Author Archives: d.perry

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‘”Saluting the Light’, was a custom that was performed by grown males in the Aleut community. This early custom is described as follows –

The grown men were in the habit of emerging from their huts as soon as day was breaking, naked, and standing with their face to the east, or wherever the dawn appeared, and having rinsed their mouths with water saluted the light and the wind; after this ceremony they would proceed to the rivulet supplying them with drinking water, strike the water several times with the palm of their hands, saying:

‘I am not asleep; I am alive; I greet with you the life-giving light, and I will always live with thee.’ While saying this they also had their faces turned to the east, lifting the right arm so as to throw the water, dripping from it, over their bodies. Then throwing water over the head and washing face and hands, they waded into the stream up to their knees and awaited the first appearance of the sun. Then they would carry water to their homes for use during the day. ln localities where there was no stream the ceremony was performed on the sea-beach in the same manner, with the exception that they carried no water away with them.”

“After Jerry Garcia died, his wife [Deborah Koons] and Bob Weir had already dumped half of his ashes into the Ganges. I don’t know what in the world was behind that. The rest were to be scattered in the San Francisco Bay. All The Dead were going to go out on this boat that had been rented by Debbie, the ‘black’ widow. Mountain Girl [Garcia’s ex-wife] showed up with her daughter Sunshine and all the girls, and this Debbie went nuts. She said, ‘If she tries to get on this boat I’m calling the cops and having her arrested.’ Debbie was frothing at the mouth and so Mountain Girl backed off.

Finally they got on and Sunshine was just so sad to see her mom standing there on the docks as the boat pulled away, with all The Grateful Dead and the managers out on the fantail of the boat. It was a windy, rainy San Francisco morning, miserable, cold outside, and Debbie was sitting alone in the cabin just fuming. She finally came out with these ashes and flung them over the fantail. Sunshine said, the wind caught them and swirled them all over everybody, and they were all wet and stuck with Jerry’s ashes. All of their pockets, seams, shoes, ears and mouths were full of Garcia’s ashes.

Herbert Tichy was in the area in 1936, attempting to climb Gurla Mandhata. When he asked one of the Garpons of Ngari whether Kailash was climbable, the Garpon replied, “Only a man entirely free of sin could climb Kailash. And he wouldn’t have to actually scale the sheer walls of ice to do it – he’d just turn himself into a bird and fly to the summit.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8s3CNBZYMDw

Lionel Lark was an alchemist by profession but he loved to quest. Li and Mole were a romantic pair. Li, with his many-coloured zodiac coat flapping about as he rode the dawn wind. Rubbing his rimless spectacles, he lectured Mole in his larkish manner about the mythical Lily Pond and its latitude and longitude, and goofing sometimes, and mentioning the Hyperboreans, the frozen folk who lived behind the North Wind.

At eight o’clock he scribbled little spells and directions on a dried mushroom parchment and Moley got proudly into his pigs-bladder balloon. Lionel took off, at first a little shakily, but soon as swift as the lordly eagle, the Emperor of the Sky-Skinned Airships.

Bopping through the morning clouds, Kingsley rocked to and fro, now and again straightening his course by adjusting the misty spider’s-web rope which was harnessed around Lionel’s little puffed-out chest. They made a wonderful sight, these animal Wright brothers.

A lonely elf crunched the autumn leaves and solemnly dictated to his mouse scribe long, winding spirals of wonderful runes which, in our heavy translation would awaken Ra at midnight, or un-hibernate a legion of poley albino-eyed hedgehogs or even cause a chasm on the deeply swirl of Fox Necks to drown a blessed water lily. Pan be praised for elfish ability to know about wisdom and to use it wisely.

The elf’s autumn feet hidden in rose-petal, pointed shoes walked into The Mighty Grove and his never-ending stream of merriment soared and gushed Niagarally through the Wonderful Kingdom. But even as quick as it came, it had ceased. His wise eyes became beacons of true light.

As the piggy bundle tumbled from the blessed heavens, the leaping elf hastily harnessed his beloved, tame nightingale and made for the point of ejection with a heart of many carats. Entangled in thorns and briars was Kingsley Mole, his snout sticking high in the splendoured air; tents of zodiac folds cascaded over Lionel’s larkish dome. De-spectacled, he moaned into Kingsley Mole’s eyes and cursed all flying machines doomed to rely on the ficklety of piggish bladders.

The two saddened creatures trundled from their rose-bush prison and lay scarlet and fatigued in the escaping afternoon. The handsome, elfin figure soared through dusking skies and upon landing, kissed the proud brow of his sky steed and called a greeting to Mole and Li.

After tea from acorn cups and slices of blueberry pie, the handsome elf told all the large legends that he knew about the perilous pond and its scaly protectors. Also of its healing ability and how one draught of pond dew could put forests of tangling tufts on the baldest badger or field mouse’s heads.

After glow-worm talks and plans for the quest, the elf led the tired companions through the foreboding fairy wood until they reached a large, beautifully-worked leather fencing boot, which had a door in its heel.

“My great grandfather,” the elf said, as Lionel commented about image engraved on the door knob.

“An alchemist you know,” said the fairy one.

“Mmmmm,” said Li suspiciously.

They were made very comfortable in beds of great expanse, spider web sheets, and towers of warm, woolly moss blankets and, as always in an elvish abode, dreams of the gentlest texture.

some quotes

One study suggests that, among American men between the ages of fifteen and thirty-four, the number who were treated in emergency rooms as a result of injuries inflicted by police and security guards was almost as great as the number who, as pedestrians, were injured by motor vehicles.

In eighteenth-century New York, a person held as a slave could not gather in a group of more than three; could not ride a horse; could not hold a funeral at night; could not be out an hour after sunset without a lantern; and could not sell “Indian corn, peaches, or any other fruit” in any street or market in the city. Stop and frisk, stop and whip, shoot to kill.

Police patrolled Black neighborhoods and arrested Black people disproportionately; prosecutors indicted Black people disproportionately; juries found Black people guilty disproportionately; judges gave Black people disproportionately long sentences; and, then, after all this, social scientists, observing the number of Black people in jail, decided that, as a matter of biology, Black people were disproportionately inclined to criminality.

In 1965, President Lyndon Johnson declared a “war on crime,” and asked Congress to pass the Law Enforcement Assistance Act, under which the federal government would supply local police with military-grade weapons, weapons that were being used in the war in Vietnam. During riots in Watts that summer, law enforcement killed thirty-one people and arrested more than four thousand; fighting the protesters, the head of the L.A.P.D. said, was “very much like fighting the Viet Cong.”

More Americans went to prison between 1965 and 1982 than between 1865 and 1964, Hinton reports. Under Ronald Reagan, still more social services were closed, or starved of funding until they died: mental hospitals, health centers, jobs programs, early-childhood education. By 2016, eighteen states were spending more on prisons than on colleges and universities. Activists who today call for defunding the police argue that, for decades, Americans have been defunding not only social services but, in many states, public education itself. The more frayed the social fabric, the more police have been deployed to trim the dangling threads.

Wilson’s work informed programs like Detroit’s stress (Stop the Robberies, Enjoy Safe Streets), begun in 1971, in which Detroit police patrolled the city undercover, in disguises that included everything from a taxi-driver to a “radical college professor,” and killed so many young Black men that an organization of Black police officers demanded that the unit be disbanded. The campaign to end stress arguably marked the very beginnings of police abolitionism. stress defended its methods. “We just don’t walk up and shoot somebody,” one commander said. “We ask him to stop. If he doesn’t, we shoot.”

Man and Camel – Mark Stroud

On the eve of my fortieth birthday
I sat on the porch having a smoke
when out of the blue a man and a camel
happened by. Neither uttered a sound
at first, but as they drifted up the street
and out of town the two of them began to sing.
Yet what they sang is still a mystery to me-
the words were indistinct and the tune
too ornamental to recall. Into the desert
they went and as they went their voices
rose as one above the sifting sound
of windblown sand. The wonder of their singing,
its elusive blend of man and camel, seemed
an ideal image for all uncommon couples.
Was this the night that I had waited for
so long? I wanted to believe it was,
but just as they were vanishing, the man
and camel ceased to sing, and galloped
back to town. They stood before my porch,
staring up at me with beady eyes, and said:
“You ruined it. You ruined it forever.”

A Performance At Hog Theater – Russell Edson

There was once a hog theater where hogs performed
as men, had men been hogs.

One hog said, I will be a hog in a field which has
found a mouse which is being eaten by the same hog
which is in the field and which has found the mouse,
which I am performing as my contribution to the
performer’s art.

Oh let’s just be hogs, cried an old hog.

And so the hogs streamed out of the theater crying,
only hogs, only

hogs . . .

“The walk to Base Camp took only 13 days. As a newcomer, I had a vague sense of deprivation when I realized I would miss that exciting event which is part of every Karakoram expedition from the Duke of the Abruzzi to the present day—the porter strike. Our porters were good- natured and long-suffering. They even made the final stage to Base Camp without rations. Our worst problem was their insistence at the top of every pass that we dance with them in the broiling sun to disco music from a cassette recorder instead of collapsing in the shade.”