EOS: The Creative Context

Moved Eos Blog Site to Wordpress

2008-10-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are wondering,
I have moved this site to wordpress. Its at:

http://eosthecreativecontext.wordpress.com/

Hope to see you there!

Bea Garth

The Rivers Run Away In Their Own Direction And Vanish To Flow Under Other Skies

2008-09-22T01:45:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall
copyright 2007, 2008

This world may never change
Though a grain of sand and the wide curve of sky
Change every instant
Every man a rip-tide breaking on himself
Every woman an undertow
The fluid knots tying and untying themselves
Under the flat gun-metal of the bay
Men with guns guard every diamond
The real treasure hidden in a handful of dirt
The joy is wandering with empty hands
Embraced by the wind and immersed in the changing light
That falls on us in the course of a day
One among an endless number
Swept away inside remorseless and merciful tides
Moved here and there under the constellations
Born to live inside the ecstatic journey
Which is nothing more than a traveler on a short visit
With both eyes open
and the hands always empty
Moving about beneath the treasure of the sky
And over the treasure of the earth
Weightless and amazed
And drunk inside the rain.

Note: This poem was previously published in the Redwood Coast Review, November 2007.

Obedience

2008-09-20T00:21:00.000-07:00

by John Kurtyka
copyright 2008
computer enhanced drawing

Figs

2008-09-17T22:30:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I reach up
and pick the tender sacks
amongst the gnarled branches
the sun filling both the fruit and my desire
barely shaded by the sparse green leaves
as I think of us
in the wee hours of the night and morning
describing the twists of the honey bee
and the bounty of the Goddess
saving us both
despite our tortured pasts,
our smiles deepening
sharing honeyed passion
savored like these sweet gritty seeds
I bite into
red and pink
beneath the sun purpled skin.

The above poem is in Eating The Peach, a book of poems and drawings about love, illusion and self discovery, soon to be published by Crooked Running Tail Press.

Bea Garth will be the featured reader at the Sept. 18th, 2008 Thursday Gig. She will be reading from the proofs of her manuscript Eating the Peach as well as more recent poems. The Gig will be at the Stone Griffin Gallery, 287 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell, CA near the corner of 1st and Campbell Ave. The gallery is in a loft upstairs. Al Preciado will be the featured artist. Open Mic follows the featured reader. The Potluck starts at 6:30 PM; featured artist talk at 7:15; featured poet at 7:30; Open Mic. follows. Call 408 410-2313 for more information.

Red Sneakers

2008-09-16T10:41:00.000-07:00

by John Kurtyka
computer enhanced drawing
copyright 2008

Waking To A Thought Of A Shark

2008-09-09T00:09:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

You tell me your mind is like a white shark
as we walk amongst the aisles at Albertson’s,*
I buy yogurt and bananas and you a submarine sandwich
--and suddenly I see you
with your eyes gleaming
sparkling with dangerous
mischievous intelligence,
your mouth wanting to chew
on the minds of others,
wanting to swallow our whole civilization.
You swim down the aisle
like a shark smelling the fish,
the blood, the discarded entrails
chumming the water
from the boat called “Western Man”
and I being a woman wonder
where is the Goddess, the Nurturer
except in the food that poisons your body?

Your Goddess is like a crusty old crab
moving sideways, hiding amongst
the seashells and half eaten bones
that your teeth missed.
I want to take her, to take her
and your mouth
and your excellent eyes and nose,
and say yes, look at the detritus,
but also look at yourself—
what kind of shark are you
when you yourself are poisoned by the chum,
by the bright neon lights
of the supermarket aisles
and extruded civilization?

I look at your soft white underbelly
as you circle your prey dreaming of mermaids
with their thick shining tails and full breasts
and long hair wafting about them like seaweed
in the magazine and video sections
and I wonder if you will ever
be more like them,
enjoying the soft sensuousness of the sea,
the discovery and play of being in water without needing to kill,
without needing to open those sharp teeth
quite so wide. Gingerly,
I put my hand in yours
and you grin, winking at me,
your body swaying
slightly voluptuous yet dangerous
as we round the bend.

(*Albertson’s is a chain grocery store in the Pacific Northwest)

Note: this poem is from Eating the Peach, a book of poetry and drawings by Bea Garth about love, illusion and self discovery. Bea will be reading from the galleys of this new book at the Thursday Gig reading September 18th at the Stone Griffin Gallery at 287 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell Ave. in Campbell, CA. Phone: 408 806-1352 for more information .

TO LIVE AND DIE ON EARTH

2008-09-06T15:33:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall
copyright 2008

Hamburgers sizzling
On an open grille
"and Chuck Berry
Is so glad to be"
"back in the USA"
How
Ever
"Mikes
"do
"not
"make
"the
"man
And
ALL
"slides"
"away"
"before"
Your
Personal
And actual
Feet
"Despite your"
"education"
And all that followed it
And "all"
Preceding "it"
)?
Your
Nates
Sizzling
On a grille
)a big eraser removing all exits
)"Lenny Bruce and Robert Crumb and Sartre
)"gone gone so GONE"
And
"you"
Are on
"your"
"own"
)"ART"
)"IS
)"smegma"
"THIS"
"IS"
)the
)beginning

Here Kitty

2008-09-04T12:01:00.000-07:00

by John Kurtyka
computer enhanced drawing
copyright 2008

Two Deserts

2008-09-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

A Message to Environmentalists
by Erik Sutter-Kaye
Chigasaki, Japan
8/20/08

Until you understand the nature of the unfolding environmental situation, your efforts to reverse its process will be in vain. There is no chance of undoing the damage to the environment perpetrated in the Industrial Age. It is too late for that; it has been too late for some time now. Which is not to say that things cannot get better; they can and will, but not before they get worse. But turning the clock back to the way the Earth was before the Industrial Revolution, that is not going to happen. Restoring the Earth isn't about utilizing breaking science and technology.

It isn't about engaging in a Global New Deal. It's not about trading Carbon Credits. It's not about replacing gasoline-fueled, tarmac- riding automobiles with ethanol- or electric- or hydrogen-fueled tarmac-riding automobiles. It's not about reversing global warming. It's not about being a White Knight in dazzling White Armor and riding in to untie Mother Nature tied on the train track.

It's not possible to do these things. It's too big for us. It's too late. Some of us saw this destiny of planetary desertification coming thirty, forty years ago, perhaps longer. But we didn't listen
to us; we didn't think clearly or well about how to warn ourselves. (Spiking trees? Tossing acid in whaling boats? What were we thinking?!) We might have stopped these self-destructive
trends then if we understood the true nature of it; but we didn't then and for the most part we still don't.

It's about admitting the mistakes of the past. Of History. And yes, I just used the word self-destructive. It's our nature we have an opportunity, and responsibility, to correct, and not anything else. It's about opening up our hearts to the grief. It's about discovering that the grief-- our personal grief, grief of lost species, lost habitats, grief of lost opportunities-- although finite, appears to be infinite. It's about deciding as a global society to stop escaping from the grief, and turning around to embrace it, without being consumed by it.

Above all, its about memory. We are on the verge, as a 7 billion-person-strong Global Village, of remembering the last Planetary Crisis, roughly 6 to 8 thousand years ago. When the vast grasslands from Morocco, in Africa, all the way to the great savanna in Mongolia in Central Asia, all wilted and died and turned against humanity, against all life, in a sandy inferno that still burns today.

Recorded history began in the aftermath of this great Old World famine that consumed the center of the populations in the Eastern Hemisphere. The record shows us a steady trend of migration, for 5 or more thousands of years, out of the bitter lands. Throughout the Old World (excluding Australia) the essential experience of epidemic starvation has been transmitted to every corner of the vast human expansion that began in Africa 7 million years ago.

Through war and scorched earth, through socialized traditions of violence to women and children, human slavery, and the apprehension of the reproductive process as a weapon of war to out-populate the enemy, the essential emotional conditions of the Great Old World Famine have been exported at present to the 7 continents and the Seven Seas.

Like the woman who was raped as a young girl, and maintains in her adult life a consistent pattern of self-destructive sexual relationships (with men who resemble her rapist) 20th and 21st Century human societies have been slowly and steadily replicating the moral values and conditions of desert survival into the abundance of the wooded, forested vastness of Asia, Africa, Europe and beyond.

We who carried this pain into Paradise are the walking wounded, surviving descendants of the Great Saharan-Asian Inferno circa 6000 BC -4000 BC. (“BCE” is for wussies!- E.S-K) Sworn to survive no matter how, we carry within our broken psyches a distorted sense of identity, like an Operating System in a software package that is riddled with glitches and bugs. Like a bad OS, we are neither straight nor true, yet we know how to boogie-- we carry within us memories of our condition before the Saharan-Asian Inferno f___d us up.

How can anything good come of a technological fix, when we environmentalists who would do the fixing are carrying the same inherited distortions of history as any corporate robber baron or Warlord? I see a clear pattern in so-called Post-Modern society, of modern institutions from the United Nations down to privately-run think tanks, attempting to solve far-reaching problems with plans that don't include a consideration of the planners' own completely human predilection for self-deception.

Modern history is rife with examples of big fixes that created bigger problems that generated a quantum of large fixes that just keep on expanding exponentially, until the whole system collapses. (I think, for example, of the whole history of the CIA, who has a history of arming rebels against a mutual enemy until the enemy is defeated and the rebels become the new enemy. And what does the CIA do? They go find a new group to arm!)

Our human survival at any level depends upon the emergence of a critical mass of women and men of all cultures who can reverse the societal trends of escapism and emotional suppression that keep buried the old racial memories. Then we can fully remember the buried memory of the Great Saharan-Asian Inferno. We must then all link up, all of us who remember, in order to maximize the practice of collective emotional support. This will be necessary since the emerging memories of our buried past will be devastating to us without a collective structure to anchor our healthy spirits onto. Then finally can we emerge simultaneously from the Two Deserts: the Desert of our buried past, and the Desert of our present unfolding on every continent before us.

For those of you who read this, you need never again fault or blame yourselves or your own species' capacity for stupidity and greed. That would burden you unnecessarily with self-loathing. Rather, take pride on yourself for emerging, however incompletely, from the past infernos, and have compassion for the great wounds and trials you and your ancestors have incurred. Each and every one of us , scientist and terrorist, visionary and prostitute, are all a piece in the puzzle of getting over the current evolutionary challenge. For there is nothing we have ever done, or can do, that Nature hasn't provided for. We are not separate from Nature; we are not separate from God. The coming crisis of Global Warming is exactly necessary to recalibrate the Gaiain Computer.

Note: Erik invites comments on this essay. He would like nothing better than to be either agreed or disagreed with. Given the current goings on with Gustav reminding us of the killing torrents of Katrina on the eve of the RNC, this article as well as discussion of the environment in general seems more important now more than ever.
-----Bea Garth, editor

Blood For Oil

2008-08-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

by John Kurtyka
copyright 2008

Note: This is part of a series of small drawings enlarged and manipulated on the computer. If you are interested in it or others for sale, please let us know and I will inform the artist.

Hump

2008-08-20T16:07:00.000-07:00

by David Larimore
copyright 2008

This is another of David Larimore's elegantly whimsical and originally rendered new series of paintings.

To have a taste of his work come to Thursday Gig at Got Art? Gallery, August 21, 2008 at 24 N. Santa Cruz Ave. in Los Gatos--as well as hear poets Evelyn So and Wendy Taylor Carlisle. Potluck and experimental music by John Kurtyka and Chris Arcus begins at 6:30 PM; featured artist Q & A at 7:15. Featured poets at 7:30. Open Mic follows featured poets.

Judgment Day

2008-08-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

by Evelyn A. So
copyright 2008

We’re back here again, caught
in this endless kírkos of blame.
Who owes whom? How much?
Until when?

Even if we forgive each other’s
old debts, another roomful
waits for the chance to come
face to face with its creator.

Karma, your currency’s no good
here; it’s our faith that’s in mortal
danger. What’s the sum
of our deficits and saving
graces? The chips are down

and the wheel keeps spinning.
Only the banker knows what
change to make and the back
door to the house where all
bets come.

Note: “Judgment Day” is featured in the new issue of Reed Magazine.

Evelyn So will be featured along with poet Wendy Taylor Carlisle and artist David Larimore this August 24th, 2008 at Thursday Gig at 24 N. Santa Cruz Avenues, 6:30-9:30 PM. Improvisational music will be played by John Kurtyka and Chris Arcus.

Anima-Lover

2008-08-17T13:21:00.000-07:00

by David Larimore
copyright 2008

This is another of David Larimore's new paintings that may be included in his show at Thursday Gig at Got Art? Gallery on August 21, 2008 at 24 Santa Cruz Ave., Los Gatos, CA 6:30-9:30 PM with poets Evelyn So and Wendy Taylor Carlisle.

Green Dancer

2008-08-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

by Elizabeth Parashis
acrylic on paper
copyright 2008
click to enlarge image

Homage to Charles M. Schulz

2008-08-12T00:50:00.000-07:00

by Evelyn A. So
Copyright 2008

How dare you dance!
scolded Lucy. Don’t you know
there are problems in this world?
How’s dancing going to solve them?

And Linus might have said:
for everything there is a season—
a time to cry, a time to dance!

But he and Snoopy laugh themselves silly,
spinning arm in arm and singing.
And along comes Woodstock
and Sally and Charlie Brown
and Schroeder and Peppermint Patty and Marcie,
even Lucy and the girl with naturally curly hair
kick up their heels.

As one beagle might
bang on the typewriter
— the world’s full of possibility
for those who greet it
with open arms. Even Lucy agrees
when she takes the doctor’s seat.
Five cents please.

Note: “Homage to Charles M. Schulz” is featured in Reed Magazine’s new website, http://www.reedmag.org.

The above poem is an ekphrastic poem that Evelyn was inspired to write while studying ekphrastic poetry (poetry about other art forms) in the spring of 2007.

Paul Klee

2008-08-11T00:42:00.000-07:00

by David Larimore
copyright 2008
please click on picture to enlarge

Note: David Larimore will be showing his work at Thursday Gig, August 21, 2008 at Got Art? Gallery at 24 N. Santa Cruz Ave. in downtown Los Gatos, CA. The Gig will be from 6:30 until 9:30 PM.

Dreaming of Nasturtiums — or The Red Empress

2008-08-08T01:59:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

The garden dreams of nasturtiums
yellow climbing the walls
Red Empress of India
and poppies, poppies, poppies
opening up laudanum
for the humming birds
whirring that message
zipping into one’s brain
the sunlight
the green leaves
the cats pouncing on crickets
the worms cogitating in the mounds
lifting breast like
as the yellow and green summer squash
trumpet Peter Pans and zucchinis
for us to eat
for us to loll and enjoy our tears
feeding the soil
removing the rocks
squashing the armies
of snails and slugs
hiding under the abalone shells
and river rocks and bricks
lining the garden
circling the apricot tree
and I see you sitting on the grass
as I bend over the breasts
the black/brown mounds
the wire baskets tunneling out
into the sky like scaffolds
rising rising our spirits
our dreams
me in my bare feet
you with your flowered
tight underpants
paint splotched and worn
building the fence
between our yard and the next
a pale blue/gray
echoing the snap beans
the beans we made love amongst
like two empyreans
two nymphs
like satyrs
like the Empress of India
in her red robes and green finery
oh how she smiles
as we eat her flowers
and round scalloped leaves
oh how we smile
as we cut the lemon cucumbers
and oil them
feeling the coolness
reminding me of last year’s
long elongate trumpets of cukes
hanging like dicks
and the witches I shared them with
in our circle circled
by all those red shining tomatoes
reflecting your red and green robes
our delight profound
our delight as we cried
into the earth.

Videus-omnia

2008-08-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

by David Larimore
acrylic painting
copyright 2008

"Fingers held upon one's lips. In this painting I wanted to convey the elusive state of humbling oneself enough to fully-take-in ; before inevitably asserting comprehension via necessary but imperfect words. A recognition of the sublime Wholeness beyond perhaps any one persons full illumination."--David Larimore

Note: This is one of David Larimore's new series of paintings which will be shown at the next Thursday Gig in Los Gatos on August 21st, 2008. For more info. contact Elizabeth at artpages@earthlink.net. The venue will either be up in the Los Gatos hills in the courtyard at 42 Central Ave. or at Got Art? in downtown Los Gatos. More details of the exact location later as we learn more...

FAST EXPRESSION

2008-08-02T13:22:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall
copyright 2008

JB utters the seven
syllables of “BLUES”
in less time than anybody WHO
was ever BORN
“people”
“let me”
“tell you”
“the news”
)the “cold”
“sweat”
of 3 A.M.
“Got nothing”
“ON ME”
but people
let me
tell YOU
the “old” “guy”
“THING”
“is”
“UNDER”
“RATED”
You HANGAROUND
WIT ME
A BIT
“You”
“WILL”
“GET”
“SOME”
“BLUES” said
with seven syllables
SO QUICK
“You don’t know”
“whether to run”
“shit”
or
“go”
“blind”
Love
You
BABY

Cherries

2008-07-30T18:31:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I ate up almost all
of the black Bing cherries
this afternoon thinking of you
driving my blue pick up from Portland
to Eugene, eating Royal Annes
just picked from the old fruit farm
where you are staying ensconced
in a miniature bus
so clean and white and fresh
with its bare tatami mats, feeling open,
despite its postage stamp size
and the gray rain and time-spotted exterior.
Now it is sunny and warm this afternoon
just after experiencing July third and fourth
with you, sharing gas expenses,
going to a slide show,
having brunch with your old
vagabond poet friend
and his cohorts and my poet friend
who is about to leave for the East Coast.

Three cherries still sit in the white
ceramic bowl on the blue table cloth.
The sun streams in from under
the window shade.
Earlier I stretched out on the back lawn
and let my legs bask in the sun
while my head lay in the shade
and I looked up at the wisteria pods
and twisting bark. And I remember
the little girl during brunch
who wondered what that lump was
on your throat and I told her
that it was an Adam’s Apple,
and that most men have them,
it’s just more obvious in some
than in others – and I looked
at your long neck red from the sun
and your corny South Dakota humor
and later you asked for some black tea
with a pretend English accent
while up above us yellow butterflies
flew a patterned loop
in and out of the fruit trees
overhead.

Note: this poem will appear in my book of poems and drawings this Fall called Eating The Peach.
-----Bea Garth

Platero Amongst The Marsh Grasses

2008-07-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 1998, 2008

This drawing was done for the 1998 musical performance of "Platero Y Yo"-- wherein the Spanish guitar music was inspired by the Pulitzer Prize winning poems by Juan Ramon Jimenez. I imagined an idyllic setting wherein Platero (the wise donkey) was relaxing in a marsh next to his friend, the poet -- with the poet now amongst his family (which in the poems he did not have).
-----Bea Garth

A Call For Readers

2008-07-25T01:47:00.000-07:00

Robert Claus is looking for readers to help create an audio version of his poems about California called Bear Songs. He plans to make audio recordings with different Californians reading his work. Each poem explores specific places, others specific events or states of mind. Each work will be read by a different voice and arranged into a unique audible set that reflects the theme and setting of the piece. The actual recordings will take place in the Bay Area with the finished album slated to appear on Sound Press Records later this year. "So dust off that old microphone, warm up those 'chords & let me hear what you've got!" ----- Robert Claus

To hear an example of the recordings go to:

http://www.soundpressrecords.com/theCrowbard.html

You can read Robert Claus' collection of poems at: http://homepage.mac.com/clausr/Crowbard/index.html

If interested in participating in this project, contact Robert at: clausr@mac.com

Sunset Beach Vignette

2008-07-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

by Robert Claus
copyright 2008

The evening breeze combs dune grass for old conversations
and chases empty words in sandy spirals towards the parking lot,
where wide-eyed cars wait blindly for the night.

I listen with the empty mussels and beak-cracked crabs for mermaids or monsters,
listen to the placid ocean lisp its endless disappointments to the patient beach, listen
to the crude seagulls shriek their hunger to the frigid, salty air.

The evening climbs slowly down the smokestacks at Moss Landing and tarnishes
the leaden Bay a dull, indifferent grey that smudges out the line between
the ocean and the sullen, sinking sky.

I listen to the beach sigh in resignation beneath my feet,
(somewhere in the bitter mist a dog barks at the waves)
and trudge back up the dunes, to the tarmac and my car.

On the beach, gusts spin the litter of discarded conversations
across the sand to settle in the grass
as dead-word drifts among the dunes.

Note: from Robert Claus' collection of poems about California, called Bear Songs soon to appear in an audio version. Please see his Call for Readers above.

Stinker

2008-07-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 1998, 2008

"This drawing was inspired by part of the human condition ( i.e., feeling wry and uncomfortable). It will appear this Fall in my upcoming book of poems and drawings: Eating the Peach."
-----Bea Garth

Bower Bird's Nest Constructions

2008-07-22T00:15:00.000-07:00

by Linna Muschlitz and friends: Wendy Snetsinger, Jean Giddins, Dorothy Durremberger
copyright 2008

The first of three sculptural nest constructions "inspired by the Bower bird's nest" (more later):

These are three of "8 pieces we did which we photographed on white walls but they look grey. The twigs are my idea and the flat weaving is Jean's idea, who is a weaver. I wanted 3-d but this is what we all decided. Red twig dogwood. grape vine, string and lace, or buttons. These are hung in the panels between the wooden supports. They all look great except for the Bower birds.

We each made two wall sculptures. We used a cardboard loom and then cut them off and hung them. Some are very airy.

Names -- I can't remember who did what. But these are the artist's names:
Linna Muschlitz - provided sticks circles and airy negative space piece, Center piece. Wendy Snetsinger- invited me to bring my art form to the church - white lace wall piece. Jean Giddins - professional loom weaver. Dorothy Durremberger- with small basket and green ribbon woven into stick weaving.

Everyone is a professional artist. Dorothy and I do 3-d Jean and Wendy are 2-d or mixed media in 2-d/."

-----Linna Muschlitz, Pennsylvania

Unhindered (for Ruth Asawa)

2008-07-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

by Kelly Cressio-Moeller 
copyright  2008

Pathways curling into curved meanders
Exploring the subtle duality of space
Chevron patterns neat as garden rows
Bright with sleight of hand color tension
Releasing shimmering optical vibrations


A slender bend of industrial wire
Heralding interlaced trumpets
Blowing amber-glow tranquility
And dandelion spore reflections
Across ceiling, wall, and floor


Tied-wire cartwheels
Anchored from on high
Awaiting our childhood monkey-bar swings
From shadowed branch to shadowed branch
A mystic woodland of our own


Forms within forms
Crocheted, cocooning teardrop wombs
Nesting, resting within themselves
Umbilical hourglasses connecting us all
By a lifeline of elongated possibility and suspended joy


A precise reticulation of roads
Clean, clear, infinite
Traveling heroic and unhindered
Mapping the belief that:
                   

                             "A line can go anywhere"

The Wind Storms Outside

2008-07-17T01:49:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth

Your curtains billow

and gleam slightly of gold

as we talk of forests, seas and continents,

the gods having raised their fists

at each of us

and we, like two Odysseus’

finally meet to tell our tales

and laugh at the twists and turns

while we marvel at these gifts

we’ve wrest despite

the monsters’ traps

and treacherous seas.

We sing to each other

words wild as the wind

and just as quickly

images like trees, earthy and green,

while the beach lies pregnant

frothed by the ocean’s hiss.

We don’t notice the time

‘til the sun

silhouettes our bodies

in the morning’s golden rays

as we shake hands

and go our separate ways.

Note: this is a poem which will be appearing in "Eating The Peach"--my new book of poems and drawings to be published early this Fall.

The Itch

2008-07-15T01:41:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 1982, 2008
pen and ink drawingThis drawing will soon appear in Eating The Peach, a book of poems and drawings of mine about love and illusion. This particular drawing was from when I lived in Seattle in 1982 and "gave up art" and started doodling--which started me on the (artistic) path I am still on with ceramic sculpture as well as drawing and now painting.
-----Bea Garth

SPEAK THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED

2008-07-14T02:58:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall

Morning arrived without an invitation
It was just that evening was so beautiful
The sunrise started following it around
I don’t know where your luminous paleness ends
And the black heart of midnight begins
The borders are opaque
Even in the black some light gets in
The blood finds its way
Just like a new-born river
Goes where it must to continue to flow
Otherwise it must become a lake
Breathing in motionless splendor
Guard of light and a passive victim of the moon
But we
Are
about
Rivers
Inexplicably encountering each other
Crowded with rubies among the white stones
We broke all the laws
Standing in the kitchen
Under very bright lights the curve of your back
Your breasts high in a plum tree
And the nipples fiery and tender
Eclipsing the rare gems the night had buried
Inside my body and my dreams
I woke up and knew your milk arrayed
Upon a landscape of white gold
Drowned in an air that could only be the daughter of the ocean
And we love each other
The way the night follows the morning
Enthralled and justified
Because the black stone from the endless vastness of night
Must warm and glow and be consumed in fire to reach the earth
And the pure air surrounding us while we embrace
Contains the light and heat of the meteor fallen
Sacrifice from the heart of night
That we might fly
In our quick night
And rest in an exhausted paradise
Mementos of this impossible journey
Strung along your belly
Like dew
From
heaven
Forever.

Tracy 2

2008-07-13T00:55:00.000-07:00

by Elizabeth Parashis
copyright 2008
acrylic on paper
Note: click on picture for a larger image

power plant

2008-07-11T22:39:00.000-07:00

by janet crawford trenchard
copyright 2008   

driving along in the dark
earth and sea to either side
expecting to be surprised as always
by silvery stilts
rising out of the mist, Atlantis
spreading its net oflights
I wonder
if I missed it somehow
then  suddenly  crane my neck
to see it standing there
on stiff spiderlegs, unlit
a driveby tour of a dead fairyland
some woeful message
spelled out in enormous runes
indecipherable, reaching out to us
from oblivion

Hawaiian Girl

2008-07-10T00:49:00.001-07:00

by Elizabeth Parashis
copyright 2008
acrylic on board
note: click picture to see a larger version

IF I WERE

2008-07-08T23:56:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

If I were me
and you were you
what would we do?
Would we laugh and cry
give each other our hearts
and swear not to die,
if I were me
and you were you?

Instead we pace and stumble
being ever so humble
never learning to trust,
laughing at our disgust.
I hold myself in a huff,
stamp my feet
and let my heart rust
locking up the need
to laugh and cry.

Instead I realize
I am me
and you are you
and there is nothing
each other can do
while the cats meow
and the sparrows titter
hopping and pecking,
all stamping
and seeming to say
“That is that!”
as each flies, runs away.

Megane: Kintaro's Eyeglasses

2008-07-07T02:14:00.000-07:00

by Erik Kaye
copyright 2008
watercolor
note: click picture to see a larger version

Here's what Erik has to say about the above painting:
"Megane: Kintaro's Eyeglasses, that's pronounced Meh-gah-neh, which is the word prominently spelled in reverse in the upper left-hand corner of the windows, and means eyeglasses. The cartoony head beside the big word is Kintaro-- Golden Taro or Golden Boy-- a folk legend who is the mascot for "Megane Do-rah-gu* (Megane Drugs Incorporated).

Please note this is a work-in-progress. Most of the details are in place, but it needs a lot of tweaking to give the plane of reflective mirror-glass the sheen that was the goal when I began this painting. "
-----Erik Kaye

ODE TO WOLFMAN GREGGIE

2008-07-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall
copyright 2008

When I was bom my father wore a lab coat
The first words audible were
"it's alive, it's al-l-l-l-ive ... "
Igor stood by and told the old man
"I'm glad your first child is a masculine child"
I ran with the wolves until I was seventeen
The villagers came with torches and burned the castle
But it was empty
It had always been empty
When the moon got full
My face broke out in fur
My teeth felt sharp and I had tons of energy
I became obsessed with Hank Williams
I was ready for love
I was drowning in love
And had no voice
No way to speak to another
Of the vast seas which were navigating me
I hid inside the rain
I hid inside the sunlight
I could only be seen under starlight
Seen
But
Not
Heard
I was the howling child
Muted by history
This went on for a long time
But one day this blonde girl
Looking to get out of the rain
Crawled under a boat propped up on the beach
And she taught me to write
My name in the sand
And then taught me to speak
One letter at a time
And then to weave the letters into a word
The words into sentences
And then
To Sing
She kissed me and bade me farewell
Now after this I wove a shirt made up completely of words
In my shirt I can go anywhere and pass for human
When I meet people I say "Spanish Lace"
or "Flamenco Oranges Impersonate My Tears"
Its only in the middle of three A.M.
I wake up trembling and remember my life
As the Monster's Son
Though still after writing a poem
I must admit
My teeth
Feel
Sharper

Flamenco Dancers

2008-07-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

by Elizabeth Parashis
copyright 2008
acrylic on board
note: click picture to see a larger version

"Thursday Gig" Los Gatos art/poetry/memoir salon

2008-06-30T11:02:00.000-07:00

photo of Thursday Gig spoken word reading in Los Gatos, CA
by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

link to Mercury News article
by Bea Garth

For those who would like to know, I am posting the link to an article recently published in the Los Gatos Weekly Times and the San Jose Mercury News about Thursday Gig, the monthly art, poetry/memoir, potluck event that Elizabeth Parashis and I host in Los Gatos and, beginning this Fall, in Campbell at the Stone Griffin Gallery (more on this later). The article is by Heather Zimmerman and can be found here at:
http://www.mercurynews.com/losgatos/ci_9613915

In the article, Heather compares our Thursday Gig to the European salons of the 17th and 18th centuries--with a 21st century twist--since we the artists are hosting the event rather than the cultured rich. This way we the artists (including writers) inspire each other as well as our audience. I have a quote somewhere that advises that the true artist creates his or her audience; so here we have it at Thursday Gig. The amazing thing is that it really is working. We hope this idea catches on elsewhere.

We now have the Gig regularly on the 3rd Thursday except for December when we take a holiday hiatus. For more information please contact Elizabeth at artpages@earthlink.net.

Note:
Thursday, July 17th, 6:30 - 9:30 pm
Thursday Gig: Poetry and Art

at "Got Art? Gallery"
24 N Santa Cruz Ave, Los Gatos, CA
This is a new, temporary location in downtown Los Gatos for Thursday Gig (thanks to the L.G.A.A.!), at the previous Linda Durnell Gallery site -- so please take note!! It is a beautiful space so we are thankful to have this opportunity to show in it. Pia Di Stefano's fantastic artwork should shine in this elegant space plus the spoken word art of our featured poets Chris Arcus and Erica Goss will likely resonate. It should be a very fun night!

POTLUCK/BYOB begins at 6:30 pm
Art Q & A begins at 7:15 pm
Featured poetry reading begins at 7:30 pm
Open Mic follows.

Features:
Artist Pia Di Stefano will be featuring her paintings and drawings described as "painting her inner inferno". She exhibits in Italy, Switzerland, Spain and in New York Galleries. And then Open mike.

Poets: poet/musician Chris Arcus and award winning poet Erica Goss.

On Exploring This New Emptiness

2008-06-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

Emptiness fills me while life around me buzzes,
a new man takes an interest but I hardly want to bother.
What shadows am I fighting? What lessons must I learn?
I think of you with your long legs draped elegantly
across the length of the couch,
your smile delighted when I would crawl on top of you.
I could have another but for what?
What hungry beasts we are, what lonely creatures.

I know there are reasons you had to leave.
We were after all two opposites:
you tidy, me complicated; you logical, me intuitive,
you atheistic, me metaphysical,
you prefer packaged food heated in a microwave,
I cook everything in or on a stove from scratch,
you watch sports whereas I like politics, science fiction and old movies,
I am a pack-rat and you like things pristinely organized,
I like to grow plants and improvise while I dig in the dirt
whereas you never like to do anything messy,
I like to delve into the meaning of things
and you think philosophy is about exploring
and refining the surface.

I am not so very modern it seems as you are and were.
I am a throw-back perhaps:
art, herbs, poetry, politics, astrology
as well as seeing after my aged mother and repairing the houses.
Whereas you are more streamlined: computer programming,
although you have talent with music and art
but fear to take these occupations seriously.

I have to decide if I can
allow myself to partner again
or just obey my impulse
to become an isolate Crone,
maybe loving someone now and then
without becoming too attached.
I know deep inside I can no longer let myself
become derailed by someone else’s agenda,
which unfortunately is all too easy,
whether they intend that or not,
since I am empathic despite my independent nature.

For now I tend the wood stove,
buy groceries for my mother and feed the cats,
swim and walk, happy about the progress
of our current renovations
on what was before just a bunch of falling apart houses
and strategize how to not obsess about some new man
or call you up to say hello, making more time instead
to get back into my art studio
while life both quickens and slows
as I feel myself reach towards the next stage of life.

ShonanDaira III

2008-06-23T22:34:00.000-07:00

by Erik Kaye
watercolor
Note: click on picture to enlarge

"Re the series , ShonanDaira-- Shonan is the name for this seaside region on the backside of Sagami Bay which is essentially the outer chamber of Tokyo Bay. Daira is a word that usually means plane or plateau (the Chinese character also means 'flat') but I think here can be translated into 'butte.' Yah, that sounds right, Shonan Butte."
-----Erik Kaye

REALLY OPEN MIKE

2008-06-22T16:10:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall
copyright 2008

"WHO"
May
Speak
)?
"Those who make
Loneliness
A darling lover,
Solitude a darling
Sin"...
Bring yr dreams
Yr aspirations, yr crimes,
Yr open throats,
"KEEP SINGING"
as yr howls and "mozartian ululations"
Are not "FATAL" to me...
Seek not in me
The source of yr pregnancy,
"I" "LEAVE"
"NO"
"TRACKS"
But the
Loneliness problem
You mention
"Compels"
"Me"
To "advise"
"You"
"MAKE
LONELINESS
A LOVER
AND SOLITUDE
A DARLING
SIN"

It’s Hot!

2008-06-21T12:41:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

It’s hot. This morning it was still hot. Yesterday it was over 103 degrees here in the generally cool Los Gatos Hills not to speak of 101 degrees in San Jose.

I stopped at the cul-de-sac I manage in San Jose and Olivia told me this evening there is going to be a neighborhood street fair with a movie of Marilyn Monroe’s called “Some Like It Hot.” I may go there with a friend tonight if I am not still working on my ceramic sculpture and its not too unbearably hot.

I made sure I cooled off the studio last night. It was like an oven despite it being under trees and near a creek at the bottom of a hill. I opened a couple of windows and ran the fan all night and closed the windows this morning. And yes thankfully it had cooled down. I walked up the hill from the studio to the house and it seemed like it was at least 2:00 PM despite it being only 10:00 AM. I came up and closed the garage door and all the windows in my apartment and upstairs in my mother’s house. Fortunately I remembered to water the new garden last night before going out.

I plan to go for a swim pretty soon in our rustic pool. Just yesterday my 93 year old mother put in more pool shock. It was part of my campaign to get her to do something since otherwise she just sits even though she actually is very strong. We only had one bag left. I hope it was enough. The water was starting to turn green.

Heat. My brain fries. Yesterday I could hardly think. My head hurt and everything was miserable and blurry.

My eldest sister has a fever. I am letting her stay in my extra bedroom since she did not get along with our mother upstairs. I figured she needed a quiet place to heal with no stress and no trace glutens. She keeps drinking water like a parched fish. Her blood has an infection the doctors have as yet to determine what. She won’t take antibiotics until she knows. She is even more sensitive to drugs and foods than I am; this is my “marsy” sister that should have been an army sergeant. She has a heat rash over her whole body. She is so uncomfortable she wears no clothes. I bought bag balm to rub on her skin since she is allergic to everything else.

I remain considerate in spite of her hot, acerbic personality. Nevertheless I make a point of standing up for myself. This is my space after all. She is my guest and I make sure she behaves, like not bake her chicken in the middle of the day like she did yesterday ignoring the 103 degree weather!!

Nevertheless we somehow get along. Both of us want to not suffer needlessly. We have similar health concerns and have both transformed ourselves for the better overall despite the family trance that suggests its better to ignore our extreme celiac (i.e., no gluten) needs and other allergens and instead fit in with the conventional world. It helps to have an ally in her -- and she thanks me for cluing her in on what all was actually going on concerning the celiac since her doctors did not help. I just have to get her to see that paying attention to emotions is important too if you want to get along. As it is, both of her (now adult) children have become further estranged from her plus she has difficulty doing business with others without alienating them with her frequent caustic comments.

Today despite the continued heat I feel OK. I just learned tomorrow may cool off. The heat reminds me nevertheless that I liked living in the desert. Just takes three days usually to really make the adjustment. I was born in the desert after all up in Walla Walla, Washington near the Columbia River.

Nothing seems regular or normal weather-wise here in the San Francisco Bay Area. We are having the beginning of a drought. Everything is overly dry. The woods here are one big tinderbox. I worry about all those dead Oak trees adding to the fuel. We need to do some drastic trimming back before its too late. But it is hard since there are over twenty acres and much benign neglect. Last year Lexington reservoir was down to being just mud practically. This year it should be even worse since once again we had very little rain this past winter.

Already there have been several fires in the Santa Cruz area (over the low mountains half an hour away). Smokey skies are becoming a way of life. Thankfully I have my air purifier.

I drove by a fire just last week on my way in to San Jose from Los Gatos. The flames were at least ten feet high if not higher next to the freeway near the Camden exit on Highway 17. Fortunately it was along a green strip with the Los Gatos Creek stopping it from crossing over to the homes on the other side. The sky quickly became filled with soot and the fading sun was bright orange through the hazy gray air.

Extremes abound even though here it is not as bad as elsewhere. In the Midwest there are all those floods and storms. The fiasco called Katrina seems not to be just some fluke. Some say that all this extreme weather is part of “Global Warming.” I don’t doubt it. The world is out of balance. It is our job to rectify it in our own lives as well as influence public policy.

On further reading of the news I discover that McCain wants to put in roughly 46 new atomic reactors in the U.S.A. as a way to stop increased Global warming. It would be pretty funny if it weren’t so tragic. The irony of his wanting to attack Iran for doing one fiftieth of this sort of activity cannot escape the discerning eye. I notice Bush is trying to make an ally of Russia to further his position against Iran. I pray we don't have another meaningless war.

It makes me recall the infamous Green Run and how the US government experimented on the local population up in Eastern Washington by doing several releases or radioactive materials into the atmosphere from Hanford Nuclear Power Plant just to see what would happen to us back in the early 1950’s. This happened to me and my family since we were living in Walla Walla at the time. We didn’t move away to Bothell near Seattle until the end of the summer in 1952. I refuse to believe that nuclear reactors are safe and have no impact on our environment.

The sun itself of course is like a humongous reactor—one we get life from or become parched by or cooled off too much if our atmosphere becomes blocked from the sun’s rays -- like what happened in the old Ice Age. Recently they discovered why—it was due to a titanic volcanic eruption in Indonesia that was so large its ash caused the weather to drop globally by at least 10 degrees for several hundred years. Many species died. Nature at this scale continues to amaze me. We are so intertwined in balance (or out of balance) with everything else. It stands in fact as a warning.

Our bodies themselves are formed by so much water carried about in our bag-like skin stretched over the armature of our skeleton. Its no wonder it takes a lot to adjust to heat and that we are so sensitive to it. Or that heat (or the absence of it) is so much a part of our mythology. We need to make good use of its signs. If we pay attention, it can become a forge in which we can purify our souls as we learn how to heal the planet. Taking heed of the signs and taking action is a much better plan than doing nothing like the poor dinosaurs who were unable to adjust to changing conditions except for a few lizards and birds who were tiny enough to survive.

Meanwhile my sister’s fever has finally gone down. It has been nearly a week. Maybe she won’t need antibiotics after all! I hear her moaning in the bathroom from the shock of entering a cool bath. Its hot today, but somehow we will survive.

BANK SPECULATION AND OIL PRICES

2008-06-18T11:01:00.000-07:00

News Analysis by Graeme Jones
copyright June 18, 2008

The people who own and control a thing determine the purpose of that thing. Given this, it can be truthfully said that the purpose of the American mass media is to protect the Capitalist establishment from the American people. One of the ways that it does this is by a very focused news management policy, that keeps activities at the apex of the capitalist power pyramid hidden behind a media smoke-screen. Ignorance and confusion is promoted in order to protect the predation that rules at the center of American power.

For this reason, few people will be aware that the current escalation in oil prices is being driven, to a significant extent, by financial speculation on the part of American banks. And that speculation is being done with taxpayer money. This is revealed to us by both Ralph Nader and Paul Craig Roberts. Roberts was an Assistant Secretary of the Treasury in the Reagan administration and former Associate Editor of the Wall Street Journal. Writing for the Counterpunch website in June 2008, Roberts asserts:

“In an effort to forestall a serious recession and further crises in derivative instruments, the Federal Reserve is pouring out liquidity that is financing speculation in oil futures contracts. Hedge funds and investment banks are restoring their impaired capital structures with profits made by speculating in highly leveraged oil future contracts, just as real estate speculators flipping contracts pushed up home prices......The crisis that looms for the US is the loss of its world currency role. Once the dollar loses that role, the US government will not be able to finance its operations by borrowing abroad, and foreigners will cease to finance the massive US trade deficit. This crisis will eliminate the US as a world power.”

The Federal Reserve is throwing taxpayer money at the large banks in order to protect them from self-induced bankruptcy. The Fed’s intention is that this money will be used by the banks to disburse credit to their business customers, thereby keeping the economy afloat. But the banks are using that money to build up their depleted capital base by speculating on the oil futures market.

If the people’s own money is being used to artificially drive up oil prices, it is clearly necessary that the media keep that fact safely obscured. Along with the fact that, while the United States Federal Reserve is spoken of by the media as an American Governmental institution, it is in fact nothing of the sort. It is really the private property of the banking cartel and sees its duty accordingly.

It needs to be added that such a massive, and ongoing, currency disbursement on the part of the Fed is putting significant downward pressure on the value of the dollar. At the same time speculative pressure on oil prices stokes the fires of inflation.

The deliciously ironic terminal logic here is that the sustainability of the entire capitalist system is being destroyed, in order to protect the very people who are in fact destroying that system.

Silver

2008-06-12T23:15:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

The clock is ticking
death approaches
I breathe in deeply
the universe bathes my heart
while a dog barks
from across the creek.
I do battle
persistent and slow
as a snail
eating the lettuce
and even the marigolds,
my trail a silver thread
reflecting the morning sun.

Evolving Line X

2008-06-09T18:58:00.000-07:00

by Erik Kaye
copyright 2008
watercolor
>Note: click on picture to see an expanded version

This is part of Erik's new abstract series of watercolors:
"The Evolving Line X is a breakthrough
painting -- where I succeeding in creating the rhythmic non linear
space that I've been reaching for for many years."
-----Erik Kaye

Carob Banana Bars (gluten, sugar, milk, egg free)

2008-06-09T00:48:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Try these delicious carob, banana bars. Again they seem sinfully rich but aren't since there is no sugar, chocolate, eggs or milk.

preheat oven to 350 degrees

½ cup butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons coconut milk (or other)
3 tablespoons applesauce
1 ½ cups mashed ripe bananas (about 3 medium)

2 cups GF flour mix
1 teaspoon baking powder
¾ teaspoon stevia powder
½ teaspoon potato flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon xanthan gum
1/2 cup carob powder

Optional -- Add:
1 cup sunflower seeds (or chopped nuts)

In a mixing bowl, cream butter. Add vanilla extract, coconut milk and applesauce ; beat until thoroughly combined. Blend in mashed bananas.
Combine the gluten free flour mix, potato flour, xanthan gum, carob, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

Add flour mixture to creamed and mix well.
Optional: Add sunflower seeds or chopped nuts.
Spread into a greased 13 x 9-inch baking pan.
Bake at 350F for 25 minutes or until the bars test done.
Yields about 2 ½ to 3 dozen bars.

Herman

2008-06-07T21:33:00.001-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008
work still in progress

Note: click on picture to see an expanded version

This piece is inspired by my great grandfather Herman Sund.

ON WHAT IS REQUIRED

2008-06-04T01:35:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I wintered far too long
thick roots strangled my every movement
as I dreamed of Spring
despite what seemed all odds
willing myself to un-twine
the hidden spells that bound me.

Miraculously, I woke up
knowing what finally to do:
what majicks to enact, what potions to drink,
what edibles to eat, what things to avoid.

Slowly I revive
as I finally begin to turn the soil
and spread the rich compost
that sat forgotten
through that dark forbidding Winter.

Now I hear the Earth Sprites laugh
waiting for the new starts:
tomato, yellow-squash, cucumber,
rosemary, thyme, sage and rue,
brilliant red marigold
and their cousins -- golden calendula.

And, despite the lateness of Spring,
the earliness of Summer
grabs me by my hands
during this pregnant New Moon,
showing me Winter truly has passed
and will not come again for some Time yet
but action Now is of the Essence.

SUNSET BAY STATE PARK (first part)

2008-06-02T01:24:00.000-07:00

by Steve Arntson
copyright 2008

See it there!
A sunset just a darkening
A black-and-white affair
more suitable for Bad Guys and lonesome times

It is said the rocks were blasted once
At the entrance dynamite you didn't stick around!

Before you think you have to die
the stock market crashed
It's 1933
And the sun has simply turned to stone with the times
An amorphous gray

It's still a market
Still a sunset
And what we're hearing like banshee landlords
the cries of the avifauna
their absolute agenda

The Bay is like a sudden crater
where the truth about money is a costly surprise
the color of steel
The new color of the sinking star

New gray
As if gray were Noel and anomaly
what painters' eyes have never seen
and therefore attempted
with their pallet's bright ouija

Designation: poverty
The ranger pronounces government green
that seems another version of "All is lost!"
Chances are you own a uniform yourself
And keep it tailored to a vanishing life-form

"Money market" is alliteration only
A tease in the mind
A cork afloat in the cranial sea
where no horizon's ever discerned
dimeless
Something unthought-of before
Upwind or down

We're just about turned into animals again
No one's to blame how does it feel?

Half-light and half-dark
It's a sunset devoured by a battleship's paint job
A gray that's waiting
on the sirens of Roman numeral wars
I II and counting impatiently

Let the ranger speak!
Can purple be a color? and red? out there?
right now?

Blown apart!
westmost smithereens
an underwater temple deconstructed

Can the Bay be the sky be the paint-by-numbers showoff?
What sealife does and all the time

The ranger's talking science to no one in particular
Talking to retire she incubates a bias towards the west
The last lines of sight beginning to curve
and be a reservoir of sable shallow numerology

海の日、江の島, The Day of the Sea, Enoshima

2008-06-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

by Erik Kaye
copyright 2008
watercolor
Note: double click on picture to enlarge

This is another in a series of watercolors of Japan by Erik Kaye. He has been living there with his wife since the late nineties.

SURREALISM

2008-05-30T00:53:00.000-07:00

A Bridge Between Heaven and Earth
by Graeme Jones
copyright 2008

In the early 1970’s I concluded that the remarkable hatred and fear directed at Communism by the miserable, small-minded cretins that ran the New Zealand Government suggested that there just had to be something good about that political philosophy. And quite possibly something important. In my instinctive and unschooled response I was applying the Hegelian dialectical principle; if evil organizes itself against a thing, then search within that thing for a boon. So I decided to take a look at Marxism, and therein began my journey.

This same law of opposites comes to our aid when we examine the political focus of those really serious Fascists, the Nazi’s. When Hitler’s jackbooted legions strutted their way into Paris in May 1940 high on their political agenda was the extermination of the Surrealist art movement, which was centered in that city. Over the ensuing months, employing the epithet “decadent art,” the Nazis completely suppressed the vibrant cultural movement known as French Surrealism. Why were the German Fascists so determined to annihilate a school of French artists? Surrealism itself reveals the answer.

Surrealism is an artistic movement characterized by its emphasis upon the opening to the psychological unconscious. In Surrealism the artist is inviting the unconscious to take over the artistic process. The colorful vibrancy and creativity of the unconscious is glorified, to the point where the unconscious tends to become the subject of the art itself. This is most famously exemplified in the works of Salvador Dali. Surrealists saw their movement as a cultural vanguard, its task being to communicate the social importance of the collective opening to the psychological unconscious. But Surrealism was more than merely a collection of talented individual artists. It was a living cultural movement in the best European tradition, a continuation of the spirit of the French Revolution.

Here was a talented intelligentsia who understood the importance of consciously integrating their innovative artistic styles into the variegated dimensions of European progressive life. They saw themselves as a “school” in the real sense of the word. The genius of the inspired individual that marked the cultural life of Paris was being employed to delve into the hidden depths of the modern psyche, and to relate that exploration to all aspects of progressive culture. Their ambition was to cultivate the living spirit of Europe by using art to foster a conception of organic unity that satisfied the modern psyche. And they regarded the psychological unconscious as an actual participatory agent in that endeavor.

Accordingly, it was both natural and unavoidable that Surrealists would recognize the living force of the unconscious inside early 20th century Socialist political struggles. The logic of Surrealism itself obliged them to fold the Socialist vision into the general outlook of that artistic movement. Inspired, individual subjectivity and the political cause of the progressive masses began to converge via the unifying medium of Surrealism. The psychology of the unconscious and Marxism were beginning to coalesce into a unified cultural stream.

The leading Surrealists were openly Socialist. And their willingness to be informed from outside the orthodoxies of Marxism, and to bring that psychologically enriching content into their red politics attracted many to the unique vitality of that movement. It is no surprise that Surrealists were some of the very first to advance a Socialist criticism of Stalinism. In essence, pre World War II Surrealism was a cultural bridge between the politics of liberation and the new humanist psychology of the unconscious. It was in Surrealist circles that creative people could walk from one end of that bridge to the other.

PSYCHOLOGICAL POLITICS

The integration of the Marxist political outlook and the psychology of the unconscious comes to us in the brilliant insight of Surrealism’s most well known spokesman, Andre Breton; “bourgeois culture erects a fortress against the unconscious.” This point of view is at once Marxist and Jungian. Here Surrealism is offering us a psychological understanding of class struggle. Class conflict between bourgeoisie and proletariat is a political metaphor for the collective relations between the ego and the contents of the unconscious. This is esoteric Marxism. The collective egoism of Western man crystallizes its antagonistic relationship with the collective unconscious in political form as bourgeois class war against the working masses. “Masses” being a mythic code word for the collective unconscious. Here is the cosmic axis around which the great conflicts of the 20th century orbit; the Euro-American ego’s reactive hostility to the planetary culture of wholeness which seeks to emerge from within the collective unconscious and supersede the world outlook of egoism.

Code words for bourgeois political reaction, directed against the working class, women and people of color, can be read, psychologically, as mythic projections of the western ego’s hostility towards the unconscious. Carl Jung specified exactly this. In his alchemical dream interpretations Jung wrote; “The political left stands for the unconscious and all that lurks within it.” Any competent Jungian knows that liberation from oppression requires turning away from the ego bound perspective and embracing the salvatory movement that is to be found in the unconscious. So the logic is clear. Right wing reactionary politics is the ego’s war against humanity’s living spirit. Conversely, it is the task of the political left to embrace the life giving vibrancy of the unconscious, and to embody the healing function of the Self as it emerges from the collective unconscious. Red culture must breach the bourgeois fortress on behalf of the insurgent unconscious. This was the perspective that was beginning to take form in the Surrealist school just prior to World War II.

ROMANTICISM OUTCAST

This approach offers us a clear psychological analysis of the terribly destructive political tensions and violence that have wracked Euro-American civilization for the better part of the last two centuries. It also explains the Capitalist establishment’s need to suppress, distort and control art and culture. It being the role of artists, and culture, to convey the life-giving creativity of the unconscious to the mass mind. Prior to 1850 the Romantic Movement was fashionable and received bourgeois patronage. But the revolutions of 1848 pushed the Romantic artists to openly side with the proletariat in their street battles with the bourgeoisie that broke out simultaneously in cities throughout Europe. From that time onwards Europe’s ruling bourgeoisie saw clearly that Romanticism, art and culture posed a potentially mortal threat to their class rule, and hence had to be carefully controlled and, if necessary, destroyed. The Bourgeoisie can only feel truly secure when they sit atop a cultural wasteland, which has been washed clean of any threatening vitality from the banished unconscious. Accordingly Romanticism quickly became “unfashionable” and was replaced by the 19th Century version of Fascism; i.e., Victorianism. Fascism simply being the naked face of ego driven, reactionary, bourgeois class power, exemplified by the Nazi Herman Goering’s infamous dictum; “whenever I hear the word culture I reach for my pistol.”

The Nazi occupation of Paris paid the Surrealists the ultimate compliment. By targeting that school for immediate annihilation the Nazi’s were fortifying bourgeois reaction in Europe against any possibility of progressive cultural insurgency on the part of the unconscious. In so doing they demonstrated the incisive accuracy of the Surrealist critique. But there is more. Germans are deservedly famous for combining depth of instinctive insight with highly focused intelligence. The Nazis were no exception. Recall that the Nazi’s hated Communism with an existential passion. The German bourgeois ego was terrified of being drowned in a tidal wave of Red feeling. It saw itself to be in a war to the death with its own worst nightmare, i.e., an overwhelming resurgence of the primitive feminine from the “subhuman” Slavic east.

The Nazi’s expected to be lauded for defending Europe against Red barbarism. For them this was a truly spiritual war. And they knew successful spiritual warfare requires winning cultural battles. In their spiritual battle against Communism the thing the Nazi’s most feared was a cultural movement that was in the process of placing Marxist Socialism upon sound spiritual and cultural foundations. This was the terrible danger they instinctively recognized if the Surrealists were to be left to continue their cultural experimentation. They knew they had to preempt it at all costs.

For by initiating a convergence of Marxism and the psychology of the unconscious the Parisian Surrealists were actually laying cultural foundations for a humanist, spiritual definition of Marxist Socialism. Recall that Marxism is a political/economic extension of the philosophy of Hegel. And that Marx wrote that the proletariat must find its spiritual and intellectual weapons in that philosophy. By exploring the psychology of the unconscious, from a socialist perspective, the French Surrealists were preparing the ground for a culturally viable interpretation of the Hegelian spiritual foundations of Marxism. They were building a Socialist culture animated by a numinous humanism. In the late 1930’s this was still inchoate, only partially formed, and more intuitive art than scientific theory. But enough of a beginning had been made to set alarm bells ringing within the instinctual intelligence of the Nazis.

NAZI VICTORY

When it comes to the all-important dimension of culture, it has to be admitted that the Nazis actually won World War II. The all consuming demands placed upon the Soviet Union by military confrontation with Nazism, from 1933 until 1945, precluded any possibility of the Soviet state developing authentic Socialist culture. This was the fascist goal all along. In Nazi occupied Europe, Socialist and Jewish cultural luminaries were annihilated in their hundreds of thousands. The general devastation of Nazi occupation, and the war itself, caused enormous destruction to the living fabric of European progressive culture. But the decisive Nazi victory lay in the complete destruction of the French Surrealist movement. Its heart was cut out, and what was left was scattered to the four winds. Individuals may have survived but the cultural integrity of the collective movement was effectively destroyed. After the war French culture never regained its former luster and progressive vitality. From 1945 on Europe was dominated by an aggressive American Capitalism that imposed its own brand of reactionary cultural suppression. The military defeat of Nazi Germany simply shifted the fascist responsibility from Berlin to the United States.

In destroying the Surrealist school, Fascism deprived Europe of any genuinely vibrant and authentic spirit capable of further enculturing the convergence of Socialist politics and the Humanist articulation of Marxism’s spiritual roots via the psychology of the unconscious. The destruction was simply too great to allow such delicate, plastic flowering. And that flowering was essential for the success of Socialism. For want of it Socialism was unable to enculture any understanding of its own psychological and spiritual dimensions. In surrendering its Humanist interiority to a vulgar mechanical materialism, Socialism lost its soul. From there Socialism (along with American civilization) devolved into a totalitarian Materialism of ego-based power. This is, in real cultural terms, Fascist victory.

EYES OF THE RAPTOR

Ever since the mid 19th century a hidden raptor force has guarded Capitalism. With focused predatory eyes it surveys the entire landscape of Euro-American civilization, always on the lookout for the emergence of any social movement that is free of distortion. Whenever numinous integral Humanism shows any signs of emerging the dark birds are given their moment. Blood flows, the threat is shredded and Humanism is once again fragmented into mutually alienated parts. The raptors have actually been released many times, the flight of the Nazis being simply the most demonic. In truth the Surrealists never stood a chance.

The cosmic meta-theme of the 20th century is the culture of emergent wholeness. This naturally inclines towards a convergence of external wholeness; i.e., Socialist political economy, with internal wholeness, articulated as the psychology of the unconscious. As Marx put it, the liberated wholeness of individual essence, is to harmonize with the liberated wholeness of external existence. We now call it the marriage of Heaven and Earth. This was the vision, encultured for a brief moment by the Surrealists, before it succumbed to the Nazi holocaust. And it has never been restored. Such a numinous Humanism is unbearable to the ego bound mind of the ruling bourgeois class. Consequently from 1940 until the present day, depth psychology and Socialist political consciousness have co-existed in a state of mutually hostile alienation. Psychology is held to be the exclusive property of the bourgeois mind, and for want of it, Socialist consciousness, denied a scientific vision of its own essence, flounders, trapped in a spiritual wasteland of one-sided Materialism, where it has steadily withered into impotence, for loss of its soul. The terrible fruits of the Fascist victory have lasted 80 years.

FRIDA’S GARDEN

However it is only the twisted ego bound delusion of the bourgeois mind that denies that the living force of cosmic intention is anything but invincible. Knowing that nothing real can be truly lost, we shall, in closing, revisit an actual moment in Surrealist history for a poetic taste of the coming marriage of Heaven and Earth. Recalling that the Islamic vision of Heaven is a walled garden, i.e., paradise, who better for us to turn to than that icon of the new world, the widely loved avant-garde artistic exponent of the feminine inner self, the Communist painter who would walk about town, whilst hiding under her dress, strapped to her thigh, a loaded pistol, Frida Kahlo.

At the height of her popularity, Frida held painting classes for her young art students. These were conducted in a large walled garden behind her home in Mexico City. Feel your way into this wonderfully verdant garden, where you are sitting at your easel, alongside other painters. In this soft early morning Mexican air, surrounded by trees and shrubs, flowers overflow in a riot of colors and sweet aromas. Monkeys chatter and leap amongst the trees, along with wildly colorful birds, including parrots. Here inspiration comes easily. Just as fresh paint is being applied to the canvas a presence is felt from behind. The young artist turns and casts his eyes upon a woman who is smiling appreciatively over his shoulder. It is Andre Breton’s wife. She is completely naked.

Evolving Line IX

2008-05-26T00:48:00.000-07:00

Please double click picture to enlarge
by Erik Kaye, copyright 2008
watercolor

Fallen Angel

2008-05-23T00:29:00.000-07:00

Note: double click on pictures to see a larger image.
by Bea Garth, copyright 2008
scraffito-carved ceramic sculpture in progress, 2 views

This piece seems to reflect "A Fallen Angel"-- i.e., how one reacts to losing a relationship as well as reviewing some of one's memories of it.

Ryukoji View, Katase

2008-05-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

Note: double click picture to enlarge
by Erik Kaye, copyright 2008
watercolor

"Its a famous nearby temple, Ryukoji, (ji means temple-Ryu means Dragon, Ko means mouth-- Dragon Mouth Temple) where the Saint Nichiren was being executed when a bolt of lightning hit the axe-blade as it was being swung to his neck. The superstitious fools of that time refused to believe it was completely coincidental!
Of course we today know differently, heh, heh. Ka-ta-se is the name of the town.

This is one of the first elaborate landscapes I did in Japan, in 1999. I sold it for ¥60,000 or about $600 to Ms. Kimiko Sano, a student of both Corinne and mine."
-----Erik Kaye, American Artist working with his wife Corinne as English Language teachers in Japan.

Eos Re-emerging

2008-05-18T04:24:00.000-07:00

Note: double click to enlarge the picture
by Bea Garth,copyright 2008
ceramic sculpture using carved engobe and colored terra sigillattas

Note: Eos refers to the Goddess of the Dawn. I created this piece years ago in the early nineties beginning on the Fourth of July. It refers to sensitive people and women in particular taking back their power.

Some Days

2008-05-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

There are some days the body knows
that it doesn’t matter what day it is.
Whatever it is you are doing is just too much:
you can be in the middle of the natural foods store
or shopping for a gift of Rumi’s poems
for your first nephew’s wedding
or buying lumber when suddenly you remember you forgot
to buy the concrete for the walk-way
but your body knows its too late
and anyway you are in no condition
to be lifting bags of concrete
out of the truck even if somehow you could
make yourself go back in to the check-out counter
and order them to be put into the truck.
You’ve already roped in the wooden two-by-fours
and you know you cannot get yourself to untie them
and move them over. It is too late and really not even
early enough since it was your body
that made you forget in the first place.
You know its mid June and a cool sea wind is blowing here
inland into San Jose and Campbell,
the weather is shining and beautiful
but your body is quaking,
undergoing the beginnings of the lunar cycle.
Today is the first day of the Solstice
and tonight there will be ceremonies
and your own blood is beginning to flow
in tune with the change
and it doesn’t care to be in any way efficient.

Your body is wondering what Rumi would have to say
if he were a woman and you think of your nephew
and what it was like as a girl
being his aunt all of nine years
baby-sitting him and later
how he used to worry about his diabetes
and how he felt he should never marry
and you told him none of us are immortal,
you might as well be happy,
there is no knowing when we’ll die
--and there it is, your old mortality
hitting you in the abdomen once again,
your lower back aching
from its old injury
swollen from this time of the month
and you praying for menopause
(that’s got to begin arriving soon!)
and you will take your gift
of poems and essays home
to read and then wrap for your nephew
and his outrageous second marriage.

You notice how he always
seems to like exotic Jupiterian* women
and you wonder what is the reason why,
then you remember your recent walk with his mother
when you reminisced and praised her
for leaving home so young,
since your home life was so bad
and this way she was less affected
and you remember that during the walk
a lone white horse came cantering down the path
and your sister grabbed the horse
by a belt dangling from its rope harness
and you recall that it was while your sister
was taking care of horses
the summer before your nephew was born,
he simply being an embryo gestating,
that that big white horse
you had tried to ride as a child
wouldn’t move the way you wanted it to
since you were so little and it was so big
and you think this is what your body is trying to say
refusing to move since today is no day for concrete
but it is a day to think of horses and love
and imagining your sister and her son and Rumi’s poems
in the fading afternoon light.

*Astrologically the planet Jupiter rules the sign Sagittarius which is often depicted as an archer riding a horse. Jupiter is known as a planet of optimism, expansiveness, faith and religion. Jupiter is always like an archer, willing to take risks aiming at something he or she believes in and galloping off towards that elusive quarry.

Devil Girl

2008-05-16T23:25:00.000-07:00

Note: double click picture to see the enlarged version
by Erik Kaye, copyright 2008
watercolor
80 cm wide x 110 cm high (roughly 31 3/4" x 43 1/2")

Note: Eric says this is a composite picture inspired by a rave celebrating the viewing of cherry blossoms at Yoyogi Park in Tokyo. Eric says the whole country goes crazy for roughly two weeks in the spring when the cherry blossoms come out.

A SHY LITTLE BOY

2008-05-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

by Joan Dobbie, copyright 2008

standing beside an
old red pickup
scratching his
belly button
looks up to see
a (not really so
wise)
old woman
ride by
on her mud
yellow bicycle
flashing a smile
& waves to her
shyly

Really?

2008-05-12T23:25:00.000-07:00

Note: please double click on picture to get a larger view
Carved and painted ceramic wall plaque using engobe and terra sigillatas as colorants
by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Animus

2008-05-11T16:57:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Speak and I will run,
come softly.
‘Though it draws me
I am afraid of the fire.
Like a puma
I must think I am unseen,
a few yards behind your reach
in the darkness, amongst the trees.
I must know that you are as I
when I hold you wholly
paws turned into hands,
fur into smooth skin
despite any owls
that may hoot
their screams.

Note: This is an old poem of mine written when I was a young woman years ago. However I believe it is still universal. Spring makes one think of such things even at age 58. Hope others here can relate. I welcome comments on this or any other post here.--Bea

Reading

2008-05-10T02:27:00.000-07:00

(Double click on the picture and you will get a larger version)
By Erik Kaye, copyright 2008
watercolor

(If interested in purchasing some of Erik's work, please send a query by clicking on the envelope icon after it says comments below.)

Odakyu Line

2008-05-06T22:22:00.000-07:00

Note: Just double click on the picture and you will get the enlarged version.
by Erik Kaye, copyright 2008
watercolor painting

My friend Erik Kaye, now living in Japan with his wife Corinne, sent this and a series of other paintings to us.

This particular painting is a beginning of his series on life in Japan. He has others of a trip to India as well as several abstracts. Really beautiful.

Thank you so much Erik!

--Bea

Spotlight

2008-05-04T22:53:00.000-07:00

by Janet Crawford Trenchard, copyright 2008

You know this place very well
and it is lit, isn’t it?
candlelight or searchlight
police flashlight
It’s your soliloquy
a room on a stage
in which everybody leaves you
standing amongst
odd moments of your life
-they’re your history, but
still, you think: why drag them along?
and so
you step outside the room
into the rain
with only a thin jacket, now wet
and it is that leaving
disguised as everybody
always leaving you
isn’t it?

A New Old Spring

2008-05-03T02:11:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Here it is spring at long last. The beginning of May; the reminder of promise. So many things seem more possible now despite it having been muggy and over-caste with no shadows earlier today (or should I say yesterday?).

The weather has been yo yo-ing around. Hot/cold, hot/cold. This after a very warm day on Thursday helping to clear excess live and scrub oak and elderberry branches from around my mother's rustic pool here in the woods above Los Gatos, CA. My body spoke today; do nothing! I was so tired. Despite the fact there were at least two events I really wanted to go to with friends I wanted to see. Am hoping tomorrow on Saturday I will be on "go" again and still have time to apologize to a couple of friends as well as focus on my sculpture.

As it was today (Friday) and tonight instead of going out I vegged and poked around and made myself an interesting new dish -- a pizza using "sotta" as a base -- a bread made from chickpea flour. Worked out pretty well actually. But then I ate too much of course since it was so good and I just had me, the computer and some sci fi on TV to entertain myself with. I was not energetic enough to do the dishes not to mention be creative. Now hours later I just had some papaya with nonfat yogurt and feel better--especially after a talk with an old poet friend late tonight.

He was telling me how he is going to quit poetry and start skateboarding again at age sixty one. Ha! I say. No way is he quitting; he is just reinventing himself, allowing himself to breathe without attachment. Its great though that finally he wants to be more active. Just hope he doesn't hurt himself. He has made his little house into a kind of prison it seems at times. Mind you a prison filled with beautiful poetry and music but still a prison since he rarely gets out except to go to work. This is never good for great lengths of time and plain dangerous as one ages.

For myself I am hopeful this spring. Life is getting better overall despite having been ill February and March. Despite it also taking a while to gather my energy in April, I now have three new sculptures I am working on -- a large diptych plaque wall piece and a couple of paintings in the works--as well as a slab sculptural piece I am perfecting and will dry out slowly very shortly.

I think of my friend and see what he is doing. Perhaps for me it is somewhat similar. I am not ready to commit to anything or anyone right now but my art plus finishing a remodel of a cottage I am in charge of. This is new for me since in the past it seems I was always WITH some guy. And now I realize it may be causing some chagrin with my friend since I am pretty certain he'd like me to commit to him. But that really isn't possible. I do love him but not as a partner--just as a friend and comrade. Our personal habits are just too dissimilar. It would take about a week (if that) and we'd be through.

In some ways I too feel like a young adult rather than someone approaching sixty. I am trying out my individuality after all. Part of it is rough since I really am used to being with someone. The loneliness can be daunting and sometimes rather mind numbing. But now I am learning that is what friends are for--to reach out to. But then with friends I am not bound to them by some unwindable thread as I was with my Special Someone I always had even if that someone changed from time to time through the years. I am now tired of the drama and the judgments and the coddling of temperments getting in the way of my creative time. Life is difficult enough after all.

Meanwhile too by dating and visiting or chatting on the phone rather than committing it seems I am learning more about people as well as about myself than I did in the past. It really is very interesting actually. I have no idea how long this will last but here it is for now--a breath of fresh air to explore this new springtime of my life where soon I will be fifty-nine.

Note: image above is called "Girl Under the Tree" by Bea Garth, copyright 2005

How Your Paleness Explodes Inside A Very Silent Joy

2008-05-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

by Greg Hall, copyright 2008

So many hearts broken
All along the watchtowers
Inside every step
Along the way
So many mouths
Never really
Been kissed
So multitudinous
The weary virgins
Feet in the air
And a loneliness
Howling
An untouched coyote
Under a pristine
New moon
That immaculate
Sliver
Tuned
To the curve
That never found
Your
Secret
Throatskin
And
Other
Lost
Magicks
As in
So
Many
Hearts
Broken
Because
They
Never
Got
To
Beat
So many
Hearts
Broken
All
Along
The
Watchtower
So many
Mouths
Never really
Been
Kissed

On Celiac and Remedies for Chance Glutenings (wheat, rye, barley, oats)

2008-04-30T17:26:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

The following non italicized paragraphs below compose a post I just sent to a celiac forum here in the SF Bay Area. I think the remedies below could be useful to anyone that suffers either from full blown celiac or just gluten intolerance--or if you know someone who does.

But first a preamble for those who don't know what celiac is.

As it turns out, celiac (also known as sprue) is a condition that is a lot more common than once was thought. Thirty percent of all North Europeans and Italians have the gene for it and ten percent of the rest of Europe also has it. Here in America they say its as common as high cholesterol--one in 133 people has it whether they are aware of it or not. It takes a stressful experience to bring it out and then you have it for life. It is argued that dementia in old age is often caused by undiagnosed celiac not to mention cataracts, diabetes, heart disease and cancer.

Basically celiac is a result of certain North European peoples not having made the transition from the hunter gatherer stage to agrarian very well. Some blame the Vikings--who unconsciously made use of this condition to bring on their more wild and violent nature before battle by eating moldy rye bread. Certainly someone who has untreated celiac can become very cantankerous and easily agitated (I speak from direct experience!).

Glutens are found in wheat, rye, barley and to some extent in oats and their derivatives -- of which derivatives now are numerous given scientists and others having figured out glutens make things adhere together more smoothly and easily. The glutenous grains contain gliadins which cause people with celiac to react -- their auto-immune system attacks the villi in their intestines with its concomitant disastrous effects -- causing malabsorption and a variety of severe digestive complaints as well as many degenerative diseases as side effects.

These symptoms can include heart and kidney disease, nervous system and skin problems, depression and even schizophrenia as well as a greater likelihood of getting other reactive auto-immune system diseases such as RA, Sojren's or Lupus. Celiac also creates a greater chance of getting diabetes or cancer. If contracted as a baby or a child(which is what happened to me), Celiac also causes one to "fail to thrive" and not grow. Unfortunately they used to think you "outgrew" this as you got older and they took the children off their anti-gluten diet (as they also did with me at age four and my mother at age twenty)-- not realizing one never does get over celiac although how it presents itself can change.

Glutens are addictive to everyone since they have opiates in them--which is in part why they are so popular. Without them civilization as we know it might have developed very differently since the easily store-able grains allowed us to go off a high meat diet and settle into villages and towns.

It is argued that since no one ate much in the way of grains before 15,000 years ago, no humans are really equipped to eat a high grain diet -- and thus many of the degenerative diseases of civilized peoples are a result of that grain diet. By following a more "paleolithic" diet focused on vegetables, roots and squashes, meat, with some fruit, nuts and soured foods, most people become a lot healthier.

__________________________

Last week I had both the confronting experience of being "glutened" by chance at a supposedly celiac aware restaurant -- the bane of most celiacs -- and by chance discovered some remedies that actually worked for me. This after having gotten shooting diarrhea just from cross contamination from a food handler who prepared my tea after making someone else a sandwich in February -- not to mentions other equivalent experiences since I have gone off all trace hidden glutens!

(Note: Of course the reason I chose to be off all gluten is that overall I am much healthier and more able to be physically and mentally fit. However the down side is that it has made me -- and other celiacs -- far more easily reactive when the offending gluten asserts itself with us even in just a minuscule amount by activating the auto-immune system.)

What happened is that I asked for and got some pineapple and fresh papaya at the establishment I was eating at after I discovered they had put soy sauce in my dish (after I had been assured they wouldn't). I had already eaten about 1/2 my portion--and wasn't paying as much attention as I might since it was supposed to be a "safe" and experienced restaurant concerning the gluten matter. If I had brought along my papain/bromelain caps that would have been the easy equivalent to the pineapple and papaya. As it was the owner ran across the street and bought me some fresh papaya. I also immediately took some pancreatin enzymes I had brought along--a double dose.

Right after dinner my date and I went over to a natural foods store and I bought this new product called Gluten-zyme by Country Life. There was another bottle of a different brand that cost a little more that also looked pretty equivalent. Again I immediately took a double dose. That night I took another dose and two more the next day just to make sure.

Instead of shooting diarrhea I had inflammation in my feet and calves which went down after I took my co-enzyme B vitamins. I wasn't home where I usually have my herbs and most of my stuff so I didn't take dandelion (to clean out the liver), cleavers (to clean out the lymphs), marshmallow root (to soothe and heal the lining of the intestines), and nattokinase or serrapeptidase (to counteract scar tissue in the intestines as well as inflammation) etc. until the next day--I probably should have got some at the store but wasn't feeling quite that rich.

The following day my only other symptom was a small pimple on my face, often a sign of glutening in the old pre pure days before I went off all hidden gluten. I did feel a little depressed (another symptom) but then recovered after going for a long walk and working on clay (clay pulls out toxins through the skin of the hands and feet etc.). I bet going for a sauna would have worked too. Taking the dandelion etc. also helped a great deal.

Another note--in case of shooting diarrhea right away (before you can take action or know you need to), Pepto Bismol tablets or their equivalent work great. They are easy to carry in the purse or pocket or whatever. Another remedy is to make a tea with either blackberry or guava leaves. Meadowsweet I hear also works.

Figuring out that there actually are remedies for chance glutenings like this was a big discovery for me. I keep hearing there is nothing you can do except grin and bear it, but I found that at least for me there are things I can do. I feel like I no longer have to be terrified of going out to eat, especially with these new gluten-eating enzymes out there. I wonder if this could help others? Methinks it would. Please try it in an emergency and let me know if it helps you or a loved one too.

I still think its not wise to court experiences like this, but hey they happen. Especially for someone like me with celiac that is actually trying to have a life outside of my safe cocoon sometimes.

Note: Herbalist, poet and artist Bea Garth is composing a book on the healing effects of herbs etc. on celiac and related disorders.

Fisher Man at Eagle Lake, California

2008-04-27T20:36:00.000-07:00

by Lara Gularte,
copyright 2008

Up to his thighs,
he pulls fish from the dark lake,
brings them to the light to die,
nothing slips away.
Some he jerks out of the shallows,
too small, so he throws them back.

Crazed for water,
big fish from the deep
wiggle and twist,
gulp air through their gills.

He cuts off heads,
splits them gullet to tail,
yanks out the life strings,
scrapes scales to skin.

Lemon, sliced down the center,
washed over palms,
between fingers, over wrists
to hide the smell of death.

He tosses the innards into the water.
What he leaves behind will meet the surface
like a bubble of air.
Like the jacket of the lost boy
last seen across the lake crying.

Lara Gularte

First published in Windfall, A Journal of Poetry of Place, Spring 2008.

"Crescent Beach"

2008-04-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

by Steve Arntson
copyright 2008

Here is where you'll figure it out
Where it's safe enough and separate, too

Almost a cove
From Chapman Bluff
to the stairs to Ecola's lawns and picnics

But be careful coming there
Be mindful of ankles
the treachery of gulleys
the landslide that includes yourself

On the brushy berry trails
Waist-high shoulder-high
lost as you wanna' be

On Propaganda, Free News and the Art of Change

2008-04-25T01:18:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Just thought I'd put in my two cents today. Saw this brief report on PBS. Apparently there is a New York Times article that has revealed that the Bush administration has made a policy of manufacturing the news by handpicking ex generals and such to feed us whatever line the administration deems appropriate. This is supposed to be against various anti-propaganda laws first set up in the 1920's.

Of course PBS only barely covered the story; although they could say they did report it unlike the other major news outlets on TV. However, the McNeil/Lehrer Report on PBS implied the government was just doing its job; they didn't seem interested in looking at the dark side of all this and kept interrupting the reporter from the New York Times. However it was clear to the New York Times reporter (as well as to the observant viewer) that without creating and orchestrating propaganda as the Bush administration did with its hand picked so-called "objective expert commentators" falsely influencing public opinion its unlikely we would have gone to war in Iraq.

This in turn gets me to thinking about how exactly do we create public opinion these days? It seems we as a people have allowed ourselves to be overly influenced by the so called experts trotted out on our news programs. But who are they?

The days of independent journalism seems to have passed. Managed corporate news has taken its place. In my observation the news folks and the so called government experts have been in cahoots to not present us with the real news since the first Gulf War in the early 1990's. I remember back then it being up for debate as to whether it was OK or not to have this more "managed news" that in effect was like propaganda. It was decided back then that it was OK--so instead of pictures of the war we had briefings. The implication was that if they freely reported the news as they did back in the Vietnam era there would be more protests of government policy -- which was deemed both "bad" and avoidable. This is not the old USSR folks! I believe this was right around the old "fall of communism" period of time by the way.

Since then the public has not demanded a change. We have accepted this sanitized version of the news as some kind of "reality" instead of realizing we have actually co-opted Reality.

Reagan had already helped give the final boot by raising the postal rate for small journals. Now in addition we have fewer and fewer independent radio stations not to speak of newspapers and television stations. All large conglomerate or monopoly owned.

Our country was after all founded by its tradition of an informed public by its free press. Its right there in the Constitution for a reason folks. Thankfully the Internet Blog forum is starting to take the place of the now mostly defunct independent journals that flourished until twenty or thirty years ago depending on how you look at it. And certainly the various blogs have made a difference. Though again is it too little too late or not? More has to be done to make it more contextual and real. I certainly hope that this idea of true political change will sweep in in a positive way. With that too we need that change to extend into our news organs. Somehow we need to reinvent ourselves into being a more discerning people again or some could say for the first time.

It is in my opinion also our job as artists, writers, healers and thinkers to help create this change too. We cannot ignore what is going on in the world around us. We after all help create the interior space where the need for change is reflected first in this and all cultures throughout time. We have a connection with our wisdom body that others may lack through our more direct connection with the emotional body, the earth and the soul. At times the responsibility of this can seem overwhelming; but if we take it on one bit at a time it does it does help make a difference -- by creating more space in "inner space." Plus keeping a close eye on what all is going on!

In the woods at night

2008-04-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

by Lara Gularte
copyright 2008

Shadows move in
light falls to the ground.
Colors fill up the darkness
clots of red, spasms of purple.
My eyesight dims.
Deer trail sinks into canyon.

When night comes alive
it hums, it crawls.
I can hear the deep dead turn,
see roots bulge up from the dirt.
Eyes shine on me
a wet nose touches my hand.

Unwinged, human
I want to save myself from danger
but with no sharp beak or claws
I can’t protect myself
from hungry raptors
a world that gets up on all fours.

In the open meadow
hooves find ground.
Over and over
animals knock on the earth,
leave no tracks.

I follow a thin moon
find new life
in the dry creek bed.
I move slowly over a log
my legs reborn,
my claws deep in the wood.

Lara Gularte
First published in Bitter Oleander, Spring 2008.

Erika and Claudia

2008-04-20T00:07:00.000-07:00

Old Young Man

2008-04-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

I am with a young man,
I am with an old man
--what are the mistakes
I wish to avoid,
what are the mistakes
I will make again?

I am with a man
amongst this tangled wood
we gesticulate and sing
our love rising
like these trees surrounding us.
Is this the young woman I was,
is this the old woman I am becoming?
What wisdom will I share
with this young/old man?
What passions will flame
in this deep rooted fire?

What are the mistakes
we want to avoid,
what are the mistakes
we will make again?
Old new love
-- we want so
to avoid the pain
but neither of us wants
to miss one kiss
or this chance
to remake our lives again:
old young man
with young old woman
in this dance of sweet bliss
and agony.

On Comparing Health Care Systems

2008-04-15T00:56:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

I was just listening to Charlie Rose. He had T.R. Reid on who has written an important book about health care. He has examined health care systems in other developed countries and compared their systems to that in America.

As he tells it, despite our health care system being one of the most expensive in the world it is also one of the least accessible (i.e. not affordable) to the public. In France, England, Germany, Switzerland, Japan and even Canada etc. no one goes bankrupt due to financial losses from hospital costs etc. In many cases one isn't even charged. Paying for good health care in other developed countries has become a non-issue.

We often get the impression that our doctors are better, however it apparently isn't true. They just get paid better, as do the insurance companies -- at our expense.

I personally think that fear of what might happen to one when one is old and sick or if one might have a freak accident or disease, motivates many Americans to be more conservative and fearful of rocking the boat than they might otherwise be. I believe our health care system as it is, is one more factor that erodes our basic freedoms as a people. It often makes us duck our heads and just attend to our own business since many of us are afraid, if we don't, we might endanger our jobs and thus our ability to pay for health care -- not to speak of food, clothing, transportation and shelter. This in the "land of the free"!

The whole health care fiasco in this country reminds me of what happened in California when the public utilities were privatized. We were promised how much more efficient and motivated the producers of energy would be and thus how through the market we would end up with lower energy costs. Instead what we got was a cartel of businesses in effect -- where we the consumers got shafted and the producers charged whatever they felt they could get away with.

Now we have a medical system that charges whatever it feels like it can get away with. Thus far we the poor public are at their mercy since health is such a basic need for everyone--and yet our government has no system that watches the costs of the doctors, drug suppliers or the insurance companies.

I saw a segment on the popular television program 60 Minutes roughly a month ago about a charity medical association called Remote Area Medical (R.A.M). The were originally were designed to go into remote areas like the Amazon Jungle. But now 60% of their time is spent going to various cities and rural areas here in America since the need here is so great. At this one stop in Knoxville, Tenn., they treated 970 people, but had to turn 400 more away since R.A.M. only had so much time and resources to give. They operate on a shoestring budget of $250,000 a year. Amazingly, last year they treated 17,000 patients despite their low budget.

Some potential clients at the Knoxville site had driven two or more hours to get medical attention -- and faced being turned away. This crisis we now have with our medical system would never be tolerated in other developed countries! It would be considered a high scandal rather than just another regrettable but interesting incident about "life in America" reported on 60 Minutes.

I certainly hope that our new president, whomever he or she will be, can finally get us on the road to a better health care system like what they have in Europe, Japan or Canada.

Given everything else going down, I just hope it is not too little too late!

Recovering

2008-04-15T00:45:00.000-07:00

There is nothing quite like
feeling a little energy again
like life is possible
after a siege, however humble,
like a bug recovering after falling
or almost being squashed.
I still hack and cough
but the rasp is not as deep,
the tiredness not as pervasive.
I start noticing how I haven’t bathed
and my clothes are dirty and disheveled,
the dishes stacked in several piles,
wads of kleenex strewn about like white armies.

This time I finally have the energy
to watch TV with its trips to outer and inner space:
the mean-ness of humanity
overcome in some plot once again
slave inmates trying to get back to Planet Earth
from a work colony in outer space ruled by a madman
enjoying their torture and discomfort
the show intertwined with endless news programs
about the need for change in politics and the mortgage crisis
the war in Iraq led by our wide eyed president
who shoots down funding for alternative energy
so he can continue to subsidize Big Oil
sandwiched between tender pictures
of those whose lives war has destroyed
come in at long last into my living room
as I drink hot tea while the announcer tells me how
the soldiers are keeping more Iraqis safe
and shows me the lucky children
in their brand new wheelchairs our convicts have made
and all I need to do is click on the web for my contribution.

My body itches again in places I shouldn’t have to scratch.
I apply my salve, grateful I have it,
grateful I have a bit of life again
grateful the hacking seems to have abated
grateful my recovery does not involve mangled parts
or memories of raped sisters
from the room next to me
and dismembered children carried in my arms
the lucky ones waiting for a wheelchair or an operation in neighboring Iran.
“At last we have faces for this war!” I announce
to myself and all my Kleenexes,
grateful for signs of becoming well again and hopeful
despite our president with his dirty war
all about oil, fear, power and dismemberment.
“Maybe now we can finally fight our way back to Planet Earth!”
I mumble as I drink another cup of hot tea
and take my spoons of bitter expectorant
and prepare at last to go back to bed.

It Was The First Sunny Day

2008-04-13T19:32:00.000-07:00

of the year, I was
lying on my back
on the picnic table

talking to Bea
on the phone.

Above me, the sky
was brilliant blue
the craggy old cherry tree

blossoming pink
& filling with birds

of all sizes & breeds.
Below me the lush green grass
I was much too lazy to mow, my

pillow a brick of cement.
We were talking

about men, sex and creativity
telling each other
how special we were

& why the hell didn’t they get it?

Note: the above right sculpture is 
"Dragon" by Joan Dobbie, copyright 2008
-- photo by Victoria Ramsay

Toltec

2008-04-12T01:40:00.000-07:00

Today the clay under my fingers sang
at long last
righting the arms and shoulders
of this Toltec like sculpture
putting on ears and a bit more mass
on the back of his head
seeing how strong he is
so centered after all
so Just and Righteous
-- this after signing my tall
rectangular carved story piece
I call “The Fallen Man”
or should I call it “Fall From Paradise”?
It is all about finding a new path,
I think to myself,
even though I still admire how elegant
this old one was even when fallen.
I stand back and can’t help
but see this new figure
has a lot more grit and character;
it gives me hope seeing him like that
--maybe I am making progress after all!

Gluten Free Carob Brownies

2008-04-11T00:54:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

(Note: Steve Arntson convinced me I should post some of my better gluten free baking experiments. I can vouch that this one is really excellent. This treat tastes sinfully rich but is wheat free etc., sugar and chocolate free with no artificial additives!)

Bake at 325’ F –preheat oven

Mix and sift together the following dry ingredients:
1 cup sorghum flour
1 cup quinoa flour
½ cup tapioca flour
1 tsp. potato flour
¾ cup carob powder
1 tsp. bak. soda
1 tsp bak. pwdr
1 scant tsp. salt
1 tsp. xanthum gum
1 tsp. stevia

Then mix together the following wet ingredients:
½ cup safflower or other oil
½ cup water
1 cup coconut milk
1/2 cup applesauce

Then mix wet into dry ingredients.

Optionally can add ½ cup sunflower seeds or other seeds or nuts.

Oil 8x8” baking pan or a 9” round cake pan. I use coconut oil.
Spoon brownie mixture into pan and bake 20 to 25 minutes,
until you can test it with a wooden toothpick and it comes out clean.

Really excellent to chase away the blues without truly pigging out!

Yellow Blossoms

2008-04-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

Spring, how I love your sweet smells,
your tossed looks. Spring, thank you
for your shimmering yellow blossoms
and bright green sour-grass!
Thank you for the sunshine
and breath of warmth
moving through the light hill air!
Thank you for the black bees
and gray pill bugs, for the delicate eyed
fawn across the wire fence
and even the feral gray cat
that wakes me late at night or early morning
with his howls and screams
in pursuit of my two sweet felines,
making me think of my own love waiting
while I feel my blood begin to move,
the mitochondria starting to flower at long last
like the newly blossomed calendula
and red geraniums
flanking my front door!

Third Beach

2008-04-07T20:19:00.000-07:00

by Steve Arntson
first posted on Tribe.net
Ygg's Horse discussion group
February 20, 2008

Dunes dunes and contradictions
Dunes of the Third Beach
dunes in the rain
It is raining on a "Lawrence of Arabia" set
The place is inexplicably flooded

Dunes and ducks familiar ducks familiar shores
Yet paradox is added and the Oregon coast is a pull-apart pastry in the morning

It entertains two identities
The desert the Eden

There are deer in the puddles in the low places
Eyes' rainbows assigned their respective untermittent suns!
Their colors compete with Auda abu-Taye's battle flags!

Deer and the expectation of more
Camels, too and
Of all the times to have it happen
I am deprived of my own essential prayers

Time-being time
Beautiful healthy
Yet someone closed the door
Perhaps the Shadow People

It may be some rainy war
approximating all that Mohammed imagined possible
in a downpour

I wouldn't be surprised to see Omar Sheriff in a yellow slicker
Or T.E. Lawrence trying to keep his pages dry
"The Seven Pillars of Wisdom", perhaps

So make it a temple of slip-and-slide
Color it tan with pines
and buggies getting up speed for a dash to Mecca

Go anywhere west or anywhere east the sands deceive

"Third Beach", she'd said
"Take you there
past Umpqua Lighthouse and the oyster beds
jetty north and jetty south
the waterway of warnings..."

And she did
And in those first moments of Third Beach
Drudgery was forgotten
There was a sense of lifting
And I'd trust that like money for groceries in heaven

Just concentrate
And a desert is entrusted to a rain forest's care

"What are your thoughts?" I thought
Indeed what irony of rainfall informs your fear of desert regions?
What jihad to overrun your campfire's embers only?

Asking it becomes quite clear that Nature is policed
We've had a good look at its constable Light and Dark
And suspects wander
and consider the odds of getting caught

I'm somewhat unavailable myself
The way something has absented itself
and left the sand to the mercy of rainfall

by Steve Arntson, copyright 2008

I See What I See

2008-04-07T01:01:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

I see what I see. As a child I discovered
pill bugs ball up when I look under rocks and old rotten wood,
water disappears quickly down holes dug in the ground,
the light drifts in layers on a dusty sunlit day,
water bugs hesitate on the surface of a lazy eddy in the creek
the black poly-wogs with tiny legs swim faster than the rest,
ants carry small bits of rice or other discarded edibles,
cats lie in wait for grasshoppers, their ears at attention.

I found too that I can see many selves
reflected from the bathroom mirror
one after the next staring back at me
if I focus long enough with squinted eyes.

I loved to build forts or sit in the grass amongst the trees
listening to the bees and yellow jackets hum
over the drying prunes
and dream of distant lands—present, past and future.
I’d play make-believe or hide and seek with my friends
or become a general and command my troops to victory
in a mock war with the kids down the next block.

I read myths and fairy tales from around the world
and would regale them to Judy down the street
when we’d walk home from junior high school.

I still notice how the wind blows leaves
and the play of light and shadow.
The earth and the seasons
have always been my friends as are my cats.
I love water even though
I could have drowned out in the settling pond as a child.
I still am fascinated with water-bugs
with their long legs gliding on the surface
reflecting themselves in a kind of double helix
as I look up at them when I am submerged underwater.

I still see what I see
even though I know my mind can play tricks
with what is real or not
and I have found this is more than just OK
since I learned long ago
it’s a gift like playing and swimming
to be free to both observe and really imagine.

Note: the painting to the above right
is entitled "The Fertile Sea" by Bea Garth, copyright 2007

House of Doors

2008-04-06T23:10:00.000-07:00

by Steve Arntson
first published in Ygg's Horse on Tribe.net
Feb. 17, 2008

Note: Steve says--"This is a piece written after my first visit to Burning Man in 1996 - it is about an installation that was created using only doors..."

The House of Doors
seemed doors to all your houses

And there was Huxley perceiving something
Huxley at the keyboard
Huxley with headphones
mixin' a set
for a micro-burst of broadcast
from his ready radio room
cozy as a wind-break

We were going to sleep
with a memory of Morrison
singing, "This is The End, my friend!"
End of a root system's supply-and-demand
for wooden doors
making wooden walls

And once within their circle of power
no music is denied you!
All bands are heard hearing Jim's
his coming and going
doors seeming closed upon a crop circle's circle
of knobs
jambs
and keyholes

You enjoy each panel's pale braille relief
Fingertipping and tapping
as if to after the end of the world
Or knocking knocking

"Can I come in, Aldous
do you perceive me?
do you?
do you?"

And he answers
"We're going to keep it cozy for ya'
keep ambient yellow aglow
keep the heat enclosed
and let the cold escape!"

While F Minor spins a turntable 'round
'midst the spaghetti of power cords and cables
memories are gathered
the way a crowd is convened
Each member of the mob a version of recollect

A drought just dying to invade
as a silt so fine
it's through and through
the knothole
the keyhole
A story passed down
Like a whispered text of dusky stars
by the westerlies conveyed

by Steve Arntson, copyright 2008

Our Mayan World

2008-04-06T23:05:00.001-07:00

By Graeme Jones, copyright 2008
First Posted on Tribe.net
Jan. 17, 2008

This is to offer some thoughts on the current American situation in the light of my recent readings on the Mayan calendar. It is popularly thought that the Mayan calendar of cosmic time comes to an end in 2012. It is sometimes surmised that nothing solid can be clearly known about life on earth beyond that fast approaching date. However, I read that the 2012 date marks the beginning of a new world of cosmic time. But not to leap ahead of ourselves, the Mayan cosmology forecasts that the world capitalist system will begin its final collapse in November of 2007.

As a political astrologer, I would want to add that the planetary configurations that mark the heavens in the years circa 2012 bear a strong resemblance to the configurations that began with 1929 and lasted through the 1930’s, before finally opening out into the titanic victory of World War Two and the Chinese revolution.

In 2008, Pluto, the planetary archetype of evolutionary transformation transits from Sagittarius (religious turmoil and massive economic overreaching) into a fifteen year journey through the sign Capricorn. Here is our culture’s mythological winter experience. This is where the American capitalist dream-world collides with the cold heard granite of objective material reality. Debts become due, and organized systems of false consciousness become increasingly destabilized by the tectonic emergence of “reality.” Institutionalized denial of the real cosmic agenda that governs planetary evolution will shatter like a car driven by a drunk, colliding with a solid brick wall. Ouch, what fun!

So there we have it. Thirty years of Reaganism, with Bush’s presidency as the icing on the cake, has gutted the American economy, creating the material conditions necessary for the denouement of the cosmology that has shaped our minds throughout the entire 5,000 years of patriarchy.

When we talk of financial and economic meltdown we fall back upon our experience of the depression of the 1930’s. Serious economic pressure generated an intense universal need for shared relief. This resulted in the emergence of what can be described as “spiritual politics.” It took two distinct forms, and the polarity tension between those two contending visions of spiritually liberating politics drove world politics for a generation. They were Nazi mysticism and Mao Ze Dong’s Chinese adaptation of Marxism.

Fascist spirituality was neurotic to the point of catastrophe, but Chinese socialism was successful, at least to a large degree. So we can see how something comparable must come again. Here we add that the cosmic tides of time are bringing to us the returning feminine essence. This is the great unifying agent that carries us across the bridge from one Mayan cosmic world into the next. The erotic function of the feminine is now lovingly drawing all separated human experience into unity. Culturally and politically this emerges as a desire for democratic Socialism.

Such a great world death, as the Mayan priests knew well, is of course an even greater new beginning. The Mayans call our post 2012 epoch, the time of the emergence of the “galactic underworld.” This means that the cultural experience of cosmic unity emerges from within the collective unconscious. The readers of the Mayan system interpret this to be prefigured in Western spiritual culture by the Christian concept of “apocalypse.” That is the revelation of a core truth that had been hidden throughout the now closing cosmic cycle.

The collapse of American, and world, capitalism is therefore an emptying into an already self-establishing new cosmic culture. And that new epoch is the unified culture of “one world.” It has already successfully established itself in our cultural underworld. One quick example. It has mythically manifested the principle of “dynamic cosmic wholeness” in symbolic form as the galaxy class star ship Enterprise. This is the real reason for the Star Trek TV series’s enormous popularity. “Welcome to the federation” is a mythic anticipation of life in the new Mayan “galactic world.”

ONE WORLD

Here in 2008, this can only mean that the culture of “one world” is now hegemonic in the collective unconscious of world civilization. The culture of liberated planetary unity is simultaneously victorious, and yet, unfolding. In our mythic winter transition crisis it is the new bedrock of all of our shared well-being. But the juicy part is bringing it up into the collective consciousness. Because we are still relating prior to 2012, this new culture is far from yet fully emerged. Its component parts appear to be isolated, sometimes even alienated, from each other. This is largely because the currently ending cosmology invested so deeply in a dualistic alienation between core human opposites, heaven and earth, male and female.

In “one world” culture, heaven and earth marry. This process is now fertilizing all of humanity’s drives for liberation. It requires that we open our languages of salvatory world wholeness. There we find ourselves in a discussion of Christian spirituality and its relationship with its own modern offspring, Socialism. One world culture shifts the ground here by requiring the marriage of Christianity and Marxism.

This is a necessary path because the salvatory Christ is an agent of heaven, but wholeness requires the “prince of the world” join him. As Jung put it, the devil is a therapeutic myth. The point being; the world-view of Marx is the most highly evolved language yet produced by world civilization - that speaks to the alchemy of world whole systems liberation. It is the vital alchemical complement to the European spiritual tradition.

History has shown that we mythologically experience democratic Marxism, or at least the attempt to actualize it, as a psychological foundation for shared sense of liberated one world culture. It follows therefore that this language system can most easily accommodate the higher tantric delights flowing up to us from the numinous “One World.”

But this requires what Marxists would recognize as a major dialectical shift in the collective consciousness of world socialism. Marxist materialism, which is the dominant orthodoxy in socialist philosophy has always been (ever since Engels incompletely interpreted Marx) trapped inside its own dialectic, that is its alienation from its opposite, spirituality and metaphysics.

To update the cultural metaphor, the modern alchemists became alienated from their own Christian spiritual roots. A war was set up by false consciousness; that being the either/or game between spirituality and materialism. But that is a universal symptom of the cosmogenic alienation between heaven and earth. Anyway that’s how I read the Mayan system applying here.

So One World Culture requires a transformative journey into the philosophical outlook of 21st century socialism. Here, the evolving dialectic turns upon itself at a higher level, inside the consciousness of socialism. From emphasizing the material, it now emphasizes the spiritual quality of Socialism. It calls for the promulgation of a structured vision of world liberation that anchors itself in the union of heaven and earth. That is the unity of all spiritual systems of liberation, with Marx’s socialist science of mass cultural and political liberation.

When the universal and the materially concrete find fullness together the alchemical stone is found. That is the work. And it requires the European humanist tradition realize itself in the form of a unified system of thought, a system that holds Jungian, transpersonal psychology as being the essential esoteric center of the entire edifice of socialist political understandings. This new union (including the revolutionary advances it enables in socialist practice) will, in time, be strong enough to hold all of the traditions of world culture in stable, liberated wholeness. Well, according to the Mayan’s at least, such is the emergent power of the new “Galactic Underworld.”

By Graeme Jones, copyright 2008

Iapetus, interpreted

2008-03-31T22:31:00.000-07:00

Note: this topic was originally posted
January 13, 2008 - 5:47 PM
by Steve Arntson on Tribe.net

Well, it's a planet - or rather a moon of Saturn's - it's also a name for the father of Prometheus, the bringer of light - more of this later - now, this moon is very special - when one of our space probes got close and took pictures, we were able to see clearly at last - a good portion of the surface is very dark-colored - the rest is quite bright - like a spherical version of the Tao symbol - it is speculated that dust is being brought to this moon from another satellite in the Saturnian system - one side of Iapetus perpetually faces Saturn - it is the leading edge of this moon that is dark - another strange feature of Iapetus is a ridge that girdles the entire moon, approximately 10 miles in height, very striking - its origin a mystery, like everything else about this moon - I chose this moon as an object of meditation, and to honor the father - he whose issue was to illuminate, and raise out of ignorance, all humankind - the father also embodies dualism - his world is a symbol - the transformed Tao - circle to sphere gone - with the contemplation of this heavenly body comes a synthesis, a Whole - and, additionally, not only is Iapetus both dark and light, but those opposites are seen as a contrast to a sense of this Whole, for yet another duality.

From the Mithraic past, in Persia, right on through Shakespeare's visions, duality shines forth - continually, in Shakespeare especially, two extremes are presented and are the source of all dramatic tension - our own life and death, as a people, a nation, a world - by concentrating on dualism the opposites unite, in the same way we are drawn to the forbidden if constantly advised to walk the staright-and-narrow - and so, paradoxically, a unity is achieved and the mind and soul set free to create - our art flourishes in the spirit of the Synthesis, the third condition, the blessed flow of thought and feeling itself.

by Steve Arntson, copyright 2008

Welcome to Eos: The Creative Context

2008-03-31T22:02:00.000-07:00

by Bea Garth,copyright 2008

Hi,

This is the first of many posts by me your host and possibly you and other participants. This is a place to share your creative works whether poetic, artistic, social/political thought, metaphysical explorations or healing in a world much in need for this kind of creative context. Much in the vein of places of synergistic cross fertilization of creative minds in past centuries, we wish to begin this process here.

Here in Eos: The Creative Context please find a welcome place to share and give voice to the coming age that seems to be rolling in towards us at locomotive speed these days. Its my feeling that we need to recognize each other as the brothers and sisters that we are and help each other while helping the planet. Eos as the Goddess of the Dawn is in so many ways symbolic for the dawning New Age that is rapidly coming upon us. She is often depicted in her chariot guiding her two winged horses.

So welcome--and let beauty, harmony, right action, and insight reign!