For the New Year:
Prologues To What Is Possible – Wallace Stevens
I
There was an ease of mind that was like being alone in a boat at sea,
A boat carried forward by waves resembling the bright backs of rowers,
Gripping their oars, as if they were sure of the way to their destination,
Bending over and pulling themselves erect on the wooden handles,
Wet with water and sparkling in the one-ness of their motion.
The boat was built of stones that had lost their weight and being no longer heavy
Had left in them only a brilliance, of unaccustomed origin,
So that he that stood up in the boat leaning and looking before him
Did not pass like someone voyaging out of and beyond the familiar.
He belonged to the far-foreign departure of his vessel and was part of it,
Part of the speculum of fire on its prow, its symbol, whatever it was,
Part of the glass-like sides on which it glided over the salt-stained water,
As he traveled alone, like a man lured on by a syllable without any meaning,
A syllable of which he felt, with an appointed sureness,
That it contained the meaning into which he wanted to enter,
A meaning which, as he entered it, would shatter the boat and leave the oarsmen quiet
As at a point of central arrival, an instant moment, much or little,
Removed from any shore, from any man or woman, and needing none.
II
The metaphor stirred his fear. The object with which he was compared
Was beyond his recognizing. By this he knew that likeness of him extended
Only a little way, and not beyond, unless between himself
And things beyond resemblance there was this and that intended to be recognized,
The this and that in the enclosures of hypotheses
On which men speculated in summer when they were half asleep.
What self, for example, did he contain that had not yet been loosed,
Snarling in him for discovery as his attentions spread,
As if all his hereditary lights were suddenly increased
By an access of color, a new and unobserved, slight dithering,
The smallest lamp, which added its puissant flick, to which he gave
A name and privilege over the ordinary of his commonplace—
A flick which added to what was real and its vocabulary,
The way some first thing coming into Northern trees
Adds to them the whole vocabulary of the South,
The way the earliest single light in the evening sky, in spring,
Creates a fresh universe out of nothingness by adding itself,
The way a look or a touch reveals its unexpected magnitudes.
Prologues To What Is Possible – Wallace Stevens
I
There was an ease of mind that was like being alone in a boat at sea,
A boat carried forward by waves resembling the bright backs of rowers,
Gripping their oars, as if they were sure of the way to their destination,
Bending over and pulling themselves erect on the wooden handles,
Wet with water and sparkling in the one-ness of their motion.
The boat was built of stones that had lost their weight and being no longer heavy
Had left in them only a brilliance, of unaccustomed origin,
So that he that stood up in the boat leaning and looking before him
Did not pass like someone voyaging out of and beyond the familiar.
He belonged to the far-foreign departure of his vessel and was part of it,
Part of the speculum of fire on its prow, its symbol, whatever it was,
Part of the glass-like sides on which it glided over the salt-stained water,
As he traveled alone, like a man lured on by a syllable without any meaning,
A syllable of which he felt, with an appointed sureness,
That it contained the meaning into which he wanted to enter,
A meaning which, as he entered it, would shatter the boat and leave the oarsmen quiet
As at a point of central arrival, an instant moment, much or little,
Removed from any shore, from any man or woman, and needing none.
II
The metaphor stirred his fear. The object with which he was compared
Was beyond his recognizing. By this he knew that likeness of him extended
Only a little way, and not beyond, unless between himself
And things beyond resemblance there was this and that intended to be recognized,
The this and that in the enclosures of hypotheses
On which men speculated in summer when they were half asleep.
What self, for example, did he contain that had not yet been loosed,
Snarling in him for discovery as his attentions spread,
As if all his hereditary lights were suddenly increased
By an access of color, a new and unobserved, slight dithering,
The smallest lamp, which added its puissant flick, to which he gave
A name and privilege over the ordinary of his commonplace—
A flick which added to what was real and its vocabulary,
The way some first thing coming into Northern trees
Adds to them the whole vocabulary of the South,
The way the earliest single light in the evening sky, in spring,
Creates a fresh universe out of nothingness by adding itself,
The way a look or a touch reveals its unexpected magnitudes.
so I've been thinking about the holidays and trying to think of a Christmas that was fun. This one surely won't be that great: my mom is due to have thyroid surgery in a couple of weeks--she's 85 and it's probably cancer. I can't get out there because my pancreas has busted, which may put me in the hospital soon, and my sister can't get to her either, because she just shattered her knee and won't be walking for about 4 months. we'll manage, as we always do, but it's likely neither our best or worst. Worst would be when my Grandma dropped dead bringing food to the table.
so best? I think it's a tie. when I was quite young I was at a midnight mass, and had a profound vision of the meaning and power of the ceremony--it was like living inside a symbol or a dream. in that moment I knew a great deal about the beauty and power of Christianity, and also knew that I was not, nor could ever be put in that finite box. that was good.
sometime later my first wife and I got a chance to be on Captiva Island in Florida where we had the mansion of a millionaire client of mine to ourselves. We drove straight down from New York and were utterly exhausted when we arrived at the front door. only to find it locked. we slept in the car, that being the best financial option we had. The next morning I was standing on the deck of this house, just looking at the ocean, waiting for the locksmith to come (the owners had called him, since mailing a key to us would have done fuck-all for our vacation), and my sweet wife came zipping up the stairs with eyes as big as saucers and her mouth wide open. She was speechless - and unusual condition for a Gemini! She simply put her arms directly in front of her and clapped them together--like an alligator biting down on something. When she finally found words it turned out she had stepped into some bushes to pee and peed on the head of an alligator. Both were surprised and parted ways rather quickly! the rest of that week was blissful and I remember it as pastel in color and tropical in cuisine. we cooked and walked, and worked on the books we were editing in good harmony. we had little to remind us of the season, and no one knew exactly where we were. so it was an Un-Chrstmas, and that was quite the best.
there surely have been good moments, shared moments with lovers, wives, family and friends, but usually in the context of obligations, strained dynamics, unmet expectations, and awkward meals. I've learned to eat before going to my sister's house--she truly makes a lasagna with V8 or tomato juice and a cheese spread (velveeta). She got that recipe from my mom. We love to eat rasam and various epicurious-bred veggie dishes, finishing with a (gasp) fruitcake or some whiskey-pumpkin pie, and whenever possible step out of the stream of the collective images and sounds. We accomplish this through the kind offices of one of our many stuffed animals (I'll see if I can finally figure out how to insert his image here). His name is Muff, short for Mufferson, a distant relative of Emerson. Muff was left in a closet for 10 years and came out somewhat temporally addled. He recognizes human holidays but never gets them right. Last year 12/25 was St. Patricks day due to all the greenery; the year before is was Super Bowl Sunday because so many 'super' bowls of food were around. I think this year we'll be having President's Day on 12/25, but you never know!
so best? I think it's a tie. when I was quite young I was at a midnight mass, and had a profound vision of the meaning and power of the ceremony--it was like living inside a symbol or a dream. in that moment I knew a great deal about the beauty and power of Christianity, and also knew that I was not, nor could ever be put in that finite box. that was good.
sometime later my first wife and I got a chance to be on Captiva Island in Florida where we had the mansion of a millionaire client of mine to ourselves. We drove straight down from New York and were utterly exhausted when we arrived at the front door. only to find it locked. we slept in the car, that being the best financial option we had. The next morning I was standing on the deck of this house, just looking at the ocean, waiting for the locksmith to come (the owners had called him, since mailing a key to us would have done fuck-all for our vacation), and my sweet wife came zipping up the stairs with eyes as big as saucers and her mouth wide open. She was speechless - and unusual condition for a Gemini! She simply put her arms directly in front of her and clapped them together--like an alligator biting down on something. When she finally found words it turned out she had stepped into some bushes to pee and peed on the head of an alligator. Both were surprised and parted ways rather quickly! the rest of that week was blissful and I remember it as pastel in color and tropical in cuisine. we cooked and walked, and worked on the books we were editing in good harmony. we had little to remind us of the season, and no one knew exactly where we were. so it was an Un-Chrstmas, and that was quite the best.
there surely have been good moments, shared moments with lovers, wives, family and friends, but usually in the context of obligations, strained dynamics, unmet expectations, and awkward meals. I've learned to eat before going to my sister's house--she truly makes a lasagna with V8 or tomato juice and a cheese spread (velveeta). She got that recipe from my mom. We love to eat rasam and various epicurious-bred veggie dishes, finishing with a (gasp) fruitcake or some whiskey-pumpkin pie, and whenever possible step out of the stream of the collective images and sounds. We accomplish this through the kind offices of one of our many stuffed animals (I'll see if I can finally figure out how to insert his image here). His name is Muff, short for Mufferson, a distant relative of Emerson. Muff was left in a closet for 10 years and came out somewhat temporally addled. He recognizes human holidays but never gets them right. Last year 12/25 was St. Patricks day due to all the greenery; the year before is was Super Bowl Sunday because so many 'super' bowls of food were around. I think this year we'll be having President's Day on 12/25, but you never know!
So sometime in about 19::cough::65 some folks found a huge chunk of land - 200 acres - which we bought for about $10k. It had neither electricity nor water, but did have a big cabin. We made that into a communal kitchen and music room. We built our own yurts scattered over the acreage and eventually built ourselves a barn, meditation teepee and all the hippee fixin's. We hung out together in the cabin, cooked, made music and occasionally had commune-wide meetings. Our motto was: Dawes Hill will be what it is. This thwarted a lot of political and utopian types. We just wanted to live our hippy lives, complete with herbal assistance, skinny dipping, and shared experiences.
We learned a lot from the very old Finnish farmers sharing the hill with us - in fact, we had a lot more in common with them that with city stoners. Most of us had grown up in the country, so farm chores were familiar to us, and neither idealized nor shirked. From time to time someone would join or leave; being rather remote (10 miles up a dirt road) we didn't get too many random visitors which later became the downfall of many communes. Oddly enough, we did end up on a "see the Hippy Commune" bus tour from New Jersey! We got busloads two and three times a day in the summer.
I made 18 loaves of bread and 20 quarts of ketchup every day; others wove, harvested honey, or made pies. These we sold to the tourists and in town, to buy things like flour, chainsaw, fencing for our goats, oil for our lamps and so forth. Even all these years later I have the Aladdin lamps I bought there, though I've long since sold my chainsaw. There were a few children, and most people were in stable relationships; much to my early disappointment and later relief, there wasn't any "free love" going around. It's hard to put into words the rich sense of family and trust we had for each other, and in many cases still have. Nearly everyone from those times still lives in the country, albeit many have moved on. You can still buy Dawes Hill honey in the local markets, and there are still people working the land as they did these 40 years ago.
We swam, grew inwardly and outwardly, learned to be on our own, to be with others, and to just live without pretension. It was the best family I've ever had, and a true refuge from the darkness, addictions, and delusions of the 60's. It wasn't all pretty-one of the women was gang-raped by sheriffs while hitchhiking, another lost her brother to LSD and a bridge_but it wasn't all drama either. The biggest events were the simple evenings of endless blues and a little home-grown ganja, eating our own completely home grown pizza and watching the stars shine in the deep night, far from the city glare. This the best heritage of those years, and I hope that some of you find your way to these shores.
We learned a lot from the very old Finnish farmers sharing the hill with us - in fact, we had a lot more in common with them that with city stoners. Most of us had grown up in the country, so farm chores were familiar to us, and neither idealized nor shirked. From time to time someone would join or leave; being rather remote (10 miles up a dirt road) we didn't get too many random visitors which later became the downfall of many communes. Oddly enough, we did end up on a "see the Hippy Commune" bus tour from New Jersey! We got busloads two and three times a day in the summer.
I made 18 loaves of bread and 20 quarts of ketchup every day; others wove, harvested honey, or made pies. These we sold to the tourists and in town, to buy things like flour, chainsaw, fencing for our goats, oil for our lamps and so forth. Even all these years later I have the Aladdin lamps I bought there, though I've long since sold my chainsaw. There were a few children, and most people were in stable relationships; much to my early disappointment and later relief, there wasn't any "free love" going around. It's hard to put into words the rich sense of family and trust we had for each other, and in many cases still have. Nearly everyone from those times still lives in the country, albeit many have moved on. You can still buy Dawes Hill honey in the local markets, and there are still people working the land as they did these 40 years ago.
We swam, grew inwardly and outwardly, learned to be on our own, to be with others, and to just live without pretension. It was the best family I've ever had, and a true refuge from the darkness, addictions, and delusions of the 60's. It wasn't all pretty-one of the women was gang-raped by sheriffs while hitchhiking, another lost her brother to LSD and a bridge_but it wasn't all drama either. The biggest events were the simple evenings of endless blues and a little home-grown ganja, eating our own completely home grown pizza and watching the stars shine in the deep night, far from the city glare. This the best heritage of those years, and I hope that some of you find your way to these shores.
two moments from yesterday: tears on Jesse Jackson's face, tears in the eyes of the black CNN commentator. reminding me of what I'll never know, costs beyond any mortals reckoning, all simplified to the ease with which a dignified man walked across an open air stage to greet his - and perhaps - our destiny...
when I was a child, just awakening to the greater world around me - say around what you-all call middle school - a new priest came to our town. His name was Malcolm Boyd, and for a few strange years he was our pastor. He was a Jew who had run an agency in Hollywood; his best clients were Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. and boy, I had known then what I know now I would have so asked him questions!! like how did they ever hook up? He converted, and then did a few things that blasted some wonderous cracks in the small town Our Town world around me. He wrote a book: "Are you Running with me, Jesus?" - and thereby effectively coming out to the clergy, the community, and best of all (sic) my mom! Lucky homophobe that she is, the next three priests she got were also gay. She finally struck gold late in life, and is now the happy parishioner of a womanizer.
Anyway, Fr. Boyd also created "the Golden Grape" which was a jazz/heroin club supposedly intended to awaken college students to the life of Christ, but really was a place where he could cool off and hang with a few beatniks. Eventually the church and town caught wise, and the place was closed down. which was fine, because by then Fr. Boyd had become a Freedom Rider. From then on we heard things, read things, saw images of things that the rest of our state (Colorado) knew little of.
As it happened, I started life by the accident of being born in Mississippi while my dad was working in the Corps of Engineers (he actually helped build lake Ponchitrain and the levees, which he said were designed to rupture into what later became the 9th ward - because no one was supposed to be allowed to build there). So my folks had friends and even a little family in that part of the world, and the Civil Rights movement was a little more real to us, and made for some very difficult family gatherings.
All that is just to say, there are no real words to express the truth and beauty of yesterday's national election; nor the tragedy of so many states blindly embracing a different prejudice with an almost lustful hunger to be 'safe' from 'those people'. It's almost as though Americans can't think! oh wait, mostly 'they' can't, and those of us that do so despise those 'other others' that we only are hurt by them, we do not unite to not only break their stranglehold on this would-be democracy but we are far to lazy to anticipate their next move. Thus 'we' are always a day behind 'they' until some hero arises to point out that Change can be ours if only we empower a person, however little known, with the opportunity to lead. may those leaders be found in Florida, California, and all the other 23 states. and soon.
when I was a child, just awakening to the greater world around me - say around what you-all call middle school - a new priest came to our town. His name was Malcolm Boyd, and for a few strange years he was our pastor. He was a Jew who had run an agency in Hollywood; his best clients were Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. and boy, I had known then what I know now I would have so asked him questions!! like how did they ever hook up? He converted, and then did a few things that blasted some wonderous cracks in the small town Our Town world around me. He wrote a book: "Are you Running with me, Jesus?" - and thereby effectively coming out to the clergy, the community, and best of all (sic) my mom! Lucky homophobe that she is, the next three priests she got were also gay. She finally struck gold late in life, and is now the happy parishioner of a womanizer.
Anyway, Fr. Boyd also created "the Golden Grape" which was a jazz/heroin club supposedly intended to awaken college students to the life of Christ, but really was a place where he could cool off and hang with a few beatniks. Eventually the church and town caught wise, and the place was closed down. which was fine, because by then Fr. Boyd had become a Freedom Rider. From then on we heard things, read things, saw images of things that the rest of our state (Colorado) knew little of.
As it happened, I started life by the accident of being born in Mississippi while my dad was working in the Corps of Engineers (he actually helped build lake Ponchitrain and the levees, which he said were designed to rupture into what later became the 9th ward - because no one was supposed to be allowed to build there). So my folks had friends and even a little family in that part of the world, and the Civil Rights movement was a little more real to us, and made for some very difficult family gatherings.
All that is just to say, there are no real words to express the truth and beauty of yesterday's national election; nor the tragedy of so many states blindly embracing a different prejudice with an almost lustful hunger to be 'safe' from 'those people'. It's almost as though Americans can't think! oh wait, mostly 'they' can't, and those of us that do so despise those 'other others' that we only are hurt by them, we do not unite to not only break their stranglehold on this would-be democracy but we are far to lazy to anticipate their next move. Thus 'we' are always a day behind 'they' until some hero arises to point out that Change can be ours if only we empower a person, however little known, with the opportunity to lead. may those leaders be found in Florida, California, and all the other 23 states. and soon.
So I've been thinking about initiations lately: structured, unstructured, spontaneous, planned, ceremonial; some are into life, into an instinct (losing virginity, or the really big one, buying a house), into society or out of it, into a "spiritual" identity, or into a real moment of awareness... It seems once I start considering them all, like love, the word becomes meaningless in itself. So what does it mean to me? For now, initiation means a one-way transformation, a change that is as permanent as anything can be in life. Oddly enough, the real ones only reveal themselves over time; many times we believe we have changed, awakened, begun a new life/path, whatever, but only to find that once the sheen has worn off, we're still as we were, just with a different flavored wrapping. ... Also, I think that the most genuine initiations are so truly intimate that not only are we not inclined to talk about them, but in the end, we cannot. It is not something which carries universal, shareable meaning; it is one to a customer, innate and inextricable from our interior self.
So another remembering; hardly a novelty - a road trip, or rather a few of them sort of smooged together. Back in the day I had a VW Beetle painted all paisley in a sort of too stoned to pay close attention to detail way. I eventually repainted it - because, after the first engine burned out (thanks Dad for forgetting to put the oil cap on when you added more oil), I was stuck in the middle of Ohio with no cash and no motor. I ended up reading horoscopes at a father -son bowling chamionship for about three days and raised enough cash to buy this motor a guy in a garage was willing to install for me. It was expensive, but at the time seemed my only option.
It was the best purchase I ever made of that sort. It turned out that this motor wasn't a 4 cylinder VW lightweight at all, but a Porsche engine that had been rebuilt for racing. He changed the tranny too, so my little bug did 40 in first gear, and, while I never did know its top speed, I did get busted for going 120 in it (the cop let me off on my promise that I wait until the county line to start trying to smear my innards on the pavement). It was a fine thing cruise down the highway at 65 and get passed by a rich kids sports car, and then I'd slide up next to it, wait until the driver looked over, and let them hear me shift gears, and blow them off the road as I disappeared into the night. Preferring speed to style, I opted to let the car go back to its natural innocuous color scheme - turquoise, and let the engine do the talking.
So I took this VW and two friends on the great pilgrimage of our times - out to Haight Ashbury when it was still slightly authentic. It really wasn't by the time we got there, as the original crop of freaks had been replaced by media-made hippies, but the Filmore was in full swing as a truly wild and creative place. This was before lasers, or much besides colored lights for stage shows, and the Filmore was exploring light shows with patterns and old movies and various other entertainments for the psychedelic mind. Just being there was an initiation - a discovery that we weren't the only freaks in the world, and that, without trying to be anything at all other than being open to the strangeness of the world as it really is, we were not alone.
Boy was I wrong. We are alone. The three of us came out of that summer changed, but not for the better in every case. My trumpeter friend got himself killed by riding a motorcycle into a storm, my flutist friend got himself crazy by activating latent epilepsy when he got stoned (which we found out about on this trip - while we were also teaching him to drive!), and I came out of this still hungry, still looking for something that could support the creative, mad fire I felt - feel - within me. The freaks became a freakshow; everyone had to do the same drugs, have the same records, and all the rest of the drill. I kept moving, visiting folk all over the country, hearing bands, driving through the night, talking for days on end, and all that stuff.
Around this time the idea of communes was emerging, and I ended up building a yurt deep in the woods near one in this part of the country (upstate NY). That is a story for another day..
So another remembering; hardly a novelty - a road trip, or rather a few of them sort of smooged together. Back in the day I had a VW Beetle painted all paisley in a sort of too stoned to pay close attention to detail way. I eventually repainted it - because, after the first engine burned out (thanks Dad for forgetting to put the oil cap on when you added more oil), I was stuck in the middle of Ohio with no cash and no motor. I ended up reading horoscopes at a father -son bowling chamionship for about three days and raised enough cash to buy this motor a guy in a garage was willing to install for me. It was expensive, but at the time seemed my only option.
It was the best purchase I ever made of that sort. It turned out that this motor wasn't a 4 cylinder VW lightweight at all, but a Porsche engine that had been rebuilt for racing. He changed the tranny too, so my little bug did 40 in first gear, and, while I never did know its top speed, I did get busted for going 120 in it (the cop let me off on my promise that I wait until the county line to start trying to smear my innards on the pavement). It was a fine thing cruise down the highway at 65 and get passed by a rich kids sports car, and then I'd slide up next to it, wait until the driver looked over, and let them hear me shift gears, and blow them off the road as I disappeared into the night. Preferring speed to style, I opted to let the car go back to its natural innocuous color scheme - turquoise, and let the engine do the talking.
So I took this VW and two friends on the great pilgrimage of our times - out to Haight Ashbury when it was still slightly authentic. It really wasn't by the time we got there, as the original crop of freaks had been replaced by media-made hippies, but the Filmore was in full swing as a truly wild and creative place. This was before lasers, or much besides colored lights for stage shows, and the Filmore was exploring light shows with patterns and old movies and various other entertainments for the psychedelic mind. Just being there was an initiation - a discovery that we weren't the only freaks in the world, and that, without trying to be anything at all other than being open to the strangeness of the world as it really is, we were not alone.
Boy was I wrong. We are alone. The three of us came out of that summer changed, but not for the better in every case. My trumpeter friend got himself killed by riding a motorcycle into a storm, my flutist friend got himself crazy by activating latent epilepsy when he got stoned (which we found out about on this trip - while we were also teaching him to drive!), and I came out of this still hungry, still looking for something that could support the creative, mad fire I felt - feel - within me. The freaks became a freakshow; everyone had to do the same drugs, have the same records, and all the rest of the drill. I kept moving, visiting folk all over the country, hearing bands, driving through the night, talking for days on end, and all that stuff.
Around this time the idea of communes was emerging, and I ended up building a yurt deep in the woods near one in this part of the country (upstate NY). That is a story for another day..
So where did it all begin for me? Really with the first Beatles album in a way. I remember buying that album, along with Herb Alpert and Stan Getz albums and realizing that the world was about to change. That summer I hooked up with a very strange group of people - we're talking 1965 - (I was in junior high) and things started to really pop.
A little backtracking: I have seen ghosts since I was very young, and started reading philosophy well before I got out of grade school, sort of hoping to make sense of what I saw and believed - which was a far, far cry from the Christian Midwestern world around me.
So this group - "The Magic Lantern Theater" (from the book, natch) was populated with 7 priests, the prince of an African nation (I could say which one, but he's the King now, and that wouldn't be cool), a madam, her husband, a revolutionary and a guy who had just spent a year with Timothy Leary. The revolutionary was the real deal: he taught Che Guevara's folk small arms skills, and was in and out of Cuba like it was his second home. He disappeared eventually. The LSD started being passed around - this was a time when grass was "reefer" for real, and hardly anyone knew what it was or what it could - or couldn't - do. Being quite the junior person there, I didn't get my hands on anything for a little while, but otherwise was immersed in these early experimentations.
I remember the week we spent making a recording - reel to reel, no less - of Bach's Canata and Fugue, using bird calls, toilet flushes, the pipe organ of a church, and various kitchen utensils. Half the people were tripping the whole time, and the house went from drab nondescript mid-Western to blown out hippie colors. only we weren't hippies then - just beatniks on acid. Cotrane was pumping out albums, the Dead and the Airplane were just buying guitars, and the world knew nothing of Viet Nam.
I remember hanging out in the house discussing Etre Et Neant as it was being translated - the definitive translation - and watching folk paint the floor, themselves, and anything else that they could touch with color. There was no counter-culture yet; there was only a desperate driving need to create, to break the mold, to go beyond the Dadaists and Surrealists, and see what this "mind" thing really could do!
so that's not really a story, but it's sort of where things start. maybe next time I'll write about getting to SFO in 66...
A little backtracking: I have seen ghosts since I was very young, and started reading philosophy well before I got out of grade school, sort of hoping to make sense of what I saw and believed - which was a far, far cry from the Christian Midwestern world around me.
So this group - "The Magic Lantern Theater" (from the book, natch) was populated with 7 priests, the prince of an African nation (I could say which one, but he's the King now, and that wouldn't be cool), a madam, her husband, a revolutionary and a guy who had just spent a year with Timothy Leary. The revolutionary was the real deal: he taught Che Guevara's folk small arms skills, and was in and out of Cuba like it was his second home. He disappeared eventually. The LSD started being passed around - this was a time when grass was "reefer" for real, and hardly anyone knew what it was or what it could - or couldn't - do. Being quite the junior person there, I didn't get my hands on anything for a little while, but otherwise was immersed in these early experimentations.
I remember the week we spent making a recording - reel to reel, no less - of Bach's Canata and Fugue, using bird calls, toilet flushes, the pipe organ of a church, and various kitchen utensils. Half the people were tripping the whole time, and the house went from drab nondescript mid-Western to blown out hippie colors. only we weren't hippies then - just beatniks on acid. Cotrane was pumping out albums, the Dead and the Airplane were just buying guitars, and the world knew nothing of Viet Nam.
I remember hanging out in the house discussing Etre Et Neant as it was being translated - the definitive translation - and watching folk paint the floor, themselves, and anything else that they could touch with color. There was no counter-culture yet; there was only a desperate driving need to create, to break the mold, to go beyond the Dadaists and Surrealists, and see what this "mind" thing really could do!
so that's not really a story, but it's sort of where things start. maybe next time I'll write about getting to SFO in 66...
so I saw "Across the Universe". Having lived through the sixties (yes, I'm THAT old), I was quite taken by this movie. A lot of films have been made about - or even during - the 60's but only three really resonate with my experiences: The Cockettes (which captures the commune energy (I lived in one back in the day)); Apocalypse Now (duh, Vietnam), and this movie - which shows the aching polarity between the hippies and the anti-war movement; both sincere, and both seeking, and sometimes really, really at profound odds with each other. I worked for Dan Berrigan during those years, and was in the student riots etc.; and the way this movie slides from the repressed & innocent world of 1963 to the dark, self-doomed world of 1969 is very remarkable. I guess I'd add a fourth movie - for the death of hippiedom: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - a dream gone bad, a joke told once too often, a drug transformed from transformer to psychic masturbation...
also saw Fando and Lis, which I didn't really like so much, but the documentary about Jodorowsky is very inspiring! He really walked(s) the walk(s) of surrealism and dadaist ideals. Some of his vast egotism colors his world and works, to be sure, but nonetheless, I found him wayy more interesting than the movie - which was just a little too amateur in the film quality to really have impact. On the other hand, I watched it three times before deciding that! and I haven't watched a movie more than once since I saw "The Isle" many months ago.
watching "the Source" right now -- my parents, as it were: Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs such sweet, sad, angelic fools
also saw Fando and Lis, which I didn't really like so much, but the documentary about Jodorowsky is very inspiring! He really walked(s) the walk(s) of surrealism and dadaist ideals. Some of his vast egotism colors his world and works, to be sure, but nonetheless, I found him wayy more interesting than the movie - which was just a little too amateur in the film quality to really have impact. On the other hand, I watched it three times before deciding that! and I haven't watched a movie more than once since I saw "The Isle" many months ago.
watching "the Source" right now -- my parents, as it were: Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs such sweet, sad, angelic fools
so we had our end-of-summer astrology class last night, preceded by a super-fine Italian veggie meal and vegan lavender-chocolate cake. We've been working on planetary groups and the sequence of planets in a chart - techniques I use to help people deconstruct complexes -- a paper on this is forthcoming, I hope. We'll continue practicing on this for the fall semester, and then I hope to move on to Progressions and Solar Arc (which latter are profound, if a little scary, as they often indicate the rare moments of genuine Destiny in our lives).
I see Astrology as one of the Five Forces (not to be confused with Fox Force Five) that we encounter:
Chaos, Free Will, Karma, Destiny (aka astrology), and Fate. The first two are probably obvious; by Karma I don't mean judgment for past lives - just the simple fact that if you're an idiot, stupid things happen to you. By Destiny I mean those events and encounters we cannot possibly orchestrate by our own effort or the sheer momentum of our existence (Free Will and Karma respectively); and which events/people arrive at key moments of transformation in our lives. The fifth force; Fate, is the rarest - when the interaction of the previous 4 generates a national/world changing event. MLK was a Fate-d Man; Joan of Arc, a Fate-d woman. Many others followed their paths, spoke similar words, believed similar things, but these folk were placed in our awareness--and knew it themselves-- and that is Fate. -- the rest is really just rearranging our psychological furniture and watching home movies...
speaking of which, am now on a new heart medicine which is producing interesting dreams indeed!
one of these days I'm gonna do a little rant here about underwear do's and don'ts in sets, or maybe just quote Ferlinghetti.
for those few that read these things, thanks for your comments; there are some very sharp minds and remarkable people populating this site... which is truly the reason I hang around
I see Astrology as one of the Five Forces (not to be confused with Fox Force Five) that we encounter:
Chaos, Free Will, Karma, Destiny (aka astrology), and Fate. The first two are probably obvious; by Karma I don't mean judgment for past lives - just the simple fact that if you're an idiot, stupid things happen to you. By Destiny I mean those events and encounters we cannot possibly orchestrate by our own effort or the sheer momentum of our existence (Free Will and Karma respectively); and which events/people arrive at key moments of transformation in our lives. The fifth force; Fate, is the rarest - when the interaction of the previous 4 generates a national/world changing event. MLK was a Fate-d Man; Joan of Arc, a Fate-d woman. Many others followed their paths, spoke similar words, believed similar things, but these folk were placed in our awareness--and knew it themselves-- and that is Fate. -- the rest is really just rearranging our psychological furniture and watching home movies...
speaking of which, am now on a new heart medicine which is producing interesting dreams indeed!
one of these days I'm gonna do a little rant here about underwear do's and don'ts in sets, or maybe just quote Ferlinghetti.
for those few that read these things, thanks for your comments; there are some very sharp minds and remarkable people populating this site... which is truly the reason I hang around
had a close encounter with a movie star who came many miles to meet me and speak about philosophic matters. he's the first person in that world that I've worked with who has 'made it' and would be well-known if I mentioned his name (which I'm not gonna do). It was interesting to note my excitement at this, since I've met and worked with many high-powered spiritual people over the years, and continue to do so, as well as having both political and corporate clients of some note. But each mileu has its own attractions and limitations, I guess. at any rate, we plunged right in to a profound conversation on topics like ghosts, visions of Mary, the nature of the Soul, the existence of God(s) and it turned out to be a real conversation with a really serious dude. No affect, no need to bandy about his accomplishments, ego, or intellect; we just got to it, and I imagine will continue to develop some of these themes. I think the most interesting moment of the conversation was the differentiation of faith and belief. Belief is about a content or contents - about ideas, images, doctrines; faith is a state of the subject free of content. Faith is faith in yourself where the self in which you have faith is innate, unreflective and alive; belief is a projection of that faith onto something/someone else, and that belief will not last forever, as it is ultimately displaced and therefore must collapse. When it does so, if the person has no self-awareness, then they'll just collapse in a heap, if there has been some work on oneself, then there is at least the possibility of realizing one's true 'faith' and the wholeness (as the Man said) which it guarantees.
survived niece's wedding. really not so much a wedding as a family party. it was all right, but didn't have that special moment which usually marks such events - if they're real. my own wedding involved our India trek clothes, 6 stuffed animals, and a sand mandala - oh and about 10 bottles of Lagavulin. it definitely had some kick to it.
did some interesting work with Euclid lately. Read Proclus' commentary on Euclid to get a real sense of the Greek's use of Geometry. It is really a map of the Soul, a very powerful and clean set of mandalas. the later books (he has 13 of them) are useful for subtle work. I could write more about this if anyone asks (like that will ever happen here)
am taking a break (I hope) from the Kath:a Upanishad, and gonna do about 18 months of teaching the Gita, which I've been threatening to do for years. I especially like the Jnanaishvarya commentary on that - really as beautiful as any book in any language (of the 16 I know) that I've read.
watched No Country for an Old Man - not half as good as the book; still stuck on The Isle as the last good movie I've seen ...
did some interesting work with Euclid lately. Read Proclus' commentary on Euclid to get a real sense of the Greek's use of Geometry. It is really a map of the Soul, a very powerful and clean set of mandalas. the later books (he has 13 of them) are useful for subtle work. I could write more about this if anyone asks (like that will ever happen here)
am taking a break (I hope) from the Kath:a Upanishad, and gonna do about 18 months of teaching the Gita, which I've been threatening to do for years. I especially like the Jnanaishvarya commentary on that - really as beautiful as any book in any language (of the 16 I know) that I've read.
watched No Country for an Old Man - not half as good as the book; still stuck on The Isle as the last good movie I've seen ...
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