Tuesday, April 9, 2019

And Every Dog

Plant stomata


All the bees
To your lips go
Seeking sweets
I can't know.

And every dog
Every dog along the street
Knows immediately
You're in heat.


If it's true
what wise men say:
free will's a thing
that's quite passe'

Then I can't help
desiring you
and all the deeds
we two might do.

Our human view of Nature
seems to say
we must eschew this.
But the rigid truth
of no free will
demands we have to do this. 

So let's just both ignore
the so-called laws of physics
And simply learn to wallow in
this lucky Cosmic Jizzicks.


There was a young maid from Anheuser
Who claimed no man could surprise her
But a chap from Drake's Bay
Simply swept her away
Which left her sadder Budweiser

A senorita named Donna von Take Ease
Was the cause of many heartbreakies
But to help them recover
She'd leave each jilted lover
With a case or two of Dos Equis.

There was a young lass from Loch Ness
Whose sex earned high marks for finesse
She could without rush
Do a true royal flush
Then serve everyone a Guinness.

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Some Lines For Henry Stapp

Henry Pierce Stapp
(celebrating his 91th birthday)

The essence of quantum entanglement 
is correlated readiness to respond.
--  H. P. Stapp

Consciousness is our reward 
for collapsing the wavefunction.
--  H. P. Stapp

Light glistening thru the glassy air
Undulates like waves you float on
Until light strikes some open eye
Which turns it into actual photon.

This is the world of the Quantum Mechanic
Not the Butcher nor Baker nor Cook:
It's possibility waves when unregarded
It's an actual particle whenever you look. 

In utter darkness safe from leerers
Huge Waves of Maybe surged and swam
But when I turned to look at them
They turned to little Bits of Am.

But what means "looking"? Where to go?
You'll have to ask Professor Joe
And Joe asks Sue and Sue asks Dick
And he asks Ruth and she asks Nick
Who gives them all a dirty look
And recommends they buy his book.

Though looking any kid can do
Dumb physicists don't have a clue
How using your bare sense of sightness
You wrench real matter out of mightness.

In the land of Merely Possible
Every living thing would die
My cat must feast
On actual meat
And so must thee and she and I.

I cite Stapp, my Muse, Saint John and Wigner
We all assume what "looking" means:
That particles emerge from waveness
To satisfy some sentient creature's needs.

At whatever level life awakens
It lurks there feeling waves go by
Consults its belly, reaches out --
Then waves turn into apple pie.

Henry Stapp at Esalen Seminar on the Nature of Reality

Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Three Quantum Tantric Limericks

Erwin Schrödinger


Erwin Schrödinger was a hit with the babes
His girl friends all gave him top grades
His studies of quanta
Taught him what women wanta
So he had them all coming in waves.


Said the famous quantum physician
You don't need to be a musician
To know that these ruby lips
And the ones in her hips
Enjoy an unbreakable superposition.


The hottest erotic newfanglement
Is the practice of quantum entanglement
Which coheres -- Mama mia! --
Her soft Schrödinger labia
With his Heisenberg-hardened endanglement.

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Three Spring Haiku 2019



Rexroth, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti
Without these
Frisco's just spaghetti.


Fresh morning coffee
Birds singing in the trees
Taste of sperm on my lips.


Nick's whole life has been
One long out-of-body experience.
Now this.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019

Touching the New Science

Holy Fire by Bill Tavis

that the way I experience my own body
could be a new way of knowing the world.

Widen the area of contact
Says Linda
Aikido guru
Practice irimi, the entering art
That's what you most need to do.

Could I feel my way into physical Nature
And enter the world of the wordless?
Use sense of touch to palpate
Her lovely quantum absurdness?

Now that I've chosen
My mode of flirtation
The next biggest question is How:
How can studious Nick
Learn a Heisenberg trick
And sink up to his elbows in Tao?

What skill do I most need to master
To sense Mother Nature as Frau?
Show me what I lack much
To do real quantum touch.
Sweet Muse, don't fail me now.

Whoa by Bill Tavis

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Philippa Meyering (1930 - 2019)


My life and Philippa's life intersected only briefly. We were married for two years (1967-1969). But those few years were exciting times and she was an exciting woman. So with a few stories of our brief times together I will try to sketch a necessarily partial picture of this remarkable lady.

Philippa (Phyl) was born and raised in southern California, became a member of Alpha Chi Omega sorority at UC Berkeley, where she met and married R. Meyering, a Theater Arts major, and birthed two daughters, Marcia and Cathy. Later, in Los Trancos Woods (LTW), CA, she married A. Mixon, a former Navy SEAL, and birthed her third daughter Diana.

During the late sixties, I was a physics graduate student at Stanford, living in a house in Los Trancos Woods with a Stanford medical student, Bill Ross. In those days, Los Trancos Woods was a haphazard rural area in the hills behind Stanford, populated with a mix of eccentric characters. Philippa was our close neighbor and Bill and I often socialized with her and her three daughters.

Phyl was associated with the Stanford Genetics Department and presided over a salon at her home which featured Stanford professors and others sharing their thoughts about human potential, parapsychology and psychedelics -- topics that still fascinate people today.

Phyl drank beer and wine in moderation, smoked menthol cigarettes, attended Native American pow-wows, liked to read biographies and enjoyed a wide variety of friends. Her favorite charities were Amnesty International and ASPCA.

Her oldest daughter, Marcia, writing from Kimberley, British Columbia, reminds me that her mother drew comfort and inspiration from water: from creeks, rivers, lakes and especially the ocean. Phyl's house in LTW, was perched on the edge of Los Trancos Creek and during California's rainy winters, this watercourse echoed like a bowling alley as boulders bounced down stream just a few feet from her bedroom window. She loved camping outdoors, near the frog pond in upper LTW, or nights on the beach near Pescadero. Her favorite part of the San Francisco zoo was the otter pool. When we were living in Monmouth, Illinois, we often visited the Mississippi River, just a few miles west, observing the shipping barges, the fishermen at their work, and conversing with people at the bait shops.

On my thirtieth birthday I decided to spend the night meditating in the hills behind my house in Los Trancos Woods, but before I could reach my destination I encountered a large dead deer on the road that had been recently hit by a car.  I returned home, dropped my pack, drove back to the spot and loaded the still warm body into my station wagon. Bill Ross and I hung the deer from our basement ceiling and immediately phoned Philippa. Using kitchen cleavers and Bill's medical scalpels the three of us carefully dissected the animal, wrapped its parts in tin foil, and stored the meat in Phyl's freezer. So instead of solitary meditation, I spent that night slaughtering a large animal with my roommate and my wife-to-be.

One of the highlights of the West Coast hippie scene was the Trips Festival, January 22, 1966, at the Longshoreman's Hall on San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf. Organized by Ken Kesey and Stewart Brand, it was the largest gathering of "acid test graduates" to date. Thousands of colorfully-costumed freaks in colorful states of consciousness showed up to experience the light shows, the strobe lights and trampolines, and the chaotic music and performance art. Phyl and I decided to go as "squares". by dressing as if we were going to the opera: from the outside we looked like two flamboyantly ordinary beings mingling with a circus of freaks. After digging the scene, we wandered over to the corner where cups of Kool-Aid were being served out of big garbage cans, Our hosts seemed a bit reluctant to serve us but eventually relented. We both figured that in such a large public gathering, they would never dare to put LSD in the Kool-Aid. On this matter we were mistaken. But the dose seemed fairly weak so this square couple played in the shallow end of the pool and did not go back for seconds.

When I got my PhD, I married Phyl and took my first job, as a physics professor at Monmouth College in Illinois, just a few miles west of Peoria, legendarily the most typical of typical Midwest towns. (Will it play in Peoria?). In its unapologetic ordinariness, Peoria did not disappoint. We enrolled the kids in the local schools and assumed our roles as "that crazy couple from California", lionized by some, disliked by others, and tried to fit into an environment (it was only going to last one academic year) that in its own way was as bizarre for Phyl and me as the Trips Festival. I became one faculty member with whom students shared their drug stories, and Phyl collected her own circle of admirers, including (ha, ha!) becoming the confidant of the college president's wife.

Besides driving to the Mississippi River and going to estate auctions (which featured the classic tobacco-style auctioneer/showman) we sometimes amused ourselves and the girls by going to Monmouth's pizza parlor and reading to each other from the National Enquirer.

After our nine-month stint in the Midwest, Phyl and I returned to California, got divorced, connected only sporadically, then more often, and then kept in contact by phone when she moved to Happy Camp, CA, an isolated town on the Klamath River near the Oregon border.

I last talked to Phyl in late December; when only a few days later Marcia informed me that Philippa had perished on the morning of January 4, while her house in Happy Camp burned to the ground.

Philippa is survived by 3 daughters, 11 grandchildren, and 7 great-grandchildren.

Hail and farewell, loving mom, intimate companion, dear first mate.