You are not alone. We all live in spaces of sadness for one reason or another at different transitions in our lives. Rather than run, I embrace my heart regardless how it feels. I cannot escape anyway. I know deep inside that it has always been perfect from the start. We all have our own journeys to travel Some parts of this journey cannot be shared. Somethings can’t even be spoken of for they are ineffable phenomena rooted in the spiral of life. And we don’t need to explain everything or anything to anyone including ourselves.
I think it is easy to not check ourselves as we think our mind. If we were to pause and listen to what we are thinking, or saying, what we are telling ourselves is the truth, and simply say, “I do not have to believe that anymore. Say the opposite to yourself … mechanically, at first it may feel that way. Thought energy,; words carry tremendous power to create your experience. You may feel anguish at not being able to change a situation or the path of someone you care about if you believe they are going the wrong way,. But you cannot do anything such as change a soul’s journey.
From love, all you can do is accept first yourself, totally, you were born with the measure of your worth already paid in full. Happy Birthday. First yourself, then accept everyone as they are. Sometimes all we can do for another, and it may be wise to do, is just be there. If thoughts arise in your mind that feel bad, they are just thoughts and you can chose to think thoughts that feel great. In that space of happiness, your soul and creative mind flourish and there begins your service to your destiny.
When thoughts that feel bad arise, watch yourself for a few weeks …. have prepared beforehand, images in your mind, whether a place of great comfort, a friend, a thought that makes you happy, replace it with that, and in a short while, you are naturally on the road to a new life which was yours all along. You are what you think. I think. In general, but not always, yes to life is the way to go. No means NO and the dream or great gift of manifestation never gets watered.
SCOTT UTLEY: This was tough to watch but if there was any doubt in anyone’s mind about the sacred nature of life in all beings, there cannot be any doubt now.
GONG LI: 这很难看，但如果任何人对任何生物的神圣性质有任何怀疑，现在就不会有任何疑问。
I once slew a beautiful beast. I brought you meat and a silver sable fur to keep you warm through the coldest winter we’d ever known. Once, I was a saint who loved to throw miracles at your feet. Once I was a devil who incinerated your generous spirit with my savage desires; I ate your heart while it still beat within your magnificent breast. I was once an angel who held you tight throughout a long and catastrophic night. I was your lover who gave you the world in the shimmer of a solitary black pearl which I later lost in a southern canyon by the sea. Once I was a man who cared a lot. I grew a gorgeous crop … just for you and only you.
My prophet rises from snow white sands. He is cut & bruised with bloody hands. His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky & fondles memories from before my time, back when this river flowed with twice its heart & the sky more volatile with twice its strike. When this desert land was twice as young, He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind like a churning holy electrical explosion.
My prophet rises from the deep blue sea with gaping wounds for all to see. His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation of deep & conscious breath. His yellow diamonds are draped upon his brawny chest strung side by side with cosmic thread. He is future, present & the past. He’s courage fed by fathers brave & mothers strong. They’ve taught him well, both right & wrong. This world unceasingly expands its view. With opened eyes & a child’s pride, He is my harness. I love this ride.
My Prophet rises. I am He. I’ve wept in pain but now I’m free. Upon this sand my heart is burned. There is so much I have to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by the song of my soul echoing through the cathedral of my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. My well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here & surely bleeds. He is my lover. I am He.
You’re my lady in waiting. I’m your man on the moon. I’m Magda. You’re Anjum. We’ve Indigo eyes. I’m Mosena. You’re Sallie. We’re two of a kind. You’re Marty. I’m Moses; We never chose love, it is love that chose us. We’re sisters & brothers, spiritual lovers …
… I was an innocent in the time of the great plague. I survived while all of the giants raptured around me. I believe I was meant to live before and after the great deluge. I believe we were all meant to live before and after the rapture. The most merciful and kind were the first to go. Only the good die young. We’re still alive. Only the strong survive. It is the meek who shall inherit the earth.
Life is short but terribly eternal. Regardless the seconds or decades we are gifted with, the remaining moments of our journey will be mercy and kindness incarnate. We are sisters and brothers. We’re opened windows without any walls. If one of us trips, all of us fall.
He says he loves Jesus and Jesus loves him.
He’s a modern day prophet forgiving your sins.
He’s a radio pirate with a cable show too,
A mistress in Paris, an eye out for you.
His brand of religion breeds heartbreak and pain.
He’s a born again Christian with something to gain.
Deceitfully convincing his flock of salvation,
In return he receives a standing ovation.
His glorious sermons preach schemes of division,
Exquisitely crafted to prevent any schism.
Triumphantly pitting his will against right,
He lusts after money & covets your wife.
An unnatural affection for boys under ten,
He’s drugged quite a few on his couch in the den.
He’s suspicious of women and fearful of men.
There’s a gun by his bed marked ‘specially’ for them.
He’s a beast. He’s a monster. It’s sad but it’s true.
His secret agenda keeps Jesus from you.
He’s afraid you’ll rise up if you find out the truth,
Afraid you’ll tip off your wife & your youth.
He’s a huckster, a shyster, and the devil disguised.
He’s a freak who insists only his god is wise.
This prince of invective is consumed by desire.
While preaching forgiveness he’s stoking his fire.
I once witnessed
A brilliant galaxy platinum
Into a hovering cloud
I saw a stunning world
Hanging on a mid-night sky
Like a black pearl
In the world
Just as ravishing
As our very own cobalt orb
Into self-red flames
Then stop to exist
I was once
A butterfly who loves
To dance in circles
To the beat of the sun
I’ve been charmed
By the ruby-red eyes
Of dusk ?? s
I’ve been hypnotized
By defiant stars
Pelting Hercules ?? sky
Over an Aegean Sea
Opens her eyes
For the very first time
And the Universe is born
Is the face of God
The lovely face of God
The great spirit warriors are gathered together on the ether in this moment. The whispers are heavy. The vibe does not bode well for Muhammad’s beast-masters. The Holy ones speak with each other & to The Great Muhammad, himself. He is devastated.
—– IF THIS HAD BEEN A REAL EMERGENCY ——-
STELLA: Blanch, darling, another mint? I feel faint …. feel this. Feel my left breast. It’s not normal, is it? Is it?
BLANCH: I can’t feel anything.
BLANCH: How would you know anyway? Poor dear. I did not mean it like that.
—- WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES —-
STELLA: It isn’t enough to be soft. You’ve got to be soft and attractive. And I- I’m fading now! – Have you been listening to me ?
BLANCH: I never listen to you when you are being morbid!
بلینچ [ایک غیر معمولی جلدی میں]: میں نے آپ کو ایسی چیزوں سے نہیں پوچھا جو آپ نے شاید سوچا کہ میں پوچھ رہا تھا. اور اس طرح میں آپ کو اس بات کے بارے میں توقع کروں گا کہ مجھے آپ کو کیا کہنا ہے .——— اپنا سکور مت کرو —————– DO آپ کے سکینر کی ضرورت نہیں ہے —————– اپنے سکین کو متفق نہ کریں —————– اپنا سکین نہیں بنانا – ————— اپنے سکین کو مضبوط نہ کرو —————— اپنا سکین نہیں بنانا ——– ——— اپنے سکین کو مضبوط نہ کرو —————– اپنا سکین نہیں بنانا ————– — آپ کے اسکرین کو مضبوط نہیں کرتے ————–
—— DON’T TOUCH YOUR DIAL ——
—— DO NOT TOUCH YOUR DIAL ——-
STELLA: And when he comes back I cry on his lap like a baby… [She smiles to herself.]
BLANCHE: I guess that is what is meant by being in love….
[Stella looks up with a radiant smile.]
——— DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN ——–
BLANCHE [in an uneasy rush]: I haven’t asked you the things you probably thought I was going to ask. And so I’ll expect you to be understanding about what I have to tell you.——— DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN ————–
STELLA: What, Blanche? [Her face turns anxious.]
BLANCHE: Well, Stella–you’re going to reproach me, I know that you’re bound to reproach me–but before you do–take into consideration–you left! I stayed and struggled! You came to New Orleans and looked out for yourself. I stayed at Belle Reve and tried to hold it together! I’m not meaning this in any reproachful way, but all the burden descended on my shoulders.
STELLA: The best I could do was make my own living, Blanche.
[Blanche begins to shake again with intensity.]
BLANCHE: I know, I know. But you are the one that abandoned Belle Reve, not I! I stayed and fought for it, bled for it, almost died for it!
FOUGHT FOR IT BLED FOR IT DIED FOR IT
——— SORRY TO INTERRUPT THIS SHOW ———–
STELLA: The Tarantula arms, That’s where I brought all my lovers. So many victims.
BLANCH: Gracious Stella!
——— SORRY TO INTERRUPT THIS SHOW ———–
Do not look. Ignore this. Go away. Go, go away. It is bad.
—– IF THIS HAD BEEN A REAL EMERGENCY ——-
———– DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN —————
ارے نہیں! پھر سے نہیں!
Flores por las muertes. Flores por las muertes.
——- DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN ———–
What is about to come forth from my pen is not in my power to halt. Another nail into the coffin of Islam. This must stop.
The great spirit warriors are gathered together on the ether in this moment. The whispers are heavy. The vibe does not bode well for Muhammad’s beast-masters. The Holy ones speak with each other & to The Great Muhammad, himself. He is devastated.
Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, doesn’t anybody speak love with a Muslim tongue? The only God there is, is God. God sings a joyful song.
Hey you! Yeah, you! You can heal this. Lay hands over our wounds. … The dark turned into black pitch of tarred souls unfed, when suddenly, ruby-rose fluorescent rays pierced the make-believe heavens. And then there was light
Flores por las muertes … Flores por las muertes …
The 1989 Freedom Prize was awarded to former Prime Minister of Pakistan, Benazir Bhutto. In December 1988 she was sworn in as prime Minister, becoming the first woman to head the government of an Islamic State. As leader of Pakistan’s opposition she was arrested on numerous occasions and spent nearly six years in prison or under detention. Her goal throughout her struggle was to transform Pakistani society by focusing attention on programs for health, social welfare, and education for the underprivileged. She received the Bruno Kreisky Award for Human Rights in 1988. Benazir Bhutto was born in Karachi in 1953, the daughter of one of Pakistan’s most popular Prime Ministers, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Her father was overthrown by a military coup in 1974 and subsequently hanged after a short trail. Benazir and her mother were imprisoned.Some years later Bhutto became became extremely active in opposing the military dictatorship of General Zia ul Haq. In April 1985 she went into exile, but returned in 1986 as the charismatic leader of the Pakistan Peoples Party. The PPP won the elections in November 1988. In 1990 she was removed from power by presidential decree and defeated in the following elections but she returned to office from 1993 until 1996. On December 27, 2007 Benazir Bhutto was assassinated at a rally in Pakistan. She returned to her deeply divided homeland to reassume leadership of her party and to challenge the upcoming elections. The international community expressed great sadness as she was seen by many as a beacon of hope in an area of entrenched instability.
I walk briskly at first. Shuffling sacred boulders between each foot.
I teeter on the edge of humanity.
I skirt the jagged precipice of earth’s flaming lips.
I am stunned by this porcelain cup brimming over with exquisite insanity;
a wondrous mathematical equation…
all of earth’s treasures scattered before me.
I jump high-I rise-sail and I soar up and over,
down south into the west over & over, under again, about-face
I jump a high-dive I skydive into the heart of our miraculous,
I am a skimming stone on a great pond
we call the ring of fire .
I am a skimming stone on a great pond,we call the ring of fire
This beautiful parrot is native to the street I grew up on. A very rare and near extinct species, the Woodside Blue Headed Yellow Bellied Bliss Street Nut Eating Squawker Talker Parrot once roamed the entire borough of Queens, all the way from Long Island City to Far Rockaway, from the shores of Jamaica Bay to the dunes of Fire Island. Because of hunting by unknown suspects of the Second Court (THE MET’S SECOND BUILDING of FIVE on one very long block which includes 48-25 46th Street), along with glue-sniffing hippie pot farmers of Sunnyside, this lovely, once ubiquitous (albeit obnoxious) parrot has been reduced to just a very small section of its former habitat. To be exact, the courtyard and fifth floor roof of 48-25 46th Street, Woodside, Queens, NYC, NY.
There are an estimated three left but the Bronx Zoo is leading the way in bringing this gorgeous nut eating bird back from the brink of extinction. (They think.) I happen to know two specimens are naturally homosexual males. Neither one shows any interest in conversion therapy. Researchers are enthralled. That very fact bodes well for the species. Researchers world wide believe that gay parents are the only parents worthy and smart enough, overflowing with enlightened compassion to save the universe. Good luck with that. If I had my druthers, I would nuke the planet into sense. I don’t though. I would never do such a thing. Perry Mason and Alfred Hitchcock make life worth living.
The Vegetarian Option: Woodside Cafe, Must-Eat Nepali in Queens (newyork.seriouseats.com)
LIRR Queens Elevator Damaged by Too Much Urine: MTA (nbcnewyork.com)
Honey Workshop (kirstenhogle.wordpress.com)
LIRR President: Woodside Station Elevator Has ‘Vertical Urinal Problem’ (newyork.cbslocal.com)
The Multilingual Parrot (uniquedaily.com)
Parrot has to wear a JUMPER after eating his own feathers (mirror.co.uk)
First-Ever Footage of Africa’s Most Endangered Parrot Feeding in High Canopy… (newswatch.nationalgeographic.com)
World Parrot Refuge opens in Coombs, B.C. (metronews.ca)
Save the Woodsider Blue Headed Yellow Belly Bliss Street Squawker Parrot (planetlobster.wordpress.com)
WOODSIDE SQUAWKERS DID NOT ALWAYS INHABIT THE ALLEYWAYS OF BLISS STREET
THEY HAVE THEIR ORIGINS IN AUSTRALIA WHERE THEY CONTINUE TO MULTIPLY LIKE RABBITS
Just say no. Mean it this time. Don’t glamorise infamy. One thought pulses through us all: Revere life. Those who see only a bloody mask in their fractured-mind mirrors are to be allowed to return back to the nothingness from whence they came. Never give up. We shall be fine. Our twenty and twenty-first century experiment with lightning-bolt paced technology is a wasteland without breath. Stop. Breathe. Pause each day to ponder what it is which truly abides. We will all stand tall with love in our eyes; sparkling lights every mother knows so well. We honor her devout wish we should all know joy forever more. This is just not a dream some of us have. Love as if it is going out of style.
Teil meines gesichts ist eine immense krater. Es ist hier verbringe ich die meiste meiner freien zeit, sitzt neben mir teetrinken auf den lippen meiner wangenknochen. Ich rede endlos über Ihre Vollkommenheit, was einen tiefen defekt des charakters was ist. Wir haben dann reagieren ad-infinitum.
Wir vergleichen noten. Wir lachen, wir weinen und wehmütig jammern, Sitzt neben uns, nippt tee und beobachtet dich.
Part of my face is an immense crater. It is here I spend most of my free time, sitting beside myself sipping tea on the lips of my cheek bones. I talk endlessly about your perfection; about what a profound defect of character that is. We then respond ad-infinitum. We compare notes.We laugh, we cry, and wistfully whine, sitting besides ourselves, sipping tea, watching you.
If you touch me now, you will electrocute the both of us. I am highly charged. You are gifted with devouring receptivity. The hair along the arc of my forearms stand tall as devoted warriors do. Goosebumps from solar flares tinge the organ covering my being. I feel chill although it is 110 in the shade. My body takes a high dive into the center of your heavenly eyes. I ascend, then glide into the nexus of a perfect tear; a black pearl choosing its own path under the emerald eyes of an enchantress. I fall free empty-handed. I’m stripped bare to the core of my being. With perfect faith in your perfect love, I land heart first onto your wonder world. The truth of your love amazes me. I am speechless. I am stunned.
Burnt onto the pages of my ancient history,
is the story of our love;
a spiritual decree.
Penned onto the memory of my simple,
is the epic of our union,
quite beautifully described.
I am stunned by the depth of your soul.
Shall I be forever mystified?
And this evening,
brazenly confetti’d up on a Hollywood freeway overpass,
I saw your initials set upon a fractured heart.
While my soul bleeds adoration in silence,
I wonder if this is love’s crucifixion?
Is this the way Mary felt in the garden?
An answer is of no consequence,
for what I shall remember long after I have died,
is the memory of your face,
His ascension came twenty-one days to the day he left his beautiful body. A silhouette was all that we could define through the sun drenched smile he wore. It is impossible to mistake his world-class smile for that of any other. A starlight flurry of goodness blotted out the pain of our broken hearts just as dawn galloped in.
We told each other later that we had witnessed a chariot of gold sutured with platinum thread; a glistening chassis beriched beyond conception with spinning, light-bolted studs & each masterpiece capped with an astonishing precious gem. Some jewels were not of this world. Some jewels were not even of this universe… such magnificence as none of us had ever seen nor would ever see again… a true sweet chariot of the gods propelled by the holy willed power of four & twenty black maned stallions of equal majesty. They pulled the suns & moons from galaxies nearest our own across a royal blue-blooded, yoke-tinged, cobra-laced sky.
Our souls, bedazzled & breathless, reflexively thrust an ovation onto the astrolabe of dawn. Only delicate golden orioles could be heard singing good morning to this beautiful day. Alex preferred it this way. In a favorite past incarnation he was a Roman Augur, therefore his heart was rich with fondness for every winged being he ever knew.
Ruby red diamonds, yellows, blues & Tahitian black pearls from yet another sweet time & place rained upon everyone~ pulsing unified code~surfing crazy shiny-mind waves of Mother Milky Way. Their mirrors reflected wondrous images. Among them were holy men washing the feet of beggar men & the women who keep the fires burning dancing a fantastic dance, millions of them & more but numbers do not go up that high, especially where numbers don’t count at all.
There were many women dancing a fantastic dance. I was reminded of the Black ladies who sing the gospels; from the hips, hands to the sky, left then right; a supplication out to front then down to the ground and over again.. There were smiles everywhere & love, joy & more joy. If you could get close enough to these mahogany ladies you’d find that there is a lot of space & a great freedom around each one, yet from a distance they look packed together moving in unison; perfect choreography like a water dance; up, down, left, right & happy. Did I mention happy?
This must be the part of heaven God has reserved for poets, from the first poet to the last, from infant poets to great ancient oracles. Everything alive & electrical is heading the same way. Everyone loving the same because love moves in the same direction as our galaxy & the cosmos. It must be the joy of the spiral, from helical strands of DNA to the great spiraling universes. It is a perpetual blossoming. It makes a happy sound. Our nature is a happy sound. Laughter. Smiles. It is a great way to live. It would be a wonderful way to die if there was such a thing as death.
Alex smiled his way throughout the universe just as he had done throughout our lives. He never cared for anything in the world but pure love. God loved him for that. We all did. We all do. More than anything else, more than his mind-blowing mastery of numerous forms of art & branches of science, Alex Johns was a great poet. They say the same about saints who come to visit us. The love of great poets defies profound. Such purity of soul makes you want to cry. I don’t know why they bother with us unless it is because they love us so much… as much as we love them.
ALEXANDER M JOHNS
If you’re mystic, come this way & play for me.
Tune your strings sharp & clear with all the pressure I can bare.
If you’re mystic, stroke my hair, kiss my lips.
Take me to your Mother -ship.
Rifle me with your tough grip.
Anchor me to your bright blue.
Show myself to me through you.
Your platinum strings ring clear and true.
Play your harp, this is your cue.
I know you’re mystic, I am too.
Let me play my harp for you.
I followed the song of the nightingale through the forest to the edge of my mind. I remembered to cut lilacs from the bank of the creek as I raced to the place we first met. The Muses found me naked singing lullabies to shooting stars over a blue harvest moon. Fearful for my sanity, they summoned the Elder Blue Sprytes & Green Wood Elves; all very odd creatures revered for their great healing powers. Do you remember the cliffs of desire where we first met at the edge of the world near the temple of the heart where a forgiving ocean meets the grateful sky? Do you remember Frey, the golden bear who wished us well?
The Elder Blue Sprytes were certain I must be either crazy or insane from hunger so they fed me cherry blossoms. They were trying to distract me with fantasies from the other side of time. The Green Wood Elves insisted I was a sign from the great source of our belonging. They proudly displayed their magic to me. They showed me how they had learnt to make stars sing. I had never heard a true symphony until that day. They taught me how to expand my heart beyond what I had believed was it’s ultimate frontier. They showed me how they weave their magic spells with hope I might finally free myself from the ghosts of my past & the image of you when we first met. I could never let that happen. Sometimes Green Wood Elves can be so naive.
I love this cliff near the den of the bear where the sky drinks the sea & mountains stand tall at the edge of my mind where we bathed in an ocean of forgiveness. That was 10,000 years ago but here I still stand. The Western Wind says you will be home soon. I knew you would return. Hurry. My whole world is waiting for you. I am still holding lilacs too.
I am sitting on a filthy floor in an emptied room in front of a fireplace that has never seen a true fire. I survey the battlefield before me. I silently marvel at the accumulated detritus of three years worth of grief. For a flicker of a moment I think this is not the war I fought. The war here is so much bigger & far more brutal than the lonely war I fought. A moment passes backwards until I remember this is the place & I am the lone survivor. Below me is the exalted grave of a spiritual warrior.
I wonder at the emotions & the crack-hearted questions splattered all over these wounded walls. There is blood on the floor leading into a darkened hallway. I thought I knew where that hallway lead to but I don’t remember now. As hard as I try to recall, all I see is a blank screen. I am a television turned to mute with thunderous static. If I were not deaf I would go completely insane. The channel I am looking for has been moved to another world where I do not get the signal.
I vaguely recall a man’s heart dripping a trail of tears; tears of blood from a shattered heart. That is what these stains in my eyes are. I see that much. I remember that much. I remember a man squatting in the corner of this room, his eyes shut blind & his ears with no sound to hear. He looks like me. I turn my head away as fast as I can. In that moment I am afraid. I am almost too frightened to breathe, but not afraid enough not to cry. It passes. The moment passes into eternity.
In the next moment, war is over. I am alive. I am crippled, but I’m not lame. I have been forever scarred by razor blades deeply etched into my soul’s flesh, but now I hear a song. War is over. I hear music even when it isn’t playing. I know I shall sing again.
This is a bittersweet farewell. I see these snapshots of your mind & I wonder why I even wondered how this debris on these walls and that floor ever came to be. I don’t remember now. Thank you for taking my mind to a different sort of landscape. These soul creatures are quite beautiful. The ones you have sent to cover my heart in winter. You are the most kind.
You of the many muses remind me that all I have to do is turn the television off. It is as simple as that. That is what I have just done. I hadn’t noticed that the songbirds outside my window are singing as if their lives depended on it. They are so happy to be alive. That must be why they sing as they do.
I suddenly feel like humming a tune. PER ELISA. You loved PER ELISA but you never told me that. I only know it because I saw you in a window early one morning dancing your heart out to PER ELISA. I had to smile. Alicia sings like an angel from inner space. She came to us from the peerless library of our dear friend, Marty Lont, in Amsterdam. Remember? I know you do. I also remember, it is the simple things that matter most. Farewell my beloved. I will sing for the both of us until we meet again.
In this dream, I am falling free without fear. Suddenly, my descent is intercepted by swift moving clouds. Each one has a distinct face yet they all share the same radiant smile. They carry me along for thousands of miles, pointing out strange and wonderful lands. The spectacular sight below of fantastic creatures roaming free upon a paradise found makes my heart tremble like fine rice paper. In this super world unfolding, predators are never triumphant because predators are never born. Without warning, the cloud faces are gone. I continue gliding along the path of the rising sun in the company of a thousand golden eagles. I soar around our mother earth sailing effortlessly on a grand solar wind in the company of a thousand beautifully plumed golden eagles, and the sky goes on forever.
My name is ‘Prophet’ but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I’m diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine. Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart. The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter but light has never me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise yet to the joker inside my skull I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned!” Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real. Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster called dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up for in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders. Sometimes I wonder if being born deformed & senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul numbing weight. I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to god. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.
INCINERATE MY SAVAGE SOUL
I AM PAPER BURNING AT ALL MY EDGES
YOU ARE THE SMOKE I BECOME
My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m thinking, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, (paid for twice over, but never to be owned), will not subdue the bestial morning’s sadistic appetite. The secret is out; Fire Island tragedies are lurking under star-crossed pines in paradise. My eyes are held in place midst the wreckage of my face by shear will. I think, perhaps one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab paid for twice over, but never to be owned, will obliterate a debauched morning hangover. What about an aspirin or a bloody Mary? Maybe if I take a dive into the raging blue Atlantic waters of forget me nows, my sins will be erased along with yesterday and my inhuman slurs and beat you down puns. Even if the divine in divine mind could muster mercy for my soul, yes, even if I acquiesce and bow to their Latin liturgies, and I finally see that all my prescriptions are merely the fleeting tonics of a foolish mind, I will never find repose. Consequently, (I will not deny this) a loaded Colt 45’s horsepower is my medicine of choice. What other elixir will suffice when you wake early on a brand new day and your mirror is exclaiming, “You’re old, decrepit, and to boot you’re gay? These are but the rage-dreams of a narcissist’s self-absorbed preoccupation.
In ephemeral brevity, my spirits rise high as the sun glides its way into mid-day. I take a second look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star-crossed pines? My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m a silly man. I think I look dashing as my life and times and face decay. I think, “Oh, what’s another cocktail, or a line of coke or two, with this blue-eyed prince of a man; paid for twice over?” The fine print says ‘on loan, never to be owned.’ Nowhere does the contract state ‘this stud, despite his sublime stature cannot subdue another debauched mornings’ hangover revenge.’
On Fire Island, ghosts lurk scarecrow, screw-faced under littered dreams. Theirs is an insatiable hunger for any soul so predisposed to join their twisted spirits in a ritual of howls. Paradise Lost Paradise Found Over The Rainbow Smashed To The Ground. My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face as I slowly turn to ashes. Please, just one more cocktail with you, my beloved, blue-eyed Aphrodite! I’ve handsomely paid for you twice over, could you love me for any fee? No. Not he or any living mortal can subdue this debauched morning hangover. Finally, I take yet another look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star-crossed pines?
My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I think, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, paid for twice over, but never to be owned, leased but never mine for evermore, will not change the fact that no mere mortal will ever subdue my demoralized mornings spent between heaven and hell. You see, here on Fire Island, ghosts lurk screw-faced under star-crossed pines howling without sound
THE UNSINKABLE TITANIC ON HER FIRST VOYAGE:
LIVERPOOL TO NEW YORK CITY
The TITANIC struck an iceberg on April the 14 of 1912 at 11:40 PM and sank a few hours later. It was early morning of April 15, 1912. They were four days out to sea on their way to New YorK City.
UTLEY COAT OF ARMS
The UTLEY lineage begins with (documentation secured) William the Bastard, the fist Norman King of England , with his marriage to Matilda of Flanders, May 20, 1058. This is when the parish of UTLEY was founded; a gorgeous piece of land just a stone’s throw away from what is now the city of Leeds, Yorkshire, England. Even now, nearly one thousand years later, UTLEY parish remains barely unchanged in architecture or attitudes of its brilliant offspring. All men and women of UTLEY are above average.
THOMAS UTLEY & SONS
The UTLEYS were one of the leading maritime brass founders in the world, having also produced sidelights for Lusitania and Mauretania. They made many of the brass fittings for the Titanic and Olympic. These included the Titanic’s bells and Gothic patterned windows for the ship’s bars and dining rooms.
The disasters of the RMS Titanic and the RMS Lusitania were two of the greatest maritime tragedies of their era.
They were all too similar in scale and loss – the Harland & Wolff, Belfast-built Titanic sinking on its maiden voyage in April of 1912, after colliding with an iceberg in the frigid waters of the Atlantic ocean en route from its final port of call in Queenstown (now Cobh, Co. Cork) to New York. One thousand, five hundred and twenty-three of the 2,240 on board lost their lives, the confidence in one of the grandest ships ever built shattered.
Titanic’s bells and Gothic patterned windows for the ship’s bars and dining rooms.
I know Utley women who speak of premonitions. They even bank on them. I don’t bank on anything. I don’t trust banks. I do believe that there is great reason to trust our intuitive nature. For instance, Jane Utley, wife to Thomas Utley, declined, and coaxed her husband to decline a first class luxury cabin aboard the maiden voyage of the Titanic due to premonitions of a catastrophic event she clearly saw involving the fate of the Titanic. So much for a mythological UTLEY CURSE. Again, one more example of a misinformation rooted in fake news. I rest my case, except to say:
UTLEYS have been burned or hung in England (and probably in the early American colonies) for being witches. One documented example is Sarah Utley, hung 1620 in London. Mother Utley was the name her people called her. She was accused of witchcraft when all she really was guilty of was being a bit misunderstood. A Room with light is more than a match for darkness.
The Utley women never speak about their clairvoyant powers. Perhaps because society associates premonitions, miracles, telepathic powers, etc., as demonic, satanic or of the dark occult; to be feared when it is just the opposite. It never ceases to amaze me. Almost everything we have been taught & think we know is really just the opposite.
NOT ACTUAL LIVE FOOTAGE OF TRAGEDY
September 13, 1907:
Lusitania arriving in New York on her maiden voyage,
sailing past Battery Park.
Lusitania arriving in New York on her maiden voyage
I was born of vapor rising from the hairline cracks of skyscrapers. I could fly before I could run. I could run before I could walk. I’ve seen the world in flames. I’ve heard my mother sobbing. I know your pain because I am an old man dying as I inhale the newborn’s breath. I am the wind that churns. I am a young bird weeping. I am the center of the hawk’s red eye. Is it any wonder why I cry so hard? Is it any wonder I laugh so loud? I am a towering tree. I am a shooting star. I’m the ocean I swim in, the mountains I climb, the lovers I’ve known, the light & the dark & the children at play. I am the song of souls singing this melody called life. Is it any wonder it’s been perfect from the start? I’ve always known how to sing, I simply forgot the song. I am old man speaking my borrowed wisdom to the universe. I am a songbird singing good morning to the night. I am its mother laughing all the way, every single day. Is it any wonder?
F-BOOK POST & REPLY; AUGUST 15, 2017 LA CA USA:
DEBBIE GUILLIAM POSTED ON HER FACEBOOK PAGE AUGUST 14, 2017:
[For those of you who still have your parents in your lives: You are so blessed. But some of you are too blind to realize how precious time is & that your parents won’t be around forever. You should really try to be patient with your parents so that you can enjoy their final years with them because once both your parents are gone. they won’t be back. You will not be able to make up those days you choose not to spend with them. Since I lost both my parents I feel like I have nobody. Sometimes I wish G-d would call me home because my heart feels so empty anymore. Nobody in the family really talks to me … or Ronda Wade.. We pretty much have just each other, our husbands and our kids (when they feel like being around us), otherwise most of our family wrote us off when we were little tiny girls except for a few loving family members.]
DEBBIE GUILLIAM: G-D MUST BE MISSING AN ANGEL, BECAUSE YOUR POST IS MORE VALUABLE THAN ALL THE TEA IN CHINA. IF YOU DO NOT BELIEVE ME, ASK MY FRIEND, GONG LI.
GONG: Oh, yes.Debbie, your intrinsic value is only surpast by this post you gave our world.
SCOTT: MS. LI,, why do you say that?
GONG: From my personal experience.
SCOTT: Can you, will you clarify that statement?
GONG: Yes, I can and I will. It pleases me much. In my life and in the place were I was raised, it was matter of fact to honer your mother and father; traditio, by extension, tyhose who have come ad passed away also. This is our way in rural China, not so much in the great cities. Sadly, not so much anywhere.
SCOTT: Do you believe that humaniyty can return to that state of being where the ekders are repected?
GONG: Of course.
SCOTT: Honor thy mother and father. These are beautiful words. Must they be taken literally?
GONG: Nothimg should be litterally taken without contemplation. You may extrapolate this “saying” to mean much more or even much less. In general though, I believe it is a metaphor for honoring all those who come before us..By doingso, and listening to what our elders have to say, with all thier wisdom, is a great part along the way to fufilling our own true path. Do you undstand me?
SCOTT: MS LI, I do. I undersatnd comletely with clarity because yopu speak that way. Thank you for your time. We all appprecaite and you so very, very much.
GONG: Thank you, and may you always remain blessed.
TITLE PHOTO: MA SHIVAMAYI ACHARYA:
Part of my face is an immense crater. It is here I spend all my free time, sitting beside myself sipping tea on the lips of my cheek bones. I talk endlessly about your perfection; what a profound defect of character that is. I then respond ad infinitum. We compare notes. We laugh, cry, and wistfully whine, sitting beside ourselves, sipping tea, watching you.
My body rises before the sun. My eyes flutter just as filament in clear light bulbs do. Alone with myself, I fantasize the universe. Just for a moment, my opti-glitter eyes become beacons illuminating my life; all my sorrow, shame, thrills, love, loves and fears exposed. It will be several hours before the sun pitches her amber shards into the heart of this silent morning. I heed the wise man my head. A song of love and choreographed chaos is my mind on this fine day. I am strummed tight like the strings of a Stradivarius. I am a finely tuned instrument ready to play this song called life.
… a river of flames
pours through the sky of my mind
star pine marionettes, smoldering silhouettes
blue dot confetti’d stars
clusters of bumble bee palms
honey milked from thin air …
Eingebrannt in die Geschichte meiner Ahnen,
ist die Geschichte unserer Liebe; eine spirituelle Entscheidung.
Ganz wundervoll beschrieben ist das Epos unseres Bundes,
Niedergeschrieben in die Erinnerungen meines einfachen,
Ich bin betäubt von der Tiefe deiner Seele,
Werde ich für immer verwirrt bleiben?
Vollkommen zerstreut habe ich heute Abend,
auf einer Hollywood Autobahnüberführung,
deine Initialen in einem zerbrochenen Herzen gesehen.
Während meine Seele blutet in stiller Verehrung,
frage ich mich, ob diese Liebe einer Kreuzigung gleicht.
Ist es etwa so, wie Maria sich im Garten fühlte?
Keine Antwort ist die Folge.
Unauslöschlich eingemeißelt ist das Andenken an dein Gesicht,
woran ich mich noch erinnern werde, lange nachdem ich starb.
Although I can often quote the Bible. I have never read it. In case I ever do, don’t spoil the ending for me. Thank you in advance. Now, maybe you do not believe in God. Maybe God doesn’t care. Maybe, just maybe, God doesn’t believe in you. Think about that, why don’t you?
It’s not like it makes a difference. How kind are you? Are you making every effort to be a better man or a better woman to our world. Are you a being who, when after you are gone, our planet will lovingly whisper to the western wind as she races past,, “I am happy they came. I am sad to see them go but I am happy they stayed as long as they did.”
Now you know the reason why clouds cry. The rains are tears of joy. Hmmm … how kind where you in your life? That will be the only question. That is all that will matter then. It is all that matters now.
The upshot to this story is: Trust your instincts & follow your heart. That is where God resides. Maybe you will rewrite the Bible or whatever other scriptures you hold close to your heart & by doing so, change our world for the better … or not … your worth as a living being was measured in full when you were born. Do nothing if that is your desire. That’s what I do. It may be your destiny. I hope it’s mine.
I was borne of vapor rising from the hairline racks of skyscrapers. I could fly before I could run. I could run before I could walk. I’ve seen the world in flames. I’ve heard my mother sobbing. I know your pain because I am an old man dying inhaling the newborn’s breath. I am the wind that churns. I am a young bird weeping. I am the center of the hawk’s red eye. Is it any wonder I cry so hard?
Is it any wonder I laugh so loud? I am a towering tree. I’m a shooting star. I’m the ocean I swim in, the mountains I climb, the lovers I’ve known, the light & the dark & the children at play. I am the song of souls singing this song called life.
So is it any wonder you’ve been perfect from the start? You’ve always known how to sing, you simply forgot the song ’till now. You are an old man speaking his wisdom to the universe. You are a young bird singing. You are it’s mother laughing all the way, every single day. It isn’t any wonder.
I tossed and turned throughout the night. I felt something amiss, not quite right. Thunder rolled across black skies, lightning struck shut both my eyes. My bed lay shattered upon shards of glass. Clouds swirled by like comets, fast. I wondered if this night would pass? I prayed to God this would not last.
Take me away, my soul please spare this doubt, this pain, this noise I hear. This heavy night I cannot bear. What I can’t see is what I fear. When sunrise creeps into the day, what in G-d’s name will loved ones say?
Morning came, morning went, my body wracked, my spirit spent. The day turned into early eve while deep within my dreams did weave. Finally, my conscious broke into a world where flowers spoke. The life I’d known was all but gone. Rocks and trees sang sweet love songs.
I looked around for someone to share this miracle I swear I hear, someone to see the Robin’s egg jump up and dance upon the chair, someone to play that old guitar driving by in her yellow car. I realized then, it’s just me, alone again, just me who sees. I wiped the sweat clean from my brow. Who would believe me, anyhow?
If you are a shafter of hope, don’t sit at my table. If you would abandon humanity,; babies who suffer, women in anguish, the deaf, the mute and the dying, find another table to sit at, you’re not welcome at mine. If you say no to them, who, in heaven’s name will say yes to you? I’m talking to you. Don’t sit at my table. You’re not welcome.
I am your mother. I make love to the moon.
You are a bird, downy-garbed, not yet ready to fly.
I drink the Earths tears each day I go high.
Youre wide-eyed, lovely and filled with questions why.
Partake of my wisdom, together, we shall kiss the sky.
Full moon silver frosted leaves, glacine dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug & warm beneath my eaves. The creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, but I can’t sing when I’m feeling mad.
Atomic beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played on my brain. I wondered if the sky felt pain? Raven soar’d in for his attack. The Hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast but not before the Raven’s feast. The Hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of this canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched in lore:
An Angel garbed in feathered dress descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the sky then resurrected: A God-shot is quite unexpected for when the Reaper comes it’s time to go. Since earth’s first dawn this has been so, but then again, how would I know?
Heart returned to our beloveds’ sky, then the sweetest glint in our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in feathered dress returned to where all Angels rest. To this day this lore I’ve told delights all children, both young & old.
In various shades of suede stood Rex, King of the Galiathans. The Great Dane beauty had lived his life according to the laws of our universe. Kilos of muscle, tendons & fierce intelligence griped the cliffs. Behind him, carrying a pail of lotus leaves galloped Alex, a prince of a man. I loved him for that. I saw a field of Orange Mandarin Poppies bleed into the horizon. I saw both giants lay dying to their earthly vessels.
Where the sky meets the raging sea, dreams weeped along the mouth of the mourning coast. Big Sur cried throughout the night. Angels sighed as the ocean, lapping needling pines, felt such fiery, scorching compassion that the rain came. As eve dipped into the pitch black ink of night, these two giants laying there gave witness to eternal splendor. I loved them both for that. Frosted lava waves breached the shore where I lay crying.
Morning came without her sirens. All was calm, when before my eyes I saw a dream come misting forth upon the western wind. I looked to where the giants had laid down their heavy journey. On the very mark they had been supinely entwined near the raging sea, ocean-eyes wide open, were two splendid Giant Birds of Paradise. I loved God for that.
At that very moment, a clicking in unison caught my attention. Just where the waves turn to froth, there they were side by side, riding the tide with their Dolphin tails. They shot forth into the sky spiraling downwards then flipping back. They were happy. I smiled. They then waved so long for now. Yes, indeed, until we meet again. I love God for that. I love God. I love you.
ALEX & REX at 8 weeks old. San Diego.
… Mr. SINJI-GAN lost his entire family from the US dropping of an atomic bomb near a breathtakingly beautiful pedestrian bridge at the center of Hiroshima. He was sick with flu so he survived the endless summer of the ‘Walking Ants’ made zombie-like by the “false sunrise & great wind”.
He was at his grandmother’s home recuperating. Her home was far enough outside the radius of the giant mushroom stem with its power to evaporate human souls en mass.
He says his friend told him about a man who lurched forward many steps trying to flee the bomb but his feet were amputated. He was running on the stubs of his knees until he fell; dying right where he fell. The Walking Ants could not do anything for him.
Yet he remains a happy man. He was so cute today; a little old man who does nothing but smile with laughter, loving life. He is a gentle man. His name is a MANTRA which may open the hearts of the most heartless among us.
Have you ever met a Kit Fox? The last time I was there, I arrived an hour or so past midnight. There was an ethereal full moon drifting from side to side. The roaring clatter of emptiness … all alone … no one anywhere in sight. Appearing as if from a glassine desert sky below my feet, a Kit Fox-trots a few meters ahead of my car’s headlights. Mysteriously mystic, she stops to check me with a naive lascivious smile. She is Alice and this is her wonderland. What a night. It was a night. She beckoned me mischievously. Her smile said, “Come this way,” Enchantment is the best high around. I was high as a kite. Trippin-out …
[You have wings that never stop flapping. You are a great wandering Albatross. Just as you, I need to feel free. That’s one reason why I am so much in … one reason … I am so fond of you. I see me in you. I love what I see. You do too, I can tell. Throw caution to the wind. She knows what to do with it. Follow me. We’ll have fun beneath the desert sun. Just you and I.]
…. on shooting stars from deep within an inner-space. Each figures eights before taking a dive to bless heaven on the other side. Holy coyotes yelping shouts throwing cactus darts at cunning hares. Messenger crows sleep tight that night.
Say yes. You’ll not be nearly afraid as I am now. Your heart’s desire is also mine. Run away with me. If I could promise you tomorrow I would in a heartbeat. The best I can offer you is forever .
Our queen is a day laborer. We are the lords of her kingdom. Blessed be our lovely queen, forever and ever. Amen. Our queen is between our eyes. She never calls herself a guiding light. We do. Her wisdom is priceless. She gives it away for free. Not because she has to, because she wants to. Why do we call her holy when she passes us by? Why do we burst out joy wherever the sun touches her face? Our lover, the sun, also touches her face, her grace. The sun, our lover, is reason we bloom. She is our perpetual blossom. She shares the same face, same heart, the same earth. We spin; we are double helix strands spiraling souls into one perfect utter bliss. Her Grace reminds us we were born to shine and light the sky. Her face? Shimmering jewels of wisdom gifted unto us by the lonely vagabonds of her heart & the holy swine who rule this place. You may if you wish. Go ahead and touch the sun. Don’t get burned. It is a diamond face with spinning nuclei. Buddha is in the middle … another face. That one is not human. Our Queen is a lonely piper of tones in shades of love. She is a continent on a lonely planet singing joyously with the universe, and the universe next door.
Our queen is a day laborer. We are lords in her kingdom. She says we were born to shine. We say she was born to shine. Blessed be our lovely queen who dwells between our eyes. She’s nobody’s prophet, she says. We say she is. She never calls herself our guiding light. We do, but never in her presence. We know better. When she blushes, the sun becomes a scarlet moon. Her wisdom is priceless. Give it away. She gives it away for free. Not because she has to, but because she wants to. It is her destiny calling. She is the lady with the holy in her face. She’s a humble force of a beautiful mercy. We burst out joy whenever the sun touches our face. We are reminded we were born to shine. Her face is shimmering jewels of wisdom gifted unto us by kings in vagabond garb. Swine who help her rule this place are angels with purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. We are reminded we are more than looks perceive. Go ahead and touch. You want to, so go ahead. She will not mind a gentle touch. Hers is a diamond face; spinning prisms of nuclei with Buddha in the middle. There is another face, but that one is not human. Our queen is an elegant piper of tones in shades of love. She is a continent on a lonely planet singing along with the universe, and the universe next door.
Our queen is a day laborer. We are lords in her kingdom. She says, “We were born to shine.” We think she was born to shine. Blessed be our lovely queen who dwells between our eyes. She’s nobody’s prophet, she says. She never calls herself our guiding light. We do, but never in her presence. We know better. When she blushes, the sun becomes a scarlet moon. Her wisdom is priceless. She gives it away for free. Not because she has to, but because she wants to. It is her destiny calling. She is the lady with the holy in her face. She’s a humble force of a beautiful mercy. We burst out joy whenever the sun touches our face. We are reminded we were born to shine. Her face is shimmering jewels of wisdom gifted unto us by kings in vagabond garb. Swine who help her rule this place are angels with purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. We are reminded we are more than looks perceive. Go ahead and touch. You want to, so go ahead. She will not mind a gentle touch. Hers is a diamond face; spinning prisms of nuclei with Buddha in the middle. There is another face, but that one is not human. Our queen is an elegant piper of tones in shades of love. She is a continent on a lonely planet singing along with the universe, and the universe next door.
I’m standing at my kitchen window. The dusk is passing into early eve. There is a wind storm going on. I’m concerned about a hummingbird nest that is in a young ficus tree raised from the dead itself; a stick two years ago in the backyard of my neighbor who had neglected it. I thought I’d just water it and see what happens. It grew. Now I am worried the wind will blow the nest away. I just saw some photos of baby hummingbirds in a similar tree across the street. They are so beautiful. That was earlier today. I won’t venture close enough to these here in my yard… just in case. But I think …
If all animals feel, and they do… how often have we seen the pitiful agony of struggle in their eyes against that which they know intend harm? If they fear they must know joy, they must love life. Instinct just doesn’t cut it. In fact, dismissing such behavior as reflexology is near-devious. It is verging … no, it is ignorant … it must be another form of crime against life.You see fear in all god’s creatures.
If all creatures feel fear, love life, know pain and sorrow then they have soul – if you consume soul – you must be an animal without one – or perhaps an animal who has yet to open their eyes wide enough to see – so – I ask, think upon this. I could be wrong – I know I’m not.
In 2015, Angelina published the book Mellom to hjerter (Between two hearts) illustrated by her grandmother Mery Zamani. The book tells the story of Angelina’s meeting with a poor motherless girl in Asia to whom Angelina gives her shoes. In return the girl promises to always pray for Angelina. It is allegedly based on a true story which Angelina cites as reason for always performing barefoot. In 2016, Angelina launched her own YouTube Channel. After Angelina’s debut Christmas EP My Christmas released in 2014, she’s working on her first album for release in 2018.
Photo: Tore Sætre / Wikimedia