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Sunday, May 27, 2018

SCORES OF LIZARDS THRU MY MOTEL BRAIN - song lyrics

REPTILIAN



white light thru the door at Spiro's Cafe
white white white hot sun at the heart of the day
Black Beauty's coming soon
Delivery's at noon
In the junkyard underneath the floor

SCORES OF LIZARDS THRU MY MOTEL 
        BRAIN
First a throb of love, then a lash of pain
Plastic yellow roses someone's glued to the wall
Next to a picture of me
Doesn't look like me at all

Cigar and brandy and me and Old Nick
Poster of a stripper from last year
There's a crack in the wall and something
        comes thru it
What it is I can't exactly tell.

No sleep for a week, it's clear as a crystal bell,
Been in the desert now for 40 days...
I walked 100 miles from jail, I haven't
        found my thrill,
With the little people sneaking thru my keyhole 
        once again.

Roxy's at the corner trying to get some cash,
There's a gold stamp on it from across the sea,
Can't seem to find that last kilo flat of hash -
Can't wait to mix it, smoke it up with some
        of these!







This is a song from my nitty-gritty days. I haven't recorded it yet, tho I know all the chords. So let's see!



(C)2008-2018 by W.G. Milne (JOHNNY ROCK AND THE ANGELS) 





Thursday, May 24, 2018

xx

“THE RAVIN/RAVEN TIMES” OF WAIT-A-BIT!

Wait-A-Bit has a new newspaper. It is called,
“THE RAVIN’ TIMES” and as yet no one can predict whether the paper 
will be released daily, weekly, or whether it is to be released pursuant to
 diurnal rhythms or  some strange biological clock
the workings of which are yet unknown to man.
      
           My guess would be – follow diurnal rhythms.


        Lately your reporter has been writing his way through a gout attack
 – gout of the knee,
no less… and it’s hard to tell what
kind of unedited excrement  has stained the
immaculate pages of this blog… what kind of
horrifying ugliness  has passed muster
and found its wavering way into
our lives.
          
         Truth is, our author has very little idea what he’s writing now, 
and no idea what he’ll be writing
next.  Plot and planning he avoids like a mole ( I’m told) avoids the noonday 
sun on a sidewalk or a closely cut lawn.
         It’s said commedians are miserable bastards
underneath it all, and I believe this. All I have to do is look at myself 
in the mirror and, “Ha! Ha!” are not
the words that leap to mind. No what leaps to mind are words such as, 
“Oh, no!” or “Oh, shit! Look at the eyes on this beast!”
HANK:        “He said this would be an underground newspaper, 
but it looks as if this reporter
has been under the earth for too long!, not the paper.
                 “His skin has that mollusk look….and his eyes maintain 
the expression of some unspeakable horror he has witnessed, seen at an 
undisclosed date… some monstrous reality
 he cannot report on…some dread he cannot
express.
                OR 
          Or… maybe it’s just a bad hangover,”
Hanks says. 
          
           Hank’s lips are moving. He’s speaking
to himself. It worries me when he mumbles
like that – feels like some kind of stress
madness…And he’s been mumbling quite a bit
throught the last two nights of winter, fumbling
with the fetish papers he nicked from the preacher’s
bunker.
           A lot of panting and heavy breathing
behind the curtain… I know what these sounds mean, and they’re perfectly
 normal, far as I’m concerned.
            It’s the frequency of his gasping wrist exercises, this is not normal… not doing it all the time. It’s the obsessive look in his eye he has
as he returns to his corner. this and the constant mumbling – these factors are irritating and a tad
disturbing.
               Now the preacher wants his porno back?
Good luck with that!
            Me, I’ve got problems, too.As a
writer, I need discipline. Maybe I’ll
hire an English Governess to whip me late
at night…  errrr, no. I kin do that meself.
If I’m agonna hire a woman I better find
some tittilation in the exercise. 
*
         Yes,   ” RAVIN’ TIMES” would be a
better name than the “EVIL SCREED”.
We’ll have a picture of  a black bird at the top of the
page…And no picture of  this reporter
at all…
         
       
                     THE RAVIN’ TIMES
                      ______________________              


                Chances are any time this paper comes
out it’ll be Hank or Frank writing it. 
               Tho Matilda has promised to put in some recipe’s,and Dexter and Dementiava have agreed to put in the recipe for the Green Chartreuse,
THE DRINK everyone got so stoned on last year that the whole town began hallucinating at the same time.
          First they’d better get the permission of the Tunnel People 
The Tunnel People invented the evil brew. 
         We couldn’t ask their permission last year, because  we didn’t 
even know  they existed. Though several gallons had been found in Matilda’s
kitchen.
          A group of them had been living in a
bomb shelter…two floors down… all this time. Not a peep 
from them. I guess when the bombs dropped on Incineration Day, 
they thought it was the end
of the world.And they haven’t come out since. 
         In a very real sense, this is the ‘World’s End.”
         You can’t get farther away from it all
than right here…!  Unless you want to live
in Rat River.                  
             
          As your mayor and , I guess, editor
of this paper – I should say, don’t trust these
recipes to taste as good as the first night
we tasted them…Because we’re sober now,
and nothing tastes as good if you’re sober,
because you look more closely at what you’re eating.
              Fact is, many of the ingredients of
these recipes aren’t strictly legal. So those
parts  will have to be kept out of the written
 recipes, and out of this newspaper.
            Although no one’s going to arrest anybody
up here for doing pretty much anything. And if we did arrest 
somebody and found him guilty of some
infarction, where the hell would we put him?
            I mean, the jail was incinerated
at the same time City Hall went up
and turned into a piece of dazzling, briefly
molten incandescence… before it dissipated
into the upper atmosphere.
     
      ( With all the crap we’re putting up
in that upper atmosphere, you have to wonder
when some of it might come down… )
           This could  cause
some huge embarrassment – if someone’s
trying to sell a lot by the river and a hunk of
space junk should land on your purchaser’s private lot to be. 

           Artie’s been reading over my shoulder.
           “Ha! Ha! Ha!,” he says, “Did you say
‘sell a lot by the river’?”
           “Yeah, that’s what I wrote,” I say.
           “No one’s ever sold a lot anywhere
in Wait-A-Bit,” Artie said, ” I mean, no lots have been drawn up 
or approved… and even if we drew
up a plan of subdivision – who’d buy an acre
from us?  There are about a billion
acres just adjacent to the one we’d be
trying to sell.So good luck with that!”
           ” I get it, Artie,” I say. “It’s called
a hypothetical situation… I mean, that
should be obvious. Any salesman
trying to sell the damn, hypothetical lot
would be devoured by weasels even before he
could make the hypothetical deal…  If he tried
to sell anything down by the river…he’d better
not be near ‘weasel town’.
           “Damn right,” agreed Artie, “Them real estate sellers 
don’t like the big surprises…
Like being jumped from behind real quick!”
           “Then all you can say is, ‘Oh no! This can’t
be happening to me!’ As your pants are ripped
off you by the strong jaws of your soon-to-be
rapist, and your tender bits are exposed
bass ackwards to the Great Beyond and
the wheeling of the Milky Way.”
         
            Hmmmm. Artie made a speech.
Then again sudden rape from behind  by a sub-human  creature… 
This theme has plagued Artie’s mind ever since the surprising
event happened to him a year ago.
         Ever since the  unpleasantly penetrating
experience Artie had…He still don’t go outdoors no more. 
Our bartender’s always at home in the bar. So the bar's
always open thru the 23 hours of daily dark.             
                         *****
         This morning I stuck my head up
out of the winter hatch – put a scarf around 
my ears and a fur hat on my head, and a
pair of shades to protect my eyes from
glare and blowing bits of ice.
           We get a good n’ nasty wind up the
hill here. From over the forests and mountains
to the west, howling over the tree-tops
curling off the river right up into out faces
in this little town by the side of the big River  
Mackenzie….
           All the landscape is frozen down, except 
for the wind, and the flight of the occasional
raven. We don’t put out much garbage from
Wait-A-Bit, but I suppose it’s enough to keep
three ravens alive… Whatever else they eat
to stay alive, I cannot imagine. In this vast white
landscape, suddenly this flying flash of black!
It’s surprising. 
            Those ravens, they don’t have much in the way of camouflage.
         In the few summer months, they have it
easy… and they like to fly and hoot and honk over
a herd of caribou… And the strange sounds the
birds make,  they’ll spook the herd and make
the whole herd run across the grasses. One
 mischievous bird – and there goes the whole herd.         
        The air is sharp and pure. It 
bites into the back of my throat, as I breathe
it on the wind – great, lonely restless wind…
wind that knows the whole continent, covers it, swirls over, 
fresh and clean, then blasts down the
valleys, across the plains  into the red eye 
of the setting sun. 
            Always the feel of distance, always
the sense  of interminable distances, the
vastness, the sense of massively long unending
trails, trails that no one has walked entirely.
 Miles rolling endlessly on, the white blank snow-blind vastnesses…
the travelling wind blowing on over incalculable wastes,
 rolling on and going forever.
            endless…endless…endless

            I keep trying to describe it in my
notebook, but I always fail. I came close once
a poem.

            
           There’s a strange economy up
here… Now that Hank’s gone east with the
bulldozer to find an Elk and drag it back…
            Good luck with that!
             A bit of coffee.  A good chunk of salted
moose steak,,, a frozen stew of I don’t
know what… a pile of turnips, taters…
No cheese. A small pinch of tobacco.
And the cold howling wind outside.
…Time to kill something. 
              Hank has the right
idea…But he’ll likely scare everything
alive away from him for about five miles
in all directions. 
          I better walk after him and tell him…Before he gets stuck…
 Awww shit! It’s cold as fuck,
and my socks are wet…  I don’t dare
take my boots off.
          Nothing like walking thru frozen
muskeg with wet feet… after a dumb friend
rides a bulldozer  into oblivion. Ain’t
no fucking elk out east just now, they’ve all turned
south. And this madman is wasting diesel.
        I didn’t have the heart to tell him
there is nothing out here.
        About the only meat we can nab just
now is porcupine, dog or weasel.
And you better be standing right beside
whatever you kill.  Shoot a weasel,
the weasels’ll devour him in about 17
seconds…shoot a dog, the dogs’ll eat
him faster than they can catch a turd,
flung from an asshole in a north wind.
          Finally I catch Hank, cause he got
stuck on a hillock growing out of a frozen
pool… I want to shoot him. My pant legs
are both  stiff, my feet are froze beyond
all feeling.  
           And I have to get this idiot
home and take something out of the vast
freezer outside, and cook it up.
Thaw then cook, so we’ll have something to eat for
dinner.
*
                   NEWSFLASH!
___________________
     We have two new residents of Wait-A-Bit!
They skidded in last night, pulling a sled
that seemed to have lumber on it. Looked to be
a preacher and a stripper.
      They’re gonna build a house – two stories!
It’ll be the tallest building in town! The preacher-
guy wants to be a writer…and the stripper wants
to help Artie with the bar.
      (Oh, she can help Artie, all right!)   I buy them a drink at Artie’s. 
       He says,”Well, I was a writer before. But I wrote only porn stories.
  Started a glossy magazine, made some money. That’s how I
bought that lumber on the sled… selling dirty
pictures.”
       “Good for you,” I say, “It’s good
to hear a success story every once in a while.
Something other than death, savagery, muskeg
drownings and a Skidoo going thru the ice.”
       “Yeah, I bet,” Bernie, the preacher says. 
Then he leans in closer to me and says: 
          “I left some pretty wild erotica under my bed,
last time I lived here…”
        “Aha!” I say. “Yeah, I know who’s got it. Hank, my roommate’s 
been pawing through the pages all through this winter. Not sure what shape
the pages will be in… Hank’s been developing
a strong right wrist reading them. He reads them
with a magnifying glass.”
          The two left the bar.

                     Yes, I thought I recognized the preacher .  . He’d been here before. 
He lived in Wait-A-Bit some years back.
He kept pretty much to himself. With what Hank found
under the preacher’s mattress, I understand why
the preacher had been a solitary man.


(C)2000-2018 by W.G. Milne
"LIGHTHEARTED TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC"   

Sunday, May 20, 2018

AIDS TO THE MYSTIC QUEST

       
         And many will come to disturb you
         To wrench your mind right 
                           or left
        But you are not turning 
               in any direction
         Your focus is to stay
          Stay here
           In this present task
          Stay...

         This is the battle
                 this is the mountain to climb
         The mountain heights
                  dissolve
                  into the present
                  one place
                   no time.

          
          Feel Grace enter through
           your window this morning:
           Feel strength from the gathering
            of saints and Bodhisattvas whose
            consciousness surrounds the earth

             Say: "I hail thee O you saints and
              Bodhisattvas! You whose consciousness
               Surrounds the earth, you who share                       The Mind
                That survives death... O hear me!
                 I hail thee and I feel your presence,
                  Help me in this my task!"

               It is the Lord of hosts and all His 
               saints who direct me in this.

               These are the words of 
                       the Living One.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

ASPECTS OF THE GOSPEL OF PHILIP vs some recent books



Various books (1e: "The Holy Blood, and the Holy Grail" and I think even
"The Da Vinci Code")have suggested that the Christ and Mary
Magdelene had children, and that somehow this holy bloodline is
significant, the fact that He had sex with Mary.
I don't see why whether the Saviour had sex with Mary
makes any difference, even if they had children, what I say is: "Big deal!"
Most of the Christian world has intuited that there was something more going
on with Mary than with the other disciples. And the HOLY BLOOD is passed on through the EUCHARIST and the CHRISM, not through bodily procreation.

There is a passage in the GOSPEL OF PHILIP, when Peter and the disciples complain to Jesus and ask him: "Why do you spend so much time with Mary and kiss her on the mouth?"
This kiss is sometimes spoken of in the early Christian texts
as imparting a spirit and a knowledge. So this kissing may not have been
sexual, but even if it were, it makes not the slightest difference. Even if
the Christ had physical children (and this is by no means certain),
it doesn't mean that the children were given the EUCHARIST from the
Christ.
Much is made of the phrases "CREATING" and "BEGETTING"
in the GOSPEL OF PHILIP. I'll let you decide which one is which, but
through one process the recipient of GRACE from the Master is made a SON.
Male and female are made one.
One who enters the BRIDAL CHAMBER might emerge
a changed person in this mirrored chamber of purification; and if the seeker
passes through the white fire and light of the CHRISM: "They shall not be
called Christians, but Christs."*****
And the MASTER says: "Do not call me Master, for he who drinks of the waters of my mouth, SHALL BECOME AS I AM AND I SHALL BE HE,
and the hidden things will be revealed to him."
What we are talking about in the Gospel Of Philip, and clearly what Jesus Christ was talking about is a REVELATION so deep, a
REALIZATION so complete as to change the IDENTITY of the seeker: to reveal
to the seeker the nature of his ultimate identity.
"BLESSED IS HE WHO WAS, BEFORE HE CAME INTO BEING."
"BEFORE ABRAHAM WAS, I AM."









What I am attempting to impart to my readers is this: there are a lot more fundamental and significant challenges that this ancient but new to us material brings than whether Jesus Christ had children. One thing is sure and this is, the Christ had many spiritual children: "through the Holy Spirit
we are 'begotten'." He still has spiritual children

"While we are in this world, it is fitting for us to acquire
the RESURRECTION, so that when we strip off the flesh, we may be found in rest and not walk in the midst." GOSPEL OF PHILIP

"He who realizes the meaning of these words will not taste death." GOSPEL OF THOMAS

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

BEAUTIFUL DREAMERS slower + reverb





This is an older song of mine which I wrote sitting on a rock in the middle of Duchesnay Creek. Sitting in the middle of the river flow and playing the guitar, the song unfolded naturally. The song is called, "BEAUTIFUL DREAMERS" but it's very much the river's song. The river becomes a person in the song and is the core of everything. Our lives and everything around the river - the birds, the trees, we arise and fade, but the river seems eternal.






I WAS ASLEEP. NOW I AM AWAKE


  It would be easy to go to sleep again. The world is so very peaceful.

But this is not my purpose.

           We have seen some very fine teachers. But they all are dead or in prison. I was in prison for a considerable time…but prison was very

kind to me. I spent ninety days naked in the dark in a cell. And this rescued me.

           What are you going to do?  You can only play with your body parts so many times. You have one choice – die or meditate.

           I’m told people in Tibet would pay to be locked up in a cave, a wall was built behind them. One meal is delivered each day. There are no distractions whatsoever.

          Well, I was locked up for free. But there was no T.V. No music. Not even a pencil. I learned how to draw on the walls, using an ashtray. Though there were no cigarettes and there was no way they were going to give me matches.

(please excuse large letters)

          No, we are living in the so-called normal world and distractions are everywhere. Satisfaction is rare, but there are all kinds of things to occupy

our minds. So very little Mind work is done. There are so many more pleasant things to do.

          Though if you pursue the superficial, you are lost at that level.

We are lost at that level though we have a treasure-house within us. We have the ability to become luminous beings, but we ignore our deeper abilities.

         I like to put it this way:  space is not the final frontier, nor is the ocean. Our human Mind is the final frontier, and let’s never forget this. There are vast regions within that we have yet to discover.

          We don’t even have a map of this magnificent country within us.



(C)2018 BY W.G. Milne

Monday, April 23, 2018

WHEN YOU'RE AT THE TOP, YOU'RE AT THE BOTTOM; WHERE YOU STUMBLE AND FALL,THERE YOU WILL FIND GOLD



WALT WHITMAN
_________________
I was going to do a course called: RELIGION AND IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE
up at the campus at Nipissing University, but I didn't advertise enough and I got
only eight people who signed up, and four of them were nuns. The course was to be held in honour of Father Belyea, who gave a course by the same name at St. Michael's College, University of Toronto...oh, I'd say about thirty years ago.
I was going to take the class up into the bush and show them the need for the primitive gods.
Since then I've been all over the place and everywhere I went I visited a shrine. I saw a place on Easter Island that no one has ever talked about. I spent hours outside the Bat Cave in Bali, where hundreds of thousands of bats come and go. I saw them burn bodies on the steps above the holy Ganges River at Varanasi, oldest living city on earth. I also was shown the Temple of Love,
but that is another story for another time, if we have another time.
I can hear the editors' voices in my head shouting, "Get on topic!"
O.K., I'm back. I have to say: "THE HOLIEST SHRINE OF ALL IS THE HUMAN HEART/MIND." And Walt would agree. Waldo Emerson said: "There is ONE MIND in common
to all individual men." Carl Jung's work supports this fact. But let's not forget Walt Whitman. He's one of the few natural seers we've had in the West.
Walt says:"There was never more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven of hell than there is now."( Song of Myself)


Then he adds "I AND THIS MYSTERY HERE WE STAND." (Capitals mine)
What Walt is getting at throughout the waves and rhythms of his work
is exactly the same truth the early Christians meditated in order to see.


The problem is, as the Zen Buddhists very well know, it is impossible to describe the truth. How do you put a vision of God and his Son, unified in one into words, or a vision of the eternal Christ?
How do you describe the MOMENT of REALIZATION, the implosion of all things into darkness...
into which eventually shines the Light? The answer is: you don't.


All this writing is but the "finger pointing at the moon." It is not the moon itself. Only after searching and taking rationality to its dead end; then you stop and let a higher faculty take over,
and there is silence everywhere, and then you focus on a saying: "In the beginning was the Word."
This is a good saying, because there's no way you can understand it intellectually. Let the silence reign, and FOCUS.


Walt says: "Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-washed babe
....and am not contained between my hat and boots "


Later he says: "Who need be afraid of the merge", and adds
later still: "....I come again and again."






From "the Sophia of Jesus Christ": "The Saviour"..."He is eternal, having no birth; for everyone
who has birth will perish. He is unbegotten, having no 
beginning; for everyone who has a beginning has an end."


"The beginningless first Father who beholds himself within
(as with) a mirror. He was revealed, resembling
himself."


The Zen Buddhists speak of cleaning the mirror of the mind. Through meditation you come to a place where your soul is mirrored by the soul of the Father. It is a holy place. If I understand correctly this is the place the early Christians call, "the Bridal Chamber." It is also said to be mirrored.


Of course, the mirror does not exist; it's just a metaphor for something that cannot be expressed



NOTE: Part of title is a quotation from Joseph Campbell


(C)1990-2018 by W.G. Milne