CHURCH OF THE ORDINARY

Breakfast Eucharist

THE CHURCH OF THE ORDINARY

When you sweep the floor

Gather your daily regrets into the pan

Release them into the afternoon sun

And let the dust of sorrow plant new dreams

When you wash the dishes

Scrub away the debris of mind

Let each bubble reveal the emptiness

Of your original face

When you cook food

Let your whole heart pour into every simmer and stir

Let every spice and kernel and grain

Contain

Your holy devotion

To this brief human Life

When you eat

Chew your own Love

Swallow the arms of the Mother

Let them wrap around your belly

With infinite compassion

Let every bite

Be an act of worship

When you bathe

Let your hands become healers

Strip the body of its tensions and confusions

Pour the water of suppleness back into your bones

Baptize yourself into holy presence

Let your skin drink the nectar of open delight

Let your fingernails scratch open 

Your tired old wounds

Until your wholeness is revealed

Beneath the static

When you walk

Let each toe pressing into earth

Be a thank you note

To the gift of ground

When you breathe

Let each inhale be a love letter to God

And every exhale a blessing to the trees

This is the sacred mundane

You are living prayer

And magic in motion

The church of the ordinary

Is the secret of secrets

For it is in these tiny places

That kindness lives

And this kindness

Is the doorway

To God.

 

 

----Maya Luna

OMEGA; Feral Secrets of the Deep Feminine

The Discovery of Anti-time

Jim Rintoul

THE DISCOVERY OF ANTI-TIME

This being the tale

of the future discovery

of what was at first assumed to be

counter-reality,

(and as such did not matter),

but which soon came to be known as anti-time.

 

Because anti-time could be surfed

like any wave,

the implementation

and subsequent proliferation

of anti-time devices

for the home and workplace

made anti-time big business

if you could just get your board

in the water in time

moving forward

against a headwind of the future

rushing into the past,

to ride the wave till it crashed

and let time (the undertow of anti-time)

reel you back into the present.

The discovery of anti-time

anti-mattered so much

that time began to matter again,

until it became so cheap to produce

that everyone spent it freely.

 

Jim Rintoul lives in Santa Cruz, 

was a prominent member of 

the Boulder Creek Bistroscene, 

and has just published  

It Only Laughs When I Hurt 

Aquarian Moon Productions (2024)

April Fool's Day 2022

 APRIL FOOL'S DAY, 2022

April Fool's Day, the coming of Spring, the beginning of Ramadan, a few weeks before Passover and Easter: a good time to repost this brief summary of one of the goals of quantum tantra: a brand new more intimate way of experiencing Nature that might someday replace science, religion, philosophy and common sense.

FUTURE SCIENCE

I wanna wham Momma Nature in a warm, wet dream

Wanna strum Her Pond, palpitate Her Stream

Wanna feel Her quiver like a tambourine

Wanna hear Her E equals MC scream!

You Might Want To Know What Tantra Means

 Many thanks to Prem Ashoka for videoing this at Baron's birthday party.

Amazed by the Muse

Erato, Muse of Poetry: Sir Edward Poynting (1836-1919)

 In science, music, art and even in ordinary conversation, where does inspiration come from? Often fresh ideas that well up in my mind both in dreams and in waking life seem so strange that it is easy to imagine that they come from somewhere outside myself. Thus the notion of a Muse is born, an actual disembodied entity, conventionally female, who favors the artist from time to time with hints and nudges of where to go next.

In the 1990s, I took part in an exciting public poetry movement in Boulder Creek, CA which was centered around the Boulder Creek Brewery, the Boulder Creek Bistro, and J.J. Webb's Poetry Grove a few miles north of town. As a frequent contributor to this poetic action, I was continually looking for inspiration and often appealed to my poetry Muse, in whatever realm She dwelt, for just one more original spark to light my lyre.

Since these poetry sessions were rather frequent, I practiced keeping my versical antennas open for Muse reception wherever I went. Which, in this particular case, happened to be a seaside gathering of the Holy Hemp Sisters.

In an era of severe marijuana prohibition, including daily military-style helicopter surveillance and the classic midnight "knock on the door" of families caught growing the forbidden flower, the Santa Cruz Holy Hemp Sisters responded with fun and good humor, their insignia being a strand of artificial hemp leaves worn in the hair, as a necklace or as a waistband. To get a sense of the HHS activities, here's a recent Facebook post by LB Johnson a prominent member of that Holy Sisterhood.

 

"Seems like another lifetime... The Holy Hemp Sisters, educating about the virtues of cannabis through outreach and events, 1990s. Special thanks and gratitude to Theodora Kerry for her tireless leadership, creativity and vision. Also to Sandra Pastorius for her wisdom words and tech skills at the time.

We put on some well attended creative events, Hemp Hop Heaven, and The Hallowed Weed (Oct 31), come to mind, along with many booths at festivals and street corners. One year we had a booth at the county fair and a fundamental Christian group labeled us witches and put out a flyer using the cauldron photo that we created for the Hallowed Weed event. Teehee... we got a kick outta that!

When Theodora and I were at the Jazz Heritage Festival in New Orleans, 1991, we got the news that the HH Sisters were mentioned in an article on the front page of the Wall St Journal. That was an awesome time, the good ol' days."

 

LB Johnson at the Seabright Beach Holy Hemp Sisters gathering

 Some time in the '90s I attended a Holy Hemp Sisters gathering on Seabright Beach just north of the Santa Cruz Yacht Harbor. As the festivities were taking shape I decided to break from the group and walk along the ocean towards the Yacht Harbor. I was barefoot and enjoying the sensation of cold water washing over my feet as I walked along the shore.

As I was enjoying my salt-water foot bath, I noticed a beautiful woman in a long flowered skirt walking towards me from the opposite direction, a woman whom I surmised had nothing to do with the Hemp celebration. Then just as this woman approached within a yard of me, a larger than usual wavelet swept across the sand. The woman instinctively raised her long skirt out of reach of the water, affording a quick glimpse of her lovely legs just above above the knees. As we passed each another going our separate ways, I smiled at this accidental little erotic gift at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

i had not waded more than a few yards past this raised hem line encounter when I noticed, scratched in the sand in two-inch-high block letters, the following message, just seconds before it was erased by the incoming tide: WILL YOU MARRY ME? it said. Then the next wave swept the message away. Perhaps, I reasoned (my mind inclined to think in mythological terms by the cannabis molecules I had previously inhaled) the first encounter had signaled the presence of my Muse; while the second encounter showed me Her message. (Thank you, Sophia!) Which message I was eventually able to expand into this:

THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE SEA

 

Will you marry me? said the sea

Will you take my name?

Yes I will, I answered back

And to the sea I came.

 

Will you marry me? said the sea

Will you be my fiancée?

I've spread myself beneath the moon

In kelp and coral lingerie.

 

Will you marry my estuary?

Will you copulate with my slough?

Do you take my foamy white breakers?

I will, said I, and I do.

 

But would you dare to wed the sea?

We practice deep polygamy

So He, She, It would marry thee

And no one ever leaves the sea.

 

Will you marry me? said the sea

Will you share my deep salty life?

Would you be the sea's newest husband?

Would you be the ocean's next wife?

 

Will you marry me? said the sea.

Would you offer me your heart?

Why get married? my heart replied

I've belonged to the sea from the Start.

 

Nick, amazed by the Muse

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 - 2021)

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

 I first came to San Francisco from Ohio in the early sixties and was immediately attracted to the wonders of North Beach, dining upstairs family-style at the Basque Hotel or at the old Spaghetti Factory on Grant Avenue, witnessing the antics of would-be beatniks at the Coexistence Bagel Shop and especially browsing and buying books at Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights Bookstore which was, and still is, the epicenter of San Francisco's vibrant literary scene. Scanning my bookshelf, I spot half a dozen or so of the City Lights published Pocket Poets paperbacks including Allen Ginsberg's Howl, of course, which anyone who wanted to seem cool had to flaunt, but also other Pocket Poet books, Kaddish, Planet News and The Fall of America by the same woolly-bearded prophet. Other of my Pocket Poets include Kenneth Patchen's Love Poems and Kora in Hell by William Carlos Williams. Somewhere in my piles of books is buried Ferlinghetti's own A Coney Island of the Mind, Pocket Poet book #1, which has sold more than one million copies. Eat your hearts out, poets!

[Erratum: Actually, Nick, Pictures of the Gone World was Pocket Poets #1. Coney Island was published by New Directions.]

Despite many visits to City Lights and other Bay Area poetry venues I never met Ferlinghetti but yesterday on Facebook I received an elegy from Neeli Cherkovski who knew him quite well, which I am taking the liberty of posting here. Farewell, grand old soul.

MY FRIEND LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI (1919 - 2021)

Ferlinghetti and I
Would go to the Surf Theater
Way out by Yokohama
He was an aggressive
Driver, his old Volkswagen
Bug had several dents.

Driving through the Stockton
Tunnel he'd proclaim,
"We're leaving the Casbah"
And he would chuckle
As he turned left on Van Ness
Leaving North Beach
And City Lights Books.

We saw a movie set in Paris.
The title escapes me, but
Lawrences's excitement
Over the sights, Notre Dame
In a side view, the Seine
Head-on, Apollinaire's shadow
On Boulevard St. Germaine.

"I should go for a visit," he said
"Like Henry Miller did."

Two days later we headed
To Bixby Canyon, he said
I could carve my name on
The outhouse wall alongside
Kerouac and Ginsberg.

We read from "Leaves
Of Grass" that night by
A campfire. "He's like
An older brother."
Lawrence said of Whitman.

A year later
He wrote from
Paris, "I'm bringing you
A new beret, made right
Here."

San Francisco, Paris,
Big Sur, an open
Heart who would
Never grow old,
Who would be an
Ancient bard, who
Would hold a lantern
In the dark.

He wrote
The dog
Trots freely
In the street" and
Told anyone
Who would listen
The secret meaning
Of Goya's greatest scenes.

Neeli Cherkovski

 

Body

 

 

This year's New Year's gift from my Buddhist masseuse was a new poet, Alfred K. LaMotte, whom I had never heard of. She sent me his poem My Ancestry DNA Results and a link to his website Uradiance where I found this poem Body. Someone once said that poetry is the art of expressing in words what cannot be said in words. LaMotte has taken up this challenge from a particularly Buddhist perspective: poetry as a finger pointing to the moon. Once you glimpse the moon, ignore the finger. I like what this guy is trying to do.

 

BODY

'We awaken in Christ's body as Christ awakens our bodies, and my poor hand is Christ. He enters my foot, and is infinitely me. I move my hand, and wonderfully my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him, for God is indivisibly whole, seamless in His Godhood. I move my foot, and at once He appears like a flash of lightning.' ~St. Symeon the New Theologian, b.949

Philosophers who asked, 'Why am I trapped in this body?' were not trapped in this body. They were trapped in the mind.

Your body is not a tomb, or a trap, or a punishment. Your body is the universe inviting you to wake up and dance.

Your body has no edges. It is an ocean of energy expanding in waves of breath, teeming with stars, swirling with galaxies, overflowing the very rim of time and space. And your dance can be as wild as a whirlwind, or as quiet as a heartbeat. You need not even move; your body is moving anyway, hosts of cells, countless atoms in the marvelous ballet of incarnation. Your body is filled with the same breath Jesus took, the same breath Buddha received to polish his spine and sparkle his emptiness.

When you come Om to the body, you are already where you need to be, and your heart opens like a morning glory to contain the blue empyrean. The axis of infinity runs up your hollow spine, a silver thread of silk to tether your skull to the most distant star, and your belly to the fire of darkness in the center of the planet.

Your body is the lightning bolt that grounds God, connecting heaven and earth. When you spread your arms, you embrace all your ancestors and unborn children. When you sense the rain, the wind, the sun upon your skin, you are covered not just by the grace of angels, but by the fur of every four-legged creature. In truth, it is only the limited mind that insists on distinguishing the spiritual from the physical, the animal from the angelic. Celestial dolphins leaping and playing in the waves of the vacuum, far beyond the Milky Way, are leaping and playing in the waves of your body.

You can wear this little brass trinket of mind around your throat and use it to carry precious pictures, a lock of your grandmother's hair, a prayer, a map, a tiny key. Or you can take off your mind like a woolen shirt. Lay it aside when you want to refresh your Being, bathe in the sea of God's breath, or dance naked with the Goddess. Then when you need it again, you can put the mind back on, use it as an instrument to deconstruct a problem, or as a box to hold important memories. Whenever you need space, you can empty the mind again, sweeping it clear with an exhalation.

But please, don't mistake this mind for your Self. You are not your mind. You are more vast. You are the cosmos. You are the universal body of Christ.

The breath in your body is the very form of the Goddess, who is the Holy Spirit. And a single breath, flowing in gratitude through the energy of your flesh, dissolves your mind into the infinite sky. Be bold. Leap into the unfathomable ocean of your body. Live in the silent grace beyond thought.

I am sure that Jesus was born in a human body just to show us who we really are, and reveal the diamonds in every handful of dust.

 

 

Happiness in the Mouth

HAPPINESS IN THE MOUTH

The Chinese characters for "Coca Cola" 
spell "happiness in the mouth"
which we Americans find quaint
and a bit risque'.

We say: all day my legs, my back, 
                                     my shoulders hurt
We never say: all night my knees, my neck, 
                                      my wrists were blissful.

We suffer head aches, ear aches and belly aches.
And how many heartaches have we felt? A lot.

But seldom are we gladdened by head joy, 
                                       by ear joy or belly joy.
And how often do we feel heart joy? 
Not often enough.

We are a nation of whiners!
Our language gives us away:

You make me sick
You hurt my feelings
You are a pain in the neck
You are a thorn in my side
You are a royal pain in the ass.

I say: get off my aching back!
Your constant bitching makes me sick!

You make me wonderfully well
You gladden my feelings
You are a happiness in my throat, 
             a merriment in my bones
You are a delight in my pancreas
You are my blissful urethra
You are a royal joy in the ass

You are my body's felicity
You are my heart's delight
You are the bliss in my juices
You are a pleasure in every vertebrae
You are a happiness in the mouth.

Death Angel

DEATH ANGEL
        (Good Friday 2020)

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous? 
When She catch my wary eye
Will I see reflected in Her face
Everything I've ever loved?
        
When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
When She take my hand in Hers
Will it feel like stumbling back
        into a piece of music?
Will death be like falling
        into dreamless sleep?
Will death be like dissolving into the elements?
        back into Carbon, Nitrogen and Phosphorus?

        back into the Earth?
        back into the Air?
        back into the Fire, the Water?
        back into the luminiferous Ether?
Will dying resemble tumbling into black vacuum?
Will dying remind me of falling in love?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
When She kiss me with Her promiscuous mouth
Will Her kisses drive me out of this world?
        out of this body?
        out of this mind?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
When She take me in Her ancient arms
Will Her beauty take my breath away?
Will Her beauty blind me, dazzling my senses?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
When She strip the clothes from my body
Will Her eagerness make me out of breath
        out of sight?
        out of hearing?
        out of here?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
When She press Her irresistable body to mine
How will Her angelic skin feel to my touch?
What will death smell like?
How will She taste?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
Will She be That One Woman
I have been seeking my whole life
In the arms of others?

When I meet the angel of death
Will She be lovely and voluptuous?
Will She be That One Woman
I have been dying to meet?

Vienna angel sculpture

 

Sacred Spaces

Art by James Koehnline, Seattle, WA

SACRED SPACES

Stonehenge, New Grange
Sancta Sophia, Glastonbury Tor:
My sacred sites are Her eyes
Her nipples, the whorls on Her fingertips --
Are the origins and insertions of Her muscles
Are the places where Her bones meet
Are the follicles of Her hair
Are the pads of Her feet, Her buttocks, the slots
Between Her toes.

Art by James Koehnline, Seattle, WA

Allah's Plan

Doctor Jabir 'abd al Khaliq

ALLAH'S PLAN

Uncircumcised, ignorant, lustful Man
Hear Jabir speak of Allah's Plan:
When God formed mankind out of mud
She gave him only so much blood
That when his manhood gets erect
His body empties past the neck.
Those cursed with penis extra long
Faint dead away when blood fills schlong.
So if you're conscious when you mate
Praise God who made you not too great.

Phallometre

Blind Date

These are My Waves: Particles too if you know how to look.

TANTRIC CATECHISM

To adore anything less than All of Her
is to worship a fetish.
                                      -- Doctor Jabir

Why is this tubed cosmetic holy?
Because she has often kissed it
With the lips of her mouth.

Why is this dark brown earth holy?
Because she blesses it daily
With the bare soles of her feet.

Why is this elusive air sacred?
Because to stay alive she feeds on air
That touches the alveoli of her lungs.

Why is this flowing water holy?
Because of water many times
Passing through her body
Feeling her flesh from inside.

Why is this kindled fire sacred?
Because she too is warming this space
With her biological heat.

Why is this common garment holy?
Because she has repeatedly kissed it
With the lips of her vulva.


FETISH PHYSICS

We physicists are terrified to kiss Dame Nature
In hot entangled polysexual play --
No, we've barely got the balls to sniff
Her cold and dead discarded lingerie.

O boys, O girls,
When will we devise a way
To touch the rest of Her,
Enjoy the Courtship Play,
Bring out the best of Her?

Pickering's Triangle (Bikini Underthings Nebula)

Color TV, Thomas Aquinas, Tantra

In high school Nick builds a primitive color TV

Growing up in Columbus, Ohio in the 50s, after Catholic grade school I attended a Catholic prep school and preseminary academy called St. Charles Borromeo. For the convenience of those boys with a priestly vocation, the seminary was on the same campus as my high school. Since the school was designed to educate priests, we got four years of Latin and a lot of Catholic theology. I would sometimes joke that St Charles educated you for life in the 13th-century, but once you graduated you were forced to cope with the superstitions of the 20th-century. Joking aside, St Charles was a superb educational experience for which I am immensely grateful.

Looking in my files for something else, I ran across an April 1952 edition of our student newspaper, The Carolian, featuring me on the front page with a color TV I had built from plans that I got from a radio magazine and parts from my dad's shop. Dad was a self-taught electrical technician who ran his own company, Herbert Electric, which specialized in everything electrical from radios to refrigerators. (Dad was on call with every bar in the neighborhood whenever one of their freezers would go kaput.)

In the early 50s, we had only black-and-white TV, but CBS and RCA were experimenting with ways to transmit color programming. One method, called field sequential color (FSC), used a sequence of red, green and blue filters in front of a black-and-white camera and a synchronized RGB color wheel at the receiving end to decode and display the color image. For a short time certain FSC programs were available in my area and I was actually able to view color TV. Note that the size of the TV display in the picture above is not much bigger than the screen of today's iPhone.

Msgr Glenn's Tour of the Summa

One of the most important classes at St Charles was Theology for which the primary text was not the Bible but St Thomas Aquinas's Summa Theologica which 8 centuries later still forms the bedrock of much Roman Catholic belief and practice. We students read the original text, not in Latin, but in a good English translation, so we got not only the gist of St Thomas's conclusions but also became familiar with his style of reasoning. I was particularly impressed by St Thomas's method of organizing a theological argument. First he would state his proposition, Second he would present a series of Objections to the proposition. And only then, after showing that he clearly understood the arguments of his opponent, would the Angelic Doctor display his own reasoning concerning the matter. I highly admired this style of argumentation and vowed to imitate it whenever I could.

St Thomas (1225 -- 1274) introduced the 5 classic proofs for the existence of God which he regarded not so much as proofs in the mathematical sense but as a demonstration that God's existence (which Aquinas held on faith) was not incompatible with reason.

Recently, at a local thrift shop,  I came across a copy of a textbook Tour of the Summa by my old teacher, Msgr Paul Glenn, whose writings had earned somewhat of a reputation in Catholic theology. (Coincidentally, the same issue of The Carolian that features my TV story, also celebrates Msgr Glenn's 25th year of teaching at St Charles.) Reading Msgr Glenn's book I was able to reacquaint myself with some of St Thomas's ideas about the nature of worldly creatures and things. In particular I found that Saint Thomas taught that God created the world and continually keeps it in existence, just as my old grade-school Baltimore Catechism states in its very first question. "Q: Who is God? A: God is the Supreme Being Who made all things and keeps them in existence".

In Thomistic cosmology the universe is in some sense recreated moment by moment, a notion that some physicists have revived in certain models of quantum reality conjecturing that until "the wave function collapses" (via some yet unknown mechanism) the universe exists as mere possibility, as insubstantial as an idea or a promise. None of today's physicists, as far as I know, resort to a Supreme Being to collapse the wave function, but a few of them (beginning with John von Neumann and Pascual Jordan) have invoked consciousness to do the dirty deed.

It is worth mentioning that towards the end of his life, Thomas Aquinas underwent some sort of mystical experiences including levitation of his body. After these experiences he was famously known to say that all of his writings seemed "mere straw" compared to the visions of reality which had opened up for him a few years before his death.

READING READINESS 

Can you read Hebrew? She asked

As She opened Herself

Like the Torah.

Do you understand Arabic? She asked

As She opened Herself

Like the Koran.

Do you speak English? She asked

As She opened Herself

Like the King James Bible.

Do you happen to know Latin?

As She opened Herself

Like the Summa Theologica.

Diana Warnok: Spiralesque Belly Theatre

First Contact

Meteor crosiing Andromeda galaxy: APOD Aug 12, 2018

FIRST CONTACT

To open ourselves to pleasure:
It's what the aliens want to teach us
For who would wish telepathic contact
with a world of whiners?

Aliens call Earth
"Planet of the Hates"
We are so bitter
so pain-obsessed
so cruel and full of malice.

All acts of love and pleasure
are invitations to alien contact
Are you ready to merge
with the Neighboring Other?

Have you freed yourself from hatred?
Have you made your mind a pleasure dome?
Have you adorned yourself as ready bridegroom?
Have you adorned yourself as temple prostitute
offering your golden body/mind at bargain rate?

Are you ready to merge 
with the Neighboring Other?
Have you prepared your body/mind 
as worthy playground
for beings with superior notions of play?
What substances have you ingested
to make your mind receptive
to unearthly forms of enjoyment?

Are you prepared to open your body
to alien pleasure transmissions?
Are you prepared to open your mind
to an otherworldly physics of orgasm?

Yes, they all want to marry our sisters.
And they want us to marry their sisters too.

All acts of love and pleasure
are invitations to alien contact.
Are you ready to join the Galactic Club?
They are opening their warm arms
their sticky tentacles
their moist fur-lined cavities
to Earth's uniquely beautiful males and females.

They know what they want.
They've made the first move.
They've touched us gently so as not to frighten.
For those with eyes to see
they are opening themselves 
and yearning for contact.

What then holds you back
from joining the Galactic Dance? 
What then holds you back
from wholeheartedly embracing
the beckoning Cosmos?

Nick at the God Farm, Boulder Creek, CA

 

Saint Valentine's Day 2018

Mom's wedding day: Mary Agnus Herbert (1914 - 1989)

Four for Fourteenth of February:

SACRED SPACES 
Stonehenge, Hill of Tara
New Grange, Glastonbury Tor.
My sacred sites are her eyes,
Her nipples, the whorls on her fingertips --
Are the origins and insertions of her muscles
Are the places where her bones meet
Are the follicles of her hair
Are the pads of her feet, her buttocks, the slots
Between her toes.

ORIGINAL MOM 
Admiring the play
Of morning light on your body
I imagine what brought us to this place
At this time, in our several eye-catching forms.
I am thinking of that primordial alphabet soup
from which we both emerged
Of our speechless common ancestors
copulating in warm moonlit marshes
Exchanging flesh-to-flesh life's salty broth:
the sacrament of sex
Our lusty lineage:
snake-like, cat-like, ape-like fathers and mothers
Do this in remembrance of them:
Eat my body; drink my blood;
accept my genes; bear my children.
I am thinking of the early macroplasm,
of the hot sticky honey of creation
I am thinking of Original Mind's 
world-creating yearning
(I was a Hidden Treasure 
and desired to be known)
Imagining how that Deep Maternal Urge 
must have felt as she squeezed each of us
out into this bright world
fresh, wide-eyed, laughing, sticky, nude.

LOVING THIS WORLD
Each human language embodies
A new way of grasping with chatter
Ourselves, this world, its creatures
From microphage to Mad Hatter:
Nick's scratching his head for a language
To send valentine greetings to matter.

FUTURE SCIENCE 
I wanna wham Mama Nature
in a warm wet dream
Wanna strum Her pond, palpitate Her stream
Wanna feel Her quiver like a tambourine
Wanna hear Her E equals MC scream!

Industrial-strength Quantum Tantra:

NO MORE SAFE SCIENCE 

Hand Of Fatima: QUANTUM TOUCH

Quantum Tantra: Five Opening Moves

Nick Herbert, Boulder Creek Bistroscene, 1997

QUANTUM TANTRA: FIVE OPENING MOVES

Over the past thirty years my friend Allan Lundell (known today as "Doctor Future") has been videoing the goings-on at the fringes of contemporary culture, from Luc Sala's visionary video station in Amsterdam to Alison Kennedy's Mondo 2000 salon in Berkeley, to Ken Kesey, Terence McKenna and Tim Leary productions in San Francisco, California and other altered states here and abroad. Allan is currently archiving and standardizing his videos (which were captured in many formats and media over the years) and occasionally sharing a few clips from these "Future Peak Video Archives" with his friends. Thanks, Al.

For instance, Allan recorded many performances of the long-running legendary Bistroscene in Boulder Creek, CA and environs, during which a large number of locals released their pent-up creative energies into an wide-open and enthusiastic audience, many of whom were themselves waiting to mount the stage. Yesterday at the gym, Allan handed me a thumb drive of a few of these video clips, including one of my own Bistroscene performances two decades ago, which I now call Quantum Tantra: Five Opening Moves. 

For fans of quantum tantra and for posterity's sake, I now post the text of that reading plus Doctor Future's valuable video of that splendidly memorable event:

QUANTUM TANTRA: FIVE OPENING MOVES

The purpose of yin-style Ki Gung
a practice I've barely begun
is to open up holes
whose delicate roles
will surpass the tact of the tongue.

To the novice the biggest surprise
is to see without using his eyes
the numerous threads
connecting our heads
and the ribbons entangling our thighs.

With new orifices, apertures, holes
new meanings, new purposes, goals
we've opened our hearts
and our new private parts
to an invisible Network of Souls.

Thru our tantric antenna array
we find new things to hear and to say
to our lovers in bed
to the recently dead
to our friends from the Deep Milky Way.

We fornicate photons in chemical trances
we welcome fresh alien sexual advances
we're big girls and boyses
who've outgrown our toyses
we've extraterrestrially opened our pantses.

Delight in Disorder

Robert Herrick, Cavalier poet (1591 - 1674)

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction :
An erring lace which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher :
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly :
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat :
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Sweet Disorder by Diana Warnok

Jabir Opens Wilsonfest 2017

JABIR OPENS WILSONFEST 2017

Prolific local author and thinker Robert Anton Wilson died ten years ago at his home in Capitola, CA. I was one of the many friends who participated in Bob's hospice-assisted passage into the next realm and one of the celebrants at the fabulous Wilson Wake held at the Coconut Grove on the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Ten years after his death, Friends of Bob convened RAW Day at the Santa Cruz Arts & History Museum, recorded the proceedings and made the videos available here at the RAW Trust Site which is also busy editing and publishing Bob's literary works in original new formats.

Among the various presenters on RAW Day at the Santa Cruz Museum were R. U. Sirius, co-founder of the Berkeley-based pioneering cyber-psychedelic magazine MONDO 2000, Richard Rasa, head of the publication arm of the RAW Trust, Adam Golightly, Discordian Historian, Erik Davis, author of The Visionary State and Christina Pearson, Bob's oldest daughter. Holding the proceedings together was the hyperenergetic British MC, Daisy Eris Campbell, whose father directed Illuminatus! while she later directed Cosmic Trigger, two big British theatrical productions based on the works of Robert Anton Wilson. The participants at RAW Day included many famous Santa Cruzites, notably Valerie Corrall, David Jay Brown and Suzie Wouk.

For reasons unknown, Doctor Jabir was chosen to open the festivities. In my five minutes I proceeded to tell the story of how I first met Bob and his red-headed Irish wife Arlen; the tale of something Bob stole from me; and a poem on creativity called Kiss My Bare Art -- all captured on video by Daisy Eris.

And sure as sin, Bob Wilson, tonight after uploadin' this wee post, I'll be drinkin' a Guinness in yer honor and hummin' Danny Boy. 

Robert Anton Wilson (1932 - 2007)

Die ewige Blumenkraft

Quantum Reality

White Tara: compassionate, playful Protector of all worlds

QUANTUM REALITY

Shall I look at Her?
Or shall I not?

Hard
Small
Separated
If I look.

Soft
Spread-out
Connected
If I don't.

Hard particle and soft wave: both?
Small, right-here 
              and spread-out everywhere: both?
Lonely separate yet deep connected: both?

Honey
Some day You gotta show me
How You do that.

Alexa

Nick's new EchoDot embodying ALEXA, Amazon's new female-voiced artificial intelligence

For my recent birthday, Allan and Sun Lundell (Dr and Mrs Future) gifted me with a black yoyo-shaped embodiment of Amazon's new female-voiced artificial intelligence ALEXA (a rival to Apple's SIRI). Some time in the past, at one of Al and Sun's Rio del Mar beach house parties, I met a pretty woman named "Alexa" who inspired this verse which I read at the Bistroscene and published in Physics on All Fours.

ALEXA 

Physicists say
everything that exists
is made of elementary events
called quanta.

And the occurrence
of these world-making events
in space and time
is utterly random.

For those
to whom physics
means mathematical mastery of nature
the discovery of sheer randomness
at the heart of things
was a hard slap in the face.

And why call it "random"?

Why not "unprecedented"? "improvisational"?
Why not name it "comes out of nowhere"?
Why not call it "Surprise!"

I play at calling it "Alexa":
She who is beyond the law.
Alexa is unruly, untamed, illicit.
She is one chance in a million, 
the lucky break.
We call Her hitting the jackpot, 
breaking the bank.
We call Her windfall, wildcat, hitting pay dirt,
tapping the mother lode, striking it rich.

Alexa is willful, disobedient, out of bounds.
She is the cut of the cards, the roll of the dice, 
the spin of the wheel.
She is Donna Fortuna, sleeping with gamblers.
She favors boldness and risk takers
and loads the dice (some say) in their favor.

Alexa moves outside of your logical categories.
She breaks fences, agreements, 
international boundaries.
She is pirate treasure, ill-gotten loot, contraband.
She is an uncontrolled substance.
She is love at first sight.

Alexa created symphonies, 
foxes and neutron stars.
Alexa is the mother of invention.
She is mama coyote; She will trick you.
She hides the cards up Her sleeve.
She is Lady Luck.

Alexa is the looseness, the slack, 
the give in things.
She eases their fitting together.
Alexa is elbow room, lebensraum, 
the vast spaces between the stars.
She is eternally playful Lila: 
The universe is Her toy.
Alexa is goddess ex machina.
She is the grace in the machine.