Earthrites

Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

January 6, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Earth Rites Radio in Test Mode…!

http://www.earthrites.org:8000/ices

Paste The Above Address in to your Media Player! you can also click on this url, and then click on the mount point to load the program: http://www.earthrites.org:8000/



Yep. In the heavy testing mode. A few hours of Chill Programming up there now. A big thanks to Doug over in the UK for his assistance!

Give it a go, and send some feedback if you would. It is a 128k feed, so will work on Broadband/Cable Connections… Full Stereo btw.

We will have more stuff coming soon if the plan goes right, A Spoken Word Channel, and a Dial-Up Channel for those who are using slower connections.

We hope to have programming on a regular basis, of Chill, Trance, Acid Rock, Dub, Indian, Iranian and other musics… The Spoken Word Channel will carry Lectures, Poetry and Interviews. The first Interview if we can get it launched will be next month…

If you have any request for music, or spoken word programming let me know, kay?

On Menu:

Most Excellent Linkage!

Remake? Wicker Man

Gary Snyder on D.A. Levy

Poetry: Li Po

Have a good weekend, I will alert ya when the radio program changes out…

Thanks,

Gwyllm

_________

Links:

Mysteries of the Melon…

Army Gollum

It’s Weird, It’s Wonderful, It’s Chicken Suit!

An article about Sasha!



__________

Wicker Man Remake…

I have a bit of trepidation about this… but I must admit I am looking forward to it. I think it would be hard to top Christopher Lee’s portrayal though, as well as Lindsey Kemp’s performance, let alone Britt Ekland… Well, I have fond memories of it. If you find the original, get the US release, as it has almost 20 more minutes of very pertinent material in it. I always thought the writer had raided “The Golden Bough”, yet I am happy with the result. I hope I can say the same about the new one, and for some reason they have set it in Maine, and you have to contend with Nicolas Cage as well….. Script Review…









______________

The Dhrma Eye of d.a.levy

by Gary Snyder

______

d.a.levy – Darryl Levy – I try out his names, reaching to know the man; his poems, his polemics. I feel brother to Levy not only as poet but as fellow-worker in the Buddha-fields. Levy had a remarkable karma: he saw who he was, where he was, what his field of activity was, and what his tools were to be.

______

“if in the past

i was of the black

and sat at night

in cemeteries

& silence

even that

was transient”

In Indian thought the truth/law/absolute is called the Dharma. The Buddhadharma (“Buddhism”) is the Dharma as transmitted by a line of enlightened men and women. Gods exist, but even the Gods are subject to the laws of karma; and because of their tiresomely long omnipotent lives they are somewhat handicapped in the achievement of liberation. Gods have been known to gain insight by attending little talks given by poor wretched mendicant human wise men. There are religious-minded people who strive for purity and solitary illumination, to be “God” like-but the Dharma is without dualism. Great Buddhist yogins of the past often sat through the night in graveyards, meditating while seated on corpses. Some of these yogins in their exhaustive search through all the components of mind and transformations of thought-energy became “of the black” – showing no dualistic distaste for “impurity” – and hoping to reach the depths where there is the basest lead, the raw material for the alchemical transformation into “gold.”

“it was feb. 63 when i had enough money to buy a 6X9 letterhead hand press & type. Spent al most a year at my aunt and uncles printing sometimes 8 to 16 hours a day for days and days. . .”

The “right-handed” yogins and mystics have been an integral part of the conspiracy of civilization to degrade women and mis-use nature. They have become “established religion” living off of money provided by the state, or the pious gifts of workers and peasants.

The yogins of the left-hand, both women and men, have lived in the world doing their work and supporting themselves by crafts or labor. The Tantric siddha (“powerman”) Saraha was an arrow-maker. Naropa’s teacher Tilopa was a pounder of til seeds. Many were poets. Long apprentice ships were spent, in the mastery of a craft.

_______



“i have a city to cover with lines”

His hometown, Cleveland, that he wouldn’t move from. Like the Sioux warriors who tied themselves to a spear and stuck it in the ground, never to retreat. Why? An almost irrational act of love–to give a measure of self-awareness to the people of Cleveland through poesy.

_______



“you will not confront yourself

so you leap to the aid of others”

–Levy’s self-criticism also. But the Bodhisattva view does not imply that first, you perfect your selfrealization and second, enter the world to “cure illnesses and loosen bonds.” The waterwheel swings deep into the water and spills it off the top in the same turning.

_______

“in the background i sense

clannish emasculated

masonic mafia rites”

You’d think a hard-working young printer and poet would incur no particular wrath and blame. Or would you. The problem goes deeper than the celebrated American anti-intellectualism or guilt-filled prurient repressive over-permissive sexual attitudes or the compulsive accumulation of X

________

“Really”

the police try to protect

the banks – and everything else

is secondary”

(Luther’s outhouse a national institution.) The problem goes back to when the powers, beauties, and deep knowledges of the age-old women’s traditions were supplanted by military-caste mystiques & the accumulation of heavy metals. The poet/yogin still speaks for that other, saner, consciousness. The Occidental poet, with his “Muse.”

_______

“lady you have to be realistic

sending all your poets to the looney bin

ain’t helping the profession very much

your blue hair in the wind

& yr eyes full of diamonds.”

Not an easy row to hoe. Nature a network of de-pendent transformations and the Muse can be Maya, mistress of the ecosystem of delusion; who will perpetually keep tricking, or be the means of seeing through (herself) – a challenge, Levy’s Cleveland is not, exactly, his adversary: but his witch-Muse he needs must convert to the Path (more paying-back for spooky experiments in previous lives – that muse -)

_______

“What form of energy is used to

create the original thoughts?

Try to become THAT!”

This takes us to the heart of Levy’s strength. All manipulations of politics or magic – things, images, from inner or outer worlds; reduce down to this mustard seed that blows away when you try to look at it.

________

“Cherokee, Deleware, Huron [sic]

We will return your land to you”

It is curious how even a glimpse of the Mind-essence creates such primal respect for the land and for the dignity of men who live lovingly in the web of life – the primitives-

“it is not a Cathouse of the rising sun

or the deathwagon of the beat

generation, but a bridge of clouds

to a new culture.”

Traditional orthodox Buddhists are not concerned with building new cultures any more than they are interested in nature religion or girls. Poets must try to get them together – playing a funny kind of role, today, as pivot-man, between the upheavals of culture-change and the persistence of the Single Eye of knowledge. d. a. levy finished up his karma early – “reborn as a poet in an industrial society” but he did his job well.

_______

“the traditions we follow

make the gods look young”

Thus the name of Padma Sambhava’s line of Tibetan Buddhism, Ning-ma, means “Ancient Ones.” The sophistications of Mahayana metaphysics harmonized with archaic and primitive systems … Goddesses; sexual yoga. Too rich to manage without the bitter tea of Zen as well – and here in North America, Turtle Island, we begin now to look for the next switchback in the path: something drawing on the wisdom traditions of Asia, incorporating the profound lore of our Semitic, Celtic, African, & Germanic roots – something that walks with the land and animals of Turtle Island in “a sacred manner” as the Indians do.

Levy gone up ahead, with that tinkle of bells (which is also how you hear the dakini approaching)

“when riding the winter pony

one

leaves

a trail of bells

soft/y ringing

deep in the mind

& if one listens

perhaps this sound

will guide

the young rider through the

falling

snow”

Gary Snyder

4.V I 11.40071

(Reckoning roughly from

the earliest cave paintings)

NOTE

Books by d.a.levy – find them where you can -

ukanhavyrfukncitibak. Cleveland, Ghost Press 1970.

Suburban Monastery Death Poem. Madison, Wis., Quixote Press, Vajrayana Reprint Series #1.

The Tibetan Stroboscope. Cleveland, Ayizan Press, 1968.

and, issues of The Buddhist Third Class Junk Mail Oracle.

Previously published in The Old Ways, City Lights Books

Copyright � 1977 by Gary Snyder

__________________

Poetry: Li Po

Green Mountain









You ask me why I live on Green Mountain ?

I smile in silence and the quiet mind.

Peach petals blow on mountain streams

To earths and skies beyond Humankind.



A Mountain Revelry

To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,

We drained a hundred jugs of wine.

A splendid night it was . . . .

In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,

But at last drunkenness overtook us;

And we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,

The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet.



Alone And Drinking Under The Moon

Amongst the flowers I

am alone with my pot of wine

drinking by myself; then lifting

my cup I asked the moon

to drink with me, its reflection

and mine in the wine cup, just

the three of us; then I sigh

for the moon cannot drink,

and my shadow goes emptily along

with me never saying a word;

with no other friends here, I can

but use these two for company;

in the time of happiness, I

too must be happy with all

around me; I sit and sing

and it is as if the moon

accompanies me; then if I

dance, it is my shadow that

dances along with me; while

still not drunk, I am glad

to make the moon and my shadow

into friends, but then when

I have drunk too much, we

all part; yet these are

friends I can always count on

these who have no emotion

whatsoever; I hope that one day

we three will meet again,

deep in the Milky Way.

Translated by: Rewi Allen



Bathed And Washed

Bathed in fragrance,

do not brush your hat;

Washed in perfume,

do not shake your coat:

“Knowing the world

fears what is too pure,

The wisest man

prizes and stores light!”

By Bluewater

an old angler sat:

You and I together,

Let us go home.

_____________

January 5, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Dromena







For by means of the Mysteries,

we have been transformed

from a rough and savage

way of life

to the state of humanity,

and have been civilized.

Just as they are called Initiations,

so in actual fact

we have learned from them

the fundamentals of life

and have grasped the basis

not only for living with joy

but also dying with a better hope.

—–Cicero

Welcome to Thursday. Often when I work, my mind is doing the wander. Today the idea of what occurred during the Dromena kept welling up as I tried to finish off the first part of a very large project… (this type of thing rattles around yours truly brainbox on a regular fashion, weird to say)

It seems that I have been looking at the idea of initiation again as well in these mid-day musings. I recently watched the attempts of young ones trying to self initiate without having a firm foundation, or a guiding hand. Because of a lack of training it seems that most would miss the cue when a guiding hand is being offered. Then again, so would many of the rest of us. I have found that we pass saints and sages daily, and are blind to what is in front, or even working its way out of us…

With that said, I have gone back to the font of it all for our “Western” Civilization, Eleusis. This is timely with Albert H’s 100th Birthday Bash in Basel Switzerland looming rather quickly… Lots of speculation abounding (Thanks for the reminder Professor Pan) about what the Kykeon actually was, and if it was Ergot, or Mushrooms, or, or… a plain drink of barley water.

Today’s edition deals with Dromena, (Things Acted). Some say this was the birth of Theatre. Possibly. Where are the dramas now that open the mind to the light like these acts did? What will transform the Epopt?

Many suffer from a lack of mystery, and from the rites that mark our transitions. I hope that some might find the beginning of wisdom here. These are but excerpts, (of the Dromena) with power though to pierce the soul if juggled correctly.

As Proclus said: “In the most sacred Mysteries before the scene of the mystic visions, there is terror infused over the minds of the initiated.”

As it should be. Eyes wide open now…

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

_____________

Initiation: Dromena (Things Acted)

There were three degrees of initiation: the Lesser Mysteries which were a preliminary requirement, the Greater Mysteries or telete which means “to make perfect,” and the additional and highest degree, the epopteia. The telete initiation can be divided into the dromena : things acted, the legomena : things said, and the deiknymena : things shown. Theo Smyrnaios has his own particular stages of mystical initiation related to his five-step understanding of philosophy. They are 1) initial purification, 2) mystic communion or communication, 3) epopteia : revelation of the holy objects and transmission of the telete, 4) crowning with garlands as the badge of initiation into the mysteries, and 5) the happiness resulting from communion with God. According to inscriptions the crowning of initiates occurred at the beginning of the ceremonies described as the second and third stages. Their names were recorded on wooden tablets by the priests, and their myrtle wreaths were replaced by wreathes with ribbons, the emblem of their consecration to the goddesses. (Mylonas Eleusis p. 261)

The seventh day, Boedromion 21, was the second day at Eleusis and was probably spent resting and preparing for the final ceremony (orgia) in the Telesterion that night. Proclus writes:

to those entering the temenos (sacred precinct) of Eleusis the program was stated, not to advance inside the adytum.

(Ibid. p. 261)

In the dromena the initiates may have imitated in ritual fashion the actions and feelings of Demeter in the original time. These could have included the abduction of Persephone, the wanderings of Demeter, her arrival at Eleusis, her sorrow while staying with Celeus and Metaneira, the rejoicing at reunion with her daughter, and finally her divine gifts of grain and mystic knowledge. Tertullian complains of a ritual discrepancy.

Why is the priestess of Demeter carried off, unless Demeter herself had suffered the same sort of thing?

(To the Nations 30)

Lactantius says:

In the Mysteries of Demeter all night long with torches kindled they seek for Persephone and when she is found, the whole ritual closes with thanksgiving and the tossing of torches.

(Mylonas Eleusis p. 215)

Many literary sources and especially the art show us the dominant importance of the torches in the rites. Ovid gives this account of the original action of Demeter:

There the goddess kindled two pine-trees to serve her as a light; hence to this day a torch is given out at the rites of Ceres.

(Fasti IV, 492-494)

A quote from Apollodoros indicates sound effects.

The Hierophant is in the habit of sounding the so-called gong when Kore is being invoked by name. (Fragment 36)

This gong was used in the Greek theater to imitate thunder, which was believed to come from the underworld. (Kerenyi Eleusis p. 84)

Plutarch describes the serious reverence on the final night as being analogous to the deepest calm of the enlightened philosopher.

Just as persons who are being initiated into the Mysteries throng together at the outset amid tumult and shouting, and jostle against one another but when the holy rites are being performed and disclosed the people are immediately attentive in awe and silence, so too at the beginning of philosophy: about its portals also you will see great tumult and talking and boldness, as some boorishly and violently try to jostle their way towards the repute it bestows; but he who has succeeded in getting inside, and has seen a great light, as though a shrine were opened, adopts another bearing of silence and amazement, and “humble and orderly attends upon” reason as upon a god.

(Progress in Virtue 81e)

Aristeides describes the range of emotions experienced.

Within this hall, the mystics were made to experience the most bloodcurdling sensations of horror and the most enthusiastic ecstasy of joy.

He says the Eleusinian initiates were to receive “impressions, and not information,” and the aim was that they be put into a certain attitude of mind, provided they were prepared for it. (Casavis The Greek Origins of Freemasonry p. 111)

The following account by Synesius indicates that Aristotle took the same position:

But their procedure is like Bacchic frenzy – like the leap of a man mad, or possessed – the attainment of a goal without running the race, a passing beyond reason without the previous exercise of reasoning. For the sacred matter (contemplation) is not like attention belonging to knowledge, or an outlet of mind, nor is it like one thing in one place and another in another. On the contrary – to compare small and greater – it is like Aristotle’s view that men being initiated have not a lesson to learn, but an experience to undergo and a condition into which they must be brought, while they are becoming fit (for revelation).

(Synesius Dio 1133)

Themistius says of the initiate:

Entering now into the secret dome, he is filled with horror and astonishment. He is seized with loneliness and total perplexity; he is unable to move a step forward, and at a loss to find the entrance to the way that leads to where he aspires to, till the prophet or conductor lays open the anteroom of the Temple.

(Themistius Orat. in Patrem. 50)

Stobaeus speaks of:

a rude and fearful march through night and darkness.

(Casavis The Greek Origins of Freemasonry p. 111)

Proclus says:

In the most sacred Mysteries before the scene of the mystic visions, there is terror infused over the minds of the initiated.

(Ibid. p. 111)

Porphyry tell how a boy’s part in the ritual helps the relationship between god and man.

For, in your mysteries, what the boy who attends the altar accomplishes, by performing accurately what he is commanded to do, in order to render the gods propitious to all those who have been initiated, as far as to muesis, that, in nations and cities, priests are able to effect, by sacrificing for all the people, and through piety inducing the Gods to be attentive to the welfare of those that belong to them.

(On Abstinence From Animal Food )

According to Hermias, those initiates who closed the eyes, which muesis signifies, no longer received by sense those divine mysteries, but with the pure soul itself.

The following passage from Plutarch’s essay On the Soul survives today only because it was quoted by Stobaeus (Florigelium 120). So significant are its ideas and perhaps others in the same essay, that it may have been censored from his collected works by some ruthless dogmatists. It does more than describe the emotions experienced in initiation as it goes to the core of its meaning.

Thus death and initiation closely correspond; even the words (teleutan and teleisthai) correspond, and so do the things. At first there are wanderings, and toilsome running about in circles and journeys through the dark over uncertain roads and culs de sac ; then, just before the end, there are all kinds of terrors, with shivering, trembling, sweating, and utter amazement. After this, a strange and wonderful light meets the wanderer; he is admitted into clean and verdant meadows, where he discerns gentle voices, and choric dances, and the majesty of holy sounds and sacred visions. Here the now fully initiated is free, and walks at liberty like a crowned and dedicated victim, joining in the revelry; he is the companion of pure and holy men, and looks down upon the uninitiated and unpurified crowd here below in the mud and fog, trampling itself down and crowded together, though of death remaining still sunk in its evils, unable to believe in the blessings that lie beyond. That the wedding and close union of the soul with the body is a thing really contrary to nature may clearly be seen from all this.

(Grant, F. C. Hellenistic Religions p. 148)

______________

An applicable poem by a sympathetic heart. I love this man’s work.

Poetry: Alfred Tennyson / Demeter and Persephone







Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies

All night across the darkness, and at dawn

Falls on the threshold of her native land,

And can no more, thou camest, O my child,

Led upward by the God of ghosts and dreams,

Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and dumb,

With passing thro’ at once from state to state,

Until I brought thee hither, that the day,

When here thy hands let fall the gather’d flower,

Might break thro’ clouded memories once again

On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale

Saw thee, and flash’d into a frolic of song

And welcome; and a gleam as of the moon,

When first she peers along the tremulous deep,

Fled wavering o’er thy face, and chased away

That shadow of a likeness to the king

Of shadows, thy dark mate. Persephone!

Queen of the dead no more — my child! Thine eyes

Again were human-godlike, and the Sun

Burst from a swimming fleece of winter gray,

And robed thee in his day from head to feet —

“Mother!” and I was folded in thine arms.

Child, those imperial, disimpassion’d eyes

Awed even me at first, thy mother — eyes

That oft had seen the serpent-wanded power

Draw downward into Hades with his drift

Of fickering spectres, lighted from below

By the red race of fiery Phlegethon;

But when before have Gods or men beheld

The Life that had descended re-arise,

And lighted from above him by the Sun?

So mighty was the mother’s childless cry,

A cry that ran thro’ Hades, Earth, and Heaven!

So in this pleasant vale we stand again,

The field of Enna, now once more ablaze

With flowers that brighten as thy footstep falls,

All flowers — but for one black blur of earth

Left by that closing chasm, thro’ which the car

Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee hence.

And here, my child, tho’ folded in thine arms,

I feel the deathless heart of motherhood

Within me shudder, lest the naked glebe

Should yawn once more into the gulf, and thence

The shrilly whinnyings of the team of Hell,

Ascending, pierce the glad and songful air,

And all at once their arch’d necks, midnight-maned,

Jet upward thro’ the mid-day blossom. No!

For, see, thy foot has touch’d it; all the space

Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself afresh,

And breaks into the crocus-purple hour

That saw thee vanish.

Child, when thou wert gone,

I envied human wives, and nested birds,

Yea, the cubb’d lioness; went in search of thee

Thro’ many a palace, many a cot, and gave

Thy breast to ailing infants in the night,

And set the mother waking in amaze

To find her sick one whole; and forth again

Among the wail of midnight winds, and cried,

“Where is my loved one? Wherefore do ye wail?”

And out from all the night an answer shrill’d,

“We know not, and we know not why we wail.”

I climb’d on all the cliffs of all the seas,

And ask’d the waves that moan about the world

“Where? do ye make your moaning for my child?”

And round from all the world the voices came

“We know not, and we know not why we moan.”

“Where?” and I stared from every eagle-peak,

I thridded the black heart of all the woods,

I peer’d thro’ tomb and cave, and in the storms

Of Autumn swept across the city, and heard

The murmur of their temples chanting me,

Me, me, the desolate Mother! “Where”? — and turn’d,

And fled by many a waste, forlorn of man,

And grieved for man thro’ all my grief for thee, —

The jungle rooted in his shatter’d hearth,

The serpent coil’d about his broken shaft,

The scorpion crawling over naked skulls; —

I saw the tiger in the ruin’d fane

Spring from his fallen God, but trace of thee

I saw not; and far on, and, following out

A league of labyrinthine darkness, came

On three gray heads beneath a gleaming rift.

“Where”? and I heard one voice from all the three

“We know not, for we spin the lives of men,

And not of Gods, and know not why we spin!

There is a Fate beyond us.” Nothing knew.

Last as the likeness of a dying man,

Without his knowledge, from him flits to warn

A far-off friendship that he comes no more,

So he, the God of dreams, who heard my cry,

Drew from thyself the likeness of thyself

Without thy knowledge, and thy shadow past

Before me, crying “The Bright one in the highest

Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest,

And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, the child

Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, the Power

That lifts her buried life from loom to bloom,

Should be for ever and for evermore

The Bride of Darkness.”

So the Shadow wail’d.

Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the Gods of Heaven.

I would not mingle with their feasts; to me

Their nectar smack’d of hemlock on the lips,

Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite.

The man, that only lives and loves an hour,

Seem’d nobler than their hard Eternities.

My quick tears kill’d the flower, my ravings hush’d

The bird, and lost in utter grief I fail’d

To send my life thro’ olive-yard and vine

And golden grain, my gift to helpless man.

Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley-spears

Were hollow-husk’d, the leaf fell, and the sun,

Pale at my grief, drew down before his time

Sickening, and Aetna kept her winter snow.

Then He, the brother of this Darkness, He

Who still is highest, glancing from his height

On earth a fruitless fallow, when he miss’d

The wonted steam of sacrifice, the praise

And prayer of men, decreed that thou should’st dwell

For nine white moons of each whole year with me,

Three dark ones in the shadow with thy King.

Once more the reaper in the gleam of dawn

Will see me by the landmark far away,

Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk

Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor,

Rejoicing in the harvest and the grange.

Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill-content

With them, who still are highest. Those gray heads,

What meant they by their “Fate beyond the Fates”

But younger kindlier Gods to bear us down,

As we bore down the Gods before us? Gods,

To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, to stay,

Not spread the plague, the famine; Gods indeed,

To send the noon into the night and break

The sunless halls of Hades into Heaven?

Till thy dark lord accept and love the Sun,

And all the Shadow die into the Light,

When thou shalt dwell the whole bright year with me,

And souls of men, who grew beyond their race,

And made themselves as Gods against the fear

Of Death and Hell; and thou that hast from men,

As Queen of Death, that worship which is Fear,

Henceforth, as having risen from out the dead,

Shalt ever send thy life along with mine

From buried grain thro’ springing blade, and bless

Their garner’d Autumn also, reap with me,

Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of Earth

The worship which is Love, and see no more

The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly-glimmering lawns

Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires

Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide

Along the silent field of Asphodel.

__________________

To the Rites remembered, and to the Rites yet to begin.

(Free ourselves so that we might assist in freeing others.)

Take Care,

G

January 5, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

A grave business

From The BBC…

Graveyard yields secrets of ancient world

Residents of the village of Nobber, north Meath, in the Republic of Ireland, stumbled upon archaeological treasure when they decided to clean up an old graveyard.

Now they are hoping that tombs in the shape of Celtic crosses, dating back 1100 years, will put them on the map, alongside such famous archaeological sites as Newgrange.



The old graveyard at Nobber, North Meath

Until recently, the graveyard in the village of Nobber, about two hours’ drive from Dublin, was overgrown with weeds and briars.

It is surrounded by evergreen trees and bushes, a church that has fallen into disrepair and the remains of a medieval monastery.

It took 12 men nearly two years working at night and at weekends, in all four seasons to clear up Mother Nature’s mess. She rewarded them in full.

Richard Clarke, a volunteer worker, said the graveyard was very neglected.

“We started in, basically, with our hands and clippers and spades and any little thing at all that would break down some of the old vegetation that had overgrown the place,” he said.

Celtic crosses

In the course of cleaning up the wind-swept cemetery, they found small concrete tomb stones, like Celtic crosses, some less than a foot high.

Graves, they now know, that date back to the 10th century.

Archaeologists, like Professor George Eogan, an expert on Newgrange, are excited by the discovery.

He said it proves that this north Meath townland with its own monastery, was significant in the relatively early Christian times.



Professor George Eogan is excited by the discovery

“It certainly, was an outstanding place around the 10th century. It was one of the leading sites in Ireland at that earlier period,” Professor Eogan said.

But the small weather-beaten tombs, with their fading etched marks were not all that was found in the clean-up.

Local people also discovered evidence of a church built in the 12th century and medieval tomb stones lying flat on the ground with elaborate designs and concrete carvings of kneeling men.

Tony McEntee, who helped organise the tidy up, said Nobber should be very proud of its voluntary workers.

“Were it not for all the work that these men put in, these discoveries would never have been known,” he said.

The one-street village of Nobber is a small, agricultural community on the Navan to Kingscourt Road.

People, including the Fine Gael TD Shane McEntee, now hope to capitalise on the discovery and make their village a major tourist attraction.

“To get jobs into the area is an issue but the fact is that you have something here, a home-grown industry that people are very proud of – it would be great to put the whole package together.”

A simple tidy up has paid rich dividends.

January 4, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Fadwa Tuqan

The Poetry is in itself enough for this edition.

Talk Later,

G

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Links:

Building a better Tardis!

WHAT IS YOUR DANGEROUS IDEA?

Self Referencing Hazard…

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Poetry:Fadwa Tuqan









Enough for Me

Enough for me to die on her earth

be buried in her

to melt and vanish into her soil

then sprout forth as a flower

played with by a child from my country.

Enough for me to remain

in my country’s embrace

to be in her close as a handful of dust

a sprig of grass

a flower.

————–

The Deluge and the Tree

When the hurricane swirled and spread its deluge

of dark evil

onto the good green land

‘they’ gloated. The western skies

reverberated with joyous accounts:

“The Tree has fallen !

The great trunk is smashed! The hurricane leaves no life in the Tree!”

Had the Tree really fallen?

Never! Not with our red streams flowing forever,

not while the wine of our thorn limbs

fed the thirsty roots,

Arab roots alive

tunneling deep, deep, into the land!

When the Tree rises up, the branches

shall flourish green and fresh in the sun

the laughter of the Tree shall leaf

beneath the sun

and birds shall return

Undoubtedly, the birds shall return.

The birds shall return

————-

Behind the walls of them

An unjust hand has constructed it

and it remains in its size

like one eternal misery.

I have watched its melancholy walls,

worn and deteriorated from the long centuries, screaming:

You remove from me the light and the freedom,

but you will not be able to extinguish in my heart

the spark of hope.

Cursed, you will be to suffocate every dream

that reinvigerates as it feeds.

My heart will never stop to dream

even if this cell will be closed for ever.

If a thousand chains tie me

as many fantastic wings will make me fly.

I will curse each person and those of your future for as long as I can.

for I will not bow, will never be silent

in front of the fury.

I never will stop being free.

I will sing the desires of my spirit,

even if you will crush me in chains.

My song will gush from the depth.

——————-

My city is sad

The day in which we knew the death and treason,

the tide was made back,

the windows of the sky were closed,

and the city contained its breaths.

The day of the crease of the waves; the day

in which the abominable passion opened the face,

the hope was reduced to ashes,

and my sad city was asphyxiated

while swallowing the pain.

If echoes and without signs,

the children, the songs, loose themselves.

While they undress, covered with blood feet,

the sadness crawls in my city,

a planted silence as it mounts,

dark like night

a terrible silence that transports

the weight of the death and the defeat.

Ay, my sad enmudecida city!

The fruits and the grain can thus be burned,

in time of harvest?

Painful end of the route!

——————-

I will not cry

To the doors of Yafa

all friends mine,

and between the rubbish chaos of the houses,

between the undernourishment and the thorns,

I said to the eyes, be quiet:

You stop you…

Let us cry on the ruins

those who have left, leaving them.

The house is calling to that who built it

The house is giving the condolence from him.

And the heart, exhausted moans

and it says:

What have you done in these days?

What of those that before you lived?

You have known of them?

You have known its game?

Here they dreamed, those who were here

and they drew up the plans

drew them in the morning.

More, Where are the dreams

and the morning?

And, Where, where they?

How will they squash the wounds?

How will I loose the desperation?

How am I going to cry

before you…

Right, as of today, not to cry.

Amadísimos mine:

The chestnut, the special one, the love of the town,

he who has surpassed

the slip of yesterday,

who hears afar, after the river, the heroes

they who are gone.

You listen very kind,

you, the special one, tho one who whinnies

who trusts in its assault;

hoping that it already escapes the siege of dark misfortune,

as he runs towards his position, on the sun.

While compact groups of riders

they bless and they swear devotion to him

they that are dew to him, among the smoke of cleaning,

cleaning that now has become carnelian, clear, deep, red,

that has the blood of choruses,

that give him his despoiling

his copius food.

And they, sending to him, they acclaim:

It runs to the eye of the sun!

It runs to the eye of the sun!

It runs, special chestnut of the town!

That you are the signal

and the standard,

and we as companions

we follow.

No longer the tide can be stopped,

The passion and the wrath

no longer can we fall in our land

without fighting,

no more the fatigue;

nor will we be quiet,

until seeing expelled

those to ghosts and shades.

——————-

Fadwa Tuqan





The Grande dame of Palestinian letters, is considered as one of the best Arab pioneering contemporary poets. she was born in Nablus in 1917. She began writing in the traditional forms, but was one of the leaders of the use of the free verse in Arabic poetry. Her works deal with feminine explorations of love and social protest. After 1967, she also began writing patriotic poems. Her autobiography published in 1985, “A Mountainous Journey”, was translated into English in 1990. Tuqan received the International Poetry Award in Palermo, Italy. She was awarded the Jerusalem Award for Culture and Arts by the PLO in 1990 and the United Arab Emirates Award in 1990. She also received the Honorary Palestine prize for poetry in 1996. She was the subject of a documentary film directed by novelist Liana Bader in 1999.

January 3, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Squirrels?

Hope all is going well for you. Still struggling with the radio. I shouldn’t of slept through programming class… 8o) Anyway, soon up I think. I am visual and and even though my techie is ever so patient, I am a bit dense on the written instruction side of things.

On the menu:

Links: from my sister Rebecca, 10 Good things about Another Bad Year and much more. Check out the Squirrel Link as well!

The Quotes…

2 Articles: How the US siezed the Internet, and Smoking Marijuana Seeds in Oregon…

Poetry: Early Taoist Poems!

So there ya are. More to come, oh yes!

Gwyllm

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Links:

A great link sent by my sister Rebecca…!

10 Good Things about Another Bad Year

Ear Candy!

CHILLITS 2005

Interesting Italian E-zine.

Neural Magazine!

It coulda happened…

Did Bush wiretap Kerry campaign?

We have a humane trap set in our attic for one of these little guys. He is doing some renovating on our beams… anyway, a nice site on the adventures of raising squirrels. Lots of great pics…

Squirrels-For-You.com













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The Quotes:

“Students achieving Oneness will move on to Twoness.”

“The marvel of all history is the patience with which men and women submit to burdens unnecessarily laid upon them by their governments.”

“In literature as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others.”

“We were happily married for eight months. Unfortunately, we were married for four and a half years.”

“You live and learn. At any rate, you live.”

“The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.”

“Making duplicate copies and computer printouts of things no one wanted even one of in the first place is giving America a new sense of purpose.”

“Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.”

“I don’t mind what language an opera is sung in so long as it is a language I don’t understand.”

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Article: 2005: The year the US government undermined the internet

2005 will be forever seen as the year in which the US government managed to keep unilateral control of the internet, despite widespread opposition by the rest of the world.

However, while this very public spat went on, everyone failed to notice a related change that will have far greater implications for everyday internet users and for the internet itself. That change will see greater state-controlled censorship on the internet, reduce people’s ability to use the internet to communicate freely, and leave expansion of the internet in the hands of the people least capable of doing the job.

Click Here

It is also another example of where the US government’s control has – in real, verifiable terms – had a direct, unchecked impact on the internet, despite constant assurances that it takes only a benevolent and passive role. And it has come as a result of the US administration’s hugely controversial decision to invade Iraq.

Redelegation

We are talking about the ever-troublesome redelegation process for country code top-level domains (ccTLDs) – like .uk for the United Kingdom, .fr for France and .de for Germany.

There are currently 246 ccTLDs in existence (although there should really only be 240), and every year, there are arguments over who should be entitled to run them. Mostly ownership of the domains is stable but in recent years African governments have been keen to take more of a role in running their country’s Internet, causing a glut.

This year, 2005, there have been seven redelegations: The Falkland Islands (.fk); Hong Kong (.hk); Iraq (.iq); Kazakhstan (.kz); South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands (.gs); Timor-Leste (.tl); and Tokelau (.tk).

Of these, three were agreed to before July and are of little consequence, being no more than agreed changes in owner or country circumstances.

However, on 28 July 2005 at a special board meeting of internet overseeing organisation ICANN, ownership of both Iraq (.iq) and Kazakhstan (.kz) was changed in a way that soon after saw a change in ownership for South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands (.gs) and Tokelau (.tk).

At that meeting, consciously and for the first time, ICANN used a US government-provided reason to turn over Kazakhstan’s internet ownership to a government owned and run association without requiring consent from the existing owners. The previous owners, KazNIC, had been created from the country’s Internet community.

ICANN then immediately used that “precedent” to hand ownership of Iraq’s internet over to another government-run body, without accounting for any objections that the existing owners might have.

Previously it had always been the case that ICANN would take no action (and only ICANN, through IANA, can actually change ownership of a ccTLD) unless both sides were in complete agreement. Now, ICANN had set itself up as the de facto world authority on who should run different parts of the Internet.

More of this article at : 2005: The year the US government undermined the internet

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Court of Appeals rules that it’s legal to smoke marijuana seeds

PORTLAND, Ore. (AP) — Smoking marijuana seeds is legal under Oregon law, the Oregon Court of Appeals ruled this week.

Pendleton resident Cameron Scott Beers, 27, was arrested in 2002 for driving under the influence and possession of less than one ounce of marijuana, an infraction.

In his defense, Beers’ lawyers argued that he should never have been convicted because he only had marijuana seeds on him.

State law only prohibits possession of leaves, stems and flowers.

The Court of Appeals considered whether legislators might have omitted seeds inadvertently.

But the court rejected that idea after noting that lawmakers had included seeds elsewhere in state law.

David T. McDonald, a Portland attorney who has handled a lot of marijuana cases, said the ruling appeared to clear the way for legal seed-smoking, at least under state law.

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Poetry: The Tao…

Roaming Immortal”

Human life does not reach a hundred,

Year after year there is little joy!

I long to soar with six-feathered wings,

To cleave the mists and transcend the vermillion void.

A cicada sheds its skin : I shall be as Sung and Ch’iao.

With a flutter I ascend from Tripod Lake,

Glide and drift the Ninth Heaven.

I spur myself on to distant spaces :

Eastward to view the glittering Fu-sang tree,

Westward to overlook the Limpid Water current,

Northward stopping at the Dark Heaven Isle,

Southward in winged ascent up Cinnabar Hill!

Ts’ao Chih (192-232 A.D)

Was born the third son of a mighty warlord and later became a prince. Among his favourite poetic themes are the glitter and luxury of court life, the restless wanderer, the deserted wife and Taoist Immortals.





———————

Poems Expressing My Feelings”

Long ago there was an immortal man

who lived on the slope of Shooting Mountain

riding clouds and commanding flying dragons

he did his breathing and supped on precious flowers

He could be heard, but not seen,

sighing sorrows and full emotion

self-tortured he had no companion

grief and heartbreak piled upon him

“Study the familiar to penetrate the sublime”

But time is short and what’s to be done?

Juan Chi (210-263 A.D)

Was a poet and musician. He was known in his lifetime for his familiarity with Taoist Lore and his adroit defiance of the authorities, resulting in forming the ‘Pure Conversation’ or ‘Philosophical Discourses’. These were usually held in a bamboo grove outside the capital of Lo-yang, accompanied with much drinking. The seven main participants became known as ‘The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove’.

———————-

Calling on a Taoist Priest in Tai-t’ien Mountain but Failing to See Him”



A dog barks amid the sound of water;

Peach blossoms tinged by dew take on a deeper tone.

In the dense woods at times I see deer;

By the brook I hear no bells at noon.

Wild bamboos divide the blue haze;

Tumbling waterfalls hang from the green cliff.

No one can tell me where you are,

Saddened, I lean against the pines.





Li Po (701-762 A.D)

Li Po is perhaps one of the most well known Taoist poets. He was very close to the Confucian poet Tu-Fu, whom he influenced.

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January 2, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Dear Human…

Sometimes it falls upon a generation to be great. You can be that great generation.

-Nelson Mandela-







Worth Your Time: The Girl in the Cafè

A film with heart, and a beginning of a sense of social conscience. Made by HBO, in 2005 released just before the G8 meeting. Moving,and well done IMHVP. You could do far worse. rent it.

Synopsis







Happy New Year to ya all. Enjoy todays’ entry!

Gwyllm

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Links:

The most destructive crop on earth is no solution to the energy crisis

New Year Purchase…

Sideways Bike (Not Your Father’s Bicycle)

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Article:Letter from Utopia

Letter from Utopia

(2005) Nick Bostrom



Dear Human,

May this letter find you at peace and prospering! I hope you will forgive me for writing to you out of the blue. Although we have never yet met, we are not complete strangers. We are in a certain sense related. Closely related…

I am one of your possible futures. If all goes well, you will one day become me. If that does happen, then I am not only a possible future of yours but your actual future. In that case, I am a coming phase of you.

I want to describe what my life is like so that you can see how wonderful this possible life is. You may then choose this future for yourself, making me real.

While I am writing this in the singular, I am really writing on behalf of my contemporaries, and we are addressing ourselves to all of your contemporaries. We are writing to you to ask you to make us real. Among our numbers are many who are possible futures of your people. Some of us are possible futures of children that you have not yet given birth to. Some of us are possible artificial persons that you may one day create. What unites us is that we are all totally dependent on you to make us real. You could think of this letter as if it were an invitation to a ball – but the ball will only actually take place if you decide to turn up.

We call the lives we lead here “Utopia”.

How can I tell you about Utopia and not leave you mystified? What words could convey the wonder? What language could express the happiness that we have here? I fear that my pen is as unequal to this task as if I were trying to use it to kill an elephant. Yet I will give it a try. My hope is that you will see through the inadequacies of my exposition and somehow intuit what I am trying to describe. I wish I were a better writer because there is so much at stake in this attempt at communication, for both of us.

Well, let me begin. As I look around this place, I see… But never mind what my eyes see!

Have you ever experienced a moment of surpassing bliss? Maybe on the rapids of creative work when a force greater than yourself is guiding your movements to trace out the shapes of truth and beauty? Or perhaps you have found such a moment in the ecstasy of romantic love? Or in an extraordinary success you achieved with a team of good friends? Or perhaps there was a song or a melody that managed to smuggle itself into your heart, setting it alight with kaleidoscopic emotion?

If you have experienced such a moment, experienced the best type of such a moment, then a certain idle (but sincere) thought may also have presented itself to you: “Oh Heaven! I never realized it could feel like this. This is on a different level, so much more real and worthwhile than anything else. Why can’t it be like this always? Why must good times end? I was sleeping and now I am awake.”

And yet look, a little later, a few hours gone by, and the softly-falling soot of ordinary life is already beginning to accumulate. The silver and gold of exuberance lose their shine. The marble becomes dirty. Everything takes on a slightly ashen appearance.

Every way you turn it’s the same: soot – casting its veil over all glamours and revelries, despoiling your epiphany, sodding up your white pressed shirt (and the clergyman’s collar if you care to look). And once again the familiar beat is audible, the beat of numbing routine rolling along its tracks. The commuter trains loading and unloading their passengers… sleepwalkers, shoppers, solicitors, the ambitious and the hopeless, the contented and the wretched… like human electrons shuffling through the circuitry of civilization.

We do so easily forget how good life can be at its best (and how bad at its worst). The most outstanding occasion: barely is it over when the street cleaning machines move in to sweep up the rice. Yellowing photos remain.

And this is as should be. We’re in the business of living and we’re pros; the show must go on. Special moments are out-of-equilibrium experiences in which our puddles are stirred up and splashed about, and yet when equilibrium returns we are usually relieved. We are not built for sustainable bliss.

So you might once or twice have caught a glimpse of how good life can be, but the memory is difficult to access, perhaps you doubt that realizing such a state on a more permanent basis would be compatible with remaining functional in the world, and in any case you do not see how this could realistically be achieved. The door that was ajar begins to close; the sliver of hope disappears behind a blank surface.

Quick, put a foot in that door! Hold on to your yellowing photos and examine them more closely, for they contain a clue. Your view of what is possible has been expanded. However dim your immediate prospects may be, the fact is that you have glimpsed the in-principle possibility of life above the clouds. I ask you to preserve this realization. Set aside a little conceptual space in some corner of your mind for the possibility of a higher state of being. Make sure there is always at least one coal left alive.

I have invoked the memory of your best experience – to what end? I’m hoping to kindle in you a desire to share my happiness.

And yet, what you felt in your best moment is not similar to what I feel now. I’m pointing to it as a landmark only. It shows a direction.

If the distance between your plateau and the tallest peak you know is eight kilometers, then to reach my location you would have to continue for another million light years. It is beyond the moon and the planets and all the stars your eyes can see. It is beyond your dreams. You cannot imagine what it is like here.

My consciousness is wide and deep. I’ve read all the books that you humans had written by your time – and a good deal more. I know life from many sides and angles. I have swum in a whole spectrum of different cultures, more numerous than the words in your dictionary. Quite a bit of culture builds up over a million years (even as the humble polyps amass a reef given enough time). Well, all this information I have incorporated into my mind, and much, much more. Each etching, each record-cover, each toothpaste tube design – they are all lodged in my memory banks, and my appreciation of each object is as intimate as the appreciation that the most sensitive connoisseur has of her favorite artifact.

The whole is more than the sum of its parts. It’s not just the particular things, the paintings, books, epochs, lives, leafs, rivers, the random encounters, the satellite images and the particle collider data – it is also the complex interrelationships between these particulars that make up my mind. There are general ideas that can be formed only on top of such a wide experience base. There are depths that can only be fathomed with such general ideas.

My experience is clear and intense. I don’t conceive of this the way you would if you could somehow cram it all into your mind. My mind is shaped by what it has assimilated. I don’t just think about deep truths; my thoughts themselves are deep.

You could say I am happy, that I feel good. You could say that I feel surpassing bliss. But these words are used to describe human experience. What I feel is as far beyond ordinary human feelings as my thoughts are beyond human thoughts. I wish I could show you what I have in mind. If only I could share one second of my conscious life with you! But that is impossible. Your container could not hold even a small splash of my joy, it is that great.

You don’t have to understand what I think and feel. If only you bear in mind what is possible within the present human realm, you should have enough of an idea to get started in the right direction, one step at a time. At no point will you encounter a wall of blinding light. At no point will you have to jettison yourself over an end-of-the-world precipice. As you advance, the horizon will recede. Although the transformation you will undergo is profound, it can be as gradual as the growth that transformed the baby you once were into the adult you are.

This is not a religious vision. I do not presume to advise you in religious matters. The game that I am talking about is the one that is played out in the material world, with pieces of metal, glass, and silicon; muscle, skin, and nerve. What I am urging on you is nothing more and nothing less than a new situation in this material world. Of course, you cannot effect this kind of change by the power of wishful thinking or by any simple change of mindset, nor by mental acrobatics, yoga, meditation, affirmation, magical incantation, nor yet by democratization alone. Many of the key pieces on the board are not moved by those means.

Fundamentally, the challenge before you is one of self-transformation. You need to grow up. This is not only about technology, but technology is necessary to achieve the deep changes that will enable you to participate in new ways of life. If you want to live and play on my level, you will need to acquire new capacities. To get to Utopia, and to experience firsthand what life is like here, you will need to discover the means to achieve three radical transformations.

Transformation one: Extend your healthy lifespan.

Your biological body, in it its current form, will not take you far. It wears out too soon. Eighty years is not enough even to get started in a serious way, much less to complete the journey. Genuine maturity of the soul takes more than eighty vigorous years to develop. Why, even a tree-life takes more time than that to complete.

Take on the causes of early death – infection, violence, malnourishment, heart disease, cancer. Take on the deterioration your body undergoes as you age: find ways to reduce the rate of aging, or to reverse the negative effects of aging via rejuvenation therapy. Develop control over the biochemical processes in your body in order to eliminate, more and more, illness and senescence. In time, you will discover ways to move your mind to more durable mediums by augmenting your nervous system with hardware and by migrating into computers. Improve the system over time, so that the risk of death and disease continues to decline. Asymptotically zero involuntary mortality over cosmological timescales is your ultimate aim. Any death prior to the heat death of the universe is premature if your life is good.

Oh, aging is a cruel cage. Gnaw and pull at the bars, and you will slowly loosen them up. One day you will break the grid that kept your forebears imprisoned. Gnaw and pull, redouble your efforts!

Transformation two: Boost your cognitive capacities.

You have many special mental faculties: humor, spirituality, eroticism, music, mathematics, aesthetics, nurturing, gossip and narration. Aren’t these the capacities and sensibilities that give life much of its meaning? Blessed you are if you possess several of these capacities to any significant degree; but their higher-order manifestations are even better. These rooms have no ceilings. Be not afraid to grow.

But what other capacities are possible beyond those that you currently have? Imagine the poverty of a world without music. What other harmonies are there that you lack the ears to hear? What riches are you foregoing because you lack the specific sensibilities required to unlock those vaults of value? What a pity to go through life in mental squalor because you are deaf, dumb, and blind to the infinite wealth of meaning that you would discover or invent if only you had the needed capacities. There is always music in the air, but without a suitable receptacle the waves are imperceptible and travel in vain.

Your capacities and sensibilities need to be enhanced, beyond the level of any genius of your kind. You will also want to develop new faculties and acquire more general-purpose intelligence so that you can learn, remember, and understand better. Sagacity is a means: you need understanding to find your way around the obstacles you will encounter on your journey. But it is also part of the end, for it is in the spacetime of awareness that utopia will exist. May the measure of your mind be vast and expanding.

Oh, stupidity is a loathsome corral! Gnaw and pull at the poles, and you will slowly loosen them up. One day you will break the fence that held your forebears captive. Gnaw and pull, redouble your efforts!

Transformation three: Elevate your emotional well-being.

What is the difference between indifference and interest, boredom and thrill, despair and euphoria? Pleasure. A few grains of this magic ingredient are worth more than a king’s treasure, and we have it aplenty here in Utopia. It infuses everything we do and everything we experience. We sprinkle it in our tea.

The universe is cold. Fun is the fire that melts the blocks of hardship. It creates a bubbling celebration of life! Joy is the birth right of every creature.

There is a beauty and joy here that you cannot fathom. It feels so good that if the sensation were translated into tears of gratitude, rivers would overflow. I wish I could elaborate but language abandons me. I grope in vain for words to convey to you what all this amounts to…

It’s like a rain of the most wonderful feeling, where every raindrop has its own unique and indescribable meaning – or rather it has a scent or essence that evokes a whole world… And each such evoked world is deeper, richer, subtler, more multidimensional than the sum total of what you have experienced in your entire life.

I will not speak of the worst pain and misery that is to be got rid of; it is too horrible to dwell upon, and you are already aware of the ethical urgency of palliation. My point is that in addition to removing the negative, there is also an upside imperative: to enable the full flourishing of enjoyments that are not currently realizable.

The roots of suffering are set deep in your brain. Weeding them out and replacing them with sustainable nutritious crops of well-being will require sophisticated methods and tools for the cultivation of your neuropsychological soil. But the problem is multiplex. All emotions (including hate, contempt, jealousy, and sadness) have a natural function. Take heed when you trim your feelings lest you accidentally reduce the fertility of your plot. Fortunately this is not a necessary consequence. Yet fools will build fool’s paradises. I recommend you go easy on your paradise-engineering until you have the wisdom to do it right.

It is worth getting it right!

Oh, what a gruesome knot suffering is! Pull and tug on those loops, and you will gradually loosen them up. One day the coils will fall, and you will stretch out in delight. Pull and tug, and be patient in your efforts!

May there come a time when suns rise and are greeted with joy by all the living creatures that they shine upon.

How do you find this place? How long will it take to get here? I am not able to pass you a blueprint for utopia, no timetable, no roadmap. All I can give you is my assurance that there is something here, the potential for a better life. There is a shore and a land, such that if you could visit me here for but a day, you would henceforth call this place your home. This is the place where you belong. I have been trying to indicate the direction in which you have to go. Like Odysseus you must journey and never cease to journey until you arrive upon this shore.

“Arrive?” you might now be saying; “But isn’t the journey the destination? Isn’t utopia a place that doesn’t exist? And isn’t the quest for utopia, as witnessed historically, just a dangerous folly and an incitement to mischief?”

My friend, that is not a bad way for you to think about it. Utopia is not a place or a particular form of social organization.

The blush of health on a convalescent’s cheek. The sparkling eye in a moment of wit. The smile of a loving thought… Utopia is the hope that the scattered fragments of good that we come across from time to time in our lives can be put together, one day, to reveal the shape of a new kind of life, the kind of life that ours should have been. Vitality, understanding, and pleasure are among its essential aspects.

I am concerned that the pursuit of utopia could bring out the worst in you. Please take my message in the right spirit. Many a moth has been incinerated in pursuit of a brighter future. Seek the light! But approach with care, and change course if you smell your wingtips burning. Light is for seeing, not dying.

When you take up the quest you will need a cool head. A difficult set of problems will confront you. To solve them will take your best science, your best technology, and your best politics. Yet for each of the problems, there is a solution. The laws of nature permit a life like mine to exist. The building materials are all there. Your people must master the skills to use these physical elements to build yourselves up and to set the human spirit free.

Do not accept that it is good for you and your friends to get sick and die in a cage. Do not assume that it’s a blessing to be confined forever behind the fences of stupidity. Do not believe that there is nothing worth experiencing outside your current psychic limitations.

Ever since one hairy creature picked up two flint stones and began knocking them together to make a tool, your ancestors have been rattling those bars, and they are getting looser all the time. The day of the breakthrough is drawing nearer.

And when finally the bars break, go out and deal with the problems of a free life! What sadder image of humanity’s future could there be than that of a liberated beast that continues to pace the confines of its former cage?



We love life here every second. Every second of life is so good that it would knock you unconscious if your mind had not been strengthened beforehand. My contemporaries and I bear witness, and we are asking for your help. Help us come into existence! Join us! Whether this tremendous possibility becomes a reality depends on your actions. If your empathy can perceive at least the outlines of the vision I am describing, then your ingenuity will find a way to make it real.

Human life, at its best, is fantastic. I’m asking you to create something even greater. Life that is truly humane.

Yours sincerely,

Your Possible Future Self

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Poetry:Iranian Women Poets…



THE PICTURE OF A BRIGHT WINDOW

I went to the window and said:

“Oh! What glorious sunshine!

What a bright day!

What rich blossoming happiness

Is present in everything!”

I said to myself:

“I will grow with plants,

I will sing with birds,

I will flow with waters.”

I said to myself:

“I will drink the day,

– This gold-rimmed goblet

brimful with sunshine -

In one draught!”



I stayed by the window,

I stayed,

And then my small room

began to fill with melancholy,

– Heavy black smoke -

And my desire to grow,

to sing,

to flow

Was the picture of a bright window

In this closed space,

Inside these four walls.



The leaden sky of the dusk

With its melancholy, mourning rain

Was softly crying.

-Meymanat Mirsadegh

——————–

I WILL GREET THE SUN AGAIN

I will greet the sun again;

I will greet the streams which flowed in me;

I will greet the clouds which were

my lengthy thoughts;

I will greet the painful growth of poplars

Which pass through the dry seasons;

I will greet the flocks of crows

Which brought me, as presents,

The sweet smells of the fields at night;

I will greet my mother who lived in the mirror

And was the image of my old age;

And I will also greet the earth whose burning womb

Is filled with, green seeds by the passion she has

for reproducing me.

I will come, I will come,

I will come with my hair,

As the continuation of the smells of the soil;

With my eyes, as the dense experiences of darkness,

Carrying the bushes I have picked in the woodlands

beyond the wall.

I will come, I will come,

I will come and the entrance will be filled with love;

And at the entrance I will greet again

those who are in love,

And also the girl who is still standing

At the entrance in diffusion of love.



Forugh Farrokhzad ( 1933 – 1967 )

———————–





MAGIC SUITCASE

I took with me a suitcase,

light, very light,

Two or three sets of baby clothes,

A white georgette dress,

An indistinct photograph of my mother,

wearing a headdress,

And a complete list of traditional things

for the Noe-Rooz’s celebrations, (1)

Lest a single thing should be forgotten;

These were what I had,

or rather, people thought I had,

in my suitcase

With which I left the land

of the generous sun.

My suitcase was,

or rather, people thought it was,

very, very light;

But what a big mistake!

You must have seen the shows

of professional magicians;

They put their fingers

up their sleeves,

And take out whatever you may name:

Birds, rabbits, kerchiefs of all colours,

Sometimes a crystal jug,

Sometimes a piece of stone,

Fire, water, soil,

Flowers, thorns and many other things;

So was my empty magic suitcase.

Now it has been almost a lifetime

That from inside the same suitcase

I have been taking out anything I want:

Wonderful springs of Isfahan

And its exhilarating groves

in the outskirts;

The colourful autumn of Shiraz

And the fragrance of its orange trees;

The ancient ruins of Persepolis; (2)

The Baghestan Mountain

with its historical inscriptions;

The Palace of Princess Shirin;

The poor village of Cham in Na’in; (3)

The tattered dress of Fatima,

a peasant little girl,

And a flock of other children like her,

Who are all in the same suitcase.



I take them out;

I sit and talk with them;

I live with them;

And the moment someone appears,

They all run back into the suitcase,

The very suitcase which people think

must be very light

and almost empty.

When I make my will

I will ask for my suitcase

to be buried with me.

No doubt they will say:

“Her life was madness;

And her will is foolish!

What sort of will is that!

Who needs a suitcase

in the other world?”



Let them say whatever they like;

After all,

who does know the secret

of the professional magician of love?

Is it not true that love

is the astrolabe of God’s mysteries? (4)

Shahnaz A’lami 1921-2003

————–

(1) Noe-Rooz, or NowRuz, the Persian New Year’s Day (21 March in the Western calendar) is followed by twelve days of celebrations and visiting relatives and friends.

(2) Persepolis was the ceremonial capital of Darius, Xerxes and other kings of the Archaemenid period. Baghestan Mountain, near Kermanshah in western Iran, has on its face a bas-relief depicting Darius I, with captive chiefs and a record of his reign. In the same province was the palace of Shirin, an Armenian princess who is said to have been the wife of khosrow Parviz (521 – 628), one of the greatest kings of the Sassanid period.

(3) Cham is a village near the town of Na’in, famous for its carpets.

(4) The words in italics are part of a famous couplet from the “Masnavi” of Jalal-od-Din Rumi, one of the greatest Persian Mystic or Sufi poets, who is also known as Mowlavi. He lived a good part of his life in Konya in Turkey, where his tomb is a shrine for a dervish sect known as “Mowlaviyyeh”.

____________

January 2, 2006
by gwyllm
0 comments

Happy New Year – Catch Up

Happy New Years to All…

New radio show going up later today. Still recovering from working yesterday, then staying up past 3 combined with the usual Champagne, Good Food, Large Fireworks (Terry and his mortars!), good Music, good Company!

A bit of Turfing Biz…..

This year I will be doing away with the announcements of what is on list. You might want to get the RSS feed instead. People have enough in their email boxes as it is. If you want to go on receiving the emails, let me know.

I am having to moderate comments as we have a serious Asshole problem with Gambling Sites using the comment section to advertise. As if i there weren’t enough of this stuff in the world. I hate doing it, but these people don’t supply a real email address in their posting, and don’t respond when I send stuff to the admin of their sites. So basically, they are dishonest, and are not going to do their dirty here.

All the best to you and yours. More Soon!

Gwyllm