Ygdrasil Journal of Poetic Arts  May 1997 Issue

The Tensegrity Issue

"Psychotropic Dreams and Feelings"

The Chorus...............................................Pedro Sena

A Short Dream - 'Phantom Theatre'........................Nibelunga
Birth and Death..........................................Nibelunga
Puke Up Your Life!.......................................Tuliodo
Puke it..................................................Pedro Sena
Tying My Shoes Impeccably?...............................Nibelunga
No Right.................................................Nibelunga
The Little Boy and the Sea...............................Tuliodo
My First "Sweetheart" ....3rd and 4th grade..............Nibelunga
My First "Sweetheart"....................................Pedro Sena
Old Coat New Coat........................................Nibelunga
It seems the norm........................................Pedro Sena
The Cut..................................................Nibelunga
The Eyes.................................................Nibelunga
The Caged Panther........................................Tuliodo
Searching for the Pattern................................Nibelunga
Another incident.........................................Tuliodo
It Came Between Us.......................................Tuliodo
What If..................................................Nibelunga
Body Awareness...........................................Tuliodo
The Highest Point........................................Tuliodo
The Shadows..............................................Nibelunga
How It Taught Me To Fly..................................Nibelunga
The Ants.................................................Nibelunga
Little Tale of Childhood.................................Tuliodo
There (To Begin)........................................Tuliodo
A reply..................................................Pedro Sena
A reply, Pt 2............................................Pedro Sena
Are and Are Not..........................................Nibelunga
Are and Are Not, Pt 2....................................Pedro Sena
The Dear Little Ones.....................................Randy Stark
Bend With Me.............................................Tuliodo
For Me, Death Is An Old Friend...........................Nibelunga
Intuition................................................Phil Groome

POST SCRIPTUM...............................................Pedro Sena


Without further ado
we shall move forward,
and do
what has not been done before.

we will start
with barely an introduction
and let everyone
enter into the show
and enjoy the words,
the feelings,
the hearts,
and then decide
for themselves,
what it all means.

This magazine
enters today,
its fifth year,
and if it weren't for you all
we may never
have gotten this far.
For this we thank you
and wish you
a humble thank you,
were it not
for your ideas,
and poems
this issue,
this idea
would not have
been here, today.


We do not proclaim
to know anything,
any more, than you,
or the gods,
about the men and women
that enter forth
in this world

But there are times,
it appears,
that we find
our words
have some meanings,
and too many times,
in our candor,
we don't know
what it was that we said,
or meant.

we, the chorus,
entrusted to helping you
understand the play,
don't know, either.
But we have become
less afraid,
of these words,
and their meanings,
since we are here,
ready for
a play.

We still ask,
what this story meant,
not just these words,
and truthfully,
we don't know.

But we do know
that in the heart of hearts
in the mind of minds
all expression has
something to say
even if we have never understood
it all,
despite the many fears,
the religion,
the books,
it has, all,
stood up
and spoken.

We thought
to let you
hear this
for yourself
would be best.

There are
only a few
that write for you.

We speak LOUDLY
and many times believe
that we know more
since we work with,
and on,
the human spirit.

This issue, is not
for us, but for you as well.

Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

( Adapted from my play Medea, a Relativistic Approach. This is the
introduction to the play by the Chorus and its 24 members speaking
in unison. )

A Short Dream - 'Phantom Theatre'

Dreamed of a strange party the warriors were having.
Several of them were performing a play for us.
I was watching a woman who was dressed as a man.
Zaia was sitting near me. I fancied that she
looked like a "perfect witch". She was dressed
in black with a red scarf. I noticed that I was
sitting closest to the sorcerers, and I wondered
if that meant anything.

(A few weeks later, I saw E. from Cleargreen wearing
black with the same kind of long red scarf.)

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Birth and Death

Birth and death seem similar
in mysterious ways.
There is a complete change of worlds there,
usually without any idea of what to expect.

Each have their own major processes---
there are ordeals of sorts
associated with being born
and with dying.

The baby leaves the cocoon of the womb,
just as one who is dying leaves the luminous cocoon.

Most people, upon dying,
must be as adrift as a new born babe,
and as unprepared for what awaits,
only to be incinerated
by that 'thing in itself' out there.

That is, unless one has seen it,
prepared, steeled oneself somehow.
That is a warrior's aim.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Puke Up Your Life!

I reconstructed my entire room. I had been recapitulating and sleeping
with my back to the southeast wall, facing northwest, and I switched
everything so that my back was to the northwest wall facing southeast.

Recapping already seemed easier that way, and when I went to sleep (it took
forever) I had a long, horrendous dreaming experience. It was so long and
complex that I can no longer recall it all, but at one point in the middle
of it, I found myself, as I often do, at the site of my childhood home.

I got it into my head then, in dreaming, that I could recapitulate the
entire area of the neighborhood in which I grew up. I began to do this,
breathing the scene in and out as I looked out a window at the old

Then I found myself airborne, and able to view the entire neighborhood, or
any part of our home, from any conceivable angle, almost at will, while
continuing to move my head and breathe.

After doing this for a while, I started to wonder if the Nagual would
approve of what I was doing. The instant I thought of the Nagual (I had
been standing in my bedroom again), a strange series of feelings began
coursing through me. The only way to describe it is that my feelings
carried my view with the wind up into some high clouds, and I had the
thought: "a high flying bird".

Right then huge gusts of wind and rain came bursting through the windows,
startling me, and soaking me instantly. An enormous storm was raging,
seemingly out of nowhere, and I began struggling to get all the windows
closed, noticing that some of the windows had actually been loosened from
the walls, and were flapping on their hinges. I hurried through the rest
of the house, finding water everywhere.

As I continued my tour of the house, I found the front and back doors,
always compulsively locked by my parents, wide open. Both TV sets
(constantly turned on in waking hours in that household) had been totally
dismantled, and only their bases remained sitting there on their little

Just then I realized that I was awakening, and I intended to stay in
dreaming. At that point I began to see bizarre scenes of strange objects
just floating in space. I had no idea what any of them were. After
floating around for a while viewing these bewildering things, I woke up.

After this, I became very excited about the possibility of recapitulating
in dreaming. I could see every detail of anything I looked at, down to the
patterns of the individual bricks in the neighbors' houses, the grime under
a screen door latch, or the very grain in the wood grain floors.

Yet for weeks after that, I was completely unable to repeat the experience,
or even dream, leaving me to conclude that the experience was a simple
message from the spirit:

"if you want to dream, recapitulate your life."

Actually, I had been rather thick about it, and the light bulb came on only
after reading this passage from Being-In-Dreaming:

"In order to be a dreamer, I had to vanquish the self...Nothing, but
nothing is as hard as that. We...are the most wretched prisoners of the
self. The self is our cage. Our cage is made out of commands and
expectations poured on us from the moment we are born."

CC told us: "you must puke up your life!"

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

Puke it

Today I was told
I had to puke up
my life.

I didn't know
how to react.

I ate a little,
bad thing to do,
when your stomach is cramping,
but I needed it.

It didn't help.

I decided to lay down
and try to sleep it off,
and see if it helped.

Not too bad a nap,
and I dreamt a little.

I remember the line
"puke up your life"
and it hit me good.
I mean,
it hit me so well
that I can hardly think
what it really means
or what it is
that I am supposed to do.

I figure that
once the puke is gone
it will then
make some sense
when the body
has gotten rid
of some of the puke
it doesn't need.

Mine was obvious.

I must puke up
my family,
the father,
the mother,
the brothers,
the sisters.
They have never
meant much
to me anyway,
considering that I am
one of those that
is into the inner thing,
and their lives are all
so weighty
from their daily exertions.
Well, I may not be
any better off,
but I certainly
don't think
my life more important,
or intelectual,
than theirs.
I can hear them,
talking about me, if they ever do,
ohh, you know, he's into
that new age thing,
psychic things, dreams,
and say it as if this was all crap.
Just for them,
I say it is. I enjoy that,
and can easily see their folly
in their grand system
of social and philosophical beliefs,
where reason dictates
that they are right,
and I,
not into the intelectuality of it all
could never be right.

Heck, I don't want to be right,
let me go and take a shit,
and use the paper from their thesis'
for the wipe,
just so that I wion't stink
as much afterwords.

But in puking it all up,
even this attitude
has to go. It sucks.

And as I let them go
in their merry way,
I slip into oblivion
for ever so slight a
an eternity,
a valley,
where the beauty
still resides
where I live
in much hope,
it seems,
and desires,
and whatever else
my fickle imagination
can let escape.

But in this oblivion
I see a group of people.
They appear nice,
they seem special,
and they sit,
around a fire
that smolders
in my horizon.

They seem to be discussing something.

I walk closer to them.

I listen carefully.

I wonder if I can step lightly,
that I can get close to them,
in order to hear them

It seems that as I get closer
their voices get lower.

Not a one person
makes a move
that they are
aware that
I am coming
closer to them.

I am apprehensive
all of a sudden.

They get quiet.

I can hear the wood,
the crackling in its voice,
sharing its warmth
with all those people.
It, too, seems to be a part
of this gathering.

I stop.

A moment of fear,
or wonder,
or desire,
I am not sure which.
I know
that a lot is meant
by this pause
on my part.

I must continue,
even if I am not ready.

The movement feels
different, as I take
one more step forward.

I look at my feet,
geewizzz, they are there,
but I am almost floating,
this can't be,
how can this be,
and I hear a voice
in my shoulder
very clearly
that I will make
it through
if and only if,
I no longer worry
about my past,
about my family,
if and when,
I realize
that it doesn't matter,
if I want to write,
if I want to live,
if I want to die,
this is no movie,
if I want to cry,
if I want to scream,
whose son I am,
whose changeling I became
whose voice
I have undertaken.

I looked at this invisible voice,
turned around to see it,
and nothing was there.

Someone was, I know.
It was a he, I thought.
Wait a minute.
Spoke like a she, I thought.
Wait a minute.
I heard some laughter.
I turned.
the whole party looked at me
and was laughing out loud.
And it must have been
funny at that moment
that this nobody
who had dreams of bullshit
stood here in front
of them
as if begging to join
for a little warmth.

"Eet eees a leettle hotter next to herrre"
said a voice.
Who are these people
thought I,
"Wee can house your headaches here,
and make a better fire"

And all of them laughed so hard
that someone fell into the fire.
This person got up,
and danced,
right on top of the coals.
And she sang a song, from
a few years back....
fuckastar, fuckastar, you're gonna be a star...
and I couldn't help laughing
at the way it was being sung.

I knew right then
that what I had done
was to follow
my dad's footsteps,
and that his fans
would never bother with me.

And I would never
bother with them.

How dare I,
how stupid,
to try and follow
someone else's shoes.

I hated his shoes,
they looked stupid.
His writing is fine,
I like mine better.

As I laughed,
they all stopped laughing
and looked at me.

The woman singing
and dancing on the coals
stopped there and looked at me.
Her eyes burned
so much brighter than the coals.
Weren't her feet burning?

I decided that this wasn't too funny,
but I had to admit
that it was funny
and that we were having a party.

I decided
it didn't matter.

I want to party,
not for them
not for my past,
but for me,
for what I do

I looked at them again,
and started walking forward
towards them.

The fire crackled louder still.

And, funny thing,
as I got there.

There was no one
sitting here,
around this fire.

There had been a fire,
yes, there had been a fire,
but it was out now.
It was warm,
it felt good.

A voice appeared in my left.

"Good. Good.
Now rest.
Do some writing after.
Then rest some more."

And I decide to do just that.
I felt safe,
I felt protected,
and I felt like a part
of a new cocoon,
that embraced me
for who I am,
not what I wanted to be
which was what they laughed at.
it felt like mine own
cocoon, this time.
I could see a few lines,
a few fibers,
crackling in my eyes,
as I closed them,
and occasionally peeked
through them.

I laughed.

I rolled on the floor.

And when I stopped,
I fell asleep.
I dreamt of my friend,
and I made sure
I said ... thank you ...
I hope to return you
the favor someday,
my friend
and promptly disappeared.

Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

Tying My Shoes Impeccably?

Dreamed I was sitting out on a deserted plain,
and that a large group of us was trying to "cross",
when the Nagual came up to me as if concerned,
and asked something that I could not understand.
Since I didn't get it, I just muttered some
reply like "I don't know". Then I noticed that
my shoes were off. I knew that the Nagual wanted
me to get going, and I had to hurry and tie them,
but I started having a lot of trouble with it.
My fingers were so uncoordinated that I actually
yanked the lace completely out of a set of eyelets.
(I awoke feeling anxious and stupid.)

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997


"Until the fight is now...
Until the fight is now...
Until the fight is now."

Discipline has always been my problem.
Being 'blessed',
and reaping marvelous gifts of the spirit,
has not helped me in this,
for indeed it is almost easier for one 'favored' . . .
to forget: it takes constant EFFORT to sustain it.

While having talent and encountering fortune
can make for a magical journey,
it can often contribute to self-importance
and a false feeling of safety.
To attain to a constant renewal of effort,
and to acquire never-ending vigilance---
that is the fight in the end.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

No Right

I dreamed that I was sitting on the porch
of my ex-husband's home as a boy (he lived
two houses down from me), watching Zaia
walk down the street, elegant and strong,
wearing a sparkling silver and blue costume.

I sat there thinking that until I practice
rigorously I have no right to follow her
or interact with her in any way,
so I just watched her walk on.

Then Florinda came around the corner,
walking briskly toward me.
I sat watching her approach
with exactly the same feeling,
i.e. that I was not enough of a practitioner
to even speak to her.

Florinda walked right past me,
up the steps, and into the house.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

The Little Boy and the Sea

We were writing our names together in the sand by the sea. But before we
could finish, a large wave wiped it clean, chasing us away. I thought of
how many must have experienced this...

The sea is an awesome thing. Truly bizarre, rather like a vast living being
itself, its ebb and flow, its rolling power is like the pulse of the
planet. It is shocking, almost frightening, to stand alone, at night,
silent, listening to and watching those roiling, exploding patterns. The
sweeping, boiling white ridges collaborate with creeping fingers of black
and tan shadows, making a volatile living boundary, a strange zone of
shifting energies between it and thee. One feels: 'who knows what that is;
don't get too close!'

The little boy wants to live with me. His older brother lives with his dad

One day he asked why his wishes didn't come true, and I had a feeling I
knew what he had been wishing. I told him that wishes often do come true,
but that one never knows how long it may take, or just exactly HOW those
things may come to pass.

The truth is, his wish already had come true, and so had mine, for he was
already staying with me three days out of every week.

It was only a few months before that he had given me one of his favorite
crystals, telling me carefully: this is my spirit; you can look into this
and see me, whenever you need to . For the first time, my usual goodbye
wasn't going to fly. I had always told him lightly: OK, I'll see you next
time buddy! But this time he wasn't buying it, and it tore me to see the
pain distorting his handsome young face. One weekend every month or two
just wasn't cutting it anymore. And later that night he woke up crying for
his daddy who was right then, while driving the highway hundreds of miles
away, vowing to DO something about it.

Later, at the drugstore, he had one of those 'magic eight ball' things, and
I heard him whisper to it: "will I be with my daddy forever?" I bent over
and read the answer with him. 'Sorry, no.' Gently, I told him: 'Hey little
fellow, forever is an awfully long time.'

We now take hikes in the mountains north of Los Angeles, and I often walk
him to Montessori in Santa Monica, as I follow CC, who so many years ago
did exactly the same things with that little boy he loved...

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

My First "Sweetheart"
....3rd and 4th grade...


Soon after I finally managed the courage
to give him some candy and a valentine,
he got spinal meningitis, and DIED.

From then on, I think I knew...
that something else has control,
and that I was not destined to spend
my life on the affairs of romance.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

My First "Sweetheart"

In a country way back when
I first saw the patterns
that would show me a life
of derision,
of delusion,
and lead me into
an inner life
of writing,
abated love,
and inner quiet.

I had my first sweetheart.
She was 14,
same age as I.

We talked every morning before school,
and discussed the many things
we liked,
didn't like,
and what we thought
of each other.

Never have our words
felt anything
but true,
ringing in our ears
for hours and hours

Today was a special day.
I had enough gumption
to say that I loved her.
She said that she did
as well.
And like the movies, then,
we decided to mark it down
in time
in space
in love
in this universe,
with a kiss.

We left, hand in hand,
took the bus,
dropped her off at home.
I went to mine.

I learned that afternoon
that we were leaving
for another country,
for another place,
in the following week.

And we cried together,
for hours, and missed
school that day.
We got in trouble,
but it didn't matter.
One teacher punished me
by using the heavy metal ruler
on my palm.
I hoped that they
wouldn't touch her,
or I would kill someone.
They didn't.
But they kept her after school
and I couldn't see her
the rest of the week.

We left.
I cried.
I don't know how she felt,
but I was pretty sure that
she cried up a river,
bigger than anything
you ever saw.
She had tears,
like I have words.

Never has a plane trip been so sad.

I knew her address,
and I knew that I had to chance a writing.
I did, four days in a row,
figuring that one day,
she would check the mail box.
She wrote back,
heaven of heavens,
I cried mercilessly.
We wrote.
Pages and pages, full of tears,
and broken hearts.

A few days later, I
received another letter,
along with another note.
A few weeks after we left,
her mother found our letters
and she wrote me.
They took a trip south.
Half of them never came back.
The plane found a farm,
and decided that it was there
that it would land,
upside down.
Even her mother couldn't
contain her grief,
and I have felt it since,
the love that we shared.

And never, ever,
have I felt
loved, or wanted,
or needed,
like I did, then.

I don't pull my hair out anymore.
Were she alive, I would have
returned, and tried again.

But her memory,
still lives,
however sad,
in my heart,
as one of the few
who truly meant a lot,
and still reads my poems.

She is the reason I write.
She told me never to stop.
I just never told her,
that I didn't know how
to stop writing,

Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

Old Coat New Coat

All through young adulthood,
I had kept an old coat
made of a peculiar blue leather,
with a collar of blue fur.

It was a bit strange
that I had kept it so long,
for I had never really liked it much.
It was too heavy, too stiff,
almost ugly really, and a little too small.
What's more, over the years
it had become faded and torn.
I had much prettier coats
but they were not warm.

Upon graduating from college,
I decided, as a small symbolic act
to throw away this old fur-collared coat.
This was also an impractical act,
for even before unceremoniously tossing it
in the dumpster across the street from my home,
I realized that I did not have money
to purchase a fitting replacement,
and I had graduated in December.

But my mind was made up,
and the time seemed right.
Farewell ugly old coat.

After graduating,
I returned home for a holiday visit,
and when my mother insisted on rewarding me
with a small graduation present,
I told her that I would like a new coat.
Yet, after shopping around some,
I was hiding minor discouragement,
for I had not found any coat
that was particularly appealing to me
as a symbol of some kind,
and in the end, after giving up
on the idea of getting a "symbolic" coat,
my mother assisted me in settling on
a moderately attractive full length
camel-hair coat that also happened
to be sale-priced.

But after wearing the new coat for a few weeks,
I came to realize that, unfortunately,
I was not all that fond of it either.
Although it had appeared to be warm,

it barely passed the test of January winds,
and to my eye it seemed to give me
an almost elderly bearing as well.

Over the next few years
(which consisted of marrying,
raising a family, working a job, etc.),
there gradually arose in me
the distasteful feeling that,
although I had shed my old coat,
I had in the process somehow taken on . . .
my mother's.

It's in there now, hanging in the closet.

And as I write this,
I am unemployed, bankrupt, divorced,
and having minor medical problems.

But I have moved to sunny California,
where there has yet to be a single day
cold enough to wear that coat. :-D

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997


Why does it show me things?
Downright trivial things.

Doing the laundry,
there is only one washer and one dryer.
I've got two loads to do.
One load is in the washer,
the other sitting on top of the machine.
I leave for five minutes . . .

When I return,
I find that my clothes have finished,
but that someone has been there,
has rapidly pulled my clothes out of the washer,
has piled them up on the dryer,
and has moved my other load out of the way,
filling the washer with their own clothes,
and putting their own second load atop the washer.

I become furious, and even yell "that burns me up!"
A woman sticks her head out of an upstairs window
and informs me that some Japanese guy
from another building has done this,
and that he is "always doing this to people".

I put my wet load in the dryer, turn it on,
and return to my apartment, muttering imprecations.
And after musing on it for a minute or two,
I decide I'm going to go out there
and stand right by the damned machine,
to have it out with this inconsiderate guy
just as soon as he shows up!

So I'm rounding the corner,
full steam ahead to give him some trouble,
when all of a sudden, right in my path,
there is a minor tornado arising,
a genuine dust devil,
that not only blocks my path,
but actually begins moving toward me
as if meaning to drive me back to my door.

Now I recognize this as an omen right away,
but I'm a fool, and so for a moment I consider
just barreling right through it anyway,
but then I acquiesce,
deciding that it was just too obvious to ignore,
and I back off, go inside, sit down, relax,
calm down, and read for a bit.

When it's time for some of my clothes to be dry,
I go to take them out, and . . .
hey, what do you know,
right as I get there . . .
his washer stops.

A light bulb comes on over my head.
A wicked grin crosses my face.

Very quickly I remove his clothes
and pile them on top of the dryer,
and move his second load out of the way.
Then I fill the washer with my second load,
get it going, and put more quarters in the dryer,
so as to keep it going longer without fail.
I take some clothes out, go hang them up,
and then I go back outside . . .
to stand by the machines and wait.

The guy shows up and sees me there dawdling,
pretending to fold a couple of T-shirts.
He sticks his head in the window,
puzzled to see his first load sitting out wet,
his second load moved,
and the washer running.
He points to the dryer, and stammers,
'is that yours?'
I look up slowly. 'Yes'.
Then he points to the washer,
'that yours too?'
I act kind of bored and murmur, 'um hmm.'

He scratches his head a little,
and then I offer: 'Uh, yours finished,
so I just did you a favor and took them out,
like you did for me'.

I casually add:
'I'm still using the dryer,
but when I'm finished, you can have it,'
adding that 'I've only got one more load'.

Well, he starts yacking, all about himself,
his family, where he is from, what he does,
how busy he is . . . all sorts of stuff.
I just nod a lot, and then excuse myself
to go inside to read some more.

But I make sure to get out there
before that dryer stops,
to put my second load in,
ignoring him completely as I do it.
And so he has no choice but to sit waiting
for forty-five minutes until I'm totally done.

I was barely inconvenienced.

Like I said,
downright trivial stuff.

But . . . why?

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

It seems the norm...

It seems the norm, every fourth day,
the day of the water like aether ray,
that makes us all angry and silly
lest we forget that we are our folly.

But what the heck, we play and play
turn around, read, scream, play some more
and then go home
kick the dog,
maybe hit the wife,
or the child,
we are still trying to figure out the day
when all perfection was existent.
We read many books,
they spoke of a chosen one,
or a spirit's called one,
but in the end,
we sat here,
fuck this shit
we said,
read another book,
and figured that the whole thing
was wrong,
and to this day,
we have failed to wake up
the inner source
the assemblage point
where your heart lives and dies
and tells you of peaks and valleys
while moving from day to day,
and you barely know it,
have never seen it,
and STILL figure
that you will find it
in a book,
by quoting it,
over and over and over and over
again and again and again and again
in a stupor of meditation
that supposedly tells you
that you missed something
in the fucking repetition.

Yes, it is hard,
damn it is hard,
but all because our attitude cries
for a change,
and lest we become
warriors over night
we will find
that we have so many things
to change....
says you and I
how come does stuff doesn't work?
but have we ever,
sat down,
and wondered
just once
that it is all HERE,
right here,
and I am not seeing it?
do we hear this humility
in our own words?
The wise man once said,
words are good,
words are bad,
words are meat
words are poison,
but you have to choose,
if words are the only thing
you are ever going to use,
to try and get it all done.
tie me to the tree for three days
get rid of my anxieties,
get rid of my hard-on
and public stance
and then,
there will be something else
right around the corner
that will help you define
that which
you have hoped for all your
all this time,
and damn,
it was right here,
a breath away
from my nose.
where have I been?
do I wish to remain here?
decide, baby,
decide, my friend,
decide, my lover,
decide, my heart,
you won't have many more choices
in your little fickle life
that will EVER make
such a difference
and then,
go live...
it is there for you.


Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

The Cut

I dreamed that we all met the warriors
at a new place. The scene was breaking up
to be resumed elsewhere. We were all talking
about what had happened.

Some people had been left out in the cold,
and were not invited to the new place at all.
Those who had been invited were unsure how long
they would be allowed to stay.

For some reason everyone was also talking
about the way L. had started a bad scene,
and how she would not be allowed to stay
in the place she was currently living in.

When L. showed up, I told her I was moving too,
and said that if she wanted she could come with me.
I also mentioned this to R. and to G., and we were
all talking about going together and renting
a four bedroom house.

Then the warriors showed up, but only briefly.
It was as if they checked out the scene,
and then left suddenly without explanation.

We all just sort of hung around outside the place,
wondering if maybe they were coming back in a minute.
After a long wait, we accepted that they weren't,
and we began filing out to the parking lot.

I was terribly sad, almost on the verge of tears,
for some reason thinking they had left permanently.
Then everyone decided to go to V.'s house
to talk about the new development.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

The Eyes

Don Juan said
that the eyes
are one's connection
to the spirit.

When a sleeping person is dreaming,
their body is paralyzed,
except for the eyes...

And it has been discovered
that the brain during REM sleep
is two to four times more active
metabolically than during waking.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997


I met a man who told me
that ice is dry.
He insisted on telling everyone who came near him
that ice is dry.
He told us all over and over
that ice is dry.
It was very important to him to communicate this.

Later, I thought about it,
and decided that he was right.
So now I'm telling you,
and you'd best accept it too:
ice is dry.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

The Caged Panther

May 1988:

I made my "beginning of the summer" trip to the zoo today. There was one
interesting incident. I came to the "cat" exhibit, and in the very first
cage there was a large, black panther pacing back and forth. There were
several people lined up staring at him. The cat was gorgeous, sleek,
powerful, jet black with the strangest gold eyes which were almost

I came walking up to join the crowd, thinking about the jaguar in the Power
of Silence, and recalling don Juan saying the big cats could read thoughts.

As soon as I reached the edge of the cage, the cat stopped pacing and
fastened its gaze directly on me. I "happened" to be wearing a black
shirt and black jeans, and I felt calm and strong. I regarded the cat as
an equal and with respect, as we stood gazing at one another.

A lady said, "he likes your shirt", and I quipped "yeah, I like his too".
I felt a little uncomfortable because of the people, and turned and walked
about five feet away from the main body of them. The cat immediately
followed me, and froze again when I turned to face him. Everyone was now
marveling at this, but I decided to ignore them, and I had noticed
something. The cat wasn't looking at my shirt; it was looking into my

I decided to shut off my thoughts and try to become "connected" with the
cat, and we just stared at each other for 30 seconds or so. It was in a
state of rapt attention, but so tranquil, its only movement was the
twitching of its tail, and I felt a strong, peaceful energy passing
between us. Alas, I looked up and noticed that a lot of the people were
starting to freak out just seeing us stand there motionless, both plainly
ignoring them completely. I knew I would have to go soon, and I decided to
play with the cat first.

I faked like I was leaving. The cat jerked, and then froze when I did. Then
I pretended I was afraid, and began to slowly back away, and the cat began
to creep forward as if considering stalking me. Then I slowly moved
forward and squinted my eyes and made them shine and directed a bit of
"force" at the cat...and the cat began to cower and slink away. Then I
stopped and remained completely detached, and it returned to standing and

Finally I turned abruptly and walked away without a glance at the people.
The cat quickly followed me to the furthest edge of its cage, and stared
at me until I was around the corner.

I walked around a building and to the other side of a courtyard where I
could check him out without being observed. He was pacing back and forth
in front of the people again.

I felt that I was just another "cat" in another kind of cage.

The next day was a full moon and a lunar eclipse. I went to the dances at
a pueblo, had a meal with the family of an Indian friend, and saw and heard
him sing in a ceremony. Later that evening I composed an extremely
pleasing song on the guitar, and felt exceptionally well. That night I
found my hands in dreaming, performed the exercise, awakened, went back to
sleep, and found my hands once again. It was always a good feeling to do
it more than once in the same night.

Once I dreamed I lived in a city that floated on water.
It had streets and highways, just like a normal city,
but all marked off by lines of buoys. I saw it at night,
when all the buoys were lit up by electric lights.
It was quite a strange and awe-inspiring sight.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

Searching for the Pattern

We had quarreled, and he went off to sleep in his bed.
I woke up in the middle of the night, and a wild wind
was raging. I considered going in and getting in bed
with him, but finally decided to go back to sleep.

Around the crack of dawn, he came in and crawled in bed.
I took his hand, and began to talk to him in strange words.
He indicated that I wasn't making sense, but I waved him off,
saying, "I'll get it; I'll get it." I was in a kind of
waking dream state, but I did not realize it. I kept on
picking up his arm or his hand, and examining the blanket
and the bed, looking for the "pattern of meaning" in the
immediate world around me, absolutely certain that everything---
his body, mine, the blanket---was like a symbol system
that I could somehow read. I kept saying, "if only I could
figure out where it begins". I kept handling everything,
carefully searching it with my eyes, convinced that I was
making perfect sense. I told him, "just a minute",
sure that any moment I was going to find "the key"
that unlocked the pattern that would allow me to tell him
just where we were and what everything we were doing "meant".

I have a vague memory that he sleepily watched my performance
with a quiet amazement. Then I became completely awake,
and, going back over my thoughts, realized I had been acting
totally bizarre. I contemplated myself as one contemplates
a stranger, and then somewhat unnecessarily explained that
I had been in one of those altered states again.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Another Incident

N had a vision in the night so intense that it
frightened her. She woke me up and tried to tell me about it. She
tells me that I discussed it with her as if I understood perfectly, but I
have no memory of the conversation. I was in another altered state
of some sort. I only vaguely recall the end of the conversation. I had
been gibbering about something, then woke up enough to realize I
didn't have any idea what I was talking about. I said "scratch that, I'm
in one of those states again", and rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next day, after pressing her repeatedly for a description of her
vision (which seemed indescribable to her), I managed to get that:

"We were together in some place. The intensity of our relationship
and/or the experience was turning her inside out. Some kind of door
opened bathing everything with a blinding light. She insists that I
calmly told her that the same thing happened to me, but I have NO
memory of the incident or the conversation after the incident. She
says I made perfect sense through the whole conversation.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

It Came Between Us

We had another one of those dream state conversations. This time I
remembered more of it than she did. It was like verse. She would
say her part, then I would say mine. In a strange way, each side of a verse
pair meant exactly the same thing, but in completely different
words. Something was holding a conversation between us. I can
only remember the structure, not the actual words, but part of it was
definitely about love.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997


By the way, this was a pretty cool set of dreaming experiences
regarding the little boy, if you still want more related dreaming:

I dreamed that I was surrounded by blackness, and was completely
encompassed by something, so that I could not move. As I became
aware of this, I began to struggle to move. Whatever was
surrounding me would give a little but would not yield. I felt extremely
frustrated, and struggled again and again in vain. I also had the
distinct feeling that I was in a situation I had been in before, almost a
feeling that I was dreaming a recurring dream.

All of a sudden I realized where I was. I was in the womb of a
woman, and I was a baby struggling to be born. With this realization,
I began to feel my way around the place a little, squishing all sorts of
gooshy things with my feet. I realized there must be an opening
somewhere in the smooth, warm elastic wall, and began consciously
feeling for it with my head. I found the opening, and began pushing
myself into it, almost desperately, and also began to feel the turbulent
reactions of the woman's body to my progress. There was a definite
feeling of anxiety connected with being enclosed in such a "tunnel",
and I wanted very much to accomplish the passage as quickly as
possible. But in some way, I felt confident. It stemmed from that
feeling, now familiar to me, of "trusting my personal power".

At this point the dream scene changed. I was sitting on the floor in
some living room, and across from me, staring at me, was a boy
about four or five years old. He pointed at me, and playfully called
out my name. He called me a name I could not quite understand---one of
three different possible names. I have wondered to this day if it
was the same name N. would choose for our son about a year later.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997


I dreamed of my son twice before his birth--once as a newborn babe, and
again as a child of about three. I dreamed of him once as
a newborn babe, and once as a child of about three. The dreams
were visually accurate. At the age of three he looked very much like
he had in the dream. In the dream, I was standing to the side and
behind him, holding him back from playing in a fireplace fire. I
remember very distinctly the look and the feel of his eyes. There is
no doubt in my mind that I saw him, as he would be. Indeed, the thing that
stood out in the dream of him as a newborn babe was also
his eyes. They were unusually bright and piercing and intelligent in
the newborn dream, and very soft and contemplative in the fireplace
dream. But both were unmistakable and to me very recognizable
aspects in what he would come to be.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

What If

What if,
some fool
had the chance,
made the effort,
and really touched it.

What if,
once touched,
it never lets you be,
claiming you gradually,
cajoling you subtly here,
tricking you outright there,
blinding you to the road ahead,
and to which way you are moving,
until you are alone facing the infinite.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Body Awareness

They say that the magical passes of Tensegrity are intended to bring
the well-being of dreaming into the daily life. I keep thinking
about that. It blows me away to even think about it:

"to bring the well-being of dreaming into the daily life".
In 1987, I wrote the following poem, while experiencing intense well-being.
Let me say that I realize that my poetry (rarely created) is bad, but let
me add that I like it that way.

I publish this little poem now in honor of Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity:

I'm in love with my left thigh.
It's strong and reliable, quiet and shy.
It would be funny if it flew away
Dragging me flailing and shrieking behind it.

I'm in love with a spot on my back.
It would like to meet my left thigh.
If I were made of silly putty
There'd be an orgy tonight!
(I wonder what I'd wind up looking like.)

I tell my breath to caress the skin on the inside of my heart.
The air, as pure energy, can fuse me in molten ecstasy---
Don't talk about sex---don't waste my time.
Love is an electrical phenomenon in my left side.
Body awareness. How does it seem to you now?
Meditation is *so* physical.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

The Highest Point

It isn't enough
to come here bearing gifts:
a few wise words,
a vivid image-
to leave in shame,
rejected and beaten,
it isn't enough.

It isn't enough
to fly to high places:
see wonders,
know ecstasies-
to bask in them for a lifetime,
resting on your laurels,
it isn't enough.

Saying "they weren't ready" isn't enough.
"We tried hard but lost" isn't enough.
"Sigh, but the special will understand" isn't enough.

No compromise can be accepted.
No quarter can be asked or hoped for.

Nothing short of freedom is enough.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

The Shadows

"The urge to surpass oneself
has to be instinctive,
not theoretical
or believable merely."
Henry Miller

As a teenager,
I became mildly obsessed
with a very strange idea.
It occurred to me that the "meaning"
of a particular event or set of events
was somehow revealed by the shadows
of the objects or people involved.
It could not be translated into words,
but could only be "felt".

This was a very strong intuition.
It haunted me and would not go away.
It gave me the feeling that one could
"understand" the events of life
on a completely different level.

I even began to have recurring dreams
in which I learned things about shadows.
Once I dreamed that I had made a painting
which revealed how shadows tell things.

"In the worlds outside this one
there are no shadows."
[from The Sorcerers' Crossing]

"Shadows are like doors,
the doors of _not-doing_."
[from Journey to Ixtlan]

As a teen I had a similar "obsession"
with the idea of "sequences of motion".
This went hand in hand with the notion
of "abstract cores" of action sequences
which are basic patterns of interaction.
The way to "interpret" an event was not
to look at the particular details of
an interaction but, rather, to intuit the
overall "pattern" of the whole sequence.

To give an example that might be accessible,
The old Pink Floyd album cover, Umagumma,
had a picture on it which illustrated
a sequence of motion in which many people
played differing roles in the same basic
sequence of movement. Although the actions
were never exactly the same, the basic
sequence never altered. That old picture
always gave me the same strange feeling.

One main "type" of such sequences of motion
were those which happened in three moves.

There would be "a force" . . .

having an effect.

For example: light ... object ... shadow.

To make another "series" one could add:

Those patterns could encompass
an infinitude of "meaningful events".

I'm putting all this very simplistically,
but in fact, I now wonder
if _all_ the most important scenes
of _every_ life are actually abstract cores.

The overall "sequence of three"
intuited could be related to
the most basic pattern:

The spirit descends,
moves the assemblage point,
and perceivable worlds manifest.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

How It Taught Me To Fly

In the dream, I was sitting, talking to A. It was early in the morning,
and we had both just awakened. Although our conversation was quite
interesting, I don't remember it, because of what happened next.

In a flash, we were no longer inside our apartment; we were out on a mesa
somewhere, with a bright blue sky, high mountains, and gorgeous swirling
white clouds.

There we sat cross-legged facing one another, and A. was talking, as if
continuing our previous conversation, saying, "it is definitely possible
that this reality is only one of many possibilities".

I looked up at the mountains, at the clouds, and something seemed to stop
in me. I had a moment of intense peace and quietude, and, as the entire
landscape seemed to waver as if I were creating it by the fact of
perceiving it, I firmly replied: "I know that it is".

At that moment, It took hold of me, and I began to rise up into the air.
It was exhilarating, but I still felt peaceful and silent inside. The very
powerful force was moving me. I rolled over on my back, apparently about a
hundred feet in the air, and began to glide at considerable speed to the

Above me were the white clouds in exquisite patterns, below was the ancient
mesa. I began to turn in a wide circle, moving very fast, but there was no
wind. Looking down again, I saw the enormous columns of an ancient temple.
They had some sort of inscriptions completely covering them.

It continued moving me in the circle, and I glided around, viewing the
cliffs, the mesa top, the clouds. Then I began to slow down, and found
that I had circled back to the temple again.

The force turned me upright, so that I was "standing in the air", and
brought me very slowly and gently to face one of the columns from about two
feet away, so that I could look at the inscriptions.

Hovering about ten feet off the ground, I began to rise again very slowly,
so that the inscriptions and pictures filed past me as I approached the top
of the column. At the top of the column I came to a complete stop, facing
the last inscription, with the definite feeling that the force was going to
leave me right there.

I could make nothing of the inscription, except that it had a picture of
something that appeared to be half man and half bird.

I grabbed the top of the column and pulled myself on top of it, and began
walking the temple walls, seeking a way to get down. After successfully
getting down, I had a strange encounter with some kind of ancient lizards
(which I won't describe) before awakening.

Almost every time since then that I have flown in dreaming, it has *felt*
like that same force was what was making it possible to fly. It has always
had the same basic feeling. And indeed, the way that I most often initiate
flight in dreaming is simply to recall that feeling while intending to fly.
When I do this, It takes me flying.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

Intent Is Such A Strange Thing

When I decided to marry the man who was my husband
my intent was that we would be warriors together.

It was six months after our divorce was final.
We had been apart more than a year,
and had been separated by more than a thousand miles,
when he arrived for his first night at my place in LA
where he was to stay during his first workshop here.

It seemed truly shocking for him
when I kissed his cheek goodnight,
and wished him a happy anniversary.

Copyright (c) Nibelunga 1997

The Ants

Once living in a shack which was built down into the ground,
I had a long-term relationship with several large colonies
of red ants, which, in the warm months, made regular
foraging expeditions in my house. It had been my practice
to allow them to do this as long as they did not get out of hand.

Occasionally they did get out of hand, and instead of confining
themselves to the trash sack and the kitchen sink, they would
come into the living room, and even get in my bed (a futon on
the floor). Sometimes, when this happened, I'd get mad and go
on a murderous rampage, seeking to warn them by an occasional
massacre that they must be discrete.

But this practice seemed irrational, did not work
particularly well, and caused me some remorse,
for I respect life, and as a rule will go out of my way
to avoid taking it. So I was looking for a better solution
that did not involve poisoning all the ants.

Then I discovered that one of the ants' favorite dishes was
watermelon, coming in one day to find hundreds of them
swarming a dish of it I had left out. A simple idea came
to me then that solved my problem with the ants.

I decided to buy watermelon every week, and after finishing
each piece, throw the remains outside near the ant holes,
between them and my house. This worked very well. The ants
which came toward my house invariably attacked the watermelon
left for them, and never made it all the way to my house.
About every three or four days, I would toss them a fresh piece.

The ants were happy, and I was happy, and I decided that the
moral to this story was perhaps:

Don't fight nature; live in accord with it.
And whenever possible, give "the enemy" what it wants.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Little Tale of Childhood

Early Memory. Say your prayers.
Oh how I would say them, too.
Then into bed on a hot summer night---the attic fan on---still excited
from a full and joyous day of
reveling in life. Head against the pillow, I'd hear the "footsteps"
in my head, while lying there in
the dark, the footsteps of that . . . *something out there*, getting
nearer and nearer. Something so
relentless, yet so patient.

What is it, momma? Nothing. Your imagination. A dream . . .

No, just my heart beat in my own ears, momma. But more than that, I
realize now, as I lie listening
again, a grown man. There is something out there, getting nearer and
nearer, and yes, connected to
the beating of my heart. It's there, and it will get me, momma; if
I'm not careful, it will get me.

Early memory.
I exist! This is my body.
How did I get into this thing? Amazing!
I would lie on my back on the bed and gaze at the palm of my hand, and
marvel that I existed.

The first time I found my hands in an aware dream state, it happened
in that same room, on that same
bed, and as I performed the exercise prescribed by the man of power
I was basically marveling at the
same thing, just on a different level.

I exist!

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

There (To Begin)

Even to begin
to stop the torrent of thought
is a blessed relief
(after all the years,
to have peace in sight).
There beckoned,
as pine boughs shimmer
in an orange evening glow.

Even to begin
to lose the endless defenses
is a marvelous freeing
(taking what may come,
receiving it in wonder).
There opened,
as lavender breezes eddy
in a soft, golden day.

Even to begin
to cease the vain attacking
is a beneficent reprieve
(heeding the quiet space,
smiling and walking on).
There awakened,
as doves call agreements
in the gentle morning sun.

So magical it is,
so strange the feeling,
even to begin
(setting foot on the road,
suddenly one knows).
There entranced,
I rise flourishing energy trails
in shadows of ancient moonlight.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997


Playfully, I told the little boy
that I would tell him a story telepathically,
transferring the tale from the book across the room
into my mind, and then into his.

Holding up my hand in a claw
as if to pull the story from the book,
and affixing him with an appropriately "mystical" gaze,
I waited a few moments before asking him:
"How'd you like it? Wanna hear it again?"

He just laughed and continued playing.
I sat watching him play with his toys,
enjoying the character in his face.

Then he turned quickly, met my gaze,
and told me exactly what I had really
been thinking: "you said you love me!"

I nodded, and said, "um hmm, you're right".

(And ever since I told the little guy he could see energy
he has been entertaining himself blue with it.)

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

A reply

"The fliers are "tilling" the soil of humanity,
"cultivating" and consuming our awareness.
They have "refined" our awareness to include
nothing but the points of self-reflection,
and have forced us to "worship" these points,
as we "dwell" in our comfy little cage,
your home and mine, the "cult-your"..."

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

A reply, Pt 2

( continuing Nibelunga's A Reply )

And I was once a Christian
that believed in life eternal
that thought we deserved to live
above and over any other
race, creed, sex, color,
until I realized,
that this is not religion,
but thoughts in ugly mud
of the spirit and heart
that demand dedication
of heart, but not of the mind.

This secret has lived,
and killed many children
who still dream of the three
lost jewels in the paradise,
where I can marry you
and make a hopeful life
come alive.

Yes, I shall have lunch,
yes, I'll have dinner,
despite this bullet ridden sky,
and religion,
AND religions
that care less about
you and I,
than they do in what
they believe.

Oh, Father,
yes, my son,
speak to me,
of ourselves,
or forgetting you,
killers of hearts,
destroyers of minds,
believers in the hope
but not of our own,
we are having to create
new avenues
to find you,
just so we can believe
in you.

Oh, father,
yes, my son,
here, I have lost you,
and hope to reclaim you,
when you really want this
desire this
and will live for this,
someday, my son.

Someday, my son,
we shall live
you and I,
and all
and we shall know
what it all means
this flying,
this spirit,
this thing,
but not amidst
this bullet ridden sky
of hatred,
of carelessness,
where hard ons
of madmen exist
ready to shoot your child
because he is a jew
or black, or a palestinian.

Someday, you, my son,
and your favorite love
shall have
what I have never seen,
it is not a cult,
it is not a religion,
it is not a belief,
my son...
it is LIFE.

Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

Are and Are Not

We are:
Perceivers who are not perceiving,
Dreamers who are not dreaming,
Thinkers who are not thinking,
Intenders who are not intending,
Journeyers who are not journeying,
Seers who are not seeing.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1997

Are and Are Not, Part 2

( continuing Nibelunga's Are and Are Not )

And lovers who hate,
and haters who think we love,
disguised as each other
unknowing who we are
uncentered and forgotten
we act like, like, ...
animals, it seems,
with little direction,
except food,
always for the body,
never for the soul,
never for the spirit,
but for the mind,

Copyright Pedro Sena (c) 1997

The Dear Little Ones

Words clock the old form
Rocking in the cradle

What strange lightning
Cast from the clouds
Or from the lowliest fungi
Is this that cracks the spell
For a few timeless moments
And so shapes our higher notions?

The path to Eleusis
Is paved with the bones
Of many gods and dreams
In eddies in streams
Where the dear little ones
Sprang forth from the gloom

A wind through the gates
From nowhere into nowhere
Along the narrow way,
A quickening ocean
Of other-worldly commotions
Mingling freely with sand

And riddled to death
We stood wrestling the dark
With songs of the heart,
Joy and sorrow soaked
In the purple blood
Of those dear little ones
Rising naked from the dung

Copyright Randy Stark (c) 1997

Bend With Me

I have not the strength to go with it;
it must take me.
I must be led.

We must fight.
Will it help us?
Shades of battle drawn forever . . .
No answer?
The impeccable will:
hidden, but never hiding -
fighting, but not to win.
Yet winning.
Yet losing.
The end.
Yet winning still.

You terrify me, (bend with me
you terrify me . . . for thou art limber )
my waves upon you,
your waves within me,
the plot ever flowing. . .
no plot; no play.

Warm quivering flicker,
where we wait,
where we wait.
And what could protect it.

Copyright Tuliodo (c) 1997

For Me, Death Is An Old Friend

Death witnesses a warrior's last dance, but the manner
in which a warrior sees his death, is a personal matter.
It could be anything -- a bird, a light, a person, a bush
a pebble, a piece of fog, or an unknown presence.

In my dream we are only casual acquaintances.
We have arrived at the house of a mutual friend
that neither of us have seen in many years,
As we enter and greet our friend there is music
playing very lightly in the background.

During the course of our conversation, we discover that
although we are only casual acquaintances, our mutual
friend has been a lifelong dear companion to _both_ of us,
but because we two are not well acquainted, a light social
atmosphere prevails for much of a lovely, sunny afternoon,
which we all seem to find quite enjoyable. We laugh
and joke, and have an elegant meal together.

Yet at a given moment, my good friend engages us
on a deep level, telling us a story that touches us
both profoundly, prompting us to share our feelings
in greater depth and speak more openly about certain
difficulties in each of our lives. In so doing arriving
at fresh insights.

All too soon he is walking us to the door,
and bidding the two of us a fond goodbye . . .
Somehow it is the music that clues us in,
as we have the same series of strange realizations
at exactly the same time:

We realize that we are in a dream, and know that we have
failed to recognize that the _only_ place we have _ever_
been acquainted is in a dream -- and not just a dream,
but_this_dream, which we then recall having had before.

Simultaneously it dawns on us in wonder the true identity
of our mutual friend, and we look at each other in awe
as we become aware that although we again walk happily away,
there may come a day when we are not bidden a smiling farewell,
as the soft music rises up in an almost triumphant chorus:

For Me, Death is an old Friend,
For Me, Death is an old Friend,
For Me, Death is an old Friend . . .

Then I wake up, and write the rest of the song:

For me, Death is an old friend
we have not seen in years.
In a dream we come and visit him,
tell of our joys, our sorrows, our fears.
We laugh and share an enjoyable time,
eat good food, and drink fine wine,
until he moves us to come clean,
and both of us get what we need.
Only in the end are we to know,
when comes the time for us to go,
just where we are, with whom we re playing,
and what it was that he was saying.

For Me, Death is an old Friend,
For Me, Death is an old Friend,
For Me, Death is an old Friend . . .
( repeat and fade, simple A E D chord sequence )

I like to think of the "acquaintance" as my double.

Copyright Nibelunga (c) 1991


( insights of a previous poem titled REFLECTIONS )

Confusion abounding, opinions galore.
Filters faltering, how does this relate to what's real.
What do I care, Spirit soars naked or not at all.
Fear and confusion, the smokey wisps in the lens,
Demands us to clear the lens, we are out of control.
Finally, FEAR so great it pierces the eyes of perception,
We change our frame of reference.
In the mirror, the opposite side is clarity.
A glimpse of clarity, It is called Intuition.

-- Phil Groome (c) 1996

About This Issue

This issue is called "Psychotropic Dreams and Feelings", and is meant to enter your imagination just like most dreaming entered yours and ours throughout our lifetimes. Spontaneous, direct, with no introduction, and leaving you wondering what does it all mean. Indeed, it seems that literature hopes to do the same thing to us all.

It has taken some time since I was able to find material that I thought stood up to this ideal of ideals, but in my search the past few years only the work of the venerables Nibelunga, Tuliodo and Starworks, has stood out and truly spoken from a source that is so much bigger than our imagination muscles, or opinions.

"Psychotropic Dreams and Feelings" is not an attempt to refine the art of the inner experience. It is more in line with the surrealistic manifesto of Jean Luc Bresson, and the work of Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali... it is a testament that "dreams" and "dreaming", regardless of content and meaning, are a very important expression in our lives, if not one of the most important. And poetry, unlike the works of a few writers, sometimes is the best window you can see through to someone's inner person and expression. It is something that is not always appreciated and discussed. I like to think of it as "our secret". But th eimmense pleasure that we get from the expression itself is the ultimate in writing. One feels free and not having to concern himself/herself from having to use a form or style in the work itself. It's freedom of expression is different than a lot of poetry in that here at times we're dealing with invisibles, or at least things that could be considered figments of our imaginations.

Pedro Sena
April 1997/Updated April 2010

...with extreme thanks to Nibelunga and Tuliodo for their unceasing attention to minute details to ensure that we really had something here... true warriors. Another round of thanks to Starworks, whose work will be feature in an upcoming issue and Phil Groome. And, together we would like to thank CC, CT, Florinda, Taisha and those at Cleargreen for having  inspired us to further places in our lives.





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