On the Music Box: Entheogenic/Dialogue of the Speakers followed by various cuts from Loop Guru…











Welcome to Monday… We had a nice weekend. Exhausted on Friday by some funny and strange events. I lost my wallet, and spent a good part of Friday morning getting a new license, reporting my cards missing and realizing photos that I have had for some 28 years in my wallet are now gone. You have to let it go. That is the only way…

Saturday was great; PK came over for a couple of hours, and then Victor and Andy who was over visiting (and landing a job!) from Idaho and going to Elliots’ Blue Tech show downtown as well.

I took time to launch DJ Morgans’ A-Z Show #3, and as I was getting that going, our friends Tom and Cheryl came over for a relaxed evening, and we ended up hanging and talking to almost 2 on Sunday morning. Somewhere during the evening I worked over into the Absinthe, and entered into that golden lit space that Absinthe seems to inhabit… I was fearful of the next day, but I woke up fairly clear headed after all. (Thank Goodness)

On Sunday afternoon we went to see V for Vendetta. This is one of the good ones. I recommend it to anyone living in these times. It takes a different view, and skew to what is presently happening in our world.

Great Dialogue, good story, and some great acting. I would hope you see it soon, okay then?



Changes soon on the site, more poetry, more talks (audio files) and new music and shows on the Radio.

Pax,

Gwyllm

—-

Thematically, everything today is based on the poetry. I found what poems were needed d early on, and everything else is a happy accident. Enjoy.

On The Menu:

The Links..

The Article: America: From a truth-based to a faith-based nation

Poetry: Lord Alfred Tennyson – The Lady of Shalott & Dante Gabriel Rossetti – The Blessed Damozel

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The Links:

Unearthed Monty Python Footage From 1975

SMOKING IS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

The invisible drug culture

Corruption and More…

A bit of Howard Stern strangeness…Thanks Tom!

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Article: America: From a truth-based to a faith-based nation

By Ben Tanosborn

Forget it; get it out of your head! Neither impeachment, nor censorship, nor the mildest reprimand can come to our Nero from the august dwellers of the Congress. Let the nation burn, be reduced to ashes, while Bush plays the lyre from Capitol Hill, reciting verses that give an inarticulate, simplistic and cross-eyed view of the world.

As for Senator Feingold . . . as much as he wishes to get the cards on the table, and do right by us, his Democratic peers will only let him play solitaire. They are waiting in the wing for their turn at the helm and the corresponding increase in power and influence. For now, they’re quite content as guests of the emperor, so why should they take any chances, or dirty their hands? Edwards, Hillary, Kerry and other presidential contenders who have yet to reach political menopause, keep telling us how much they care; but they are only willing to walk the path that will lead them to their ambitions. As birds of a feather, they must be careful not to soil the other birds’ plumage.

Why take chances now? Two years will go by fast enough; then, these solons in their purity togas will ask us for our vote. And, as it happens time and again, we’ll be faced with the recurring choice prevalent in our political system of having to vote for the lesser evil among two hypocrites. That is, assuming we can identify who’s the lesser one.

Unquestionably, politicians know us a lot better than we know ourselves.

America never had a monopoly on truth, far from it. But Americans, for the most part, did have a love affair with truth, or at least a strong, passionate interest in searching for it. That was ages ago, something which has now come to pass; and faith has replaced truth, becoming the glue that keeps the nation together, even if the faithful are forced to reside a universe apart. From reality, from doing what’s right!

Ours is faith in a government not of the people, but of special interests. Ours is faith in a government that caters to our basest instincts, not our loftiest aspirations. Ours is faith, blind faith, in a government that the more perverse and corrupt it becomes, the more it destroys our spirit and dehumanizes us.

Political couch potatoes, that’s what we have become. Wimps’r’Us: the 90 percent of the nation’s citizenry who are subservient to the wishes of the other 10 percent. We are all believers, no way to deny it, whether it’s Jesus Christ that we follow, or the goddess Apathy; or render cult to both while pretending to be monotheistic.

It seems that we have turned in our citizen-badges which deputized us to uphold both our freedoms and a hopeful future for our children. Instead, we have accepted a sheriff who is not just the sole interpreter of local law, but who has also become a much-hated international outlaw. Wars à go-go and preemptive strikes are not imperialistic acts according to our leader, but rather patriotic necessities in defense of the nation’s best interests; and an accelerating socio-economic inequality, domestic or global, is also given the seal of approval by his White House, as long as wealth and power are accumulated by those determined to be best qualified to optimize their use.

Two days ago, while researching material for a novel, I came across a column with the catchy title, “Allies Won’t Wipe out Race” by the then war analyst of the local newspaper [The Columbian]. In that editorial page of April 19, 1945, [just two weeks prior to Germany’s unconditional surrender] columnist DeWitt Mackenzie was trying to answer a statement-question by a “distinguished citizen” that read in part: “There are a lot of folk, including myself, who deeply regret that when this war is over there still will be Germans left alive.” Charitable, this distinguished citizen!

There was just a sentence from one of the ensuing paragraphs which rendered a verdict worthy of reflection. Mackenzie wrote: “Indeed, all Germans must stand responsible morally for the Hitlerian crimes, since the people as a whole at least have condoned his evil.” That made me wonder . . . was Apathy the goddess Germans venerated, or was the god Nazism; or did they worship more than one god?

The Allies proved to be measured in their punishment response towards the Germans after the war. Let’s just hope that whoever passes judgment on us, be it on this earth or on judgment day, proves equally lenient . . . for Americans must also stand responsible morally for Bushian crimes. And these crimes extend not just to the obscene Iraq adventure but other social, environmental and economic evil that has befallen us all, Americans and non-Americans alike.

Censure the president? Are we nuts? The ones needing censure are us who are watching the nation burn to the ground . . . and don’t seem to give a damn.

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The Lady of Shalott (a big thanks to Chaff for turning Turf on to this photo!)











The Lady of Shalott

Lord Alfred Tennyson

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And through the field the road run by

To many-tower’d Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Through the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,

Slide the heavy barges trail’d

By slow horses; and unhail’d

The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,

In among the bearded barley

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly;

Down to tower’d Camelot;

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy

The Lady of Shalott.”

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot;

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad

Goes by to tower’d Camelot;

And sometimes through the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two.

She hath no loyal Knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

For often through the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot;

Or when the Moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed.

“I am half sick of shadows,” said

The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon’d baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armor rung

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn’d like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro’ the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, burning bright,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;

On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow’d

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flashed into the crystal mirror,

“Tirra lirra,” by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces through the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look’d down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

“The curse is come upon me,” cried

The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining.

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower’d Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And around about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance –

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right –

The leaves upon her falling light –

Thro’ the noises of the night,

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darkened wholly,

Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.

For ere she reach’d upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,

And around the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they crossed themselves for fear,

All the Knights at Camelot;

But Lancelot mused a little space

He said, “She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott.”

_______











The Blessed Damozel

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The blessed damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary’s gift,

For service meetly worn;

Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

It seemed she scarce had been a day

One of God’s choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years.

… Yet now, and in this place,

Surely she leaned o’er me–her hair

Fell all about my face…

Nothing:the autumn-fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God’s house

That she was standing on;

By God built over the sheer depth

The which is Space begun;

So high, that looking downward thence

She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in heaven, across the flood

Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge

The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met

‘Mid deathless love’s acclaims,

Spoke evermore among themselves

Their heart-remembered names;

And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have made

The bar she leaned on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when

The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon

Was like a little feather

Fluttering far down the gulf; and now

She spoke through the still weather.

Her voice was like the voice the stars

Had when they sang together.

(Ah, sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,

Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be harkened? When those bells

Possessed the midday air,

Strove not her steps to reach my side

Down all the echoing stair?)

“I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come,” she said.

“Have I not prayed in heaven?–on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

“When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I’ll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;

As unto a stream we will step down,

And bathe there in God’s sight.

“We two will stand beside that shrine,

Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And see our old prayers, granted melt

Each like a little cloud.

“We two will lie i’ the shadow of

That living mystic tree

Within those secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch

Saith His Name audibly.

“And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so,

The songs I sing here; which his voice

Shall pause in, hushed and slow,

And find some knowledge at each pause,

Or some new thing to know.”

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say’st!

Yea, one wast thou with me

That once of old. But shall God lift

To endless unity

The soul whose likeness with thy soul

Was but its love for thee?)

“We two,” she said, “will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose names

Are five sweet symphonies,

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret, and Rosalys.

“Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;

Into the fine cloth white like flame

Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them

Who are just born, being dead.

“He shall fear, haply, and be dumb;

Then will I lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love,

Not once abashed or weak;

And the dear Mother will approve

My pride, and let me speak.

“Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To Him round whom all souls

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles;

And angels meeting us shall sing

To their citherns and citoles.

“There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me–

Only to live as once on earth

With Love–only to be,

As then awhile, forever now,

Together, I and he.”

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild–

“All this is when he comes.” She ceased.

The light thrilled toward her, filled

With angels in strong, level flight.

Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres;

And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)