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| Nick Herbert, Quantum Tantric Philosopher |
As long as I've known him, my friend Alan Lundell has always carried a video camera on his person to record a kind of visual diary of the many events he originated or participated in from numerous Burning Mans, to lots of private parties, to lifting weights at the gym, to backstage celebrity scenes. So ubiquitous is Alan's camera that the word in philosophy circles became this: if a tree falls in the forest, and Alan doesn't video it, then that tree never fell.
One of the events that Alan happened to memorialize was the Boulder Creek Bistroscene where for ten or fifteen years, crazy poets came out of the woods to share their outpourings with one another and with an enthusiastic audience. Al managed to video a number of these gatherings and so convey on them a concrete reality they otherwise would never possess.
I recently ran across one of these Lundell-memorialized events on my computer while searching for something else. This one is myself reading a recipe for the best possible sex.
Thank you, Alan Lundell, for recording this historic event.
Here's how it goes:
SEX MANUAL
4 comments:
Claro que si', don Nicola's!
Yuspagara, tata.
Nick, you always have such sun wisdom! I love "silence is the best music" and have sung with groups for years, Bobby McFerrin Circle Singing style with no lyrics or instruments other than the voice. But I find that even experienced Circle Singers do not honor the silences, the pauses, the resonance even with words. Many people come from many countries and seem relived not to have to deal with language issues, and fill in the silences with their own noises. Bravo for your understanding as a true Quantum Physsssicist.
I thought you might like this poem La Mano Negra by Sheryl Luna; she writes some really good stuff!
La Mano Negra
I let the universe have her way with me,
gendered and purified. We break every rule
archaic and blue, two bodies forgetting
themselves. December, and I dream
daffodils and Texas springtime. New Mexico
moves through mestiza. I hoard pills on
the crowed desk, somewhere between
what really was and dream,
solve equations for 13 months, leave false
friends on their cold doorsteps. I fence well,
fold in on myself like a bat, cormorant
risen from murky water. Slick,
I search out inequalities and keep only primes.
All down the street screen doors slam
as if I carry a gospel of lies.
A woman with a house with no door
swears multitudes have seen my hand,
black as a universe.
Here's another one:
Small Defiant Gods
I weep for none and shed my hair like aspen leaves.
I wander aimlessly alone, come sullen and sacred
at the end of winter. I bow to no one
and send no love. What needs of yours or
mine are known? I whisper no language, require no wit.
If you find me, I will tell you no poem.
I quake not, nor remember. Flirtatious
and haughty, I offer no visions, bother not
with prophecy or prayer. I have no voice, no song.
I come to you no lover, no fool and never reminisce;
my breath is cool, then hot. I move darkness,
then light, hold the sun like a toy, the stars like dust.
I know no marriage, no birth or death.
Slow soundlessness follows me, and I offer you
no image, no bone or sex. Some call me Dark Mother.
If you find me at the precipice of your cold heart,
I may simply shrug. Some say spirits haunt you
and the un-favored dead hang on, but you really doubt
anything beyond my darkest eye. I smile
for no one; my black skirt trails everything.
Faceless taunt; you pretend. I move;
corpses spread over the surface of the earth
like stones. Some say the end of my journey is God,
some say the journey itself is creation, but you know
the hands that hold you are bone and ash, so what moves you
through me like small defiant gods? Your brief living,
breath and word hurl beyond my notice, and I bind you,
in hunger like blind prophets singing before I come to reap.
My womb is starry, my number is nine.
Happy birthday, Nick!
Hope you keep on keepin' on.
Nicho
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