Posted by: whiteagle | January 30, 2016

From I Live Inside this Book I’m Writing

The Final On-going Chapter in the Life of a Lonely Painter

©2016 by Whiteagle aka Will Magnus

Forward

Over the years I have created many images, used them to inspire me to write my poems, express my thoughts, essays, even complete my novels, memoirs, and full-page books such as Voices, The Manuscripts, The Sacred Valley of a Thousand Mountains and a small fictional book called Sessions where a psychiatrist and one of his clients find out they had lived together as brothers and as lovers in another lifetime and their sessions together, dealing with hermaphrodism, gay politics, secret codes and other exciting things, you name ‘em….

They have also inspired me to create music for meditation, relaxation and empowerment.  I feel so blessed to have ancestral spirits guide me, including two very well-known authors; James Herlihy, who wrote Midnight Cowboy whom I lived with for nearly seven years and his spiritual muse, Anais Nin, who wrote many books, among them The Delta of Venus.  I  met Anais before she passed to the other side  and she dedicated Collages and The Seduction of the Minotaur to me, who wrote, “To Willy who has found his way out of the labyrinth and has reached the highest level of consciousness…”.  What a blessing!.  There were other important writers and storytellers, too.  I was privileged to go to Tangiers and spend several afternoons with Paul Bowles and Mohammed Mrabet, who helped him revive the ancient Berber language used in Morocco known as Mahgreb. He wrote Under the Sheltering Skies  and The Collected Short Stories of Paul Bowles.  Those books and those authors are considered some of the best literary works of the twentieth century.  He is also one of my muses and now, after many years struggling with image-making, the meditation music I just mentioned and all this storytelling,  this year (2016) is my year for coming out of the closet so to speak and share my work with the rest of the world; “Voices” (my personal memoirs) is about to hit the Internet with CreateSpace and Amazon.com for starters.  I call my work, “I Live Inside These Books I’m Writing and Illustrating”.

Now, with artwork and crafts (feather fetiches, beaded necklaces and abstract prints) nearly finished, I will devote the rest of my time on earth solely to writing.  The crafts and the prints now in the hands of my special “agents” working on “getting them out there”,  I am free to literally devote the rest of my life to writing instead.

Yes, I still have my laptop with original or copyright-free downloads here in the trailer I am living now, images to make more images, mostly abstract tweaking I love to do with Adobe Photoshop, a Pro keys 88 electronic keyboard and drawing/painting supplies with me, but they are now serving me as a hobby instead of trying to make a career out of it;  a means to rest my mind and yet continue to create the writing undisturbed.  Jamie and Anais are helping me do this from the other side, which is a real plus!.

Jamie told me often, when he was alive, that one day I would become a writer and that my work(s) would go viral.  The Internet was young back then, Facebook hadn’t even been invented and I would say, “Oh no, not me.  I could never make the grade his and his literary friends’ books had already reached if I did.”  But now his words are coming to fruition.  I’m not famous yet, and am not sure I want to be, but I am glad for the Internet, for Facebook and Google, for they have become my media and I am enjoying this freedom to write whatever I choose to write about, upload portions of it and keep a running commitment with my followers and this fabulous method (self-publishing) writers now have to “get it out there”.  Folks like myself don’t have to know the right persons/editors in the publishing world anymore to get published, nor have them looking over our shoulder if we do get those great advances.  The money would be great, but that’s not my goal here.

Today is a great time for writers like me to become authors of note without all the fuss, the shmoozing, the back and forth, yes, no, etc., promising authors used to have to deal with.  Let the editors and the publishers come across our work some crazy afternoon while doing their thing flying from here to there…. Sure there are still great publishing houses giving the public (those who like to have books in their hands) what they want, nice fat contracts to the author and maybe just that very thing will happen to me, too.  I could see another “old man and his dog memoirs” become a big hit movie.  Why not!

Jamie’s book, Midnight Cowboy had just such an event happen to it when John Houseman read the book given to him by a friend while on his way to LA one afternoon and felt he had to make a movie out of it.  Of course, that movie  is now a classic right up there with Gone With the Wind  and Paul Bowles’ Under the Sheltering Sky,  Anais’ diaries (she went to a nearby print shop and churned out her own copies at first) are considered to be some of the best literary works of the twentieth century.  I am so blessed to have them by my side.

That said, dear readers, as you read from my timeline (Facebook/Whiteagle Magnus or will.magnus) go to Amazon. com and purchase a copy or two, that you too will be inspired to write and also be empowered in your personal lives by just reading some of my writing.  My next work is a book of poetry, four volumes of poems under the title, “When We Talked to the Trees”.  It too will be self-published this year.  So here now is my “The Final On-going Chapter in the Life of a Lonely Painter”.  That’s what I call this segment of “I Live Inside These Books I’m Writing and Illustrating”  ~ Whiteagle ~

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Posted by: whiteagle | January 15, 2016

Path of Beauty

A Story about what The Path of Beauty means to me

by Whiteagle.

This section is about  hiking, the symbolic meanings found while hiking, and the lessons learned as they apply to living The Symbolic Life. This page, however,  is from my life on Sauvie Island, an “Island in the Middle” between the conjunction of the Willamette and Columbia rivers bordering Oregon and Washington State, a few miles north of  the city of Portland.  Its neither wilderness nor city, but somewhere in between.

To begin, let me describe Sauvie Island a bit more:  We have a lot of private land here, interspersed with some public land, a lot of beach, woods, a couple of small lakes and rivers all in an area of about fifteen miles long and about a half- mile wide. We also have a beautiful wildlife reserve, which is a combination of both.  There is an abundance of eagle, heron, duck, wild geese, deer, coyote and beaver on the island. I saw at least one elk couple too.

Gaia really speaks to you here.  She is also known as The River’s Daughter by the Salmon people known as the Chinook.

Today’s meditation was inspired by heron and hawk who seemed to have literally come from the Columbia River to the east.  One day I took a path that leads to a hidden lake surrounded by brambles and swamp land.  Following a deer trail pointed out to me by a small child the other day meant, first of all, as many children do, one ignores  the No Trespassing signs, do some deep-ducking under fences, hunting for a safe place to walk among the brambles.  No problem for deer and elk, but definately a challenge for human and dog on a leash…….(All of which symbolizes  in a nutshell, my particular Path of Beauty–wild and innocent as a child, yet on a leash to keep the adult in me from over-stepping his “boundaries”……)

This path usually begins with a unique challenge: Ignoring the social norms, looking for the hidden ways to reach one’s destination, and so on.  Then, on the other hand, perhaps The Destination is less important than The Walk itself…..  which was the case here.  I came real-fast to the swampy areas leading to one of the small lakes I mentioned earlier with Little Bear straining hard on the leash.  Deer had just passed that way and his sense of smell was keen.  A stag was hiding in the bushes.  You could hear its uneasiness.

Now,  Deer symbolically represents the heart, the grace, and the love of The Creator  for his creation and how that deer survival also means hiding when necessary.  When Hawk signaled that we were afoot, there was a major scramble.  Deer entered the thick brambles, heron and duck scattered. With all the excitement, Little Bear strained even harder.  I almost lost my footing several times., but I continued on.  (I’m a stubborn old coot!)  Consider  for a moment the symbolism of courage while on the “path less-traveled” of which we’re speaking.

We then followed its trail to the edge of an impassable river run-off bank and I was reminded of my chapter, “Island in the Middle” and the phrase “Keep the River on your right, (coined from Tobias’ novel of the same name) where one shares the journey of a New York city-bred artist giving up his comfy life and heading for the Amazon . He experiences a great deal of challenges indeed.  Mine weren’t so dificult as his, but following a deer’s path among the brambles and the wet, swampy ground was a challenge for me.

We continued and now hawk came back to his tree and calm reigned in the woods once again.  The path grew easier too.  I soon came to a floating bridge that crossed the swamp and then the path led to a meadow where the walking was easy.   I could look up at the trees and the sky instead of at each footstep along the way.  This too represents the need to re-asses one’s position on The Path of Beauty by looking up at “Spirit” instead of at oneself, and one’s footings or surroundings all the time.

I remembered the early morning’s listening to the radio (which I promised I would not do until after my meditation), and was reminded how fragile our society, with all its fears of war and chaos is indeed , so far removed from the possible peaceful, everyday existence of the animals and birds among us. They just keep on a truckin’ as usual, in spite of the fact that the human highway (which, in short, only temporarily fences them in) imposed upon them where they lived. They  really do, just go on as usual.  That’s how we (warriors on The Path of Beauty) should continue our lives!

As I continued walking through the meadow the path changed again and headed for the brambles, yet a neatly trampled path was etched out following close to the riverbank , providing me with  many beautiful views of the river that only the deer and elk  might experience.  (In real-life only a skilled hunter or fisherman might have taken that path…but remember I’m in a no-man’s/no trespass’ country, so its still pretty uncommon for humans to walk this way.)  That too is symbolic.

The other and the most important thing to consider (for me this morning) is about the difference  of a handicapped hiker with tender skin walking among the brambles, compared to the graceful deer whose hide is tough enough to handle them from time immemorial. A few  stickery vines  overhead doesn’t bother them.  It did me!

I am reminded once again that, even though I have found a hidden path of great beauty I still went out unprepared.  The next time I will need to take a clippers with me to make the path I choose to walk acceptable for me to be able to walk it again with ease.  Should I do this?…Hmn….  Should we change things on our path (of life) just to fit our own needs  or desires …..I wonder…..  I simply could have  worn some gloves, a thicker outercoat, and walked slower, ie,  have a  tougher “skin” so to speak and simply brush my “obstacles” aside.  Aho!

Upon returning home, I was asked to meditate from, Dane Rudhyar’s Cycle of Transformation.  Read phase 58, Thoth (my spirit guide) said.  I did so. In short, I came to phase 58: “A woman, past her “change of life”, experiences a new “love”.  I knew he was telling me one must always be open to new “re-beginnings”.

Each day is a new re-beginning.  Not only will I start out my next morning hike with the idea that being prepared also means  wearing different gear, and taking the time to “gear-up” a little bit better, in order to maintain that youthful view that “Anything could happen, so what?  Why worry?“.  We can always learn, no matter how old we are,  no matter how “experienced” we’ve become.    It also means “being receptive”.  The woman (in oneself) in spite of her age always has the possibility of a new love—that “Love for Life” can also be romantic, exciting, and full of adventure if one remains “open”! (Mind-male ALLOWING Heart-female TO TAKE THE LEAD……)

Posted by: whiteagle | January 9, 2016

Whiteagle’s Blog

WordPress has Wildove as my permanent name (so far) but Wildove and Whiteagle are one and the same.  Please visit often!  Thanks

 

Posted by: whiteagle | January 9, 2016

My Personal Memoirs

I’m back, after a long absence.  2016 is devoted to getting my poetry and my memoirs published.  It is almost ready, within a click or two to distribute/sell.  Its called “I Live Inside These Books I’m Writing and Illustrating.  Here is an excerpt:

VOICES

© 2012 by Will Magnus aka Whiteagle

…..But back to the traveling part of my story:  Of course I went home a happy camper this time, paid JZ the money I owed him, did some more research on the horses with The Handicap coming up soon and was ready for the big one.  I was sure I would have Mary’s ticket in the mail, too.  I did some re-finishing work at a deli  counter down at Union Square  in the meantime in order to pay for the rent I owed JZ, the mats for the drawings and a bus ticket back to LA, with the drawings well-matted and held together securely in a good quality professional artist’s folder designed specifically for artwork done on paper and returned to LA as promised. Mary’s letter and ticket still had not arrived by the time The Handicap was about to play itself out, however.  I didn’t care.  I believed I would have it in time.

I got on the bus from San Francisco to LA bright and early the day of the race, but it was a stormy day too, and roads were blocked going through the Bakersfield pass into the valley, meaning once again I had called it too close.  If I reached Griffith Boulevard in time to secure my ticket, provided of course and I could locate Mary’s address (which was iffy….I had lost the piece of paper she gave me with her address and phone number on it), I could still make the last bus leaving for the track with her ticket.  Why it hadn’t arrived in the mail perturbed me, but not that much.

I inquired as to her whereabouts to a couple of people I met on the street heading in the right direction, and found the right building.  I knocked several times on the manager’s door, and finally it opened.  It was the number 867: The numbers on the original piece of paper I found on the sidewalk.  The person who answered was pretty well several sails to the  wind from the breath he sent my way, rather grumpy and annoying to boot.  But when I asked about Mary, he threw me the I dunno message at first with his shoulders, but the I ain’t telling you nuthin’ just yet message came with his eyes.  I pumped him pretty good, and he finally told me: Mary had just died.  Was I family? I said yes, and eventually he handed me the white envelope with the name Willy on it.  It had been tampered with, but it had the ticket.  Fantastic!

That was it.  I split as fast as my legs could do it, but just barely got to the street to see the last bus to the racetrack already well down the road.  I would have to hitch-hike my way to Santa Anita if I was going to be able to use the ticket. Shit!  Here we go again! I did the best I could,  everything was intact this time. Why did the universe throw me another curve with that damn storm and that bastard of a manager? I arrived finally at the race track, but unfortunately I was too late.

When I got to the gate, the gate was locked.  The races had already begun,  sold-out/ locked tight.  I saw a guard not too far away and called him over to me.  I showed him my ticket, but there there was nothing he could do about it  No exceptions, he said. Your ticket could be a fake.  Its signature needs confirmation anyway.  We’re closed!   Just great! The race hadn’t yet occurred, The Lottery hadn’t yet been run.  I was there in time, yet I couldn’t do a damn thing about it!

The whole schmeer of lies, mistrust, fowl play, little possibility syndromes; they all were still sitting there at Santa Anita I realized, as though I was back in the same time zone three weeks earlier. Should I stay, or should I go, I asked myself.  What for? Even if I did have the winning ticket, I could not get in, period.  The ticket did not have Rosemary’s name on it either. It had no name on it except R. R. King.  It did have a signature, though  I decided to wait and called the guard over and explained the exact situation.  He still didn’t do anything for me.  He said I needed proof of her signature.

“You’ve got to have one on record, I said, “She’s a paid member of the club.  She can’t be here.  She gave me the ticket for me to be here. She just died a week ago, I swear.  Ask her manager.  You can look him up.  I can do that for you right now.  She had promised me her ticket.  I swear its the truth.”  He just shrugged his shoulders and left me standing there by myself.  He went back to sit in the shade. I could see it was going to be a grueling two hour wait in the hot sun just to see if it was the winning ticket, was it worth it?  I decided to do it anyway.

When the drawing lottery was finally announced over the loudspeaker, I jumped into ready start go psition immediately from an almost dead as a doornail sleeping mouse position and heard him say, …” the winner of the $1,000,000 purse goes to number  HM487625.  Is there an R.R. King here?  Please come and show us your winning ticket ma’am or sir, whomever you are.  Be sure to have your ID ready along with your stub.  This doesn’t happen every day you know. Congratulations!  Ladies and gentlemen, if Miss or Mister King is not here, we will announce another number in fifteen minutes.  Hold onto your hats, folks.  Its not over with yet.”

But it was for me dear Reader, I had the correctly numbered ticket, I showed it to the guard, he just shook his head, not believing my story this time either saying the ticket still could be a fake.  “Besides,” he said, “why weren’t you here earlier?  Everyone in that stadium has been screened and re-screened ten times over.  Winner or not, I can’t let you in.  I don’t have the authority.  I can’t get clearance in fifteen minutes, either.  Sorry, bubbah!”

I decided then and there it was time to go,  I didn’t wait to hear the complete “other” number or name.  I simply tore up the ticket and went back home to San Francisco, not a word to anybody about it until now.  That was the end of my adventures at the horse tracks, dear Reader, yet  I still came home a winner!  I knew everything about the dream was real, The Brotherhood, the Spirit voice of The Pigeon who was Grey Father, for whom I was named.  All of it was real, upfront, confidential and mine to embrace!  And that feeling is still with me as I re-tell the story now,  thirty-odd  years later.

No further adventures with lottery numbers or numbers of any kind, for that matter are planned in my near future, there nor anywhere else, none will be involving dreams or spirits, unless they point blank come to me in the same manner Lady Luck offers them to you. No confusing riddles to solve, folks!  Too weird of an energy in that world even for me to reconsider…….as fantastic as the adventure was.

I might add, dear Reader, I got that good, same old witchcraft when your heart meets mine, tingling up and down my spine confirmation that Rosemary is still with me as we speak somewhere in the other zone as I type.  She is here this very moment, too, even though I’m on my fourth re-write. You go, girl!  You go, Rose, wherever you are on the other side!

Up north in San Francisco things had changed again when I returned.  A second disappointment!  JZ was  beside himself.  Why I didn’t let him in on what I was doing.  He felt left out of the planning.  Apparently the version of what had happened during the entire cycle had settled into his circuits in a different way the whole thing had done to mine. He did not like “the energy” at all. Maybe it was time for me to be on my own again.  Maybe he too had had enough of me.  And so I did leave soon after I returned. However, one more incident in The City was the clincher explaining why I really left.  Let me share it with you.

Posted by: whiteagle | March 25, 2015

Author Dewey Dirks Thank you!

Small things means so much

Next “Big Thing”, not as such

Pointless wandering

Wanting more

I have enough

I am tough

Smart

My art is lovin’ wonder

My heart is full of this

For I never miss a moment

When I can give praise

Raise my hands in prayer

To all the friends aware

That loving words

Become verbs in action

Temples of God-ness and Love

From below and above

To friends like you.

Father Sky and Sun

Mother Earth and Moon

Soon we all will stand

At Heaven’s gate

As long as we wait on The Lord

as the christian folk say

On the Divine Artist and Poet

Others simply call The Way

Inside our heart

The Ancestors swoon

The Animals and Birds

Smiling their way through

The Maze.

Amazing, isn’t it?

This love for one another

Father, Mother Sister and Brother

All of Creation is singing

Sending our songs

To the other sky

Where none need

To ask why they

Believe in Great Spirit

Your spirited godparents

The Universe reveals

All for a simple man like me and you

To know what is sublime

To kneel in reverence

At the sight of

This wondrous light

There to show us The Other Way!

Wado, A’Ho!

Posted by: whiteagle | August 8, 2011

Spirit-song

These are Sacred Grounds  (A Tribute to Mother Earth)

by ? from  Silver Wave Records.

Where The Sacred Winds still blow

Where The Spirit-rivers flow

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

Where The Mountains touch The Sky

Where The Golden Eagles cry

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

Sacred Grounds.

The Rattle and The Stone

The Echo and The Bone

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

Where a Man comes The Child

Where The Horses still run wild.

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

Hi-yeah!!!

Secret without words

Where Magic can be heard

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

I feel The Rain, I hear The Thunder

These are The Prayers of Peace, My Brother.

I hear The Wind, I hear The Wonder

These are The Prayers of Peace, My Brother.

Hi-yeah!!!!

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

These are Sacred Grounds

Can you hear the calls of your Mother?

Can you hear the call of your Father?

Kind of, kind of.

Can you hear the calls of your Mother?

Can you hear the calls of your Fathers?

Kind of, kind of.  Kind of…..

I was born on this mountain

I am The Mother’s Daughter

And you can’t just take my dreams away.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Me, White Eagle speaking:

That was the first call I heard.

It will be the last cry I hear as I circle This Mountain

And become The Man Mother Mountain Child of Olde

Born of Fire and Ice.

Once made of stone

Now I am but a hollow bone

Yet filled with Fire and Ice

Now I am Loam.

Then The Ground upon which I roamed sang me to sleep

Welcome home, dear brother, I heard as I began to drift

Welcome home! Welcome home!

What a beautiful way to start my day

And to end my day, Grand Mother.

The drifting I am doing as I type down your words

Is like a man and a dog, sitting on a log

Drifting slowly downstream

To your great big oceanic dream.

I am that man and dog!

Those eyes, those hands, those arms

Just waiting quietly for me to drift into them

To feel your warm embrace.

AHO!

Wado!  LittleBear and White Eagle

Posted by: whiteagle | July 28, 2011

Mysticism

In today’s meditation with The Grandmother I received this message: “Mystics come in all shapes, colors and sizes. You’ve just met one today. IT’S YOU! Be well dear readers.

Posted by: whiteagle | March 5, 2011

Spirit-talk from Oldman

An Oldman’s Vision of Utopia (revised)

© 2011 by TwoHawk Speaking for White Eagle

 

Already a pool had formed in his mind.

“I do not understand this,” I said to My Friend

“Is this your alms, your hopes, your sadness, or your joy?”

“It is all of the above.  It is my love for you.

“I want to walk with you again, hand in hand,” said The Oldman.

 

“Everyone has some kind of a vision about a utopian world.  We often think of a new day as being unique, beyond the now, something yet to be.  What if there really is nothing new under the sun?  Every vision, regardless how futuristic and unfamiliar it may seem, is always conditioned by someone’s version from their past.  This whole process is really more about rebuilding from the past, or re-creating rather than creating by itself.  So here in my “vision”  about Utopia, I will begin in part one an overview.  In part two, I will focus on how to use the current conditions, and the teachings or lessons from the past in suggesting how to re-build what it is I truly envision…..what is a real, rather than a mere imagination of utopian possibilities.”

 

“I am an Oldman but I still have visions.  No Polyannas, no devisive derision shall retain the on-going chorus of change built into my refrain. I see trees of green, red roses, too, children laughing,  so glorious and wise, all those things without the bang, bang.  In my song, all desert lands flower, all rivers run free.  All swamps remain unaltered, unrestrained, no one dumping into or on them.  No one trying to drain them away, either. You see, in My Utopia only people of good intention shall live.  No greed or grabbing  of someone else’s piece of pie will be allowed. No one will want to because each shall have their need fulfilled.  There is a price attached to all this but there is no bill, deceit, or any receipts thereof included in these transactions on the condition you simply love the one who gave you the goods in the first place, including your enemies.  There’s nothing wrong with my swamp. One shall not stomp on My Ground either, for in My Gardens, My Mountains and My Valleys only soft moist loam will cover the land.  Only slow walking, slow dancing will make the grand entrance abound:  Wondrous sacred space, keeping pace with melodious sounds.You see, in My Utopia everyone will want to give to each other of themselves, not their useless remains. Seeds of newness will be built into my remains.  They’ll recycle themselves!”

 

PART TWO:  How to Rebuild From The Now.

 

“Now The Now has several components: the current, the undercurrent and the surface,The Now, The Past and The Future. None of them last very long, but each must be understood while they’re here. Now who would you think they are?  Hah!  I caught you!  Notice I said Who Instead of What.  The What is the  part we must let go of.  Dealing with The Who is essential if we are going to rebuild anything long-lasting. And just who are these components we call current, undercurrent and surface, who are their counterparts?  Well, there’s Buddha and Jesus, Isis and Orpheus, Abraham and Moses.  There’s Ceridwen and Nora, Brigid and Bel.  There’s Venus and Euridice, Aristotle and Plato, There’s even all those Satans and Lucifers, The Bushes and Carlyle’s, the Harriman’s and the Brown’s.  By their momentous grand erroneous madness we can find some useful tools to back them up into a corner, round ‘em up, watch them wrestle with each other in their own circus ring, draw the drapes, close the door and throw away the key while The Utopian Rebuilding of The Real Kinder People’s World goes on.”

 

“Now, I hired the best architects among them all, those who submitted the best blueprints. I found that Jesus and Buddha’s blueprints had made the most sacred, the easiest and the most effective method of construction come to light with ease.  (Neither of them, by the way, charged me a single penny, though the rest charge you way too much!)”

 

“Jesus reveled his secrets to The Woman of Samaria, didn’t he?   She was a whore, too. All the madams and pimps from the village, their clients and other wimps, though they say they had all the answers, they didn’t.  They weren’t the ones whom he spoke to, the ones who said they’d keep the shores intact did not have the answers I was looking for.  (Neither did the agents and the agencies that make the rules and forms dealing with the chorus of love they claim they have the right to maintain moral authority over as well.) Their brains contain little  evidence or substance remaining that allows for the reconstruction sustenance and materials still needing to begathered in order to be part of the refrain. They only sing the choruses full of noise no one wants to hear anymore. All their ideas enacted have fallen apart. It ‘twas in the hidden part of a prostitute’s  heart the meanings of love remained. The Master Oldman also revealed himself to fishermen and carpenters, the low-brow types. Not that the wealthy don’t have any answers, they do!  Lots of them, but their blueprints contain so much poo-poo and dodo, I had no use for them.”

 

“I also hired Gautama Buddha, Hoti and Krishna because their main affirmation, “Be careful what you ask for, ‘cause you’re gonna get it whether you like it or not”, sold me on the idea that made the most common sence of all. Now that I had the right blueprints in line, I went to work.  I discovered that to refurbish the desert of the empty, dried out flower pots, it was love and compassion that brought on the rain for the flowers and grasses in the desert to sprout. It was dedication and that “whistle while you work” kind of energy that allowed the good guys to dismantle the damn dams and let the rivers run free. It was replacing the asphalt and concrete with dust from the memory of the good life that smoothed out the paths to the mounains  and valleys of pride lined with natural rails and fences of humility others called failure that neutralised the chem trails of indifference and greed.”

 

“My utopian theology says take the nukes, the bombs, and the land mines, remove the pins and the signaling carefully, melt them down. Build monuments of remembering them as fragments of the past, The Now doesn’t need any longer. Leave them on an island one goes to visit now and then as works of useless art, no further living instructions about using them ever to be found.

 

The Desert’s in bloom,

The Rivers are running free,

Fluffy Clouds proudly circling The Mountains

The Valleys singing loud and clear

The Swamps and the Oceans proud to provide.

 

Fishermen with fishes, oceans wide

Prostitutes, lovers,whores, wives,

Misters and mistresses none to derride

Cats and Dogs without scratchy needling whiskers

Dishes and doors

 

To use, pass by or through as they do choose

Fullfilling Creator’s wishes wherewithal.

Condoms of love, no need to wear gloves

All staying in survival mode,

Allowing love to flourish across the land.

 

In rooms, on walls, ceilings and floors

In whatever form they take, sit or stand.

Pictures inacted like sculptures

Artists have always longed for to wake us up

To an Oldman’s Utropical candor and horn:

 

As The Old Sea Captain sits on his rocker watching ships enter his harbor, bringing goods so desparately needed for his Utopia to release The Cornicopia of Love spilling out into the cleansing oceanic depths of  new found feelings of renewal and resolve. So there!”

 

(That’s how Oldman rebuilt his hovel and made his planet The Home Where Real Love and Brotherhood was reborn.)  Aho!

 

Here is a little poem I will create right now:  Beautiful words are not maps, sad words can trap.  Love isn’t a word.  Peace isn’t a word. Happiness includes Love and Peace.  Its a place in your heart from which you start!  (in spite of yourself)  Let go of old ideas about yourself and the world.  The times ahead are powerful ways of change worth more than we can say.  So be the PLACE where the words about the love, peace and happiness abound.  The word I like to use is work.  I’ve got work to do, so do you!  Happy Holy Days!

Posted by: whiteagle | May 22, 2010

WORDS OF WISDOM

There is only one thing we can say is true: Spring always follows Winter, Summer always follows Spring and Fall always follows Summer and The Sun always rises after it sets. The rest is up for grabs. Anais Nin told me that the night before she died. Thoth confirmed this as we rode through the skies to the other worlds including going to The Pleiades.  Aho!  Yahtay!

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