for All”
“Jack and the Giant Settle Their Differences With Flaming Knives”
“Old Mother Hubbard, Lacking the Means to Support Herself With Honor, Sets Her Disruptor on Self-Destruct and Waits for the Inevitable”
“Mary Had a Little Lamb. It Was Delicious”
“Little Red Riding Hood Strays Into the Neutral Zone and Is Never Heard From Again, Although There Are Rumors … Awful, Awful Rumors”
“Hansel and Gretel Offend Vlad the Impaler”
“The Hare Foolishly Lowers His Guard and Is Devastated by the Tortoise, Whose Prowess in Battle Attracts Many Desirable Mates”

NASA Images Discover Ancient Bridge between India and SriLanka

images taken by NASA reveal a mysterious ancient bridge in the Palk Strait between India and Sri Lanka. The bridge currently named as Adam´s Bridge is made of chain of shoals, c.18 mi (30 km) long.
The bridge´s unique curvature and composition by age suggests that it may be man made. The legends as well as Archeological studies reveal that the first signs of human inhabitants in Sri Lanka date back to the primitive age, about 1,750,000 years ago.
This information is a crucial aspect for an insight into the mysterious legend called Ramayana, which was supposed to have taken place in Tredha Yuga (more than 1,700,000 years ago).
In this epic, there is a mentioning about a bridge, which was built between Rameshwaram (India) and Srilankan coast under the supervision of a dynamic and invincible figure called Rama who is supposed to be the incarnation of the supreme.
This information may not be of much importance to the archeologists who are interested in exploring the origins of man, but it is sure to open the spiritual gates of the people of the world to have come to know an ancient history linked to the Indian mythology…
Please go to the site to see more images!

by: Charles Baudelaire
Then Juan sought the subterranean flood,
And paid his obolus on the Stygian shore,
Charon, the proud and sombre beggar, stood
With one strong, vengeful hand on either oar.

With open robes and bodies agonised,
Lost women writhed beneath that darkling sky;
There were sounds as of victims sacrificed:
Behind him all the dark was one long cry.

And Sganarelle, with laughter, claimed his pledge;
Don Luis, with trembling finger in the air,
Showed to the souls who wandered in the sedge
The evil son who scorned his hoary hair.

Shivering with woe, chaste Elvira the while,
Near him untrue to all but her till now,
Seemed to beseech him for one farewell smile
Lit with the sweetness of the first soft vow.

And clad in armour, a tall man of stone
Held firm the helm, and clove the gloomy flood;
But, staring at the vessel’s track alone,
Bent on his sword the unmoved hero stood.
by: Charles Baudelaire
They pass before me, these Eyes full of light,
Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise;
The holy brothers pass before my sight,
And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes.

They keep me from all sin and error grave,
They set me in the path whence Beauty came;
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
And all my soul obeys the living flame.

Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light
As candles lighted at full noon; the sun
Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.

You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done;
Marching you chaunt my soul’s awakening hymn,
Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!
by: Charles Baudelaire
The Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart
The Daily Bouguereau

Have a great Day!

August 23, 2005
by gwyllm

In Another Galaxy…

The Tuesday Edition….
Find within some items for your reading pleasure…
The Links:
Goodbye Dr. Moog
The Face of Things…
and more.
Jonathan Edwards and the Making of America
Ruth Stone
with a short bio…
Catch ya later…

A nod and fond goodbye to Dr. Moog…
Metropolis ~ Bit Torrent…
The Face of Things
Christian Raetsch – Witches Ointments
Innocence of summer love…

A Whiter Shade of Pale (original version)
– Gary Brooker/ Keith Reid
We skipped the light fandango
turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick
but the crowd called out for more
The room was humming harder
as the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink
the waiter brought a tray

And so it was that later
as the miller told his tale
that her face, at first just ghostly,
turned a whiter shade of pale

She said, “There is no reason
and the truth is plain to see.”
But I wandered through my playing cards and would not let her be
one of sixteen vestal virgins
who were leaving for the coast
and although my eyes were open
they might have just as well ‘ve been closed

She said, “I’m home on shore leave,”
though in truth we were at sea
so I took her by the looking glass
and forced her to agree saying,
“You must be the mermaid who took Neptune for a ride.”
But she smiled at me so sadly that my anger straightway died
If music be the food of love
then laughter is its queen
and likewise if behind is in front
then dirt in truth is clean
My mouth by then like cardboard
seemed to slip straight through my head
So we crash-dived straightway quickly
and attacked the ocean bed
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Evangelical

Jonathan Edwards and the making of America.

by Jeff Sharlet

Benjamin Franklin has of late been enjoying some of the celebrity that attended him in life. Doorstop follows doorstop; each tome celebrates the canniest and most pragmatic of the Founders as the first great thinker of America. Franklin deserves his fame, but as Philip F. Gura’s new biography, Jonathan Edwards: America’s Evangelical (latest in a series of “American Portraits” published by Hill and Wang), reminds us, a mind of unparalleled brilliance preceded Franklin in the colonies, and it is in Edwards’s life and work to which we might more profitably look for clues about our present condition — a period of holy wars, great and small, foreign and domestic, “cultural,” “spiritual,” and actual.
“Historians of the United States,” notes George Marsden, another Edwards biographer, “have been prone to give much more attention to Benjamin Franklin than to Edwards as a progenitor of modern America.” This neglect of Edwards, the author of the 18th-century “Great Awakening” that launched American evangelicalism, explains why conventional histories of the United States cannot account for the ongoing religious fervor of the nation. Although the Christian right has lately attempted to claim Franklin as a forebear — a collection titled American Destiny: God’s Role in America trumpets three apparently pious bon mots of Franklin’s without mention of Franklin’s equal enthusiasm for the sensual life and for a Christless deism — the legacy of his ideas remain staunchly secular. And yet the nation does not. Where does such religiousity come from?
Certainly not ideas, Franklin’s or those of any of the Founders. Religious life in America is for the most part as anti-intellectual as George W. Bush’s great defense of the faith: “If you don’t know, I can’t explain it.” Christ thrives in America not so much as an idea or a deity as through what historian Perry Miller called in The New England Mind, his 1939 classic account of Puritan piety, a “mood.” A feeling, a conviction, a sentimental commitment to manifest destiny. And for that we are, indeed, indebted not to Franklin, but to Edwards
Edwards pastored the Northampton church that became the spiritual heart of the first of many religious revivals to sweep the colonies and, later — right down to today — the entire nation. But while he is responsible for the most famous sermon of fire-and-brimstone, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” he was not a pulpit pounder. Rather, he was a writer. Early on, he concluded that his congregation would be better served by whatever thoughts he could conceive during long hours shut in his study than by pastoral housecalls. Which is why, Gura observes, there is much irony in the fact that Edwards’s most potent legacy lies not in his many volumes of metaphysical theology, but in “his earlier writings, on the nature and meaning of personal religious experience.”
No text better illustrates that than the long essay that first brought him trans-Atlantic fame, A Faithful Narrative of the Surprising Work of God, in the Conversion of Many Hundred Souls. In it, Edwards brings an almost anthropological scrutiny to the revival over which he had recently presided, events of such energy that the text’s editors at the time — more prominent men than Edwards, who was still in his 20s — observed that “Thus a nation shall be born in a day.” But the editors also express surprise at the two case studies chosen by Edwards to illustrate the benefits of such fevered faith — those of a young woman dying of what seems to be anorexia, and a four-year-old girl.
Such figures were so far beneath the notice of most of the period’s heavyweight thinkers that Edwards risked being dismissed as a trivialist. But Edwards, like Franklin, was possessed of a cleverness rooted in the natural world. He especially liked spiders. He is famous for a teenage study in which he remarked that “Of all insects, no one is more wonderful than the spider, especially with respect to their sagacity and admirable way of working.” Later, as a young man, he would remind himself to “[r]emember to act according to Prov. 12:23, ‘A prudent man concealeth knowledge.'”
And he did as much in his “Faithful Narrative” of a dying woman and a little girl, carefully weaving a web of logic and argument beneath the surface of a story that quickly attracted a popular audience drawn not by its intellectual density so much as its terrifying portrait of sin and its poignant account of redemption. Edwards’s ideas, notes Gura, were entirely orthodox, strictly Calvinist through and through; what was new, he argues, was the narrative vocabulary with which Edwards made a powerfully compelling case for the immediate — and unmediated — reality of an encounter with God as the only reliable manifestation of what he called “true religion.”
In so doing, Edwards staked out a political position as well a spiritual one, both of which are remarkably familiar even 260 years later. Edwards, one of the best-read men in the New World, defined religion not according to the values preached in Boston and New York, cities he considered corrupt and overrun by rich liberals, but by those he found in the heartland of the day, the small towns along the Connecticut River. He celebrated a religious devotion of “affections” rather than works. And he decried “envy” and the “party spirit,” by which he meant not “frolics” (also of great concern, especially when they involved, as they often did in a period much less chaste than we tend to imagine, “both sexes” and “nightwalking”), but rather the politics of the unquiet poor, that which true believers of the present moment revile as “class warfare.”
Gura writes as a self-declared believer in the “true virtue” modeled by Edwards. Whether he is also an evangelical (as is Marsden and many other historians of Edwards) is unclear, but Gura is not shy about his belief that we should look to Edwards, not the deist Founders, for lessons from the past. “If,” he concludes, “we believe that someone such as Benjamin Franklin has more to offer us, we add only more proof to Edwards’s sense of the infinite distance between saint and sinner.”
That is, if we accept the evangelical conception of sin that so obsessed Edwards. The man revealed by Gura — and in his own writing, much of it only now available to our republic of “envy” through a massive publishing project undertaken by Yale University Press — helped craft a religion that is on the personal level intense and revolutionary, but deeply conservative — disinterested, even — when it comes to larger problems of inequity. Sound familiar?
Scholars of religion suggest that the United States may now be undergoing a third (or a fourth, depending on your definition) Great Awakening. The public sphere is more openly engaged by religion than it has been for a century. It’s worth asking hard questions about the roots of this religion, and whether it is well-suited to a democracy based on elections rather than a belief in a God-chosen elect, predestined to higher office, if not salvation.
Poems by Ruth Stone
My thanks to Laura Pendell for leading me to Ruth Stone and her Poems!

Ruth Stone
by Wendy Barker
Born 8 June 1915 in Roanoke, Virginia, in her grandparents’ house, Ruth Perkins Stone was surrounded by relatives who wrote poetry, painted, practiced law, and taught school. Intrigued by the large collection of books in her grandparents’ library, Stone began reading at three. She attended kindergarten and first grade in Roanoke, but then moved to Indianapolis where she lived with her father’s parents. Living at that time in her paternal grandparents’ home in Indianapolis was Stone’s Aunt Harriette, who delighted in playing writing and drawing games with her niece. Together they wrote poems and drew comical cartoons: Ruth Stone has said that Aunt Harriette was the best playmate she ever had. The poet’s mother, Ruth Ferguson Perkins, also encouraged her daughter’s “play.” For her, too, poetry was an essential ingredient of life: while nursing Ruth as a baby, she read the works of Tennyson out loud. And as her child grew, she openly delighted in her daughter’s irrepressible creativity.
Writing, poetry, drawing, and music surrounded the young poet while she grew up in Indianapolis. Her father–Roger McDowell Perkins–was a drummer, who often practiced at home. As Stone tells it, on the nights he was not gambling, he would bring home an elegant box of the best chocolates and some new classical records. There would be music and candy and he would read out loud to them, sometimes from the Bible, sometimes from humorous pieces by Bill Nye. He was “crazy about funny stuff,” says Stone. “Funny stuff” was, in fact, a large part of the pattern of family life in Indianapolis. The poet remembers her uncles at dinner parties who told one fascinating story after another, convulsing the family with their humor. Every member of her father’s family had an extraordinary sense of the ridiculous–they saw right through the superficial.
And yet, this family of English descent also played its part in polite Indianapolis society. The poetís paternal grandfather was a senator, and in keeping with the familial social position, his wife gave frequent formal tea parties. Stone remembers pouring tea, learning to be a lady–something, she says, she later “had to learn to forget.”
From “Mapping Ruth Stoneís Life and Art” in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Volume 105. Ed. R.S. Gwynn. Copyright © 1991 by Gale Research, Inc.
In the Next Galaxy

Things will be different.
No one will lose their sight,
their hearing, their gallbladder.
It will be all Catskills with brand
new wrap-around verandas.
The idea of Hitler will not
have vibrated yet.
While back here,
they are still cleaning out
pockets of wrinkled
Nazis hiding in Argentina.
But in the next galaxy,
certain planets will have true
blue skies and drinking water.

The Self and the Universe
This is not poetic language,
but it is the language of poetry.
At night, on the page,
the lines change
like the chaotic patterns of your eyes,
these holes into space.
You lie on your bed,
the snowball earth,
a frozen chance;
the little knowledge of dust lanes,
the ghastly voter frauds of the last election,
and the late spring snows,
pots of forced purple crocuses.
How fragile and enduring the words.
This is the self and the universe.
This is the wild sweep of the sun,
that mysterious molecule;
this clutter of rocks, dust,
and lighter elements, like your fingernails;
like the configurations of the spiral lines
on the soles of your feet,
Today, through black floaters,
because my right eye is under siege
by that best-intentioned surgeon with laser,
today is thinly veiled.
And the sky with its black floaters
seems half-blind, too;
the crows dipping over the town.
October’s brilliance is half gone from the avenues
or lies on lawns and gutters;
and rain, the blessed curse
in dissolved frost, yields ropes of mirrors.
The cheap, chiming clock says almost ten.
Then why this happiness in muted things?
Some equation of time and space,
a slowed perception of the battered brain
strips back like leaves to unexpected glittering.

Something about a flock of birds toward evening.
The weather report sleet, snow.
The hot males riding ahead,
the swamp ridged in last year’s cattails.
Ego, vanity, the male strut.
Oh, that burr and sweetest whistle,
their hearts pumped with thrush steroids.
In another week, perhaps a quick melt
and we’ll hear them clinging to the old stalks,
staking out their claims
while from the south
the slow shadow of the migrating females
like Cleopatra’s barge,
the oars dipping,
the fringed canopy
like clouds of sweet rain
rippling behind.
The eternal tribal ritual,
the dense flock, undulating
packet of the future—
great sperm bank of the galaxy,
the billions of the separate
that gathers itself into the one,
summer after summer.
Another Feeling
Once you saw a drove of young pigs
crossing the highway. One of them
pulling his body by the front feet,
the hind legs dragging flat.
Without thinking,
you called the Humane Society.
They came with a net and went for him.
They were matter of fact, uniformed;
there were two of them,
their truck ominous, with a cage.
He was hiding in the weeds. It was then
you saw his eyes. He understood.
He was trembling.
After they took him, you began to suffer regret.
Years later, you remember his misfit body
scrambling to reach the others.
Even at this moment, your heart
is going too fast; your hands sweat.
Have a great day, and one more item… (for Don!)
A treat for the Eyes, Venus by Bouguereau

August 22, 2005
by gwyllm

Dionysus Rising…

That Season Is Upon Us…

Greetings! Monday again and I think we are all still here…
So, today we go down that ancient path, crushing the fruit and enjoying its bounty… The old Gods rise up, greet us, and for some reason we usually don’t even notice.
This Blog touches on Dionysus, part of the myth, story and theatre surrounding this most ancient of Deities… so hold on it is bit of a spin…

The Links:
German Music
Strange Light
MRI magnet madness
The History of Cannabis
The Quotes…
The Heresy of Saint Timothy
Dionysus… poems, reflections, illustrations…
Bright Blessings,
The Links:
German Music…. of course.
I Am Not (a) Sex Tourist….
Faster than a ray of light…
Scientists Mess with the Speed of Light
The Magnets! The Magnets!
And they want people to put body parts in this machine?

Some examples….

A big thanks to MAPS for publishing this….
Lester Grinspoon Statement for the DEA regarding the History of Cannabis as Medicine….

The Quotes Of Course…
“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.”
“Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”
“In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice; In practice, there is.”
“We can have facts without thinking but we cannot have thinking without facts.”
“An intellectual snob is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture and not think of The Lone Ranger.”


by Charles Carreon
Here come the exiles, the first generation of Eastern converts, turned out of their doctrinal houses one by one, or choosing to leave them behind before it all turns into Dharma Walmart.
It started out this way, chillun’. In the beginning there was a great void in the consciousness of Americans. And the void was darkness, and the darkness was enlivened only by the glow of TV, and not MTV. In the darkness, God’s chillun’ gnashed their teeth and wept, knowing they were free souls born into the heart of Babylon. And bitter were their tears, and their bread without salt. Over this land ruled the Three Kings — alcohol, tobacco and coffee, each one a legacy of slave plantations.
And the Three Kings ruled over all the empire of the mind with a heavy hand. Put down the pot pipe, brown man. Put down the opium pipe, yellow man. Put down those musical instruments, black man. And whenever the Three Kings found the men of color breaking the rules, worshipping their own gods, savoring their own sacraments, they were exceeding wroth with them, and smote them.
And lo, the Three Kings waxed forth in might, and added a fourth king, petrol, the liquid fire that fed their iron horses. And the Four Kings in all their might reached out upon the earth and made subjects of all men. With intense harshness, the Four Kings crushed the substance of matter itself, allowing the forbidden flame of the sun to blossom on the surface of the earth. And they smote the yellow man with the flame of the sun, to make him mindful of their power.
But the children of freedom conspired to be born in the houses of the oppressors, the vassals of the Four Kings. They risked their sanity by becoming children of those harsh and dominating ones who had subjugated all the earth. And in the vast wasteland was heard the voice of St. Timothy, crying in the wilderness, “Make straight the way of the Lord. Every hill shall be brought low and every valley raised up that his way may be straight.” And St. Timothy sacrificed his royal crown of scholarship to make way for the blessing of spirit.
Seeing St. Timothy’s martyrdom inspired the children of freedom hidden in the homes of the oppressors. The light of his transforming substances broke forth over the skies like noon at midnight, and the children of freedom rushed out from the houses of darkness, to follow the pied piper to freedom, never to return to the City of Babylon.
Many moons passed and the children of freedom feared they would perish in the wilderness. St. Timothy had fled, hiding from the wrath of the Four Kings. And like the children of Israel abandoned by Moses, they sought to raise up images to pacify their fear. Then came the Age of the Prophets, true or false, who could say? Each prophet claimed his doctrine to be superior. Some prophets joined to support each other, and others established their own houses of prophecy and eventually the children of freedom became the indentured servants of old beliefs. The children of freedom, fleeing the doctrine of the Four Kings discarded the sacraments that St. Timothy had brought, and shut themselves away with learning and piety.
Many more moons passed, yeah and turnings of the year. The children of freedom began to chafe under the new tyranny of the prophets. “Why?” some dared to ask. The prophets always answered the same, “Because thus it has been taught.” Some bolder ones asked, “Does the doctrine permit us to enjoy the sacrament of St. Timothy?” Quick came the answer, “St. Timothy’s doctrines are heretical, and his sacrament is poison.” These very words were spoken by those who had learned much of what they knew thanks to St. Timothy’s sacrament, and these were the scribes and pharisees of the prophets.
So the children of freedom once again left the houses of their masters, wandering forth from the temples of the prophets into the open lands of the future. Which is where we find them.
All Hail Dionysos

“And bull-voices roar thereto from somewhere out of the unseen, fearful semblances, and from an image as it were of thunder underground is borne on the air heavy with dread.”
– Aeschylus
“The fertility god Dionysos (Greek Dionusos), whose cult emblem was the erect phallus, was also a god of healing, and his name, when broken down to its original parts, IA-U-NU-ShUSh…”Semen, seed that saves’, and is comparable with the Greek Nosios, ‘Healer’, an epithet of Zeus.”
– John M. Allegro, The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross
“Bacchus, as Dionysos, is of Indian origin. Cicero mentions him as a son of Thyone and Nisus. Dionysos means the god Dis from Mount Nys in India…. Dionysos is preeminently the deity on whom were centered all the hopes for future life; in short, he was the god who was expected to liberate the souls of men from their prisons of flesh.”
– M. P. Blavatsky, Isis Unveiled
“Osiris is he who is called Dionysos in the Greek tongue.”
– Herodotus, The Histories
“…Osiris is the same as Dionysos, and who should know better than you, Clea, since you are at once the leader of the Thyades [female initiates who celebrated on sacred sites the nocturnal orgies of Bacchus] at Delphi and have been consecrated in the Isirian rites by your father and mother?”
– Plutarch, Isis and Osiris
Hymn to Dionysos
Blessed, blessed are the ones who know the mysteries of the god.
Blessed, blessed are those who hollow their lives in the worship of god,
whom the spirit of the god possesseth,
and who belong to the holy body of the god.
Blessed, blessed are the dancers and those who are purified,
who dance on the hill in the holy dance of god.
Blessed are they who keep the rite of Cybele the Mother.
Blessed are the disciples who become prophets, the Gnostics
who hold the holy wand of god.
Blessed are those who wear the ivy crown of the Conquering One–
Blessed, blessed are they,
Dionysos is our god!
Hymn to Dionysos
From The Homeric School…
O Insewn God–born from Zeus’ thigh–
some folk say in Drakanon,
some in windy Ikaros,
others say in Naxos,
or by the deep-eddying river Alpheos,
pregnant Semele bore you to thunder-loving Zeus.
Others say you were born in Thebes, Lord,
but all of them lie:
the father of men and gods gave birth to you
far from people, hidden from white-armed Hera.
There is a certain Nysa, a towering mountain,
blooming with woods,
far from Phoenicia, near the streams of Egypt . . .
[missing lines]
“…People will raise many statues in your temples.
Semele, since […] was cut into three, every third year
humans will sacrifice to you a hundred perfect bulls.”
So spoke the son of Kronos nodding his dark-blue brows-
the king’s divine hair swirled about
his immortal head, as he shook great Olympos.
With those words, wise Zeus nodded his command.
Be gracious, Insewn, maker of maenads.
We bards sing of you first and last; there is no way
to forget you and still remember holy song.
O Dionysos, God sewn in Zeus’ thigh, rejoice
with your mother Semele, whom some call Thyone.

Homeric Hymn to Dionysos
About Dionysos, the son of famed Semele, I shall tell of his
coming to the barren sea’s shore, on a headland, in the likeness
of a young man in his first youth. Beautiful tresses waved about
him, dark-hued and he wore on his strong shoulders a cloak,
of purple. Soon men from a well-trimmed ship, pirates, came
quickly over the wine-dark sea, Tyrsenians. An evil fate brought
them. They saw him, nodded to each other, jumped quickly, seized
him and took him to the ship, rejoicing in their hearts.
They thought he was a son of the god-born kings and wished
to bind him with harsh bonds. But the bonds did not hold him
and the ropes fell from his hands and feet. He sat down smiling
from his dark eyes. The helmsmen knew him and called to his companions
and said: “Are you so mad that you seized and bound some god of power?
Not even a well-made ship can hold him. This man is Zeus or Apollo of the silver
arrows or Poseidaon, since not to mortal men is he like but to the gods who
have Olympian palaces. Come now, send him away onto the dark shore at once.
Do not layhands on him lest in his anger he raise up fierce winds and heavy
storms”. So he spoke but the captain gave him an evil answer.
“Madman, watch the wind and haul up the ship’s sail, grasping all
the yards. The men will deal with this man. I suspect he is going
to Egypt or to Cyprus or to the Hyperborean or even further.
In the end he will tell us his friends and all their wealth and his brothers,
since a god has sent him to us.”
Speaking thus he set up the mast and sail of the ship. A wind filled the sail
and on each side the tackle they stretched out but soon marvelous
deeds occurred. First, wine through the swift black ship trickled,
sweet to drink and fragrant; a scent spread, ambrosial. Awe seized all the
watching sailors. Then over the topmost sail was spread out a vine on all
sides and there hung down many grape-bunches. Along the mast a black
creeper curled, heavy with flowers and rich fruit grew on it. All the rowing-pins were garlanded. When they saw this, they ordered the helmsman the ship to bring to land. He became a lion in the ship, fearsome in the bow, roaring loudly and amidships he revealed marvels and created a shaggy bear which stood hunting while the lion on the prow’s top glared around fiercely. The men cowered in the stern and around the helmsman who had a prudent heart they gathered in panic. Suddenly he rushed forward and seized the captain and to escape evil fate outside they all at once jumped into the shiny sea, seeing this, and become dolphins.He pitied the helmsman and held him back and gave him good fortune,
saying: “Do not worry, you who have pleased my heart.
I am loud-crying Dionysos, whom my mother bore, Semele, daughter
of Kadmos, because of the love of Zeus”. Hail, son of fair-faced Semele.
It is not possible for one who neglects you to compose a pleasing song.

In this city I was born
And yet I’m called a stranger
Me, a god.
They’ll be punished,
These godless beasts.
They’ll come to me,
Mothers, daughters, mistresses.
They’ll come with me
To see how the heaviness of light disappears.
They’ll see the earth changing,
This city decaying,
Going mad. Dying.
As regards that hateful
Coward Nepenthes,
I’ll kill him before killing the others.
His own mother
Will tear him apart,
Drain his mind,
Deprive him of speech.
I took the form of man
And came for all to see,
To learn who I am,
And by believing save themselves.
I took the form of man.
And you, women of my troupe,
I brought you here, here,
From a barbarous land.
Drums are loudly beating
Around the king’s palace
And I’m on my way
To the mountains of Kytheron,
Where the Bacchae are to be found,
To take part in the dancing.
Have A Great Day….

August 19, 2005
by gwyllm

The Troll's Nosegay…

I started out to make this a short one… you know the routine. It is Friday somewhere, sun rising over the UK as I write this. Lots in this issue directed there.
We have much to go over so here is a bare-bones breakdown of todays’ tasties…
Mystery Ice
Daniel Pinchbeck speaking at Burningman
Southern Baptist Approved
Career Choices 1966 (game for Girls…)
Photo Essay: The Local Morphic Field…
Interview: with Robin Williamson
Poetry: Robert Graves…
See ya around….
19 August. In 1972 the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were called in to investigate a creature which had appeared on the surface of Thetis Lake, British Columbia, and chased two boys, Gordon Pile and Robin Flewellyn, up the beach. It was about five feet tall, silver-coloured, and shaped like a human being apart from enormous ears, scaly skin and ‘a monster face’. Flewellyn was cut on the hand by six razor-sharp points on the creature’s head. Two other witnesses saw it four days later. A similar monster had been seen climbing up a riverbank in Saginaw, Michigan, in 1937.

All The Linkage That Fits…
Mystery Ice Chunk Falls From Sky…
Israeli ‘tribe’ faces another move
Daniel Pinchbeck: Emit Time: 2012…A Change in How We Experience Time

Southern Baptist Approved Disney Films….
The Exciting Game of Career Girls (from 1966)

A Strange Rite Unfolds…. Rabbit Worship!
Sophie offers up homage to Bramble…

Local Juvenile Delinquent
(Fell out of nest and yet he survived!)

Over in Ms. Janices’ Garden…
Our Lady of the Green Thumb…

Local Gangster and General Hoodlum
(what Morphic field doesn’t have one….)

More of the local Morphic Field in later additions…

An old but interesting interview… I think it is well worth reading…
Talking With A Green Man: An Interview with Robin Williamson By Charles de Lint

A poet and a modern day bard, Robin Williamson has always told stories.
He was born on November 24th, 1943, in Edinburgh, Scotland. Raised there and in England, he has been a musician since leaving school at the age of seventeen. His first musical forays involved the traditional music of Scotland, England and Ireland as well as skiffle music, but it wasn’t until late 1965, when he formed the Incredible String Band with Clive Palmer and Mike Heron, that his music began to gain larger recognition
The Incredible String Band went through numerous line-ups, a documentary film, and thirteen albums with such evocative titles as The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter and Liquid Acrobat as Regards the Air, until it finally broke up in 1974. For a while Robin contented himself with a solo album, fiddle and tin whistle music books, poetry collections, and a collaboration on a mystery novel, The Glory Trap, published under the name of Sherman Williamson. Then in 1977 he formed the Merry band, with whom he toured extensively and recorded three albums, turning to solo work once more in the early eighties.
More recently Robin has composed the music for a stage and British TV production of The Mabinogi, a score for a thirteen week TV series on British history, The Dragon Has Two Tongues, and songs and music for a dance theatre piece on Dylan Thomas. Robin’s latest solo performances have been of a bardic nature incorporating harp, song and story. His latest recordings include a new album of songs, Songs of Love and Parting, a collection of 17th century Lowland harp tunes, The Legacy of the Scottish Harpers, and a number of cassettes of Celtic legend, wit, mystery and romance.
This interview was conducted by letter and cassette during the Spring of 1985.
You have been described as a ‘Celtic Bard’. Could you give us some idea as to what is meant by this?
The bards were founded in the dim and distant past. They were around when Caesar invaded the islands, as a part of the druid order, and they seemed to have survived in Scotland up into the beginning of the eighteenth centurywhen the clan system was finally destroyed. They were poets and, as such, originally held a sacred function in Celtic societies.
What would be the role of the bard in present-day society?
I think the poet’s sacred function is something that we have lost. In our society, it’s been replaced with such things as the star system- the rock star, or the film star – that’s the relic of it. But it’s really something different. The star system is more like idol worship isn’t it? The poet’s function, rather than being worshipped, is perhaps to worship. Speaking for myself, I seek to give people a sense of continuity – a sense of their part in the universe and of us all partaking in the mystery of being alive and sailing this extraordinary ship of fools which is the world.
Your stories, in performance and on cassette, are usually accompanied by harp music. What brought your interest to the harp and how important is it to your storytelling?
I’d always wanted to play the harp, but it wasn’t until the late seventies and my work with the Merry Band that I came in contact with Sylvia Woods, who plays the harp. After the end of the Merry Band I began incorporating on the harp ideas that I’d always tried to do previously on the guitar. I think the harp is the perfect accompaniment to what I do now and, of course, it’s traditional. The ancient poets always used to play the harp or perform to harp accompaniment.
Can you tell us a little bit about Scottish storytelling and how it survived over the years?
When I was a boy in Scotland, there was a lot of surviving folklore, though no-one had got around to labelling it as such. It was just there. Scotland has proved to be, in the last five or six years, about the richest vein of contemporary traditional storytelling that’s ever been collected anywhere in Europe – including Ireland. They’ve collected hundreds and hundreds of stories in Scotland in the last twenty years.
Storytelling survived, was continued and brought on into the twentieth century almost entirely by the lowest classes of people, particularly by the travellers or tinkers. But in the ancient past, storytelling – even some of the stories the travellers tell – originated essentially with an aristocratic class of poet, the bards, who were the associates of kings.
Do you feel that class structure is important?
Apart from disputing the notion that art originates in any particular class, no. I regard art as a classless pursuit. It seems to me that, if you become an artist, you step outside of the class system and can associate with both high and low. That’s the charm and its virtue. While someone like myself will never be able to enter the world of a traveller like Betsy White – a marvelous Scottish storyteller – with my literary background I can add to the tradition what is perhaps its key to the future.
Storytelling must become classless in order to transcend its current demise in the world and to step into the future along side of various media developments. Without these traditional extensions into the future, the world of the future will be very, very mechanized and devoid of the human touch. For the same reason that people turn to pottery for a sense of touch of the earth, I think people turn to the storytelling tradition for a touch of the human soul and our place in the world.
How much of your storytelling is based on traditional sources?
All of it is based on traditional folklore, but all of it is in my own voice. I have acquired my own niche in that contnuing heritage because as a boy I was able to meet people like Jeannie Robertson, Jimmie MacBeath, Davey Stewart – the last of the great traditional Scottish singers. In a way, what they represented has been handed on to me. I have become the next link in the chain by virtue of my having been there and been privileged to hear it. I am a part of that heritage and my stories are all based on it, but they are mine as well.
Is there any difference in the way that you approach the writing of a story or a poem?
Writing a story, writing a song, writing a poem – they’re all the same thing, whether creating or relaying. It’s a question of finding your own voice. It’s a question of not imitating somebody else. When people sound like themselves, there’s an honesty and a truth about that communication that comes from something close to their heart, or close to what they are.
But what if the source of the work is traditional?
Traditional stroies are not authored by one individual, but by the race or the nation. This doesn’t deny the fact that an individual storyteller may have his or her own creative part in that continuance, of course. It’s possible to be extremely creative, even when playing a simple fiddle tune, for example, because it’s the personal emotion that is put into that tune that makes it unique. In that sense it’s possible to put a lot of one’s own personality into a traditional story without altering the content at all.
How do you see stotytelling surviving in the present day?
When I used to live in North Africa, I listened to many of the storytellers in Marrakech and Fez. They have big market places in those towns where there is still the medieval-style tradition of open-air storytelling that continues in the present day. These storytellers tell stories that happened a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, and stories that happened to them yesterday, in exactly the same tone of voice. I think that’s very, very important.
In our society, storytelling is still alive as jokes and humorous anecdotes. There have always been jokes, but I think one can extend the type of storytelling that is common and popular to include things that have happened to one, funny things, what somebody said, even telling what happened in a film. Present-day storytelling should try to include these things, together with the whole body of the tradition, and use it to make a leap forward into the future. That’s what I try to do, anyway.
Do you have any other advice for present-day storytellers?
Just to tell the truth from your own heart. Other than that, there is no advice, except to add that I think it’s very important not to analyse the ancient hereditary material that we’ve been handed down by the past. It’s a mistake to assume that we can make some superior sort of judgement as to its meaning. Also, the notion that some bits of the human tradition are not somehow suitable, that some fairy tales, say, are not suitable for children – that is also a mistake. Fairy tales have their own morals and theor own ethics. Perhaps the violent element in some fairy tales is a sort of preparation for the violence and unfairness of the world. Such stories are much preferable to the junk pap on television or in movies like Star Wars and E.T. that are only imitations of our ancestral heritage.
In order to avoid storytelling’s becoming some sort of cutesy parlor activity, or some patronizing entertainment suitable only for children, it’s important to maintain a string thread to its roots – to the personal voice, to one’s commitment to the millenia that go before us, and to the unchanged mystery of the stories themselves.
Stories are an inseparable part of the human dream.
Poetry…. By Robert Graves….

The Troll’s Nosegay

A simple nosegay! Was that much to ask?
(Winter still nagged, with scarce a bud yet showing.)
He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.
‘Somewhere,’ she cried, ‘there must be blossom blowing.’
It seems my lady wept and the troll swore
By Heaven he hated tears: he’d cure her spleen –
Where she had begged one flower he’d shower fourscore,
A bunch fit to amaze a China Queen.
Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose
He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set
WIth elvish unsubstantial Mignonette
And such vague blooms as wandering dreams enclose.
But she?
Charmed to tears,
Yet –
Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued – who knows?
Welsh Incident

‘But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.’
‘What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?’
‘Nothing at all of any things like that.’
‘What were they, then?’
‘All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.’
‘Describe just one of them.’
‘I am unable.’
‘What were their colours?’
‘Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you’d like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.’
‘Tell me, had they legs?’
‘Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.’
‘But did these things come out in any order?’
What o’clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?’
‘I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon’s (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth’s mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail’s pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.’
‘Well, what?’
‘It made a noise.’
‘A frightening noise?’
‘No, no.’
‘A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?’
‘No, but a very loud, respectable noise —
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.’
‘What did the mayor do?’
‘I was coming to that.’
Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel –
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
he lives – he then unties the string.
Have a brilliant weekend!